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  “It’s a club, not a gang,” the fighter snaps.

  “Really? So if I went to the police with your club’s history of dealing drugs, running guns, and pimping out anything with enough holes to fuck, that wouldn’t be an issue? Let’s be honest with each other, my boy. Your gang needs this money. And unless you throw the last fight, I’m not going to give it to them. You’ll die, sure, but you’ll leave them quite the parting gift.”

  The fighter is silent as the polished man turns to go. What is there to say? It isn’t as though he has any choice.

  “I’ll do it,” he says quietly, his hands balled into fists, “For them.”

  “I knew you would, Dante’s Son,” the man smiles, “Until next time.”

  He disappears into the shadows once more, leaving the fighter alone. All at once, rage takes hold of the warrior. He strikes out at the metal lockers, punching and kicking, turning over benches, smashing mirrors. He’s faced so much injustice in his life, but this has finally pushed him too far. He doesn’t stop until the locker room is destroyed. Only then does he snatch up his leather cut and slip into it like a second skin.

  His retreating back bears the name of Dante’s Nine, and below, the club’s sigil: a pair of dice, one that’s rolled a four, the other a five. It’s the fighter’s family crest. His flag. The one thing he’s willing to die for. And now, he knows he will.

  “There he is,” grins a burly bearded brother, as the fighter steps out the back door of the arena, into the May night. The eight other members of his motorcycle club are all there, waiting for him. A regular family reunion.

  “Hey guys,” the fighter smiles, pulling a young man with a tribal tattoo around his eye into a fierce embrace, “Thanks for being there tonight.”

  “You kidding?” laughs a grizzled, short man with a gut to be reckoned with, “As if we’d miss you representing our club like a damn hero. Well done, man.”

  “Holding up ok?” asks the bearded man, clapping the fighter on the back, “These fights must be wearing on you.”

  “Nah, I’m fine,” the fighter says, shrugging off their concern. “Let’s just get back to headquarters, all right? I could use a drink.”

  “It’s on us,” two gigantic men with shaved heads answer in unison. The twin enforcers of the group rarely waste words.

  “I was gonna buy the first round,” insists a small, ferocious man, leaning back against his bike, “Let me have a share of the glory for once.”

  “First round will be on the club,” says a sure, even voice.

  The eight younger members of the club look up at their silver-haired leader, the man who nodded encouragement to the fighter when he needed it most. He and the fighter share a silent look of respect, and with that, the meeting is over. His word is law, that much is clear.

  The nine men mount their rides and set off, one by one, through the streets of Las Vegas. From the outside, the underground arena is totally hidden. Known only to those with a lot of money to spend on watching men die. The whole thing turns his stomach, if he’s honest with himself. If only all these tourists knew about what went on just out of sight, the fighter thinks, looking around at the colorful strip, this place would be a ghost town before daybreak.

  As a pack, they arrive back at their club’s headquarters. From the street, their home looks like nothing more than an old biker bar. And in a way, it is. But within the walls of the Dante’s Nine club house, a thriving club has lived and breathed for decades. Of course, the “thriving” part hasn’t been applicable, of late. A deal gone south with a neighboring MC has bankrupted Dante’s Nine to the point of oblivion. The fighter’s last ditch gambit is all that’s keeping up hopes, these days. And he has to see it through. There’s no other option.

  “Our returning champion!” crows the man behind the bar, as the fighter strides into the space, “Looks like you’ve survived another match, eh?”

  “Keep your fuckin voice down,” commands the silver-haired leader, “We’ve got a couple of regulars in here who don’t need to know club business, all right?”

  Indeed, there are a few patrons inside the bar that aren’t strictly within the Dante’s Nine fold. A trio of women hang back around the pool table, sporting tattoos of the club’s logo, each one hoping for one of the members to make them an old lady someday. Some local regulars and fellow bikers populate the bar. And of course, the queen of the establishment presides over her taps and bottles, working beside the bartender.

  She tucks a thick brown curl behind her ear and catches the fighter staring at her. He averts his gaze, not in the mood to start anything tonight. They have history, he and the hourglass-figured beauty. But he can’t think of casual sex tonight. And that is a first. He snatches a bottle of beer from the bartender’s hand and heads out into the night for a moment alone. His brothers watch him depart, murmuring and shaking their heads. They know that these fights are taking a toll on him, but they could never guess what the price of this next match will be.

  The fighter steps out into the gravel parking lot, a firmament of stars blazing overhead. Down in the desert, Las Vegas rises like a neon oasis. He brings the bottle to his lips, taking a deep swig. He feels the mantle of fate settle onto him. He has a death day, now. And the countdown has already begun. The only question that remains is how to spend the last of his days? With four short months remaining, what’s left to do?

  What’s the one thing I’ve never done, always regretted not doing? He asks himself, knocking back his beer. I’ve served my country, seen six continents, started multiple businesses, slept with as many women as I pleased, made a fortune, found a family...what’s left?

  The answer takes its time, occurring to him. But the second it does, he knows exactly how this last season of his life will be spent.

  “I’m going to fall in love,” he says to no one in particular, letting his words be swept away by the hot desert air. It’s a promise he makes to himself. And the fighter is not one to go back on his word.

  CHAPTER TWO

  A satisfied smile plays across my lips as I stare up at the bedroom ceiling. My date for the evening kisses deeply along the length of my neck, determined to please me. I can’t say I mind the initiative. The man of the hour, Stephen, runs his fingers over my long torso, cupping my firm breasts in his eager, grateful hands. This is certainly one of the perks of being one of only two women in my graduate program at UC Berkeley—all of the men on hand are willing to go above and beyond the call of duty in the bedroom. And my friend Stephen here is no exception to that convenient rule.

  “I just want to make you feel good,” he murmurs, slipping my cotton tee up over my head. He drinks in the sight of me sitting before him in my bra, blonde hair falling over my slender shoulders. “You’re so gorgeous, Kassie—”

  “Go on then,” I urge him, keeping my blue eyes steadily on his, “Show me.”

  A low groan rises up out of his throat as I lay back against my sea of cushy pillows. My little one-bedroom apartment isn’t very fancy, but I’ve done my best to make it feel like home. Or at least, what I imagine home feels like. Stephen’s lips move down along my collarbone, kissing every part of me they can find. I shove my hands through my long, dirty blonde hair, reminding myself to relax and enjoy the moment. It’s just a little fun, Kassie, I coach myself, he may as well be battery-operated.

  I run my fingers through Stephen’s close-cropped hair as he unclasps my bra, fumbling only for the slightest second. He looks like any other guy here at Berkeley. They’ve all got the same screen-weary eyes, the standard-issue academic wardrobe, the tame hair cut and clean-shaven chins. Sure, some veer more toward the hipster side of the spectrum, but my guy here is all prep school jock turned Silicon Valley hopeful. Stephen’s better built than most of our classmates—with evidence that he actually spends a little time at the gym. He’ll do just fine for my current purposes, anyway. It’s not like I’m looking for love tonight, or ever. Just a little stress-relieving orgasm will do the trick.

>   He pops open the button of my skinny jeans, sliding them down along my toned thighs. For my own part, I can’t get enough running, hiking, yoga—any kind of activity that I can lose myself in. I don’t like to be alone with my thoughts, if I can help it. And if I happen to keep in pretty great shape as a result, then all the better.

  Stephen brings his full lips to the skin just above my knee as I lay before him in my navy blue hipster panties. My uncovered breasts rise and fall with every breath as his eyes rake along the length of my body. He looks for the world like a man who’s just won the lottery. I raise my hips to him ever-so-slightly, inviting him to go on. Stephen takes my cue, lifting his own button-down over his head and letting it fall to the floor. I know that he’s my age, but he seems so young as he eases my panties down over the rise of my ass. At least youth usually means enthusiasm, I think to myself as he lowers his lips to kiss up along my thigh.

  “That’s it,” I coo, closing my eyes contentedly.

  “This is what you want?” he asks, running the tip of his tongue across my tender skin.

  “You know it is,” I say, letting my knees fall open. I run my hands over his broad, crew team shoulders. He’ll do just fine, this one.

  He runs his hands along my thighs, working up slowly, deliberately. His kisses trail across the valley that stretches between my hip bones. A low, steady throbbing kicks up in my core, that oh-too-familiar pressure. I need a little release tonight, and I need it bad. I reach for Stephen’s hands and lock my gaze to his as I guide them to that place between my legs that’s jonesing for a little attention.

  “Mmm...” I purr, as he takes the hint, stroking along the length of my sex. His touch is light, tentative, but still so nice. He moves slowly, as if he’s in awe. I have to admit, it’s rather flattering to know how amazed he is to find himself here in my bed.

  “I can’t believe I get to touch you like this,” he breathes, bringing his lips down to my hard nipples as he slips a finger into the wet, pink folds of my pussy.

  I lose myself in the sparks of sensation that trail along my skin. His tongue presses against the hard nub of my nipple as two strong fingers slide up inside of me, flexing against that tender flesh. He sucks with just enough force, the tip of his tongue and the tips of his fingers working me into a simmering frenzy. Now this is exactly what I had in mind.

  “Keep going,” I urge him, spreading my legs as wide as I can. In the heat of the moment, his gaze becomes intense, intent. He finally forgets how lucky he is to be here and actually loses himself in the act. We’re caught up together, giving in to our basest carnal needs.

  He positions himself between my legs, bringing his mouth swiftly down from my breasts to my sex. Atta boy, I smile to myself, grabbing onto handfuls of my baby blue comforter. He presses deeper into me with his sure fingers as he lowers his lips to that hard, aching nub between my legs. My back arches as he flicks his tongue against the center of my ecstasy. Kneading and caressing me with his tongue and hands, he sends ripple after ripple of sensation barreling through me, mounting with every passing touch.

  “I’m so...close,” I groan, bucking my hips toward him.

  He pulls out all the stops, rubbing and stroking me with all his might. With one perfect, firm flick of his dexterous tongue, I’m a goner. My whole body shudders deliciously as warm, soothing pleasure rolls along my every frayed nerve. I sigh happily as the feeling overtakes me, leaving me loose and sated in its wake. A moan escapes my throat as I come, a full, fine orgasm running its course through my body. It’s been far too long since I’ve gotten off with somebody else. I’m more than happy to fly solo, but it’s nice to just lay back and enjoy once in a while. Content, I curl up onto my side and let my eyes close for a moment.

  Stephen lowers himself onto the bed beside me, happy to have made me happy. He wraps his muscled arms around me, moving to make me his little spoon. Just as he settles down, lying his well-formed jaw against my shoulder, a little shot of impatience punctures my good mood. I duck out from under his arms, pulling myself up to sitting next to him on the bed. I lean back against my bedroom wall, reaching for my bra and tee shirt. He looks up at me, a bit bewildered but afraid to show it.

  “Come here,” he smiles, opening his arms to me.

  “Where did my panties get to?” I reply, ignoring his offer.

  “Oh,” he says slowly, pulling himself onto a forearm, “Are we...done?”

  “That was my understanding,” I smile, slipping on my date night clothes once more. “Do you want anything? Vodka? Whiskey?”

  “A glass of water would be fine,” he says, fighting to keep his disappointment from showing on his pretty boy face.

  I hop over him and make my way to the kitchen, feeling satisfied and as content as ever. This final month of classes has been incredibly rough. My stress levels are at an all-time high, and that’s saying something. A little casual fooling around has always been my cure for low spirits. Well, that and some actual spirits, that is.

  I rummage through the cupboard and find a bottle of Jim Beam, an ever-present staple in my kitchen. I pour myself a generous glass of whiskey and fill a mug with some tap water for Stephen. Sipping thirstily from my drink, the familiar, comforting burn soothes me as it always does. I lean back against the kitchen counter and catch a glimpse of myself in the darkened window. My tousled hair, bare feet, and stiff drink make me look a whole lot more at ease than I actually feel. But I try and quiet my lingering anxiety and discomfort as best I can. This is about as good as it gets, these days. I need to learn how to be a little more appreciative. Letting the whiskey work warmly down my throat, I savor this little moment of peace.

  “That for me?” Stephen asks, padding into the kitchen and nodding to the mug.

  “Sure is,” I tell him, plastering a smile onto my face. Peaceful moment over, I suppose. It was nice while it lasted.

  The two of us stand in silence for a spell, sipping our drinks. This is always the point where things start to get annoyingly awkward, in my experience. That moment after fooling around with someone when it’s very clear that you’re not on the same page about what comes next. I should have known this guy would go all lovey on me. I down the final sip of my booze and go to pour myself another little nip, wishing there was a graceful way to say, “Thanks for getting me off. There’s the door.”

  “So...how are you holding up with the end of the year?” Stephen asks, pretending not to judge me as I pour some more Jim into my glass.

  “Oh, you know,” I sigh, “It’s always a shit show. At least this is the last time we’ll have to go through it.”

  “Yeah,” he says, “Can you believe we’re almost done with our masters? Graduation’s right around the bend. It feels like we just started.”

  “Does it?” I counter, “I feel like I’ve been waiting to get out of school since the second I got in. This campus culture is driving me nuts. The same old parties, the same old people. I don’t think I could last another year.”

  “Oh, come on,” he urges, “It’s not so bad. We’ve got a pretty good class, don’t we?”

  I think about the other students in our graduate computer science program. Apart from my best friend Kelly, every single one of them are dudes. Nice enough guys, to be sure, but nice gets boring pretty quickly. “Nice” also tends to translate to, “polite enough unless you don’t have sex with me when I expect you to,” or, “but I paid for dinner, why won’t you screw me, you tease?” As diverse and liberal as Berkeley can be, I feel like I only ever run into the same humdrum, well-bred yuppies I knew back in Connecticut. Maybe I should have majored in something more radical. If only I had an artistic bone in my body...

  “I guess I’m just ready to get out into the real world,” I deflect, hopping up to sit on the counter, “I’ve never really been the perpetual-student type. This masters is just a necessity.”

  “I was thinking I might like to go the teaching route,” Stephen says sheepishly. “It seems like a nice, secure sort of
life.”

  I have to fight not to cringe at the words nice and secure. I know all about what it’s like to have a nice, secure life—at least on the surface. I grew up in Fairfield, Connecticut, about the nicest place you could possibly imagine. I lived in a nice house, with a nice green lawn, a couple of nice cars parked in the driveway. My parents were nice people with nice jobs and two nice little daughters (not to mention the brigade of nannies who raised them). But all the niceness didn’t keep our family from crashing and burning hard.

  “You OK, Kassie?” Stephen asks, snapping me out of my reverie.

  “Huh?” I say dumbly.

  “You just got this really troubled look,” he says, stepping toward me, “Is everything all right these days?”

  He tries to take my hand in his, but I pull it back reflexively. My date has officially overstayed his welcome.

  “I’m fine,” I tell him, sipping heartily from my glass, “I’ve just got a lot of work left to do tonight, is all.”

  “But it’s Saturday,” he laughs tensely, “And we’re...you know...on a date.”

  “Yeah. We went on a date,” I reply, “We’ve had our date, and now...you now. It’s over.”

  “Do you want me to leave?” he asks, surprised.

  “I have some stuff to do,” I say vaguely, “I just don’t want to get behind with the semester wrapping up and everything. I mean, we got dinner, and saw that movie. Don’t you think it’s time to call it a night?”

  “Oh...Um...” he blusters, shoving a hand through his short, dark hair, “I just figured we could maybe spend a little more time together. When you invited me back here, I guess I assumed...you know.”

  A flash of annoyance scorches through my mind as he stalls. This always, always happens to me. Every time I let a guy come home after a second date, fool around a little, he always mopes around like a sad puppy looking for a treat. I feel my attraction to Stephen wane in a heartbeat as he shifts back and forth on his sneakered feet. This is what I get for dating boys, rather than men.