Slammed

by Skyla Madi

  “All right.” I agree, knowing it’s better to invite Selena along to respectable fights than to this dank hole. “One last fight here in this hell and then it’s on to bigger and better things.”

  Bigger and better things…the thought excites me—elates me to a happiness I haven’t felt in a long time. For once, in my adult life, I look forward to the future.

  A distinct clear of a throat pulls our attention over to the door. My entire body stills as my eyes lock onto bare, smooth legs. I follow them up over the knee to the black, outline hem of a turquoise dress. The dress doesn’t cling to thighs like a second skin, instead, the slight breeze in the room, provided by an industrial fan on the opposite wall, blows the light fabric around her thighs. The dress becomes tighter when it reaches the waist before revealing a slight peek of her cleavage a little higher up. I’ve never seen Selena in anything that isn’t skin tight. Even her tracksuits are tight. My stare rises to the flush of her neck and I see her swallow hard. It stirs something sinister deep down inside, and I remind myself that Seth and Darryl won’t be comfortable with any indecent move I make towards her.

  Finally, I look at her face and watch as her green eyes nervously flicker around the room between the three of us. I like her hair, the way it’s unstraightened and half pinned.

  “This place smells a lot worse than I thought it would,” she announces, scrunching up her nose and pouting her perfectly glossed lips. For the first time ever, Selena looks—dare I say it—sweet.

  “It’s worse upstairs,” Seth replies. “C’mon, Darryl. We’ll meet Jackson outside when he’s ready.”

  He gives me a knowing nod of the head and a wicked smirk, but there’s no way I’m going to take Selena here. Where would I lay her down? The place is disgusting. Seth and Darryl turn and head for the door as I glance down at my bare, dirty feet for a brief second. When I look up, they’re gone, leaving Selena and I alone. I’m nervous, much more nervous than I should be. It’s because deep down I know just how much Selena holds over me—how badly she could destroy me if she ever felt the need to.

  “So, this is your place, huh?” She takes another forced glance around the room as she steps closer, purposely avoiding the dirty patches on the floor. “It’s charming in its own unique way.”

  I smile at her terrible attempt to be supportive. “It’s a shit hole.”

  Relief flickers over her features as she lets out a small laugh. “Oh, good. I’m glad I’m not the only one who thinks so.”

  A few steps later, she’s close, close enough to smell her sweet perfume and the faintest hint of wine. She glances down at the mess of handwraps in my hands and the corner of her lip subtly twitches. “Do you need my help?” she asks, flicking her gaze to mine.

  I was going to ditch the wraps. They’re not compulsory in the underground fights, but I like the wrist support they provide. “Please.”

  Selena arches a brow and shifts her weight onto her right leg, feigning shock. “Did you say please? Holy shit. Is the world ending?”

  Narrowing my eyes, I hold out the wraps. She giggles as she takes them from me. I watch as she rolls the rogue fabric back into neat, tight rolls. “It’ll be easier to wrap if you’re not chasing the end all the time.”

  I know that, but tonight I didn’t care. I hold out my hand and the slightest shade of pink tints her cheeks as she presses the end of the fabric to my large palm and begins to roll it around my hand. I notice, as I admire her face, that she seems happy. Much happier than usual. Even when she’s smiling, there’s usually pain in her eyes. Pain I caused by not returning the love she felt for me, but tonight—or at least in this light—she glows with every ounce of happiness she so obviously feels.

  “You’re happy,” I state, angling my head. “Happier than usual.”

  Though I don’t make it obvious, there’s a question in my tone and when her green irises meet mine, I know she hears it.

  “I am…I—” She lowers her stare back to my hand and begins to wrap my wrist. “I heard what you said last night.”

  My heart stills in my chest and my fist closes around her hand. In my grasp, the pink in her cheeks flares to a red and she avoids my eyes. Slowly, the pain—her old pain—creeps over her features, crinkling her otherwise smooth skin.

  “I know you didn’t mean it, but I wanted to pretend, for a day, that maybe you did.” She flicks her hand, as if she’s brushing away a fly. “It’s stupid. I’m sorry.”

  I don’t know what to do. I’ve never been in a situation like this. Could I mean that much to her? Can a human mean that much to another human? Selena’s love and disappointment is exuding from her in such intense waves, it’s completely frying my system. Still, I know if I let this moment go and ignore her, I’ll regret it forever. Emotions I haven’t felt in a long time flood me.

  Happiness.

  Gratefulness.

  Contentment.

  Love.

  I tug her forward and with a squeak, she falls into my lap. The stool creaks under the weight of both of us, but remains sturdy. Surprisingly. My lungs move quickly, forcing air in and out of my body. Words fail me. They always do at the best of times. I hold her close to my body, until I’m certain we’ll mesh together. I want to squeeze her until her bones turn to dust, the only purpose of the pain to show her how much I feel and can’t stop feeling. Settling for something less damaging, I shoot forward, swallowing the distance and pressing my lips to hers. As our lips crash, she drops the second roll of fabric and it bounces off my foot. I slide my tongue into her mouth and she sighs. As if it’s all she needs to exist.

  It hits me then. Selena is my woman and I fucking love her with everything I have left.

  Selena

  So quickly his kiss turns from sweet to insistent. His mouth devours mine, hungrily tasting me, coaxing my tongue to play with his. I can’t fight it and I don’t want to. If we don’t kiss, we have to talk, and I’m not ready to talk. How many times do I have to sit through the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ speech? Does he think the explanation makes it easier to understand? Makes it hurt less? The more words he uses, the more I get cut. There is no easy way to hear ‘I don’t love you back.’

  Kissing is good. I can feel him, but not hear him, and for now, I’m okay with that. What possessed him to toy with me last night, though, I’ll never understand. When he said it, I couldn’t believe my ears. I imagined it so many times I could no longer tell the difference between fiction and reality. I would’ve asked him to repeat it if we weren’t interrupted by the police officer. It’s a good thing we were interrupted, I guess. It allowed me the experience to live on cloud nine for the day…before it evaporated underneath me. I’m grateful for that, at least.

  Jackson’s lips slow against mine when the roof above us vibrates. When he pulls away, he leaves his forehead against mine. It’s a gesture I read into immediately. Specks of dust settle on his broad, damp shoulders, adding white spots to otherwise black tattoos. As his eyes stay locked on mine, I avoid his by following the outline of the roaring lion on his shoulder. The shading is perfect…even the animal’s eyes seem to come alive, the sweat making it look like his eyes are glistening with anger.

  “Selena,” Jackson says, pulling my stare from his tattoo. “Last night…I meant—”

  The door to the room flies open and slams into the concrete wall, making me jump. Forgoing Jackson’s unspoken words, I glance over my shoulder. Two large men dressed in black—from their tees down to their sneakers—toss in a large, groaning man. Without sympathy, without a glance over their shoulder even, they turn towards Jackson and me.

  “You’re up, Quinn.”

  Then they’re gone. The man, the one they threw into the room like he was garbage, rests against the wall. Dirt from its surface stick to his wounds and blood smears the rough barrier. We watch, completely silent, as he sparsely coughs and clenches his ribs. Surprisingly, tendrils of fear and worry burrow through my stomach at the thought of seeing Jackson hurt the way th
is man is hurt. The thought of Jackson’s perfect body being beaten and bruised for sport and money absolutely terrifies me. Is this how Olivia felt all those times? It excited me watching Seth and his opponents exchange blows, but the thought of Jackson in Seth’s place—doesn’t sit well with me.

  “How many rounds?” Jackson asks loudly so the man can hear.

  The stranger can barely lift his head to look Jackson in the eye. His brow is busted too, a million times worse than what Jackson had suffered and the worry I feel swells.

  “Almost two,” says the man, gritting his teeth and shuddering violently. “Good luck. You’re gonna need it.”

  Jackson smirks cruelly at the man. “It’s not about luck.”

  He nudges my legs and I slip from his lap. Not needing to be told, I gather the fabric on the floor and roll it up. In record time, I wrap his other hand and Jackson bounces to his feet. I wait, feeling a little out of place while he flexes his fingers and tests my wraps. When he’s done, he takes me by the elbow and pulls me along behind him as he marches towards the door.

  In the corridor at the top of the stairs, Seth and Darryl wait. Seth seems uncomfortable. By the looks of it, he wants to lean against the wall, but can’t because it’s covered in dirt. Scanning the surface, I wonder how the insides of this place got so dirty and why people haven’t cleaned it. Then, I remember this is the ‘underground.’ An illegal place can’t exactly have a certified establishment. They need it to be inconspicuous. What better place than an abandoned warehouse that smells like it may have been a fish cannery in its heyday? I’m surprised there’s even a place like this in Portland. No one of legal note comes out this far into the docks, though, so these guys are safe enough. For now.

  As we approach, Seth pulls a small, brown toothpick from between his lips and says, “They’re waiting for you.”

  Jackson offers my elbow a reassuring squeeze before nudging me in Seth’s direction. “Keep her close and meet me back in the room after the fight.”

  Seth nods and shifts closer to me while Jackson picks up his pace, moving closer to the double doors that separate us from the crowd.

  “Wait,” I call after him and he peers over his shoulder. “You were going to say something before we were interrupted.”

  His gaze flicks between Darryl and Seth before he smiles and says, “I’ll tell you after I win.”

  My thoughts, the ones that often mislead me, run wild with possibilities. I try hard not to get my hopes up, but I can feel them building by the second. His eyes…I saw it glistening within them. Whatever he was going to say, it wasn’t going to hurt me. I just know it.

  I watch his broad back, deliciously wide shoulders, and slim waist as he keeps his head low and carries himself with deadly grace out into the crowd.

  “Let’s find a place to watch,” Darryl suggests as he strolls ahead of us towards the explosion of the crowd on the other side of the doors.

  I don’t want to go out there, but Seth nudges me along anyway and I can’t find the energy to force myself to stay. I told Jackson I would come and that entails watching his fight. Fuck, I hope it’s just the one fight. I already feel like gagging and I’ve barely been here thirty minutes.

  I scrunch my nose. I can smell the blood, rusted metal, and sweat from here. Mixed among it is the distinct scent of booze, piss, and marijuana. How the stench hasn’t alerted the authorities of this place is beyond me, and I wonder if Jackson googled ‘fight clubs guaranteed to give you hepatitis’ before he decided on this place.

  Darryl reaches out and opens the door, officially connecting us to the main area. I look to the ceiling first, immediately noticing busted, hanging lights and cracked beams. It’s a wonder this place is still standing. A large enough vibration and I’m certain the roof will come down on everyone inside.

  The next thing I notice is the lack of chairs. Everyone stands, clasping their choice of poison in their hands. Every now and then, they crash into each other, spilling booze everywhere. None seem to mind. All they want is blood, and money, if they placed a bet. Finally, I allow myself a look at the cage. The surface of my skin prickles at the state of the monstrosity. I’ve never seen a cage so tall or of actual metal. The ones Seth fought in and the one in his gym has a kind of plastic over the wire, and never have I ever seen the top of a cage wrapped in barbed wire. Pieces of clothing are ensnared in their barbs—underwear, bras, shirts and pants. I gape, actually fucking gape, at the state of the place. No wonder Seth refused to let Olivia come. When I stopped by their house on the way to borrow a nice dress from Olivia, they were deep in argument. Olivia insisted on being here to support Jackson, but Seth wouldn’t have it. He claimed the underground was no place for a girl like her. I didn’t understand it at the time. I assumed he wanted a night out with the boys like he used to, but now I get it. This place is fucking foul. Olivia would have a heart attack. I can see her now, digging her claws into Seth like a scared cat. Hell, I’ve been in some messed up places, but this trumps them all. Seth and Darryl begin to press themselves through the crowd. To avoid getting lost, I grip onto Darryl’s shirt and he pulls me along. I keep my head low and my shoulders raised to prevent a stray fist to the face. Over the cheers of the crowd, I hear the canvas of the cage slapping and vibrating, sending energy spiralling through me. The fight has begun, but I can’t see a thing. Eventually, we make it to the front and surprisingly, no one tried to fight us as we pushed our way to the edge of the cage. Now we’re close, so close I can smell sweat and rusting metal. I swallow hard as the smell somehow seeps onto my tongue, materializing into a foul flavor at the back of my throat. In my hand, I still hold Darryl’s shirt closed in a tight fist and I notice that I’m trembling slightly. I suck in an inhale and release his shirt. An accidental, but frightful, shove from behind is all it takes for me to step around Darryl and seek refuge in front of him. I don’t turn around to see who shoved me—terrified the face I meet is anything but pleasant. Finally, I lift my gaze to the cage in time to see Jackson drive his large, heavy fist into his opponent’s face. The guy stumbles and falls into the cage, collecting a mouthful of dry blood and rust from its wire.

  “Holy shit,” I breathe, clasping my own chest.

  I’ve never seen Jackson look like this—so primal and aggressive. My core begins to burn with arousal as the lights glisten in the sweat on his beautiful form. There’s no warmth to his expression. All I see is dedication and the slightest, cruel smirk on his lips. I’ve seen Jackson intense and in control, but not like this.

  Never like this.

  Jackson

  My fists buzz, causing my veins to vibrate up their channels, adding to the storm of sensations dancing in my chest. I want to win more than I’ve ever wanted to win. Last time, my win was purely for me. I knew there was a chance I’d freeze and lose, but tonight, I’m confident in what I’m capable of. Tonight, I’m not only fighting for myself, but for Selena, Seth, and Darryl, too. Proving myself to them would be amazing—a close second to winning the seven grand. I watch my opponent as he grips the cage with unsteady hands. According to Seth, I have to beat two guys to win the money. This guy was beat before I even entered the cage. If I knock him out quickly, conserving as much energy as I can, the next guy should prove to be actual competition.

  Excess energy burns in my blood and I bounce on my toes to keep warmed up. I listen to the cheers of the crowd. They beg me to ground and pound his face into the canvas, but I seek a victory more satisfying. I want a clean knock out.

  One punch.

  Done.

  I keep my distance as he pulls himself up the cage and wobbles on jelly legs. I won’t have to hit this guy full strength. I bet if I push him, he’ll crash to the floor. He shakes his head and the sweat that glistens on its bald surface runs down his forehead and temples. I give him a few more seconds to regain his equilibrium so I, with a clear conscience, can shatter it all over again. I can see it on his face—his defeat. His wide, gray eyes all but beg me to end the torture
and I feel my lips twitch at the corners. I don’t let it spread full force, only enough to toy with him, and it does. It smashes whatever control he has left and, with a barbaric growl that sends my skin prickling with anticipation, he runs at me. Somehow, he manages to fill his rubbery legs with steel and close the distance between us. Everything moves quickly then—much quicker than I originally expected—and the air is suddenly charged with the power of an electrical storm. I see his unwrapped hands clench and I bring my hands up to shield my face in case he manages, by some freaky miracle, to slip through my guard. His first strike I see coming a decent two seconds before he throws it. His biceps twitch with the weight of his forearm and fist, giving him away. Gritting my teeth, I don’t dodge it. Instead, I let it connect with my forearm so I can gauge just how much energy he really has. He pulls his arm back from me, his punch barely compressing the muscle in my bicep.

  I have this in the fucking bag.

  I drop low and swing hard, abandoning my one punch plan. My strikes carry the weight of a fucking freight train and he feels it when my knuckles force his ribcage to bend into his lungs. Once you hit someone that hard in the ribs, a simple sequence of events follow.

  They lose their breath.

  They hunch.

  They leave their face exposed.

  They lose the fucking fight.

  I cock my fist back and clench my jaw before letting my knuckles fly at his exposed chin. It seems to go slomo and it feels like I didn’t hit him hard enough—regardless, he goes down quickly, as if a sack of boulders were dropped from the ceiling above and crush him under their weight.

  The crowd erupts and the uproar threatens to shake the warehouse to its foundations. The tremors vibrate through the canvas beneath my bare feet and climb my legs. It fills me with hunger, a primitive force that feels like liquid gold in my veins.

  As the two men dressed in black from the holding room earlier enter the cage to collect my opponent’s limp body, the announcer is already calling the last fighter to the cage. The reigning champion, they call him. Apparently, he fought two nights after my first fight here and hasn’t lost since. I look at Seth and Darryl, who seem to be deep in conversation, and then to Selena, who watches me with wide, terrified eyes. I tried to warn her that this place isn’t like the places Seth fought at. This is brutal. This is relentless—inhumane, even. She said she could handle anything I throw at her and now, I bet she’s feeling the weight of her words and I hope she declines the next time I ask her. It’s nice to see her beautiful face through the diamond shaped gaps in the cage wire, but it’s disheartening to know she’s here for me—because of me. A face so pretty shouldn’t be tainted by stray dirt and scarred by blood and rusted metal.