Main Bonus #71: Fight Night (Oscar) (Patreon)

IMPORTANT: Please do not screenshot and post any part of this bonus scene to other sites or share with non-patrons. All of the Patreon content is exclusive to Patreon and for current patron's eyes only.  Thank you!! xoxo Krista & Becca

RESOURCES:  Check out this narrative timeline graphic to visually see when this bonus scene takes place.

MUSIC: We listened to "Levee" by Bo Baskoro and "Byegone" by Volcano Choir while writing this bonus scene.

SPOILER WARNING: There are major spoilers from NOBODY LIKE US in this bonus scene. We highly recommend reading this bonus after you've read NLU.

MY BABY BRO hasn’t said boo to me since we landed in Vegas. That’s a lie. He did say, “Get off my back.”

To which, I had to reconfirm with my husband if I’ve even been on Quinn’s back.

“Am I being an annoying helicopter brother?” I asked Jack when we dropped off our luggage in the hotel room at the Masquerade. “Be honest with me, Highland.”

“All you did was ask him a question,” Jack reasoned and knelt beside his camera bag, checking the status of a lens. He’s scheduled to shoot the Fight Night with a heaping ton of WAC crew, so I wouldn't be able to talk to him throughout the event. “And he hasn’t been able to give you the best response, Os.”

On the plane, I’d asked Quinn the same thing I asked him in Vegas, “Are you sure you want to do this?” It’s been a routine question. One I’ve posed a dozen times since the reconstructed Tri-Force requested volunteers for the Fight Night. I’d been gagged (not in a good way) when I’d seen Quinn’s name on the sign-up sheet.

Our conversation went a little something like this.

My confused ass: You want to box?

My baby bro: It’s for charity. Don’t worry about it.

Initially, I’d dropped it because A.) he hustled away from me like talking was the last thing he wanted to do, and B.) I never want to return to the broken status of us. We’d mended our relationship. It’s been well over two years since there’s been any animosity, and I’ve been trying my absolute hardest to be there for Quinn while not cutting open old wounds.

This year, everything has felt off with him and me.

I’m truly starting to think I must’ve offended him or did something that’s dug under his skin—because he’s been short with me, evasive, and I hate it.

I miss my brother. There’s been too many moments, days, weeks of strain, and I’m starting to feel like I’ve let this shit go on for too long.

I said that to Jack and also, “I must’ve done something.” It’d been my running theory.

“You should just ask him about it.” Jack came over with his impressively encouraging smile. I let it distract me. I let it make me feel better in the moment. That’s the charm of my husband. Feeling like shit about your brotherly instincts? No problem, call on Long Beach to make you feel like a fucking demi-god worthy of a thousand baby brothers.

Except I just want one.

My kid brother.

Just ask him about it. Easier said.

Jack has a brother who’s ten years younger too, but Jesse isn’t Quinn. Jesse would tell Jack about the amazing shit he took at two p.m. whereas it’s pulling teeth sometimes just getting my brother to tell me what he ate this morning.

Are we reversing to what we were?

God, I hope not.

I’ve loved the relationship I’ve built with Quinn. The one where he responds to me with more than just a few words. Where we joke around and there are smiles at the end. Where he actually asks me for advice.

“You think Akara will care if I leave specific details out of my daily log?” Quinn had asked me on the phone one night. We’d gotten to talking about what’s necessary to help security versus what’s necessary to protect a client’s privacy.

It didn’t end with him thinking I was being patronizing. Or me trying to tell him to go to college. That boat has left the dock a long time ago, and I know what this career means to Quinn now. I know he didn’t just follow me into security like a lost puppy.

He has a big heart. He’s wanted to help those who can’t help themselves, and I wish I could’ve seen that sooner. I’ve wished a lot of things when it comes to him. If I tallied all the hopes and wishes I’ve had, I’d bet 70% involve my baby brother.

So as event crew sets up the ring for the Fight Night, I catch Quinn alone in the empty stadium seats. He’s eating a veggie sub sandwich and casually taking in the staff’s progress.

Joining him, I sink down in a stiff metal chair and pop open a bag of sour cream & onion Piattos, Filipino chips that Jack packed for the flight.

Quinn briefly glances at me. “Where’s Charlie?”

“Probably making his temp bodyguard want to quit by four p.m.” I imagine Charlie outmaneuvering some poor bastard—to the point where Charlie will end up alone. I just hope he doesn’t walk the strip without security, but I can’t worry about him tonight. Even if a big part of me feels like he’s my responsibility to keep safe. On-duty or off, this motherfucking feeling never really goes away.

I care about him. I have a soft spot for Charlie. It’s harder to deny, but I also have the same spot for Quinn, and I don’t want him to ever think Charlie could replace him.

Charlie has four brothers.

Quinn is my only brother. He’s all I have and I’m all he has in that same sense.

“Are you going back on his detail?” Quinn wonders. “After the fight?”

I shake my head, but end up saying, “Only if they need me, but I’m not even micc’d up, bro.” I motion to my neck and ear. No wire, no radio, no comms. Quinn is also without a radio. Luna Hale, his client, is back home in Philly, and he’s essentially just here for the charity event too.

Only events as big as this one would cause security and production to send every single set of lungs and hands to get the job done, and I doubt I’ll be called in. I doubt Quinn will be either.

He nods slowly and swallows a bite of sub.

I eat a chip and study his tensed expression. Is he upset about my relationship with Charlie? Did I choose my client over my brother at some point recently? Is that what’s wrong?

The chip is a lump in my throat.

He sees me staring and sighs heavily. “What?” His tone is quiet but sharp. I watch him crinkle the paper around his half-eaten sub.

I nod to the ring. “Last we really talked about boxing, you were telling me how much you hated it, so why are we doing this?” That came out great. Look at me, excelling at this brotherly heart-to-heart already.

Then Quinn takes too long to answer. It shoots a hole into my confidence.

“Is it the money?” I ask.

“The what?” Quinn scrunches his face.

“They’re paying us to fight,” I remind him. “It’s not a small chunk of change either.”

He grimaces. “You really think I’d do it for the money?”

“I’m doing it for the money and for you,” I admit. “Saying I want the cash is not beneath me, bro.”

“Do you even need the money?” Quinn wonders, leaning back against the chair. “You’re married to a billionaire.” His gaze softens, less on the defensive.

Strides. Looks like we’re making them. I just don’t know where we’re headed. It’s like walking in fog and crossing my fingers that there’s no cliff ahead.

“Jack doesn’t make billions. That’s just his inheritance, and I still like making my own money. And I’m doing Farrow’s husband a solid by participating.” Maximoff is running this event, and he needed recognizable names and good fighters.

I fit both bills.

So does Quinn.

“But you…” I study my brother as his eyes fall to the sub in his hands. “I have no fucking clue why you’d want to go in that ring. Let alone fight me.”

“I’m doing it for charity,” Quinn says with less heat, his gaze lifting to mine. He shrugs. “We’re the main event.” Because we have the most experience boxing professionally. He takes a long beat. “And Nessa thinks it’s worth it. For clout or views or maybe those are the same thing.” He mutters that last part, then adds loudly, “She’s made a career out of social media, so I default to what she has to say about it.”

“Right,” I nod, surprised he’s bringing up Nessa. He usually changes the conversation if I ask too many questions about her. He doesn’t want me teasing him about his girlfriend, I’ve gathered. Which is probably why he rarely brings her around me. “Where is your girlfriend?” I scan the event space, but all I see are crew with headsets as they carry around sound equipment.

“Her flight was delayed.” He checks his phone. “She might miss the whole Fight Night.” His phone is blowing up in real time. Text after text. He scrapes a hand through his hair, stressed.

“Is that her?” I nod to his phone.

“Yeah.” He pockets his phone, tensing, and an awkward strain is back. One-word answers. That’s what he’s giving me.

I nod to myself more now, pumping myself up to press him.

But a miracle happens. Quinn speaks first. “She’s just upset I couldn’t get her on the private jet.”

I cough on chip dust and make a protective what’s-wrong-with-this-girl face that annoys him. I can’t change my expression. Between her interest in clout and now the private jet, I’m wondering if my brother has been dating a fame-leech. “It’s not your jet to invite people on,” I tell him.

“We’ve been dating for a year,” Quinn defends. “I could’ve tried to pull strings for her.”

I’m shaking my head. “That’s legitimately not in your power.”

“Mom and Dad were on the flight.”

“Maximoff invited them because all of their kids are fighting tonight.” Even Joana, our sister will be in that ring. “He didn’t invite Nessa.”

“I could’ve asked.”

I crunch on another chip. “It’s a big ask.”

“You wouldn’t have asked?” Quinn questions with seriousness. “Really?”

“To bring a boyfriend or girlfriend of one year on a packed private jet? No—not unless they’d already been around the inner-circle, and Nessa hasn’t even breeched security’s circle yet.”

Quinn is quiet, contemplative.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” I tell him and put a hand on his shoulder.

He exhales a breath. “Yeah…” When I drop my hand, he bows forward and stares at his sub again. “I…” His eyes flit to me, and I frown. It’s like he’s trying to tell me something, but I can’t even see enough of the words to grab for them.

“You…what?” I prod.

He shrugs tensely and sits straight again, avoiding my gaze. He’s about to leave. I’ve timed the Quinn Oliveira exit strategy. He’ll reach for his water bottle. Stand. And keep his back to me all the way to the door.

I’ve got less than five seconds as he reaches for the water bottle on the ground by his feet. “Did I do something?” I ask him fast.

“Did you what?” Quinn freezes, water bottle in a fist.

“Did I do something that hurt you recently?” I’m caging a breath. “Because you can tell me, bro. Whatever’s going on—”

“Nothing’s going on,” he interjects, having trouble meeting my eyes. “Alright? You didn’t do anything.”

“Something—”

“Nothing, Oscar.” He stands.

“Then why can’t you look at me?”

He makes a show of staring right into my eyes. “Okay?”

No. Something is wrong. I can tell he’s not himself. “You can talk to me, you know.”

“Isn’t that what we’re doing?”

“Yeah. But we can keep doing it.” I check the time on my phone, and I instantly regret it as he notices. “I have all the time in the world for you. Hell, we can even ditch tonight. Just say the word and I’ll bail with you.”

Quinn is shaking his head. “We can’t do that. Like you said, this is for Maximoff too.”

“He’ll figure it out.”

“I should warm up.” He cringes, then digs out his phone again. “MyGod.” He’s frustrated. Nessa must still be texting. He sighs, looking around the event space, then skims his phone. “She thinks she’s going to make it in enough time.”

I stand to face him. “Look at that, some good news for the Oliveiras.”

“Yeah.” Quinn still seems off. He shoves the phone back in his pocket, and he’s deep in thought.

He has a tougher exterior—due to being bullied in high school, due to me not being there to protect him, due to his need to become self-reliant. He’s wanted to be like Farrow. To never need anyone to swoop in and save him. He’s wanted to be that for himself, but I also wish we could be at a place where he believes I will protect him too.

That I can be here if he’d just give me the chance.

“Whatever is going on,” I tell him, “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. So when you’re ready, my arms are open.” I spread them. “You just have to walk into them, baby bro.”

His lips tic up, then flatline fast. “It’s fine. I’m doing fine. This year has just been a lot with Luna, the kidnapping, and…”

I drop my arms. “I get it.” We’ve all been going through it. “Just don’t shut me out.” I rustle his thick dark hair and speak in Portuguese. “Senti sua falta.”

I’ve missed you.

Quinn blinks a lot, emotion reddening his eyes, and I think he might take this poorly until he says, “Me too. I should…” He up-nods in a goodbye. “See you later.” He’s choked, and I can’t catch him as he darts for the backstage exit.

I’m a smart motherfucker, but my stupid ass doesn’t even know what I’d say at this point. What’s worse: I now have to beat the shit out of my baby brother, and that’s about the last thing I want to do tonight.

I thought about watching the Fight Night matchups backstage on the TV. Where the footage would be delayed by about thirty seconds, but I just love spreading myself thin. I promised I’d be in several peoples’ corner, including but not limited to Joana, Thatcher, Maximoff, Akara, and of course Farrow.

“You should be warming up!” my dad, Rodrigo, yells at me between every round. He has to scream the words because the sheer volume of the cheering audience could blow out eardrums. Even these down periods where both fighters return to their corners to towel off blood and sip water, the yelling never recedes.

Chants to “kill him!” and “fuck him up!” echo around us, but I just tell my dad, “Not yet!”

He scowls, but Rodrigo is always scowling, even when he’s happy.

At one point, my mom catches my elbow, drawing my attention. She’s been ringside too and hired to coach certain competitors with my dad. Professionally, she’s not a boxer, but she is a personal trainer and been around enough fights to be more than a ringside cheerleader. “Are you taking this seriously?!”

I touch my chest. “Does it not look like I am?!”

She gives me a haughty look. “Do you really want me to answer that?! Because no, it looks like you’re not fighting tonight!”

“ROUND TWO!” the ring announcer calls out as Thatcher and Banks face off. Both Morettis have already broken a sweat, but neither cause a blood bath. I helped them choreograph their fight a few weeks ago, so Banks wouldn’t hurt his brother.

The fight everyone had collectively held their breaths for had been Maximoff Hale versus this dickwad YouTuber. Some guy who plays mean-spirited pranks on others for a living. Redford screamed so much beside me, his voice sounded hoarse afterward.

I thought Farrow was going to end the match himself. The YouTuber was taking dirty shots at Maximoff when the ref broke them apart. It got to the point where three refs had to enter the ring.

Mom speaks rapidly in Portuguese, telling me I need to stretch, how I’m going to hurt myself. How I’m old. Quinn is so much younger. He’s more practiced. She’s short of saying, more skilled. And I would a hundred percent agree with her.

I just turned 34. Still young, but I am a lot older than Quinn.

He’ll be 24 this month, and he could knock me on my ass in one round. It’s the truth. I told him not to go easy, so I’m expecting a lights out situation. I also told my husband to try not to watch in case I’m KO’d.

Last thing Jack needs to see are the whites of my eyes and my body limp on the stage. It won’t be a pretty sight, and I’d rather be a hot limited edition bodyguard stud to the love of my life.

After the short back and forth with my mom, I decide to exit. Partially so my dad will stop cutting be professional looks at me. I am literally called the Pro, so he should be giving me some slack.

The truth is, I don’t want to fight Quinn.

I haven’t even trained for this. I can’t imagine physically hurting my brother after what he’s been through in high school. We haven’t thrown fists, not since he told me about being bullied.

So when I’m finally in the ring with two blue gloves, a mouth guard, and my abs on display—my mind is a vacuum. It’s sucked out the fact that I’m on TV. That friends and family are on the sidelines watching. That my husband is somewhere filming but hopefully not looking through the lens. That Charlie Cobalt isn’t on my radar for once. That all the famous ones and Alpha, Omega, and Epsilon are in Vegas. Present.

Here.

That I’m the star boxer for a half-hour.

It’s all gone as I’m in the corner of the ring. As the announcer calls out, “OSCAR HIGHLAND-OLIVEIRA!” and I lift my gloved hand while staring at my brother in the opposing corner.

I haven’t blinked.

The only thing I see and think about is Quinn Nicolau Sousa Oliveira.

Why the hell is his chest and abs already bruised? They’re days’ old bruises. Confusion knots my brows, my face. He’s barely looking at me. Just lifts his red glove as the ring announcer introduces him.

All I can think is he must’ve been sparring with some tough motherfucker who got plenty of licks in. Quinn is well-trained for this event. Good. He’ll slip out of my right hook and put on a great show before ending this fast.

Round one, we enter the middle, and I shift my weight to warm my blood. I expect Quinn to hop a few times. But his feet are rooted. His eyes are glazed.

What the fuck is going on?

“Quinn?” His name comes out mumbled with my mouthguard.

Then the ref shouts, “Fight!”

Quinn dips to the left. We circle each other, and my pulse races as the crowd chants for my baby brother. The Young Stud is the popular choice. Bets are on him to pull this one out. I breathe in, out, prepared for the blow.

“FIGHT! FIGHT! KILL HIM!”

I wait for him to lunge forward first.

Takes me a moment to realize he’s waiting for me. We circle and circle, then I launch a solid right hook, and the bottom of my stomach drops out when I realize I’ve made impact. Quinn’s face flies to the side, blood spewing.

From below the ropes in Quinn’s corner, our dad is shouting at him in Portuguese to raise his hands and keep an eye on me.

Quinn lowers his arms. He’s not guarding his face. He’s not returning the blow.

Something is so wrong. My eyes burn, and I stop moving around him. I stand stationary a foot from my brother. I’m a second away from prying out my mouthguard when he buckles into me. He buries his face in the crook of my neck and chest, and I hold the back of his head protectively. What happened? What happened? Who do I need to kill?

Suddenly, Farrow and Donnelly slide under the ropes and usher me and Quinn off the ring quickly. Thank God I have great friends who know this is a live event, and America doesn’t need to be questioning why my baby brother just got choked up on the main stage.

I am questioning it.

I am internally panicked that those bruises aren’t from training for this night.

Instead of beating myself up over possibly missing a critical moment in Quinn’s life, I’m just focused on being here for him now.

All I have is now.

And right now, I have my arm slung around his shoulders. I’m guiding him to the backstage ready room while Farrow and Donnelly lead the way and shove cameras out of our faces.

Frog comes out of the stands and power-walks beside Donnelly. She joins us in the empty ready room, and while Farrow locks the door, I place my brother down on a metal fold-out chair.

That’s when I see the fist-like bruise on his back. A fresher one on his shoulder. I almost black out.

I come to, seeing Donnelly going for the mini-fridge.

Gloves off and mouthguard out, I crouch down to my brother. “What’s going on?”

Quinn slowly removes his red glove. One by one. Then he pries out his mouthguard so, so slowly. I’m channeling every ounce of patience and trying not to internally scream at an ear-shattering decibel. I’m freaking the fuck out.

He doesn’t need me to freak out.

He needs me to be a calm big brother. As calm as I’d be for Charlie, but when Quinn hurts, it’s different. It feels like nails are clawing down my skin, ripping at my flesh, and I can’t fling this animal off fast enough.

Maybe because Charlie seeks out that hurt. He puts himself in positions to feel it.

Quinn wouldn’t…he wouldn’t look for this. How did it even find him?

“Who hurt you?” I ask him quietly while Donnelly hands Quinn a water with electrolytes.

“Thanks,” Quinn says, his voice scratchy. He glances past me.

I look over my shoulder. Farrow has his arms loosely crossed, his confusion matching mine. He raises his brows at me like, Fuck if I know.

Quinn isn’t staring at my friend. He’s watching Frog fold out a second chair and sit across from him. She’s not confused.

Neither is Donnelly. I glance up at him. “Bro…”

He shakes his head at me like, it’s not good.

I stay eye-level with my brother. “Quinn.”

He’s near-tears.

Someone hurt him. My heart is being squeezed to death. I don’t fixate on the fact that I didn’t protect him this time. It’s not that I ignored him and wasn’t around. I’ve been around. It’s that he didn’t really let me in. He’s wanted to be there for himself, and how do I get through to him that I’m here?

“Whatever happened, it won’t happen again,” I whisper to Quinn. “It will never happen again, Quinn. I won’t let it.”

His chin quakes.

I cup the back of his neck. “Eu sempre vou te proteger.” I will always protect you. “I promise. You just need to let me.”

He pinches his eyes. “It’s…it’s my…” He rubs at his wet lashes. “It’s Nessa.”

I hug him while his fingers grip onto my shoulders, and my muscles are on fire. His girlfriend is abusing him. Every conversation I’ve ever had with Quinn about Nessa slams back into me, and I reassure him I’m here for him.

But in the back of my head, I want to commit murder tonight. Thank God again for my great friends—because they’re the only reason I don’t storm out of this room and confront the abuser face to motherfucking face.

When I break apart from Quinn, he sniffs hard and stares up at me as I rise. He looks at me with relief. Like he believes I will be there for him now and tomorrow and beyond. That if I could, I would shove Nessa into a potted plant if it meant she wouldn’t be in breathing distance of him. He looks at me like I am righteously angry, and my anger will shield him. He looks at me like I’m his big brother.

His always protector.

I tell him I love him. It’s the best I have before I know I’ll say something nasty about her, and he might be upset at me for that, considering he’s defended her for too long and she’s probably wormed her way into his head.

But at least he’s let me in.

Thanks so much for reading this month's main bonus! We always knew when we wrote "Fight Night" in the book that it would be a perfect scene to see from other perspectives. And we loved being back in Oscar's head for this one. His relationship with Quinn is one of our favorite character developments in the series. We hope you enjoyed it! 

Coming soon before the end of the month (yes, that's either today or tomorrow!), you'll get the extra bonus scene. This one also takes place in the Nobody Like Us timeline too. Keep on the lookout!

xoxo Krista & Becca

"Fight Night (Oscar)," Copyright © 2024 by K.B. Ritchie