come across, thrown herself between Dean and a guy whose fist was poised, just ready to swing in. For an instant Dean thought it was too late, the guy already committed to the punch, about to land it on Jess as she slipped in between them, then the guy checked, stood poised for a moment, then dropped the fist.
Dean straightened, shrugging off the hands that had held him.
Then, calm as anything, he reached for Jess’s hand, folded it in his, leaned in close, and whispered in her ear, “Nice and cool, darling. Just turn and we’ll go. Just walk like you–”
“–own it. I know.”
9
The look on Dean’s face as he surged through the crowd, trying to get to his fallen brother, was heart-wrenching.
I craned to see.
The referee was with Lee, crouched over him, checking his eyes for response. Two men joined him, and from their body language I feared the worst. In all the uproar after the fight, the three men around Lee formed an island of stillness. It looked serious.
Then I saw Dean at the gate, forcing his way into the cage, rushing to his brother, and – at last! – movement from the fallen fighter.
I turned to Owen, the oldest of the three Bailey brothers. He was still in his seat, but he was straining forward, everything about the way he held himself tense. His eyes were fixed on the ring. The woman at his side had a hand on one of his, her thumb making tiny stroking movements, which must either be calming or irritating as hell.
I met her look and she gave a weak smile. Briefly, I felt sorry for her. She was clearly out of her depth.
When Lee turned his head and said something to Dean, Owen visibly relaxed. He reached for the bottle of champagne, checked there was some left, then topped up his glass.
“Not that we’re exactly celebrating, eh?” he said – to me or his partner, I wasn’t sure. “Useless fuck.”
§
When Dean emerged a short time later, I saw the Russian he’d nicknamed ‘Putin’ moving smoothly to intercept him. The tall henchman who’d been waving the gun about earlier was at his side, which was hardly reassuring.
Suddenly the atmosphere was tipping, from the release at the end of the fight to something with an edge of danger now. All the voices and shouting were quite unnerving, and I could see the confrontation developing long before Dean was aware that his route was blocked.
I stood.
I didn’t know what I had in mind.
I didn’t take the time to think.
Just knew I needed to be down there, not sitting back here, helpless.
I pushed my way through, and by the time I reached them Putin’s sidekick was already on the ground, propped on an elbow, one hand pressed to his head.
In the mass of bodies it was hard to see what was happening, but – yes! – there was Dean. His arms were being held, his face covered in blood. Instantly another blow landed in his midriff, doubling him up.
I threw myself at him, my body shielding him from more blows, just as he’d done in the car earlier when Putin’s heavy had smashed in the window.
Dean’s blood was wet on my cheek, but I didn’t care about that.
I looked back over my shoulder and all I saw was a fist poised, ready to strike.
This was it.
I braced, ready for a heavy, numbing impact that never came.
The owner of the fist checked himself, his eyes met mine, and – slowly – he lowered his arm.
A man to his right raised a hand. He was thin, the cropped dark curls giving him a boyish appearance that made him look younger than the thirty-something that he probably was. He gave a shake of the head, and the other guy turned away, and then the two men restraining Dean released him.
Dean straightened, rolled his shoulders, then leaned in close to me and whispered, “Nice and cool, darling.” He took my hand. “Just turn and we’ll go. Just walk like you–”
“–own it,” I finished for him. “I know.”
We walked through the crowd, and it was perhaps the strangest part of a very strange evening. Here I was in
Dean straightened, shrugging off the hands that had held him.
Then, calm as anything, he reached for Jess’s hand, folded it in his, leaned in close, and whispered in her ear, “Nice and cool, darling. Just turn and we’ll go. Just walk like you–”
“–own it. I know.”
9
The look on Dean’s face as he surged through the crowd, trying to get to his fallen brother, was heart-wrenching.
I craned to see.
The referee was with Lee, crouched over him, checking his eyes for response. Two men joined him, and from their body language I feared the worst. In all the uproar after the fight, the three men around Lee formed an island of stillness. It looked serious.
Then I saw Dean at the gate, forcing his way into the cage, rushing to his brother, and – at last! – movement from the fallen fighter.
I turned to Owen, the oldest of the three Bailey brothers. He was still in his seat, but he was straining forward, everything about the way he held himself tense. His eyes were fixed on the ring. The woman at his side had a hand on one of his, her thumb making tiny stroking movements, which must either be calming or irritating as hell.
I met her look and she gave a weak smile. Briefly, I felt sorry for her. She was clearly out of her depth.
When Lee turned his head and said something to Dean, Owen visibly relaxed. He reached for the bottle of champagne, checked there was some left, then topped up his glass.
“Not that we’re exactly celebrating, eh?” he said – to me or his partner, I wasn’t sure. “Useless fuck.”
§
When Dean emerged a short time later, I saw the Russian he’d nicknamed ‘Putin’ moving smoothly to intercept him. The tall henchman who’d been waving the gun about earlier was at his side, which was hardly reassuring.
Suddenly the atmosphere was tipping, from the release at the end of the fight to something with an edge of danger now. All the voices and shouting were quite unnerving, and I could see the confrontation developing long before Dean was aware that his route was blocked.
I stood.
I didn’t know what I had in mind.
I didn’t take the time to think.
Just knew I needed to be down there, not sitting back here, helpless.
I pushed my way through, and by the time I reached them Putin’s sidekick was already on the ground, propped on an elbow, one hand pressed to his head.
In the mass of bodies it was hard to see what was happening, but – yes! – there was Dean. His arms were being held, his face covered in blood. Instantly another blow landed in his midriff, doubling him up.
I threw myself at him, my body shielding him from more blows, just as he’d done in the car earlier when Putin’s heavy had smashed in the window.
Dean’s blood was wet on my cheek, but I didn’t care about that.
I looked back over my shoulder and all I saw was a fist poised, ready to strike.
This was it.
I braced, ready for a heavy, numbing impact that never came.
The owner of the fist checked himself, his eyes met mine, and – slowly – he lowered his arm.
A man to his right raised a hand. He was thin, the cropped dark curls giving him a boyish appearance that made him look younger than the thirty-something that he probably was. He gave a shake of the head, and the other guy turned away, and then the two men restraining Dean released him.
Dean straightened, rolled his shoulders, then leaned in close to me and whispered, “Nice and cool, darling.” He took my hand. “Just turn and we’ll go. Just walk like you–”
“–own it,” I finished for him. “I know.”
We walked through the crowd, and it was perhaps the strangest part of a very strange evening. Here I was in
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