Luke Read online

  what you're doing, that you’re not just scouting one fighter here. He said you’re starting a new fight channel – bringing fights to an international audience. That guy can't keep his fucking mouth shut. He thinks we're friends instead of rivals. He doesn't understand how business works. Not the way you and I do."

  Coker laughed, and I smiled, the corners of my mouth drawn tight.

  "He told you why I was here, did he?" I asked. "He assured me he would be discreet. Well then, I'm afraid I'll no longer be interested in his talent." The truth was, my crew had been setting this up, spreading word that I was scouting for local talent within Roy Coker’s circuit. Coker needed to know what I was doing here in Vegas, but he couldn't know it from me.

  The mark should always think the con is his idea.

  "Well," Coker said. "It’s his loss. And my gain."

  "I do hope you understand that discretion is extremely important to me, and to the people I work for," I said. "Lack of discretion is simply...unacceptable."

  Roy Coker made a fake zipping motion with his fat hand on his fat lips. "Mum's the word," he said. "I am as discrete as it gets. But I want you to know that I'm ready to do whatever it takes to get in on the deal."

  I wrinkled my nose in an expression of disdain. "I’m here to see your fighter. Anything more than that would require greater capital than you could possibly have."

  I was deliberately evasive, since I was counting on the fact that our cover story had gotten to Coker. Our cover story was that we were scouting talent for an international fight channel with a huge Middle Eastern and East Asian audience. One of the members of my crew, Emir - hacker and tech expert extraordinaire - had already uploaded videos, supposedly taken from our international fight channel, and posted them online, backdated through the past six months.

  The key was that we'd hinted that there was a potential opportunity for a promoter who might want to invest in one of the shows. And that was the message we’d been spreading through whispers and rumors in the fight circuit. That was the message we wanted to get back to Coker.

  "Try me," he said. "What kind of capital are you talking about?"

  I waited a moment, listening to the sounds of the people gathering around, all of them waiting for the fight to begin. "Half a million dollars," I said, leaning toward him. "I'm here to see your fighter, because I'm curious, and I'm staying because I enjoy seeing an attractive man pummel another man. But I'm afraid investing like this is something better left to the big boys, Mr. Coker."

  I kept my eyes straight ahead, but from the corner of my eye, I could see him shift uncomfortably in his chair. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead.

  The truth is, my team knew what he could afford. Half a million dollars wasn't a number I'd just pulled out of my ass.

  He was silent for a moment.

  This was my favorite part of a con - the part where we got to see if what we'd predicted about the mark's behavior was true.

  Would he take the bait?

  The truth was, they almost always took the bait. Greedy men couldn't resist an opportunity to act on their greed.

  To me, a long con didn't get any more exciting than this moment right now.

  I could feel the goose bumps on my arms. My pulse raced, the blood pumping loudly in my ears, adrenaline coursing through my veins.

  This part of a con was like a high. I’d never been addicted to anything, like booze or drugs, thanks to my parents, who instilled in me the importance of situational awareness. But the high of running a con beat anything else in life I could imagine.

  It was like an extended version of that moment right before the dice land on the table - the ultimate gamble, fate hanging in the balance.

  The promoter cleared his throat. "I'd have to call my guy," he said. "Move some things around. But I could manage that kind of capital. That is, if you’re providing the kind of return I’ve heard you’re getting for investors."

  I turned my head slowly, and nodded. "Perhaps I underestimated you, Mr. Coker."

  That was another lie. We were right on base with our estimation of him.

  I leaned back and crossed my arms as the announcer brought out the fighters, satisfied with the fact that this was a done deal.

  I was feeling smug.

  Coker was ours. Hook, line, and sinker. His fighter just needed to lay a good beat down on the other guy, so I could be impressed with him. Then it was just a matter of trying to convince Coker he should not give us his money.

  The funny thing was that the more you suggested someone not do something, the more intrigued they were by the prospect of doing exactly that.

  "And in the blue trunks," the announcer's voice blared, "is Silas Saint."

  As soon as he said the name, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I hadn't heard that name uttered in years.

  Not since I was seventeen.

  Silas strode across the ring. Even before he reached me, I knew it. The way he moved, his build...

  But it wasn't just his rippling muscles or the chiseled cut of his jawline that told me it was the same Silas from my past.

  It was something intangible, the way he triggered some kind of sense memory. It was like every cell in my body knew it was him in that ring, a shock of electricity running through me in response to his mere presence.

  Even if I hadn’t heard his name, I would have known. I knew it was him the moment I saw him.

  My heart caught in my throat, and I held my breath as he turned, walking towards my side of the cage.

  And then he looked at me, directly into my eyes.

  Those damn baby blues, I'd know them anywhere. They haunted me. He haunted me, the memories of him, of the way he used to look up at me, his face buried between my thighs.

  I was his first love.

  He was the only man I'd ever loved. The one I'd left behind, without saying goodbye.

  And he was standing here, so close I could have stood up and reached for him. As he walked along the edge, his eyes never left mine. He turned his head to look back at me even after he passed me.

  Silas Saint.

  I felt the familiar rush of attraction, something primal, an old feeling from years ago. It was the same thing I'd felt for him when we were kids.

  His expression was hard. Angry. I recognized the look- it was the same expression he’d have after his father’s drunken outbursts, when he’d step in to save his mother.

  I was so caught up in the fact that Silas had materialized from somewhere deep in my subconscious and was now standing right in front of me again that it took me a minute to even realize the implication of his being here.

  Coker wasn't on the up and up. It's why we'd chosen him as a mark. He had a history of rigging fights.

  Coker would want to impress me. He'd want to win by any means necessary.

  And that was a problem.

  Because either Silas was about to get beat down - and really hurt - or Silas was about to kick the shit out of Coker's guy. In which case my con would be done. Over.

  Either way, my cover was about to be blown.

  Beside me, Coker stood. "Son of a bitch," he said, his hands clenched into fists.

  "Is something wrong?" I asked.

  "Nothing I can't deal with," he said. "Excuse me."

  I watched him head toward one of his cronies on the far side of the ring, and my heart sank as I watched Silas on the other side, his head bent, talking to the guy in his corner.

  I hoped Silas knew what the hell he was doing. And what he was in for.

  I slid my finger over the screen on my phone and sent a simple text.

  We have a problem.

  ***

  CHAPTER THREE

  SILAS

  I thought I was fucking hallucinating, seeing her standing there.

  Tempest Wilde.

  There was no way on God's green earth I ever thought I would see her again after she had up and left West Bend without a word.

  We were seventeen.