Uncaged (An MMA Stepbrother Romance) (63 page)

“Do you like it? Fighting, I mean.”

He doesn’t reply immediately. Instead he eyes me like he thinks I’ve got some hidden motive for asking the question.

Mostly, I’m just curious. But then again, maybe I do. I don’t know where this is going to go, yet.

“Yes,” he eventually says. “I like the thrill.”

“Do you like beating people? Winning?”

“Yes.”

I nod, suck on my lower lip. “Have you ever sent anybody to hospital?”

This time his expression changes. The corners of his lips curl down. “Yes. Of course. It’s part of fighting.”

“Did you like that?”

“I didn’t force him to get into the cage.”

“You ever nearly kill someone?”

Now his face darkens. I can tell I’m wading into sensitive territory, but for some reason, I just want to keep going. Keep pushing. Like he does to me.

“Yes.”

“Who was he?”

“Just some guy.”

“What happened to him?”

“I crushed his windpipe. I wasn’t trying to hit him in the neck, but his dodge was too slow. I got him right on his Adam’s apple. He couldn’t breathe. The doc had to perform a tracheotomy right there. Cut his throat right open and shoved a fucking straw down it.”

“But he lived?”

“Yes.”

“Does he still fight?”

“Yes. He’s in Brisbane now.”

“Did that make you feel good?”

Pierce now flashes angry eyes at me. “What do you think?”

“Did you ever wonder about what if it happens to you? Something similar? Some fluke, some accident?”

“Even in pro regulated fighting people have died before,” he says. “I don’t think about it.”

“Never?”

“You think race car drivers think about crashing?”

I nod my head. “I would bet all my money that they think about it all the time.”

“Pen, you’re not going to make me second-guess myself.”

“I’m not trying to,” I tell him truthfully. “I’m just trying to understand you.”

“What’s so hard to understand? I’m good at fighting. I like fighting. I like underground fighting. I do what I like. It’s simple.”

“You like risking your life?”

“That’s an exaggeration.”

“Fine, but what about permanent injury? Brain damage?”

“Like I said,” he says, looking away. “I don’t think about it. I’ve got a fight to prepare for. If you came here to bullshit me, you can leave.”

I’m stung by it… and even though I try not to show it, I’m certain he can tell.

“Have you ever thought,” I ask, raising my voice. “About the people you beat up? What if they have families? What about their parents?”

He doesn’t reply.

“Or what about some kid who thinks he can fight to make a bit of money, and doesn’t know what it takes? You ever fight someone like that? Someone inexperienced?”

“Of course I have.”

“And let me guess: You messed him up bad, right?”

“He shouldn’t have gotten in the cage.”

“So, what, you beat up some eighteen year old kid, where do you think he goes? He goes back to his mother, that’s where.”

“I don’t give a fuck about them once they leave the cage.”

“Is that all it is to you, Pierce? What goes on
in
the cage? You think the consequences of what you do don’t extend outside of it? What about me? Do they extend to me?”

“Like I said, Pen, if you came here to bullshit me, you can fucking leave.”

“You really never think about the people you beat up? What happens to them after you snap their arm or pull their shoulder out? It never occurs to—”

“Hey!” he barks, jabbing a finger into the air. “I step into that fucking cage, and I fight. And I win. I get the fucking win, I get my fucking money, and then I leave. It’s what I do.”

“Yeah, you get your money and then you fuck some girl and leave before she wakes up, right? Yeah, Pierce, playboy badass. You’re just a big fucking man, aren’t you?”

A stony silence settles between us. I sigh.

“Pierce,” I say, and I make sure my voice is gentle. “I really don’t think you should do this fight for the mob. You and I both know that if you win, they’ll want you back for another fight because you’ll become an investment. If you lose, they’ll want you to pay them back for their losses. It’s not like the movies, Pierce. These guys don’t honor agreements… not if they can make money from it.”

He grits his teeth together. I can hear the enamel grinding through his jaw.

“Fine,” I say. “I can tell you’re getting mad.”

“I
have
to fight this fight, Pen,” he says. “No matter what you say, I
have
to fight it. You’re only going to make things worse if you’re here to shake my confidence.”

“Shake your confidence?” I scoff. “Well, you’ve definitely got enough of that to go around for two or ten.”

“You think so?” he asks. His eyes are wolf-like, savage.

“Yeah. As if I could shake your confidence. Get real.”

But he doesn’t reply. He just gets up, picks up the bright blue medicine ball, and begins bouncing it against the wall near the front door. He catches and throws, catches and throws, rapidly, while dropped down into a half-squat. It’s some kind of total body exercise.

The muscles on his back bulge each time he catches the ball. Beads of sweat glisten on his skin. He continues the same exercise, but now balancing only on his right foot. He throws and catches ten times, then switches to his left.