Page 109 of The Auction
Slipping my heels back on, I call the elevator. The metallic doors glide open, and I step inside, pressing the lobby button. Maybe he’s downstairs—at the building’s restaurant or the bar. It’s late, but it’s Friday night in New York City. People will still be out.
I check both places, scanning for his tall frame, but he’s nowhere. I text him as I walk, my thumb flying over the screen, but there’s no reply.
Then I see his driver standing near the concierge desk and he spots me immediately.
“Miss Hayes,” he says politely. “Did you need some help?”
I fidget with my hands, embarrassed. He saw me earlier, red-faced and trembling. He knows we fought—if that’s even what this was. No… it was just me being ridiculous. Now I have to make it right.
“Where would Jaxon go if he needed to… decompress?”
The corner of his mouth tips up. “He only goes one place, ma’am. He’ll be at The Gym.”
I exhale, relief mixing with nerves.
“Would you like me to take you there?”
“Yes, please.”
It’s only a fifteen-minute drive before we pull into a small lot beside a two-story brick building. The wordsThe Gymare painted in block lettering across the front windows—but the place looks dead. No neon, no flicker of light from inside.
The driver comes around to open my door and tilts his head toward a narrow side entrance where light spills out into the dark.
My eyes sweep the lot—and there’s his bike. Relief floods me so fast I feel weak for a second.
“Thanks,” I tell him quietly.
“You want me to wait here?”
I shake my head. “No, thanks.”
He gives me a look, half protective, half wary. “Okay. You look out in there. It can be a rowdy crowd.”
I nod, murmuring another thank you before making my way toward the side door.
The closer I get, the louder it is—a roar of sound spilling out into the night. Music. Shouting. The thump of energy that bumps against you.
Inside, the space opens up to a crowd pressed around a fighting ring, the air thick with sweat and adrenaline. Two men circle each other inside the ropes.
And one of them is Jaxon.
His skin glistens under the harsh overhead lights, muscles coiled and moving with precision. He’s in shorts, knuckles wrapped, fists high. His opponent lunges, but Jaxon’s quicker—slipping aside, driving a hit into the man’s ribs.
I edge closer, drawn in, when someone suddenly presses up beside me. I shift a few inches away without taking my eyes off Jaxon. He doesn’t see me. He’s locked in, all sharp focus and quiet violence.
“You need a drink, sugar?”
The voice is too close, too loud, and reeks of cigarette smoke. I glance over—a tall man, bald, with a long beard and a worn leather jacket. Definitely the Harley Davidson type.
“No. Thank you.”
I turn back toward the ring, hoping the hint is clear.
Jaxon looks incredible. Efficient. Lethal. My chest tightens when his opponent’s fist connects with his cheek, snapping his head to the side.
The bearded man sidesteps, appearing on my other side. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”
“I’m not interested.” I meet his eyes when I say it, flat and direct, before looking back to Jaxon.
