by E. M. Moore
He gives me a short nod. His intrusive blue eyes make me want to fidget under his inspection. But if I do that, he’ll know I have something to hide.
“You know, you never really answered the question about why you’re helping me. This isn’t the only time. You practically walked me to school this morning. You warned me about Nevaeh. Now this. What’s the deal, Brawler?”
He steps back on his heels like I’ve shoved him with my words. “I don’t know,” he says. Pure honesty flickers in his gaze before he covers it up, placing on a controlled mask I can tell he’s perfected. “You remind me of someone, I guess. Someone who never belonged here. Who put on a facade, but…” He trails off. “That’s all.”
Jealousy burns in the bottom of my stomach. Whoever Brawler is talking about, he loved this person very much. The wound he’s carrying is raw, open, and seeping. I haven’t loved someone like that in a long time. “Sorry,” I say automatically because it’s clear he lost this person and that he has to deal with the loss every day.
Just like me.
“Be ready in an hour,” Brawler orders. “I’ll take you to the place.”
I peek at the neon clock lights above the stove. It’s six already. I guess I definitely did take a nap when I got back from school. “I’ll be here,” I tell him, gesturing like I have nowhere else to go.
He gives me one last look before walking around me, leaving a trail of controlled sadness and resolution in his wake.
When the door closes behind him, I drop down into the recliner he sat in and breathe in deep. It smells like him. Like sweet sweat and musk.
I didn’t expect to find someone who gave a shit about anything here. Even less so someone who might look out for me. I have no idea why Brawler would be doing this, so I have to believe what he told me. I remind him of someone…
The lies I’ve worn and spewed make my stomach churn with guilt. Isn’t that one of the first things we learn when we’re little? Not to lie? I have to though. I have to bury the truth inside me, so it doesn’t come up when I least want it to. My truth will kill me. It doesn’t matter if Brawler acts like he gives a shit what happens to me. I have one goal and one goal only. Take Big Daddy K down. And if someone else in the Heights Crew gets in my way, I’ll take them down, too.
I can’t have any regrets.
I turn my music on and start warming up. I have a lot riding on this fight, and I can’t leave anything to chance.
7
The Heights Crew’s underground fighting warehouse reeks of desperation and excitement. It sits smack dab in the middle of the city, which happens to be the most rundown, forgotten, dilapidated area. Broken windows and graffiti would ward me off the place if it weren’t for Brawler accompanying me, but inside, all that washes away. The buzz sets my skin afire with recognition. Sure, I’ve never fought here before, but places like this are the same. The energy, the mystery, the darker side of life thrive here. It’s thrilling and scary. The feelings pounding in the walls have their own alluring heartbeats that bring me back time and time again.
Since Brawler and I showed up, I’ve stayed in the background, avoiding everyone. A lot of familiar faces from school stride in, hanging out in groups. To the side, there’s a makeshift bar, mostly serving up bottles of beer, but there are shots, too. Brawler sits on the very last stool, staring out at everyone clamoring inside for a place to sit. Every once in a while, our gazes meet. He’s the only one who knows I’m back here. He probably thinks I’m hiding. I kind of am, but I also want to warm up in peace.
People approach him while he sits, leaning over to whisper in his ear and greet him with knuckles or bro hugs. As soon as we got here, it became apparent Brawler ran the fights. Not that I hadn’t already known that, but he’d left that conveniently out of the conversation earlier when we spoke. Like me, he thrives in arenas like this. He becomes his nickname, dominating the space in his makeshift black tank top with ripped out arm holes. He’s the person everyone wants to see. The guy everyone flocks around.
Not that I’m noticing when I should definitely be concentrating on my fight. Right? Right.
I glance that way again, but find his seat occupied by a girl in a black bikini top, a blinging necklace hanging in her cleavage. Scanning the area, I search for him, telling myself it has nothing to do with the fact that I think he’s hot as fuck and everything to do with the fact that I need to know where Brawler—the guy who runs the fights—is at all times.
He appears to my left, and I almost jump. He casually strides toward me, giving me ample time to watch him approach. The shirt he chose displays his tattoos just as appropriately as a significant artifact in a museum display. I want to ask him about the black, twisting ink. I want to know what they’re about because guys like Brawler don’t just wake up one day and get a tattoo. They have meaning, like a story to his soul.
He stops a foot away, and I pretend I don’t have a lady hard-on for him. I also pretend I’m nervous as shit. “Is it…is it soon?” I ask, twisting my hands. He must think I’m pathetic, which pains the pride in me. In another life, Brawler would well know by now how much I want to jump his bones.
He tips his head toward the fight currently going on in the ring. The bigger dude has a huge gash over his eyebrow. Blood leaks into his eyes, but his opponent isn’t going easy on him. Instead, the sight of blood makes him almost feral in his attacks. He keeps delivering blow after punishing blow. “As soon as Rascal takes care of that guy, you’re up.”
I move my head from side-to-side, cracking my neck before staring down at the stained floor. The dried crimson circles at my feet tell me exactly what kind of place this is, and it thrills me more than it should. I’m having a hard time keeping my excitement to myself. Adrenaline shoots through me, making me want to bounce on my toes.
I hate having to be this other person. This person who acts like she’s scared of everything. I’m hardly scared of anything. The worst possible thing has already happened to me, so what’s there to be scared about? The Heights Crew? Please. The worst thing they could do to me is kill me, and who would care?
Nobody. Least of all me. I haven’t had a life since they took it away from me.
Brawler claps me on the back with a devilish grin, but a hint of concern stretches underneath it all. “Chin up, Kyla. I have a feeling it won’t last too long.”
The spot where he touches me burns. His hand lingers there, our gazes connecting once again like two magnets that keep getting pulled together without thought. He walks away, leaving demeaning laughter in his wake. That should be my signal that he’s dangerous. He should be automatically moved to my “don’t fuck with” list, but I can’t sweep the warnings he gave me away. In his way, he’s tried to help. Though, admittedly, that was earlier. Something else entirely has come over him since stepping foot in here. He’s Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Outside of this place, he wanted to help. Now that we’re here, he’s ready to throw me to the wolves to see how I fare.
I slip even farther into the shadows and start warming up like I should have been all along. Through the gaps in the crowd, I spot Cherry. We haven’t been introduced, but Brawler goes to her next, leaning over to whisper in her ear. My hackles raise, jealousy burning through me, but when Brawler straightens, he greets a guy standing in the shadows much like me. The guy’s hand moves around her possessively, and she easily melts into his side.
Thanks to the drunken girl who walked past with her friend only a few minutes ago, I found out Cherry’s the nickname Rocket gave her the night he popped her cherry. If some guy is going to nickname her that after sex, I imagine he’d be the one with his arm around her right now.
My temple throbs with my own pulse. I had not planned on meeting Rocket the way I did. He’d caught me off guard, and dammit if ever since then I can’t stop thinking about that rather than him being the spawn of the evil that’s been lurking in the background of my life since I was twelve. Since then, it’s hard not to wonder if we’re caught in this tangled
web together, both of us victims of our own circumstance.
I shake my head, focusing on the present. I have a fight to prepare for—a fight to win. Lunges, squats, and tuck jumps are my friend as I stretch my limbs. I windmill my arms, loosening my shoulders, and then crack the knuckles on every one of my fingers and shake them out. The background is just that: background. I tune out the sounds of the other fight and the crowd and mentally prepare for what’s about to go down.
I’ll have to take a few punches. I already know this. It’s the only way to make it convincing at first, but then I’m going to switch the tables on Cherry. I’m going to be her worst nightmare she won’t ever see coming. Because in that ring, it won’t be me and Cherry, it’ll be twelve-year-old me wanting vengeance on everyone and everything that has to deal with Big Daddy K.
Fuck that murderer.
I let the rage seep deep into my marrow. I let it fill me, my hands already clenched to fists.
“Kyla,” Brawler calls out.
I turn, purposefully loosening my fists and looking at him like a deer in the headlights. He shakes his head like the Brawler who was inside my apartment earlier might show up, but in the next second, that vanishes when his predatory smile comes out to play again. He crooks a finger at me, and I step toward him in my oversized shirt and joggers, sweat already rimming the collar. “You’re up.”
I make a show of staring at the crowd perched on wooden crates. They’re stacked on top of one another like poor men’s bleachers. They’re oblivious about the fight that’s about to happen. They’re still talking about the last one while downing their drinks or sharing a joint.
Brawler sighs as he takes me in. “Just turtle up when she comes at you.” He gives me a wary once-over, like he’s afraid I might get seriously hurt. The old Brawler’s back, making me even more curious about what goes through his head. He told me I remind him of someone. That someone had to have been so important to him. Ridiculously, I’m attracted to both his sides, whether they’re complete opposites of one another or not.
That doesn’t matter right now, though. And not ever. I have one fucking thing to do while I’m in the Heights, and it’s not to bang Brawler. “But—” I start to protest.
He cuts me off. His momentary lapse in better judgment now gone. “It’s your funeral, New Girl. Remember what I said. You only have two options, and you won’t survive the other.”
I bite my lip to keep from smiling. All the taunts, all the petty bitches and dicks from Rawley Heights, like Nevaeh and the douche who coined me Princess, are about to see a side of me they never saw coming. I wish I could record what’s about to go down, cameras focused on their reactions. I haven’t seen Nevaeh, but I have no doubt she’s here. Oscar, too. I doubt he’d miss this, whether I’m fighting the girl he wants me to beat up or not.
Brawler pushes me toward the empty circle in the middle of the room, and I stumble. I must look like a blithering mess, but before I get pissed, I remember that’s exactly what I want to look like.
The crowd crows. Blistering heat warms my cheeks. the embarrassment eating me up from the inside out. They start to chant, “Prin-cess. Prin-cess.”
Seriously, did Brawler tell them how much I fucking hated that?
Anywhere else, Princess might be a compliment, but to them, it’s far from it. It denotes a life of privilege they never had. They hate me. All of them.
Cherry enters through the crowd like the queen bee of Rawley Heights. The crowd roars. She’s a favorite of theirs. It’s not difficult to figure that out. A cherry red robe drapes over her shoulders like she’s an actual boxer. A guy from her corner slips the silk material from her shoulders revealing a skimpy sports bra. It traps the majority of her breasts away, but ample cleavage still pours out. The crowd’s cheering intensifies. My guess is it’s mostly man sluts hoping she’ll slip a tit in the fight. They’re probably looking over at me and thinking that’s the only excitement they’ll get out of tonight.
Now that we’re facing each other, it’s getting more real. Who would’ve thought two days in and I’d get my chance to show the Heights Crew’s leaders what I’m about? Fighting is my only chance in. If I had to wait to endear myself to them in some other way, it could take years and years for them to trust me. Call me self-serving, but Big Daddy K has already taken six years of my life. He doesn’t need more than that.
I stop myself from jumping up and down, the way I usually get rid of pre-fight jitters. Instead, I toe the ground and do some basic stretching. The kind they taught us in Kindergarten, so I look like a dumbass newbie.
Cherry sneers at me. “This is what you get for coming to the Heights, Bitch.”
I’ve had to tone down my snarky ass for days. I can’t wait until this fucking fight is over, so I can verbally eliminate all these fucking wannabe fighters. Instead of tearing her down, I flinch.
“Aww, do you need to go hide back to Mommy?”
My blood boils. This bitch’s mom is probably doped up on crack right now. Or spreading her legs downtown. She probably never had a Mommy to console her, but I did. She’s just fucking dead because of people like her.
I search the crowd behind Cherry, looking for Rocket and hoping he was the guy cozying up to her before the fight. At the same time, I’m begging for him to appear so I can be sure he’s watching, I’m also wondering how many girls he’s fucking. The secretary at the school, for sure. Cherry, obviously.
Get a fucking grip, I scold myself. Rocket’s sex life is none of my concern. Nor is Brawler’s, or anyone else’s for that matter. I’m only interested in him being here because he needs to see me kick his girl’s ass. He and Brawler need to give me more fights, so I can move up and make my way as a serious player for the Heights Crew.
Brawler steps into the middle of the ring. His lips move, but I look past him toward Cherry. She winks, still smirking over her Mom comment. A rush of nothing but rage fills me. How dare anyone here mention her. A storm rages inside my head until Brawler steps back and yells, “Fight!” Then, the storm unleashes.
My plans have left the building.
I rush her. Her eyes flare with anticipation, but she isn’t good. I’m fast and skilled. She’s just an amateur, a wannabe competitor dangling from the coattails of Rocket. I slip under her lame ass attempt at a punch, pop back up, and give a good right hook to her fucking ribs.
The crowd gasps. Sure, Cherry’s not their number one fighter. I get that. I was just a gimme to her, a steppingstone. Someone she could use to climb the trellis of the Heights Crew hierarchy. Well, good fucking luck after this, you dirty fucking hoe bag bitch.
I step back after my body reacts on autopilot. My fist connecting with her midsection a third time brings me back to reality. I can’t just come out here and kick her ass. Not until I’m sure Rocket’s here. Trying to stifle my reaction, I leave my hands down at my waist and look petrified at what I just did.
“You cunt,” she seethes, blinking
She lunges for me, and I let her. She gets in two good punches before I veer around her, bringing my forearms up to block my face. Brawler eyes me from the outskirts of the crowd. I definitely didn’t do a good job of hiding my prowess. He saw my initial attack for what it was. A deliberate, skilled offense.
Cherry pulls on my shoulders and lands a knee to my gut. With her mouth near my ear, she says, “You piece of fucking trash. Bitches like you don’t make it in the Heights. Consider me your gatekeeper, and you’re not in.”
Her confidence is growing. Good. I look past her arm, scanning the crowd again until I finally see him. There. Exactly who I need to see this. Now that I have Rocket’s attention, I push past her hold, slip under her and then lock my arm around her outside forearm, holding her in place as I batter the side of her head with hard-hitting blows. Every time she tries to squirm out of it, I move with her, keeping out of her reach while she’s well within mine.
She’s not so talkative anymore. Now that she’s getting her head beat in.
&
nbsp; I trip her and throw her to the ground. She lands on her back and stares up at me, wide-eyed. Her skimpy bra has inched lower, showing the top half of her areola, but she’s not giving a shit about flashing the crowd right now. She runs her hands over her face, wincing when it meets the cut I’ve given her over her eye.
I glance up again, staring at the most important person in the room. He glares at me with dark eyes, and I shed my oversized shirt, throwing it to the ground as he eyes me.
Brawler may make the fights happen, but Rocket is the true leader here. Everyone takes their orders from above, and short of Big Daddy K himself being here, Rocket’s number one.
The crowd nearly trips over itself. Comments start flying, and the decibels double from the roaring and clapping. I’ve kept my toned physique under wraps from the wannabes at school. I needed to play this my way. None of this would’ve happened if they knew I could fight. Nevaeh wouldn’t have challenged me and Rocket certainly wouldn’t have pushed his number one contender to be the one to welcome me to the Heights.
I don’t mind being the underdog as long as I come out on top, and I’ll always come out on top.
Cherry tries to scramble to her feet. Real fear blazes in her eyes. They bulged out of her sockets when she saw me take my shirt off. Now, she’s running scared. I kick her as she tries to move away from me, and she sprawls out again. She flips to her back, and when I move in, she tries to kick me in the face, but I throw her feet to the side and pounce on her, elbowing her in the nose, feeling the sharp bone of my own body connect with hers. At this point, I don’t even care that Brawler’s in the room or Rocket or any of the other fuckers I have to go to school with every day. This is just about me. This is just about my plan. About my vengeance.
Next thing I know, I’m being pulled off her. The tangy, copper taste of blood taints my mouth. I reach up with my fingers to touch my lips and realize it’s not mine. It’s Cherry’s. I spit the shit out and glance up to lock gazes with Johnny Rocket who’s finally moved to stand on the outskirts of the circle.
