They had nothing in common and didn’t seem to like each other much, but Ivy couldn’t deny the sexual tension that had flared between them. It didn’t matter anyway. She would never get involved with a man on the basis of a mere hormonal reaction, so the point was moot.
Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed how the loosely rolled-up cuffs of his black oxford shirt revealed his forearms. She quelled the impulse to reach out and brush her hand across defined muscles there. No, she would never be so shallow, she reminded herself. You could be attracted to someone without acting on it, and that’s what she would do.
Without a doubt.
Ivy peered around her in the dimness as they waited for the first fight to begin. Two preliminary bouts would take place before the main event, Joe explained. Pock’s fight came first.
She scanned the seats around the ring, trying to spot Daisy, but the unsettled crowd and dimness made it impossible. After a few minutes, the lights went out, the music changed, and an announcer boomed over the PA:
“Are you ready for the Beatdown at the Bellisimo?”
The crowd roared its approval, and the announcer introduced the first fighters, a muscle-bound white man named Jesse Dykeman and a doughy, bald Hispanic fighter, Marcus Velasquez.
Joe’s expression mirrored her own confusion. She leaned close to him to be heard over the roar, placing her lips near his ear, pulling back with a start when her lips accidentally grazed his jaw, his stubble rough against her skin in a curiously pleasant way. He smelled nice, she noticed irrelevantly, kind of like pine or cedar.
“I thought you said Pock was in the first fight.”
“He was.”
He looked around for a moment, but they couldn’t discern anything from their seats. Marcus and Jesse strutted around on the stage, waving flags and stoking the crowd. The PA announcer introduced the officials to raucous boos from the audience. Still no Pock.
“I’ll go ask somebody,” Joe said.
“I’m coming with you.”
Squeezing through the crowd, brought to its feet by the frenzy of the moment, Joe grabbed Ivy’s hand so they wouldn’t be separated. He led her toward the set of double doors the fighters had emerged from moments before and exchanged words with the beefy-looking security guard, shouting directly in the man’s ear to be heard over the chaos. Ivy couldn’t hear anything in the cacophony, but the guard eventually stepped aside and let them into a long, cinder-block hallway, illuminated with bright fluorescent light. When the doors closed behind them, the din subsided a little. In the glare and relative quiet, Ivy suddenly realized their hands were still linked. She snatched hers free, prompting a grin from Joe.
“He said the fight manager’s office is down this way.” Joe stopped in front of one of the fire doors and rapped.
“Come in!”
They entered to find a short, squat man sitting behind a desk, cell phone to his ear. He gestured for them to sit down in a pair of folding chairs in front of his desk. The office was clearly temporary, with barren walls, minimal furniture, and boxes of papers sitting in haphazard piles. After a minute, he ended the call.
“What can I help you with?” The harassed-looking manager seemed civil enough, until Joe mentioned Pock’s name. A stream of curse words came out of the manager’s mouth.
“That bastard left me in the lurch. No-showed for the pre-fight meeting. I had to work my ass off to get somebody in to fight Dykeman at the last minute. Don’t know what the hell Pock was thinking. That’ll be the last time I schedule him for a fight.”
“Have you talked to him since he no-showed?”
“Nope. Sent somebody up to their room when he didn’t come to the meeting. It was empty. Wherever he went, he left in a hell of a hurry. Didn’t check out. Key cards were on the table. Luggage and clothes were gone, though. Good riddance.”
“Any idea where they went?” Joe asked.
“How the
Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed how the loosely rolled-up cuffs of his black oxford shirt revealed his forearms. She quelled the impulse to reach out and brush her hand across defined muscles there. No, she would never be so shallow, she reminded herself. You could be attracted to someone without acting on it, and that’s what she would do.
Without a doubt.
Ivy peered around her in the dimness as they waited for the first fight to begin. Two preliminary bouts would take place before the main event, Joe explained. Pock’s fight came first.
She scanned the seats around the ring, trying to spot Daisy, but the unsettled crowd and dimness made it impossible. After a few minutes, the lights went out, the music changed, and an announcer boomed over the PA:
“Are you ready for the Beatdown at the Bellisimo?”
The crowd roared its approval, and the announcer introduced the first fighters, a muscle-bound white man named Jesse Dykeman and a doughy, bald Hispanic fighter, Marcus Velasquez.
Joe’s expression mirrored her own confusion. She leaned close to him to be heard over the roar, placing her lips near his ear, pulling back with a start when her lips accidentally grazed his jaw, his stubble rough against her skin in a curiously pleasant way. He smelled nice, she noticed irrelevantly, kind of like pine or cedar.
“I thought you said Pock was in the first fight.”
“He was.”
He looked around for a moment, but they couldn’t discern anything from their seats. Marcus and Jesse strutted around on the stage, waving flags and stoking the crowd. The PA announcer introduced the officials to raucous boos from the audience. Still no Pock.
“I’ll go ask somebody,” Joe said.
“I’m coming with you.”
Squeezing through the crowd, brought to its feet by the frenzy of the moment, Joe grabbed Ivy’s hand so they wouldn’t be separated. He led her toward the set of double doors the fighters had emerged from moments before and exchanged words with the beefy-looking security guard, shouting directly in the man’s ear to be heard over the chaos. Ivy couldn’t hear anything in the cacophony, but the guard eventually stepped aside and let them into a long, cinder-block hallway, illuminated with bright fluorescent light. When the doors closed behind them, the din subsided a little. In the glare and relative quiet, Ivy suddenly realized their hands were still linked. She snatched hers free, prompting a grin from Joe.
“He said the fight manager’s office is down this way.” Joe stopped in front of one of the fire doors and rapped.
“Come in!”
They entered to find a short, squat man sitting behind a desk, cell phone to his ear. He gestured for them to sit down in a pair of folding chairs in front of his desk. The office was clearly temporary, with barren walls, minimal furniture, and boxes of papers sitting in haphazard piles. After a minute, he ended the call.
“What can I help you with?” The harassed-looking manager seemed civil enough, until Joe mentioned Pock’s name. A stream of curse words came out of the manager’s mouth.
“That bastard left me in the lurch. No-showed for the pre-fight meeting. I had to work my ass off to get somebody in to fight Dykeman at the last minute. Don’t know what the hell Pock was thinking. That’ll be the last time I schedule him for a fight.”
“Have you talked to him since he no-showed?”
“Nope. Sent somebody up to their room when he didn’t come to the meeting. It was empty. Wherever he went, he left in a hell of a hurry. Didn’t check out. Key cards were on the table. Luggage and clothes were gone, though. Good riddance.”
“Any idea where they went?” Joe asked.
“How the
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