Brawl (8 page)

Arrogant asshole.
That’s better, I muse as the need to cry dissipates.

“Nate.” He calls out, threading his fingers through the mesh of the cage.

“You ready to kick some ass, old man?” Nate shouts over the noise.

“That’s enough of the old, you little shit,” Hooligan wisecracks in response to his nephew’s teasing. “I’ll still have enough energy to teach you a lesson in respect after I’ve dealt with this knucklehead.”

He points his head in the direction of his opponent, who’s mugging for his supporters.  Without thinking, I laugh at his cocky threat when Nate does which makes his gaze flits toward me once again. Disapproval shines brightly from him and he rejects me for the second time. The tears that I blinked away moments earlier make themselves known again and I turn away before they spill, seeking solace in Jep.

He wraps his arms around me when I press my body against him and pulls me tight against him. “Want another beer before the fight starts, Gabbi?” 

Now’s probably a good time to tell him that Nate was telling the truth.

“I’m really only seventeen.”

His arms disappear from around me at lightning speed, his hands curling around my biceps and he holds me in front of him. His eyes run over my face as if he’s trying to work out if I’m joking or not. I press my lips together, lifting my eyebrows in a silent request for forgiveness, before I shrug.  “I could murder a lemonade, Jep.”

Shaking his head, he appears slightly bemused when he answers me. “Shoulda known you were too good to be true. What’s with the tatts and the trampy clothes then if you’re underage?”

Jep waves his hand down the front of me as he speaks. I’d like to rip into him for daring to ask his rude questions, but I don’t have a leg to stand on really. I like to pretend that my clothes and my tattoos are my armor against the world, but his assumptions about the type of girl I am aren’t too far from the truth.

I am exactly as I appear...a slut.

“Perks of knowing a kick-ass tattooist,” I answer, my attempt a nonchalance falling short when my voice doesn’t cooperate. Instead of the breezy tone I was working toward, I sound defensive. “And, let’s not pretend that you don’t like my clothes.”

Suddenly, feeling tired—of defending myself, of my life, of the world in general—I close the short distance between my current position and my seat. Falling into it wearily, I hug myself with both arms. Crossing my legs and drawing my feet under my seat, I make myself as small as possible. Once this fight is over, I’m going home and crawling into Cooper’s bed. I need to bask in my little brother’s pureness after the past twenty-four hours that I’ve had. First Hooligan blatantly dismisses me as trash with one look; now Jep’s decided that I’m a little girl playing at being a whore.

I feel dirty; exposed and raw.

“Brace yourself,” Nate declares as he falls into his seat beside me. “He’s pumped. This is gonna be brutal.”

Swallowing down the self-pity I’m currently wallowing in, I plaster my best fake smile on my face and nod as if I agree with his judgement. Truthfully, I’d forgotten about him and his rude uncle.

The MC makes his announcement and then leaves the cage. The tension in the room ramps up as the referee explains the rules.

“Here ya go.” Jep passes me a plastic glass. I take a sip, fizzy lemonade bursting over my tongue, and my mood lightens a tiny bit. Glancing his way, it lifts even further. His handsome features are cloaked with contrition, and he lifts his beer my way when he sees me looking at him.

“Apologies for being a jerk. Sometimes my mouth moves quicker than my brain. I like you; you’re hot as fuck and tough-as-nails, just how I like my women.” I smile at his declaration. It’s not what I was expecting, however, it’ll more than do as an apology. “Let’s start over. Hi, I’m Jep. Nice to meet you.”

He holds out his free hand. It takes me a second to catch on to what he wants from me. Extending my own arm, I grasp his hand and shake it. “It’s my pleasure, Jep. I’m Gabbi.”

Nate’s eyes burn a path over the back of my head as he watches our weird interaction.

Jep tugs me closer to him with the hand he’s holding and I don’t resist. Letting go of my hand, he shuffles his beer into the one furthest from me, and then slings his free arm over my shoulder. Once he’s slid me hard against his side, I fix my eyes on the octagon, and push away all thoughts of my strange reaction to Hooligan earlier. Jep’s proving to be more my speed tonight. Easy, safe, and down-to-fuck. There’ll be no messy run-ins at work afterward. Hell, I don’t even have to see him again if I don’t want to.

With those thoughts firmly in the forefront of my mind, I watch the referee call the two fighters into the middle to touch gloves before he starts the fight. Nate and Jep stiffen with anticipation on either side of me, catcalls and whistles coming from the pair of them in support of Hooligan. I stay silent for the moment, stuck in a quandary about which fighter I want to cheer for.

I’d be lying if I said that a small part of me wasn’t hoping that Nate’s uncle’s opponent would hand him his arrogant ass tonight.

Hooligan

A
drenaline surges like electricity through my body. It sends sparks of energy to the ends of my fingers and toes. Breathing deeply, I begin to channel my focus into the fight in front of me, zeroing in on the asshole challenging for my title. My preparations are interrupted when a pair of wide amber eyes appear in my mind, followed by a pouty set of ruby red lips, a full rack, and tattooed legs that go forever. Nate’s girl. Or Jep’s. Fuck knows which one she’s with, she’s been all over both of them.

All I know is my dick thickened at the sight of her and that surprised the shit out of me...that was until thoughts of Mari and Gabe popped back into my head. Which put an end to the two seconds of peace I’d had since the last time their memory haunted me.

Jesus H. Christ.
My cock twitches in my cup, grinding painfully against the hard shell. There’s not much room for growth and I’m about to give everyone a free show if I can’t get it under control.

Nuns. Calculus. Bathroom mold. Dead son.
Murdered wife.

Pale blue eyes filled with love replace the sexy amber pair that were filling my vision, and my hard-on wilts. Icy-cold, inescapable anguish filters its way back into my veins like liquid nitrogen, and my momentary return to hot-blooded male ends as quickly as it began.

“Touch gloves,” the ref’s voice breaks through the fog of grief holding me in its grip. Bouncing on my toes, I hold my hands out and wait for my opponent, Gregory “Kryptonite” Krakan, to touch gloves. He doesn’t, and it proves everything I’ve heard about the up-and-coming Croatian in the lead-up to tonight.

He’s arrogant.
Full of himself.
Already has the fight won in his head.

All of these things will work in my favor. Not that I really need any extra luck or assistance. The need to inflict damage—to make my opponents feel a small amount of the pain that grips me every single fucking day—is more than enough. I haven’t lost a fight since my life turned to shit and I have no intentions of starting tonight.

“And...FIGHT!”

The bell dings, and with it my attention sharpens into laser focused concentration. The roar of the crowd dulls, sent to the back of my mind, leaving my world to consist of just the two of us. I stretch my neck from side to side, faking the need to loosen up, before I lead with my right foot and fist. My gloved knuckles connect with Kryptonite’s left cheekbone. His eyes widen when the punch lands and he takes a step back from me.

I feint to the left, throw a deceptive left kick that barely glances off his thigh, and then follow my first strike with another. Hot on the heels of the initial impact, I know it rattles him when my right fist lands in the same spot. This hit is twice as hard as the last because I’ve thrown all of my weight behind it. Immediately, he gets that dazed look all of my challengers get when they realize that the old man can still hit.

Internally, my hypothalamus signals my adrenal glands to get to work transforming the tyrosine amino acid floating around my body into dopamine so the oxygen I’m inhaling can change it into noradrenaline, so that can be converted to the soul-sustaining, arrogance-inducing adrenaline that fuels me. The entire process takes less than half a second, sending my body coursing into an adrenaline rush to end all adrenaline rushes and emptying my mind of all thoughts of death, loneliness...and burying my dick as far as I can into pretty little brunettes with alluring amber eyes.

Kryptonite tries to engage me in a clinch and throw me to the ground when I move to throw another fist his way. My ground and pound game isn’t my strong point; my fists are my weapon. That’s not a secret. Everyone who comes up against me knows this. Getting me to the ground—that’s the part they all have trouble with. Hell, I’m sure they all watch video after video of my previous fights, trying to devise a way to get me on my back.

Clenching my abdomen to stabilize my core when he tries to shift me off balance, I meet his strength with my own and force him to straighten. I’m barely met with any resistance and it takes all my resolve not to end the contest now.

Need to give the crowd the show they came for...the gamblers dumb enough to bet against me will cry foul when they lose their money if I don’t let them think he’s in with a chance.

Leaning near his ear, I throw in some trash talk for good measure. “Is that all you’ve got? I’ve met white belts with a stronger core.”

“That’s not what your wife said when I bent her over your kid’s headstone.”

What. The. Fuck. Did. He. Just. Say?

Pictures of my Mari getting fucked over Gabe’s grave flood my mind. I know he’s full of shit—my wife was pure as driven snow—yet I can’t stop myself from giving him the reaction he wants. Unfortunately for him, anger doesn’t make me sloppy so it won’t give him the free shot he’s looking for.

Rage makes me lethal.

Brutal. Vicious.
Ruthless.

Intent on wreaking havoc on this cruel world and anyone stupid enough to get in my way.

Rearing back, I put space between us in order to create enough motion to swing my head. Bringing my forehead down on the bridge of his nose, I smile when it bursts like an overripe tomato and blood splatters over my face. My move would’ve ended the fight in a sanctioned competition—which is why I’ve turned down all offers to go pro—but this is an underground, no-holds-barred fight ring in the basement of a dingy nightclub in Sydney. The only thing I can’t do to him is kicking him in the nuts, hit him in the back of the head, or gouge his eyes out. And he should be thanking his lucky fucking stars about that
right now
for daring to mention sticking his cock anywhere near my angel wife.

Satisfied, that he’s in a world of pain, I push him backward. He stumbles but keeps his feet. Retreat is written all over his face, but I don’t give a shit. I follow him, intent of finishing this now...and in the most painful way possible. I throw a one-two combo. Right fist to the face, followed by a left then another right. Stunned, his hands drop, leaving him defenseless as he backs away from me. I don’t care, following him step for step, determined to make him pay for
even
allowing thoughts of my wife and son to enter his putrid head. Swinging my right arm again, my uppercut connects with that sweet spot on his chin. He fades, eyelids drooping, his knees wobbling when his retreat picks up pace.

Fuck no, cunt.
You do not get to pass the fuck out.

Bearing down on him, I almost close the distance his stumbling footsteps have put between us before I launch into a spear tackle. My knees and ankles are strong as they act like a springboard; my shoulder braced to hit him in the solar plexus; and my gaze is zeroed in on Kryptonite’s weak chin. I hit him, dead on target, and he folds like a cheap suit. I hear the air rushing from his lungs and the thud his body makes when it hits the cushioned floor of the cage. His head lolls and I could spit from frustration when his eyes roll back in his head.

Fuck.
He’s out.

For the first time since the fight began, the noise of the crowd registers with me. It’s deafening, even more than usual. The spectators are stamping their feet as they clamor for a better view. Taking a second to look around me, I see mouths hanging open and fingers pointing. Looking down at the prone body beneath me, my brutality is driven home when I take in the bleeding, swollen mass that used to be Kryptonite’s face.

After what feels like an eternity, although it’s barely seconds in reality, the ref jumps into action and knocks me off my opponent, calling time on the bout. I roll onto my back, panting and filled with gut-churning frustration. Kryptonite looks like he’s gone ten rounds with Mohammed Ali, yet I feel like he got off lightly for his comment.

I might be a hard-cunt. I might cross lines that normal people wouldn’t dream of. Fuck me dead, I fight for fun—because I enjoy hurting people—yet I wouldn’t dream of bringing my opponent’s dead wife and kid into the ring. Every fiber of my being wants to kick him in the ribs and lay into him again. Cockhead deserves that...and more.

Lost in my thoughts of retribution, it takes me a minute to notice the ruckus that’s broken out in the basement. Deep, male voices are baying for my blood. Yelling that the fight was a set-up. Demanding a refund of the money they put on the unconscious fucker still lying on the floor of the octagon.

Laughing humorlessly to myself, I pull my knees to my chest, lay my palms flat on the ground either side of my head and kick my legs out, arching my back as I go. Landing on my feet, my immediate thought is Nate and his posse. Every piece of shit here knows that he’s my nephew. And he’s down there alone while I’m trapped in this cage.

Turning in the direction I saw him last, I find that a group of fuckers old enough to know better have circled him, Jep, and the sexy chick they have with them. Security is battling their way toward them. They’re not going to make it in time, that much is clear to me. My nephew is red in the face, his fists balled, and he’s about to start throwing punches. Jep’s standing with his back to Nate and they’ve trapped the girl between them to keep her out of harm as much as they can. What they don’t see is the big red-headed asshole who’s bearing down on them, his focus on the her, and her alone.