Page 31 of Four Cards Exposed

My man.

Susan tried to smile, but her skin felt taut against her cheekbones—as if she’d been out in the sun for too long. There were things in her undercover life she was slowly getting used to. The high-heeled shoes, which didn’t hurt half as much as they used to. Sleeping during the day, which was okay if you put the blinds all the way down and were tired enough.

But there was one thing she hadn’t gotten used to, and never wanted to get used to, and that was seeing James hurt. The level of violence she’d seen in the one fight she’d witnessed …

“When does it start?”

“A couple of hours from now. Here, help me clean this up.”

All the work in the world couldn’t keep Susan from thinking and worrying about James, particularly as the warehouse started to fill. She recognized some of the regulars who came to the bar every night, and then a different kind of man, the kind who didn’t come to drink, but rather came to see blood.

James’s blood.

“That’s the new fighter,” one of the girls said.

The man’s skin was a pasty pink—the color of a rat’s underbelly. He had short dark hair, a wide forehead, and a flat nose that looked like it’d been broken multiple times. He was huge—larger than James—larger than the small space could contain. As she watched, the crowd moved back a step, widening the circle.

“They’re not even in the same weight category.”

Pia shrugged. “These fights don’t work that way. Jay has built a reputation for himself. There’s a lot of money riding on tonight.”

The man looked in their direction. His dark gaze skimmed right over them, then came back, as if he’d seen something he liked. Susan shivered.

“What’s his name?”

“Alan something,” the third waitress said. “I heard they call him Beast.”

Even from across the room, she could see the scars on the man’s knuckles, thick ridges of skin that came from having done this hundreds of times.

Susan clenched her teeth and forced the bile back down her throat.

Relax.

James can take care of himself.

She squeezed her clammy palms against her black fishnet tights, as if that could stop her hands from shaking.

What if he gets hurt?

What if he gets killed?

Susan wondered if she should run out and make the call.

Tía Lola.

She could stop this.

James would hate her, but—

Then a murmur started among the crowd. James was there. She was too late.

Tonight, he was dressed in black shorts and a white T-shirt. His wrists and his palms were covered in dark tape, stopping an inch short of the knuckles. She’d learned this was one of the few rules of bare-knuckle fighting.

James’s eyes glinted dangerously. Susan could still make out the scar over his eyebrow, a reminder of his last fight. The stitches had come out, but the scar tissue was still raised and raw.

James’s eyes stopped on hers for an instant. She didn’t bother trying to hide her fear. In response, he winked at her—just an instant, and then his stare was ice again.

A wink.