Page 73 of Pistols & Peonies

I want to compete in the Gauntlet, no question about it. But I’m also starting to reach a strange sort of understanding with Kane lately, and part of me doesn’t want to risk upsetting the fragile peace between us. Good things never last, but that doesn’t mean I have to be the one who lights the match.

“Maybe?” Char scoffs. “C’mon, Vi, I need a real answer here. Mack needs to know, like, now. Otherwise they move down the list. There are a lot of fighters who’d kill for this chance.”

She’s right. I know she’s right.

This is a once in a lifetime opportunity. If I turn it down out of some misguided attempt at not rocking the boat with Kane, I’ll regret it forever. Worse, I’ll be betraying the last pieces of who I am, settling for the safe choice rather than going after what I really want.

I didn’t fight against that my whole life just to sell out now.

My phone vibrates against my palm. I lower it from my ear and glance at the screen, a text from Kane lighting up the display.

Kane

Working late. Don’t wait up.

Something twists in my chest– relief tangled with disappointment, mixed with something dangerous I don’t want to name. He won’t be here tonight. There’s nothing holding me back from accepting the invitation.

If that’s not a sign from the universe, I don’t know what is.

“Fuck it,” I sigh, lifting the phone back up to my ear. “I’m in.”

“Hell yeah!” Char shrieks, and I have to yank the phone away as her squeal of excitement threatens to puncture my eardrum. “Okay, I’ll let Mack know, and I’ll pick you up at nine. Wear something hot.”

“Don’t I always?” I shoot back, smirking as I push off the counter to head toward the bedroom, my mind already shifting gears.

Combinations. Strategies. Footwork. Which walkout song will get the crowd on their feet and the adrenaline spiking before I even step into the ring.

She squeals again, her enthusiasm uncontainable. “This is gonna be epic! See you tonight!”

“Bye,” I laugh, hanging up and tossing my phone onto the bed.

I lift my gaze, catching my reflection in the mirror on the back of the closet door. She’s still there– the fighter. The girl who refuses to be caged. The version of myself that comes alive under bright lights and roaring crowds.

And she’s ready to be let out to play.

I’m already waiting at the curb when Char pulls up in front of the Tower, bass thumping loud enough to rattle the windows. I grab for the door handle before she’s even rolled to a complete stop, sliding into the passenger seat.

“Holy shit,” she breathes, eyes going wide as she takes me in. “You look like you’re about to commit murder.”

“That’s the idea,” I reply, smirking as I buckle in.

I went with black leather pants that hug every curve, a cropped tank that shows off my abs, and my favorite combat boots. My hair’s pulled back in a high ponytail, and I’ve got just enough makeup on to look fierce without worrying about it running the second I start to sweat.

Char peels away from the curb, grinning like a maniac. “God, I love this version of you.”

“Yeah, well, she’s been taking a nap,” I mutter, checking my phone one last time before tossing it in my bag.

No new messages from Kane. Good.

“But she’s clearly awake now,” Char says, glancing over at me.

“And pissed,” I add, flipping off the Tower in the rearview.

The drive to Eclipse takes twenty minutes, winding through progressively sketchier neighborhoods until we’re deep on the south side, the streets narrowing and the buildings pressing closer together. Char parks a few blocks away, then we hustle toward the club, boots hitting cracked pavement as music thumps faintly in the distance.

We bypass the line outside without slowing, waved through instantly by the bouncer.

Inside, the place is packed. The main floor is a sea of bodies, the air thick with the scent of sweat and alcohol. Music pounds through the space, vibrating up through the soles of my boots as we shoulder our way to the bar.