by Jo Raven
Thank fuck I remembered to take off my earrings, I think vaguely as I move out of his range.
Fuck. The plan. Stick to the plan.
Of course when I made the plan I didn’t think I’d be limping and that each breath would send fire through my ribs.
Doesn’t fucking matter. I deliver a flurry of blows to his face which he blocks with his raised fists, then kick at his shins, so he backpedals. A roundhouse kick from the other side catches him by surprise, but he recovers quickly, moving back into my space and kicking back.
I manage to avoid the hit, then return with a punch to the plexus before he straightens. It connects and he stumbles back, his brows rising to his hairline.
Yeah, didn’t expect that, did you? Bastard.
It’s my arms I’ve been strengthening for two years now, punching that bag at the gym, imagining it was you. Imagining this moment, never thinking it would come.
With a growl, he marches on me. He throws a punch to my chest, which I block and step back, then I’m stepping in again, delivering a punch to his face.
He blocks. “You’ve got nothing on me, boy.”
“Yeah? This is enough.” I show him my fist, but his gaze locks on the pale pink cloth tied to my arm and his face transforms into a mask of anger.
“Fuck you.” He hurls himself at me, and I sidestep him, easily delivering a kick to his shin and a punch to his side.
I continue pummeling him, turning as he turns until he’s forced to throw up his fists in defense and back away to regroup.
The plan, Riot.
He’s taller than me, but not by much. Bulkier, for sure, but how would his bulk serve him if he fell?
If I turned his strategy on himself?
I have to block his next attack, but I don’t dance away like I used to do, turning in circles, wearing my opponent out. Besides, I’m much too tired myself for that.
I don’t back down. Always forward. Eyes locked on the target. On my goal.
Pax. She’s my goal. My end destination.
She’s watching me. On a whim, I raise my fist and wave at her, the pink scarf tied on my arm fluttering.
The crowd goes wild.
The Crusher groans like an animal in pain. It hits me then. It’s attention he craves. All this bloody show is to get attention, and now I’m stealing it from him.
What’s Ellen Morris to him? I wonder briefly as I take a step back to avoid a kick, but that’s all the time I have before he’s throwing punch after punch at me, trying to force me back. To corner me, throw me down.
Instead I duck under his fists and elbow him in the ribs as I straighten up behind him, and follow up with a vicious series of punches to his kidneys and a kick to the back of his legs.
Like that, motherfucker?
The crowd cheers and claps as he stumbles forward, his knees starting to buckle. But of course they don’t. Would have been too easy.
He tries an uppercut, but I stop it, and then he grabs my arm.
What the fuck?
He pulls me toward him, and I punch him in the face. What is he doing? I’m so close, in his guard, that every punch I throw has no force behind it, but still it hits its target unerringly. Jabs to the ribs. To the jaw.
He finally staggers back two steps, shaking his head like a dog, his eyes a bit unfocused, as I shake out my cramped, aching fingers. Blood spatters my taped knuckles. Must have hit his teeth.
And then he’s coming at me again, again reaching for me—for my arm and the scarf wrapped around it.
That’s what he wants?
I punch him again, but he doesn’t retreat. He clamps his hand so tightly around my forearm I think the bone will break.
“She should have given it to me,” he hisses.
“Why?”
“I’m her son.”
In a shocked daze, I look into his eyes and I believe him. Ellen is his mother. But then why the fuck did she do that? Why did she pay money to spend time with me?
His next move is a blur as he punches me in the gut so hard I double over and crash to my knees. Acid rises in my throat and I struggle not to puke. Struggle to breathe.
“She shouldn’t have done that,” he’s saying, towering above me, in the hush spreading through the crowd. “Now I’ll kill you and she’ll watch.”
Fuck.
“And then I’ll have your girlfriend for dessert.” He grins down at me. “Did you know they promised her to me? Promised her to the winner.”
No. Fucking wrong thing to say. Nobody touches Pax. Least of all this asshole.
I lunge for his legs, and I feel the moment his balance wavers, then he’s falling. He drops like a huge tree, twisting as he does, so that he drops sideways.
Need to get him on his stomach. I launch myself at him, knock him back down before he manages to sit up, and throw a punch to his jaw that connects with a sickening crack. His head whips to the side and blood dribbles from his lips.
“I don’t fucking care who your mommy is,” I inform him, punching him again and rolling him onto his stomach. “I’m not doing this for her. I’m doing this for me, and for Markus.”
I throw myself on top of him, crushing him to the floor with my whole weight, and pull his arms to the back, twisting them.
“Give up,” I hiss, “or I break them both.”
“You could kill me,” he says, huffing. “Get up and crush my neck with your boot.”
“Like you did to Markus? Newsflash, asshole.” I lean closer to his ear, twisting his arms more until he groans. “I’m not you. Never will be. Be damn thankful for that. Now, do you give up?”
The referee approaches cautiously, his whistle at his lips.
“She’ll never adopt you, you know,” he mutters, gasps when I twist his arms a little more, the bones starting to crack. “You’ll never really be her son.”
“You really are a selfish prick.” I settle down, holding his arms at the breaking point, waiting for the referee to decide if to say something yet or not. “I’m not trying to fucking steal your mother, goddammit. You’re the one pushing her away. Just…” Shit, every breath is a struggle. “Just admit defeat. Last warning.”
Because I’m feeling kinda strange, like I’m not really there. Like the darkness teasing the edges of my consciousness might spread any moment and swallow me whole.
“Dammit, man.” I twist his right arm, and the crack of the bone breaking is too loud in my ears. He gives an agonized cry, and jerks.
“You win!” He whimpers. “You win.”
“Hear that?” I look up, nodding at the referee. “Did you fucking hear that?”
“Yeah.”
He looks nervous, but he comes and gives me a hand up. I almost don’t take it, shaking with adrenaline and exhaustion, but then I find I don’t have the strength to get up on my own and accept it.
Even through the adrenaline haze, my ribs burn like fire, and my jaw feels two sizes too big for my face, swollen and bruised. When he grabs my hand and lifts it to announce my victory, it’s all I can do not to scream with the pain in my side.
“Hail the victor, Riot Callahan!”
“Hail!” the crowd yells.
Two huge bodyguards enter the ring to haul the Crusher off and I watch them pull him to his feet, feeling oddly detached from my body, as if I’m floating somewhere up at the ceiling.
I’ve made it, like I promised Pax. What’s more, I won. And now…
The noise recedes, the spotlights fade away, and I go down, content.
***
“Give him some breathing room,” a woman’s voice is saying. “Back off. Natasha, go tell James to bring the car.”
This makes no sense.
“Riot. Can you hear me?” Pax. This is Pax.
I try to move. My limbs are like rocks tied to my torso. My lids are so fucking heavy. One more try, and I blink to stabbing light.
Ow, fuck.
“Hey.” Pax is a watery, hazy silhouette leaning over me, dark hair framing her p
ale face. “There you are.”
“Drink some of this,” the first voice says, and Ellen Morris enters my vision field, holding a bottle of something blue. “Just Gatorade. It’ll help you feel better.”
Sitting up proves kinda hard, but then the referee is there, helping me. Pain stabs my ribs, and I keep a yelp behind my teeth with some difficulty. I wrap my arm protectively around them. My head is pounding, and my vision is a bit fuzzy.
Ellen offers me again the bottle and I swallow a few sips of the sweet drink. “The doctor is here,” she says, “just to take a look at you.”
Pax gives me a reassuring smile. She’s kneeling next to me—and that’s when I realize we’re not in the ring anymore but in the locker room.
Whoa. Guess I was out for more than just a few seconds. I’m sitting on one of the long benches under the lockers.
The doctor sits down next to me, a middle-aged man in a dark suit. He checks my eyes with a flashlight, listens to my heart, takes my pulse, and pronounces me okay.
“Can’t rule out the possibility of a small concussion,” he says before he gets up. “You should seek medical attention if you pass out again, or have strong headaches and nausea. In any case, I do think a few days’ rest would do you good.”
Man, I think so, too. I feel weary to my bones.
But Pax is here. I reach for her and she climbs on the bench beside me, carefully slips an arm around my back.
“Hey you.” She smiles at me, and it’s watery but bright. “You did it.”
“Told you.” All I want is to curl up in bed with her, safe in my arms, and sleep for days.
“And you won the fight.” She laughs, then presses her lips together.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing’s the matter. You won. It’s crazy.”
“You didn’t think I could do it.”
“No.” She lifts my hand, still taped and bloodied, and kisses it. “You didn’t think you could do it.”
“Pax bet on you,” Ellen says, sitting on my other side. Pale strands have come out of her hairdo and hang around her face. She’s smiling. “She’s the one who found me. The reason we’re here. And the reason you’ll be free.”
“Free of what?”
“Of the agency. Of everything that ties you down to a life you don’t want.” She smiles. “You see, almost everyone bet on the Crusher. But Pax and I, we bet on you.”
“Why didn’t you bet on Crusher? Your son?” I shake my head, then think better about it when the pounding headache intensifies. “Why did you give me your scarf? Why did you want me to win?”
“Because, my dear boy.” She lifts her hand, pets my hair. “Yours would be the only real victory. And I’m quite fond of you, as well.”
“Thank you,” I tell her and lean in to kiss her wrinkled cheek. “For everything.”
“Now you make me blush.” She beams at me and waves a hand. “Come on. Let’s go collect your money and get you two home. James is waiting outside with the car.”
“It’s a limo,” Pax whispers dramatically as she helps me dress in my loose jogging pants and my jacket, then pulls me up from the bench. “And the driver’s name is James. Can you believe that?”
I’d believe anything right now.
Pax helps me limp out of the locker room and through the corridors running through the administrative offices of the club. Ellen precedes us. She talks to people like she knows them. Scratch that, she does know them. Clay Baran’s mother. Sergei Baran’s lover.
Jesus Christ.
Soon she has people running back and forth to do her bidding, and with Pax’s help, I make my slow way to the back exit. Can’t remember this building being so big. It’s taking forever, and my legs are shaking.
Shit, I survived the fight against the Crusher. I fucking won.
Unbelievable.
Finally we’re stepping outside, the cold biting into any exposed inch of flesh, making my stomach contract and my ribs flare with pain.
Awesome.
A limo is idling there, just like Pax said, and a driver in a dark two-piece suit is holding the door open.
Well, fuck me.
I manage to bend over enough to slide inside, and lean back against the seat with the smell of leather and plastic, closing my eyes.
Pax sits beside me, taking my hand in hers, and yeah, this is the closest to heaven I think I’ve ever been.
Then Ellen slips into the passenger seat and James behind the wheel, and we’re off. Where to?
Who the hell cares?
“Here.” Ellen twists around and thrusts a fat envelope to me. “Yours.”
“What’s that?”
“Your money.” She waits until I take the swollen envelope, then turns away again. “Won fair and square.”
“That’s your money. You bet on me.” I swallow thickly. “When no-one else would. You and Pax.”
“We bet on your behalf. That’s what family is for. Take it and stop talking. You need to rest.”
I gape at the back of her seat, and Pax laughs. It’s a clear, happy sound, and I turn to her, passing her the envelope.
“It’s yours, Riot,” she says, pushing it back.
“Then take care of it for me, okay?” God, I’m K.O. “Can’t think right now.”
“Sure.” She gives me a soft smile that eases the pain that seems to radiate from every inch of my body. “Rest. You need to be well for the Christmas party.”
What party? I want to ask but I lean back instead and let the car’s engine lull me into sleep.
It’s done. If I have Pax by my side, then I can weather anything, even something I’ve never had before, like a goddamn Christmas party.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Paxtyn
Epilogue
Ellen hits her crystal glass with her spoon and clears her throat. “We’re here to…Where’s Riot?”
Oops.
“Feeding Batman?” I say.
“I thought the pets were fed already.”
“Batman is...particular. Doesn’t trust anyone but Riot.”
Her face softens. “I see.” Then she scowls and points a finger. “You, young man. We wait until everyone is seated before we start eating.”
Gale freezes with a chicken drumstick in one hand and his mouth open. He closes it with a snap. “Seriously?”
I swallow laughter.
Corey rolls his eyes. Beside him is another buddy of Riot’s from the agency—Zeke. He is eyeing his glass of wine as if it’s radioactive.
“Why did I agree to do this?” Ellen asks nobody in particular, slumping back in her chair.
“To make Riot happy?” I venture.
She invited the people that count in Riot’s life for Christmas. So here we are, waiting for him.
The table is set as if for a royal buffet, with trays upon trays of meat and pasta and veggies and sauces. Crystal wine glasses are filled with ruby wine. Candles burn merrily. There’s a scent of burning wood and good food.
“What’s keeping him?” Ellen finally says. “I’ll go get him.”
“No, I’ll go.” I put my white linen napkin on the table and get up. “Won’t be a minute.”
I don’t wait for a reply.
I find him in the patio, crouched beside Batman, stroking the dog’s head. He looks up when I approach, his eyes lighting up. He’s still bruised and swollen, but he looks a thousand times better than he did after the fight. The pallor of his face had scared me half to death after he’d regained consciousness, but the doctor was right. A day in bed and some warm food, and he was back on his feet.
“Hey,” he says. “I’m waiting for him to finish so we can go back inside. Can’t leave him outside, he’ll freeze.”
I nod and crouch down beside him in my fancy red dress and shoes. “He lets you pet him more now.”
“He trusts me.” Riot takes my hand, pulls it over the dog’s head. “He can learn to trust you, too.”
Gently I run my fingers on Batman
’s velvety fur. His ears twitch and he lifts his head to stare at me.
“Hi, Batman.” I smile at him, and he stares for a few more seconds before going back to eating.
Heh. I guess he doesn’t entirely distrust me anymore.
“We’re ready to start eating. Ellen was going to come looking for you.” I nudge his shoulder. “This isn’t just about Batman. You don’t want to come inside? Gale is about to steal the food and hide under the table to eat.”
He chuckles. “I can see that happening.” He starts to get up, winces, and I grab his arm to help him. “I just...don’t know, Pax. Don’t know what to think. Everything that happened these past days just seems impossible. Like it never took place. Like it was a strange dream.”
“But it’s real,” I tell him. “It is real.”
It’s been a few days since the fight, and the swelling in his face has receded, leaving behind deep, ugly bruising. He’s paid most of Kyle’s medical debts with the money we won at the fight, and I was with him when he went to the agency and told them he resigned.
He’s free to start again.
With me.
“I know. But it makes no sense.” He’s still quietly ranting, his voice tinged with disbelief. “Why is she doing this? The Crusher’s mom. Fuck. How can I trust her motives? How can you?”
Good question. I shake my head. “I don’t know. I just do.”
“Why?”
“Because she cares for you. I think...I really think that Markus’s death shocked her. Her own son killing another person to get her attention. I think she asked about you, became interested. And the more she got to know you, the more she liked you.” I smile. “You are very likable, you know.”
He quirks a half-smile at me. “Only when you’re around.”
Aww…
“She told me you’re the son she’d have liked to have, if fate cared. Isn’t that enough? Can’t we choose the family we want, that makes us happy?”
He lifts one brow, dubious. “I guess.”
“No guessing involved.” I put my arms around him, rest my cheek on his chest. “I choose you.”
“Thank fuck,” he says with feeling, and I laugh as I lead him inside, Batman following us. “And you haven’t regretted it? Asking for me, instead of someone polished and suave?”
