Twisted

by Skyla Madi

  If Joel’s alive, I’ll kill Skull quickly, but if what Emily says is true, and Skull has killed him, I will draw his death out. I’ll torture him for weeks--months--until he begs me to put him out of his misery. Then, I’ll torture him a little more. Until I’m satisfied.

  He’d want to start praying that my thirst for his blood cools off before then, because right now, I’m insatiable.

  * * * *

  I find Marcus in the bar, taking cash and writing down bets. My fight is next and I hope, for his daughter’s sake, he places his money in the right corner. It doesn’t matter who my opponent is. I always win.

  Marcus is smaller than the three giants he converses with, but he’s an underground veteran and commands a lot of respect. And, without question, the fighter’s give it to him.

  He clenches a handful of bills, stuffing it into the back pocket of his ripped jeans, and then scribbles onto his notepad before flipping the cover over and slapping it shut.

  “Stone,” he greets me as I approach, sliding a black pen behind his ear. “We were just talking about you.”

  I look briefly at the three men on the other side of Marcus’s table, but don’t linger enough to commit their bulky bodies and plain faces to memory. Why should I? I’m not going to see them again. I’m out of here after my fight and I need Marcus to help me.

  “Putting your money on the right man, I hope?” I say, as I saunter up to the table, stuffing my hands into my pockets.

  Marcus smiles. “Always do. Can’t say the same for these three though.”

  I turn my attention to them, unable to help an amused smirk. They can’t be older than twenty-one.

  “Betting against me, boys?”

  A stupid mistake. The tallest brother, assuming they’re brothers, leans forward, resting his elbows on the table.

  “You know your opponent?”

  I shake my head and they laugh, exposing perfect white teeth that are almost blinding against their smooth, ebony skin.

  I guess I’m missing something.

  “Freight is no match for Jai Stone, Kaan,” Marcus jumps in.

  I chuckle. Ah, Freight a.k.a Cameron Michaels. He wasn’t too bad of a guy, not by the standards set by other criminals down here anyway. At the station we called him ‘Hulk’. He’s known for losing the plot and causing lots of damage to both public and private property. Once a month he’d be at the station defending why he put a chair through the windscreen of his neighbor’s car, or why he snapped an old ladies cane and then beat a man with it.

  What Freight had in body mass, he lacked in brain power and as they say; ‘the bigger they are, the harder they fall’.

  Kaan smirks, his eyes staying locked with mine as he lifts his cup to his lips, and tips whatever alcohol is left in it, down his throat. He’s confident at least, and I can admire that.

  “We’ll see. They don’t call him Freight for nothing.”

  The familiar tingle of a challenge tickles the tips of my fingers. I don’t like the way they’re smiling at me, like I’m way out of their league.

  From my observation, there are three types of fighters down here. The first lot picked up fighting well into their twenties, some even in their thirties, and are still very much amateurs when it comes to the art of mixed martial arts. The second bunch are brawlers from the street who taught themselves, and the third group are fighters like me, fighters who’ve trained their asses off from the moment they could walk. I’ve trained and mastered every form of martial arts I can think of. My brain doesn’t work like everyone else’s. While my opponent is planning their next move, I’ve already taken the necessary steps to win the fight. And I always win—not because I’m bigger or stronger. I win because I’m smarter.

  It was Joel who taught me to fight smarter, not harder.

  My smirk stays firm as I continue the conversation with Kaan. “And why do they call him ‘Freight’? Do you know?”

  The man to his left looks away in embarrassment as Kaan narrows his eyes at me and shakes his head. Of course you don’t.

  “Didn’t think so. They call him ‘Freight’ because he pried apart the door of a freight container to rescue a litter of abandoned puppies.”

  They give me ‘the look’. Disbelieving frowns, thin eyes and pressed lips. It’s the look everyone gets when they hear the origin of ‘Freight’ a.k.a Cameron.

  “Terrifying, I know. I’m shaking in my damn boots.” I flick my head. “Get the fuck out of here while Marcus and I talk business.”

  They stare, not knowing if they should obey or contest me. I never drag my eyes from Kaan’s. It’s a pissing contest and my bladder is full.

  “I’d listen to the man if I were you,” Marcus states, leaning his elbows on the table. “He’s a loose cannon.”

  Cautiously, but still trying to maintain their pride and strength, they slink from the table and disappear from sight. I stare after them, lost in thoughts of kicking the shit out of all three of them, until Marcus slaps me on the shoulder.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Marcus says, pulling the pen from his ear to fidget with it. “You’ll show ‘em tomorrow. When you go toe to toe with Freight.”

  I clear my throat and pull a heap of cash from my pocket. Marcus takes bets so, to everyone else, I’m just a guy who likes to gamble. I lean on the table too and flick through the money like I’m counting it.

  “I need you to do something for me.”

  He stiffens beside me, realizing immediately it’s an order, not a question.

  “What now, Jai?” he demands in a harsh whisper. “I won’t get you another gun. It was risky enough the first time. I have a kid—”

  “Will you shut up and let me explain?” I hand him some cash, two grand to be correct, and continue to flick through the rest. “The gate you met me at last time, you know, the south gate?”

  Marcus nods.

  “I need you to leave it unlocked.”

  He turns pale and drops the cash I gave him, like he’ll contract an incurable disease if he holds it too long.

  “Oh fucking hell, no. I’m not doing that. You’re on your own.”

  He tries to back away from the table, but I catch him by the scruff of his gray shirt and draw him back. I wrap my arm around his shoulders and hold him close to the tabletop, close enough for him to smell the money he dumped. I didn’t want to do this—use his daughter against him—but he’s left me with no choice.

  “Listen, Marcus. You don’t want your daughter’s cancer fund to dry up now, do you?”

  Under my arm, his shoulders tense. “Jai, please.”

  I don’t stop. “You don’t want to go back to working for Rule, do you?”

  Rule is a slimy motherfucker who peddles low grade weed to high school students in Manhattan. A long time ago Marcus helped him sell the shit to make ends meet and to get his daughter her treatment. More often than not, he came up short.

  His shoulders slump and he shakes his head. It kind of makes me feel like a dick.

  “Look, Marcus, if you help me I’ll make sure you and your family never have to worry about money again. I’ll give you enough money to have your daughter receive treatment from home--her own private nurse and everything.”

  He thinks it over, but I already know it’s too good to pass up.

  “I’m the only one who works the gate, Stone. Skull will kill me.”

  “No he won’t. I’ll shoot the lock, make it look like I shot my way out.”

  He looks up at me with his skeptical eyes. “Why can’t you do that in the first place and leave me out of it?”

  “Because I can’t risk it. What if it takes more than one bullet? I’ve only got one clip. If I’m going to make it out of town, I need every bullet I can get.” I moisten my dry lips with a quick lick. “Marcus, I need to know for a fact that the south gate is going to be unlocked tomorrow after my fight.”

  He stares at the money on the table and that’s only a quarter of what I’m going to give him.

 
“How much?”

  “Eight grand,” I answer, with no hesitation.

  “You must really want out.”

  I nod. “I need to find my brother.”

  With a heavy exhalation, Marcus finally nods. “Fine. I’ll do it for you.”

  I smile and hand him the rest of the money. “Thank you. Write my name down in your book in case Skull pokes his nose in where it doesn’t belong.”

  “Done.”

  I release Marcus, turn around and stalk off.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing.” He calls out after me. “I hope you’ve made the right choice.”

  I have, and there’s no going back. Now all I’ve got to do is to fight my ass off tomorrow, and wait for my plan to unfold. When we make a choice, we set things in motion, things that cannot be changed or undone. The consequences that eventuate from the choice made are unavoidable. We must face them. With every decision we make we’re taking a chance; we’re shaping our future, and each decision impacts our lives in a negative, or positive, way. ‘Every choice you make is important’, My mom used to say. ‘Even if you’re deciding what to have for dinner. Never take it lightly because that decision, good or bad, will affect you now, later, tomorrow.’

  Skull took his decision lightly. Whether he’s lying or telling the truth about killing Joel, he’s made his choice and the consequences that’ll unfold from his decision are ones that I won’t take responsibility for. I’ll find out for myself if he’s telling the truth about Joel. Whether he’s dead or not, I want Skull’s head.

  And I will get it.

  Freight

  Emily

  The metal from the gun sticks to my slick back. I can’t believe Jai had me conceal it under my shirt. I’ve never held a gun before coming here and it’s terrifying. Don’t they go off randomly? I stop swaying nervously, praying I don’t accidently blow a hole in my ass cheek.

  As the crowd and I wait for the fighters to arrive, I close my eyes and focus on slowing my breathing. The hot, stagnant air burns my lungs, stripping its tissues like a harsh chemical.

  Jai still hasn’t let me in on his plan, but if all goes well, my lungs just might taste fresh air again, and I want that more than anything. This must be how a smoker feels—constricted, unable to fully expand their lungs. And they do it by choice?

  I open my eyes as the shrinking crowd cheers. I’m right at the cage, my stomach pressing against the railing, and Skull steps out onto his ledge above me. Regret and guilt and worry tear through me so hard I feel faint. If someone so much as brushes against me, they’ll feel the gun. Thankfully, Jai made me wear one of his shirts. It’s loose and the fabric conceals it better.

  I watch Skull as his eyes scan the crowd. He’s looking for me. He always looks for me and, eventually, he finds me. The coy smile he gives me when our eyes clash sends chills down my spine. I hate you, I state with my glare, earning an amused grin in return. I wonder how tonight would go if I draw the gun and put a bullet through his head right now? I’d be doing the world a favor, that’s for sure...but I’d also be taking revenge away from Jai. He’s worked hard for this...he was suspended from his job for this. I know he’s a police officer. I worked it out once I had left Skull’s room yesterday, and I haven’t decided how I feel about it yet. I have no right to be mad. Jai and I are still practically strangers to each other. I guess I just feel disappointed...disappointed that he couldn’t trust the system he swore into to get the job done. But his family means the world to him. It’s clear to me now that family is something you die for...and I hope I experience that level of love one day.

  Skull puckers his lips at me and I shake my head, making him laugh. I hope tonight is the last time I see his terrifying face.

  I drop my eyes as another round of cheers ring through the tunnels, giving me a throbbing pain in my cortex. Enter the fighters. First is the man they call Freight and, my God, does that name suit him. He’s not as tall as the last guy Jai fought, but he’s just as wide, if not wider. His shoulders are broad and bulky, his muscular arms rounded and plump, and his legs are thick and powerful. He’d be beautiful, too, if he didn’t sneer so much. Freight’s black hair is cropped and juts up in carefree spikes. His eyebrows are bushy and his lips full and swollen, as if someone sucked on them only moments ago.

  I brush my fingers along my collarbone, not quite clasping my chest in horror, as the cage chains strain under his weight. He storms through the door and onto the stained canvas. I want to shut my eyes but I can’t bring myself to do it. As the straining chains rub against the metal beams that suspend the cage above the open mouth of the tunnel below, flakes of rust dislodge and rain down on me. I taste it on the tip of my tongue and, when I swallow, I feel them at the back of my throat. I hope it’s the last time I ever have to taste rust and smell blood while others rub sweat up against me.

  Freight bounces. More rust falls. It happens over and over as he bounces in the cage, keeping his muscles warm.

  Then the crowd goes off again and I drag my stare to the left of the room where Jai enters. I haven’t seen him for a few hours. Now here he is. Over the shoulder of the man next to me, I see his spikey hair and glistening forehead. He reaches up and pulls his green shirt off, and tugging it over his head, he throws it to the floor. Inch by inch he’s revealed until his entire form is right there in front of me. The lighting mixed with his sweat does amazing things to the contour of his body. Shadows pool in crevices, light shines on the most prominent parts of his muscles, and I... well, I’m speechless.

  *Jai*

  The cage looms. My heart beats against my ribs with bruising pressure. At my sides, my hands clench into fists, unclench, and then clench again. I don’t normally feel so damn sick before a fight, but tonight is different. Tonight, everything is on the line.

  When I enter the cage, the door is shut behind me with a clang. I roll my neck on my shoulders until it cracks. I hate illegal fighting. There’s no glory in it. Only pain. There are no referees. No judges. Rounds don’t exist and neither do rules. You fight and you win. Or you’re knocked out trying. Worst case scenario? You go down and you don’t get back up.

  I swiftly jolt to the right and feel a gush of wind blow across my cheek as I dodge Freight’s fist. What the fuck? Did I miss the signal to begin the fight?

  I duck as another fist comes flying at my face. Alright, fuck the signal. If he wants to play it like that, fine.

  I let him swing like mad while I duck and dodge, trying to gauge his strength.

  Lean left.

  Lean right.

  Duck.

  Lean left.

  Lean right.

  Duck.

  Rinse and repeat. Too easy. I found your weakness, fucker. Patterns. Freight works in patterns. It’s where he’s most comfortable. He probably doesn’t even realize it. Patterns are all well and good when you’re training, but when you’re fighting a real fight, it can be your downfall.

  He keeps throwing his fists so they’re constantly raining down on me. I block them, ignoring as much of the pain as I can, as it spreads up my forearms. I need to hold on until his pattern falters. Once it falters, even for a split second, I win.

  A few minutes in, Freight’s breath blows heavy and I haven’t even started yet. When he breaks his pattern to throw a sloppy kick to my knee, I strike. I zip to the side, then dodge a meagre attempt at a punch to my ribs. I can’t help but smirk as he growls in frustration and swings hard for my face. I’ve always said; ‘there’s no opponent easier to beat than an angry one’. He snarls again when I dodge it. I crouch low and clench my hand into a fist. Squeezing my fist so tightly feels natural since I’ve been doing it for so long.

  I push upwards with a growl, scouting exactly where I want to land the punch. Funny enough, my brain decided his throat was a good place to hit before I even threw the punch. So that’s where it lands. Even without gloves his throat hurts my closed fists. Yelping in shock, Freight dives forward, his large body crushing me underneath i
ts weight, and we crash to the canvas.

  I wasn’t expecting that.

  I land on my back and quickly wrap my legs around his waist. Freight is bulky, sure, but there’s a big difference between ‘bulky’ and ‘strong’ and Freight definitely lacks strength for a man his size.

  I squeeze him between my legs and twist my body. Somehow, I manage to flip us over while he clenches his throat. Without mercy, I rain tight, powerful fists down on his head and face. It doesn’t take long for blood to paint my knuckles and his rapidly swelling skin. He lifts his arms in a pathetic attempt to protect his face and I let him, as I slide back a little to drive my fists into his unprotected ribs.

  I don’t have to hurt him as much as I am, but Skull is watching and I want him to see just how dangerous I am.

  Sweat runs down my back, and the feeling I always feel when I become absorbed in a fight starts to grow in my chest. It’s dense and it’s dark, filling me with rage and anger. Like a black hole it consumes me and refuses to let any shred of light escape. I force myself, as best I can, to breathe calmly through my nose in an attempt to fend off the darkness for a little while longer.

  And that’s when I realize Freight isn’t moving. I stop hitting him, my chest suddenly heaving. Screaming and cheering ring loudly in my ears and I pull my eyes from my opponents face and onto the crowd.

  The darkness disintegrates.

  I did it. I made it through the fight. I suck in a breath, hold it, and then blow it out. Now it’s on to phase two.

  Just like I expected and just like I planned for, three of Skull’s men spill like cockroaches out of their little hideout, and storm toward the cage. I rise to my feet as they open the cage and walk toward it.

  “Skull wants to see you,” one of them says. I don’t know who.

  I nod as I step from the shaky canvas and onto stable ground. “I know.”

  I reach for my shirt and throw it on. As I pull it over my head, I stop. One of a Skull’s thugs approach with Emily tucked under his arm. My heart stops beating. My lungs freeze and my stomach drops.