Fighting for Flight JB Salsbury (room on the broom read aloud .TXT) 📖

I’ve never seen them like this before. Their faces are masks of concentration. Their bodies are taut and unforgiving. They descend the stairs with the bravado of well-trained soldiers. I struggle for breath, suffocated by the anticipation in the air.

As the group walks down the steps, each member of the team comes into view. Wes walks behind Caleb and Rex, then Blake. His teasing eyes and easygoing smile are replaced by determination. I search for Jonah’s face in the group. Fans stand on their chairs, yelling and reaching to get to Jonah in the center of his crew. Security guards line the aisle, holding people back.

My hand squeezes Katherine’s tighter and I push up on my toes. I get a quick glimpse of the tips of dark mussed up hair.

There he is.

His face comes into view and I’m completely floored. He looks positively deadly and more beautiful than ever. My heart almost beats out of my chest. His eyebrows are low in a fixed state of focus, making his eyes look black. His full lips are held in a tight, straight line, framed by his set jaw. The muscles under his colorful skin seem bigger as they flex under the light. I suck in a breath and throw my hand over my gaping mouth.

I’ve seen Jonah train and he seemed lethal then. But now, he looks homicidal. I say a silent prayer that this is all an act, because the way he looks now, he’d snap at the slightest provocation.

They move down the stairs, passing rows of screaming fans. His team is circled around him protectively. They reach the bottom and walk down the aisle of our section. Then the group stops short. Right at our row.

I’m frozen, my eyes burning and stuck on Jonah. He turns his head towards me as if he’s responding to my call. His eyes don’t search, but land right on my face. Caught in the ferocity of his stare, I hold his gaze. A one-dimpled smile touches his face just long enough for me to see before it disappears and the focus is back.

That’s it. He’s letting me know that this is an act. I take a deep breath and smile back, huge. He gives me a wink and throws a quick look to Candy. His intense glare makes her cower.

Take that, bitch.

And with renewed hope, I watch the group continue down the aisle and into the octagon.

~*~

Jonah

“. . . sixth time returning Heavyweight Champion Victor ‘The Bull’ Del Toro.”

Standing in my corner of the octagon, I wait for Del Toro to make it down the aisle. I find my girl in the crowd. She’s holding my mom’s hand. Thank you, Mom.

And why in the hell is Candy sitting where Guy should be? Maybe he couldn’t make it? But that doesn’t explain why Dominick’s slut-bot is in his place.

It was one thing to see Candy waltz into my dressing room like she belonged there, but seeing her standing next to Raven is unsettling. I thought I scared her enough to get her to back off. Apparently whatever Dominick is paying is worth her continued humiliation. Candy spent the entire time in my dressing room, sitting in the corner on a plastic folding chair. Blake even made her and her slutty sidekick face the wall just to make a point.

I force my thoughts back to Del Toro and the fight. Nothing can throw me off my game. Not one fucking thing. Ten minutes. I need to stay up for the first two rounds. After that, game over. My eyes slide back to Raven like they’re magnetized.

“Get your head in the fight, Slade. Your girl’s still gonna be there when it’s over,” says Owen from behind me.

I nod. He’s right. I need to focus on the fight and keep the buzzing in my head down to a minimum. Candy works for the enemy, and seeing her so close to Raven makes me wish I’d locked my girl in the bedroom. Maybe I shouldn’t have had her come tonight. I could have set her up somewhere, far away from here, until the outcome was determined. But I need to see her face to stay grounded, to control the rage that’ll be riding me hard.

Del Toro stands in his corner, giving me the stare-down. I’d give almost anything to knock that confident look right off his scarred face. Almost.

The ref motions for us to meet in the middle of the octagon. He gives us the speech they always give before a fight about no hits below the belt and make it a clean fight. His words may as well be spoken in Japanese as much as I’m paying attention. Instead, I’m locked eye to eye with Del Toro. The ref yells something and then repeats it. It’s on the repeat that I hear he wants us to tap knuckles. Fuck that.

“You’re going down, you little bitch,” Del Toro growls as he takes his fighting stance.

He has no idea.

I raise my fists and we face off. My blood sizzles with restrained aggression.

The ref waves his hand between us. “Fight.”

Del Toro and I circle each other, sizing each other up, fists at the ready. I focus on his hands, keeping his legs on radar. The crowd roars over shouts from our cornermen. Mine yell, “Take a hit!” His shout, “Take him down!”

Del Toro turns his fist, palm up, taunting me. “Come on, pussy. Take a shot.”

My jaw grinds against my mouth guard. This cocky fuck thinks I can’t lay him out. I mock swing. He flinches. Yeah, fuck you.

“Get movin’, guys,” the ref says. “Fans didn’t pay to watch two fairies circling the maypole—Fight.”

No more milking the clock.

I drop my guard. He throws the quick left. I dodge it. The crowd cheers. We circle again, and his right leg sweeps at my feet. I jump back. I feel the buzz in my head. My muscles coil. I find my groove and right jab a heavy body blow. He doubles, winded,