Damn, I knew our chemistry was on fire. Shane is about to get dumped in favor of a new BFF.
"This is sick, girl. But I'm totally on board with that if you let me pick the size and the place.”
I hesitate, because in my vision, Ty will be inked across my heart, just like he did for me. But when I actually lie beneath Nash, and she has her black elastic gloves on, she curls her finger in my direction, signaling for me to flip onto my stomach.
"Tie your hair up. Like, really up," she instructs.
I do as she tells me, my heart drumming wildly. Nash picks a place right underneath my left ear and applies the stencil transfer she's made for the tattoo.
"Chest tats are very in if you're a jailbird,” she says, turning on the machine, “but I think this spot makes far more sense."
The buzzing is making my head spin but I keep it together.
"You chose a tiny tattoo," I argue.
"My castle, my rules, baby." She laughs. "It's going to hurt, so take a deep breath, and remember that love hurts."
It certainly does, Nash. It most certainly does.
***
The massive Las Vegas arena is jammed and full of people. Nobody even bothers to sit down, Everyone's standing, and the air throbs with a deafening roar of chanting and cheers. The atmosphere is buzzing with excitement mingled with the oppressive smell of beer, hotdogs and BO.
There are a lot of types of crowds, and they're all different. A football crowd is not the same as basketball crowd; a hockey crowd is different from a soccer crowd. And the MMA crowd? It's freaking nuts. The fans here have such raw, unrestrained passion.
Cam pushes through the masses, leading the way to the press area, which is literally only fifteen feet from the ring. I can barely hear myself think, which is great, because thinking is not my strong point at the moment.
It’s too hot in the arena, so I take my jacket off once we find our seats. I'm wearing a cool, blue vintage dress, one of the few I own, paired with my denim chucks. There are still echoes of pain from doing the tattoo this morning, and Nash promised it's going to itch like a bitch once it starts healing, but I don't mind that at all.
"I'll go get us something to drink,” Cam shouts in my ear. Then he takes a step back and stares. My new tattoo hasn’t escaped him. He frowns slightly, but doesn't say anything, just pivots to the other side and walks away.
I plop down on my seat and take in everything around me. I'm pretty sure I saw Dawson walking around outside the ring, and I definitely saw Jesse sitting across the ring, on the opposite side, with a few other XWL fighters who came to see the show. There's an announcer who entertains the crowd every once in awhile, but I don't bother listening to what he has to say.
The reporter on my right accidentally elbows my ribs. "Oops, sorry."
I nod.
"Hey, do I know you?" He turns around.
“Not likely.” I shake my head. “Diablo Hill magazine?” I try.
He frowns. "I'm from MMA Madness. Chris," he introduces himself and we shake hands. He is still frowning, still looking at me, and as the pieces fall together, I blush and turn away from him, desperate to avoid his next question. But I can actually hear Chris smiling behind me when he says. "Hey, you're Wilder's old girlfriend. I saw you on TMZ when I was doing research."
Well, ain't that just grand. I turn back toward him. I'm hoping to convey annoyance, but I'm way too agitated to control my facial expressions. "I'm sorry, Chris. I can't seem to hear you with all the background noise. Enjoy the fight."
I’m relieved when Cam takes the seat to my right. He’s brought bottles of water, and I sip from mine, pressing the cold bottle against my forehead.
Vasquez is the first to emerge from the tunnel. He’s probably as tall as Ty and built like a gladiator. Ty has been doing this for four years professionally, but Vasquez is older, thirty-two, and more experienced. He’s already won three championship belts, and he’s considered a Brazilian Jiu Jitsu master. The Brazilian crowd cheers him on loudly, while some of the Americans boo him. Vasquez doesn't seem to mind, though. He's fought enough bouts to look past the booing.
And that's what I'm afraid of.
When the announcer introduces Ty and it's his turn to walk out of the tunnel, my heart thumps with anticipation. I have goose bumps all over my body as the crowd goes wild, chanting his name and throwing cups in the air. He walks out to his usual angry grunge tune and winks coolly to one of the video cameras following him, flashing his black mouth guard. When he gets to the edge of the ring, he lifts his arms sideways and allows one of the referees to pat him down all over.
"I never really got why they do that," I tell Cam.
But it's Chris who answers from my other side. "Being fondled by another man tends to put you in a bad mood and makes for a more exciting fight."
I turn my head, cocking it to the side and narrowing my eyes at him.
"I'm kidding,” Chris says. “It's to check the fighters haven’t greased themselves to death to avoid being grappled by their opponents."
The ref squeezes Ty's shoulder, as if to say you're good to go.
I think I'm going to be sick. The idea of Ty getting in there, of him getting hurt (and lets face it, there's a one hundred percent chance he'll get hurt) is driving me nuts.