by Missy Blue
I stared at him levelly. "And fuck whoever he hurts in the process, right?"
Bryan sighed and shook his head. "No, of course not," he said. "Look, is she around? We'll make an apology to her."
"She's gone now," I hissed. "So save your bullshit for after I’m done with you. That is, if you can still use that mouth of yours."
"Listen, man, listen. We were just passing on information," Jeff said in a way that made me want to break his neck. "People saw you two together, people saw you come get her and carry her from the crowd. People are curious. And everyone knows about the Jackson James case. No one knew she was the victim, though."
"Yeah," I said darkly. "This little thing called protecting a victim's identity. Way to fuck that up."
"Look, we came down to talk to you and apologize," Jeff went on. "To let you know we meant no malice, we just gave the information we were given. Period."
"And where’s the apology, dumbass?" I shot back. "To me, this all sounds like a bunch of fucking excuses from a bunch of pussies. Get the hell out of my face, and if you ever report on anything regarding my personal life ever again, I will hunt you down and fuck you up. Both of you. When there won't be anyone to hold me back. You get me?"
Jeff looked at me levelly. "You need to check that temper, Prince," he warned. "That's gonna get you in deep shit one day."
"Wanna make it today?" I asked bluntly. I clenched my fists at my sides.
"Asher," Bailey said warningly.
"Get out of here," I said again, my voice quietly dangerous. Douchebag Duo swallowed, nodded, and then turned and left. "Let me guess," I went on, glaring at their retreating backs but addressing my brother. "Boss told them to come down and apologize or they'd lose their fucking jobs."
"Something like that," Bailey said wryly. "Asher, you have to stop threatening people and calm the fuck down."
"I don't give a shit," I countered. "They're fucking with my life. And as far as Marty goes..."
"That scumbag is nowhere to be found," Bailey said. "I looked. He’s always at these things but he must know he fucked up because he’s not here. I even asked some of the fighters if they'd seen him and none of them have." My brother shook his head in confusion. "How did he get that information about her in the first place?"
I shrugged. "He’s a piece of shit reporter," I said. "He’s got contacts, and it's not like he’s got any morals. I'm sure a few bills here and there to someone at the courthouse could get him whatever information he needed. Or he ran her name through some kind of database." I shook my head. "It was never about her anyway. He just did it to fuck with me. He probably was hoping for some big skeletons in her closet, something that could embarrass me if he shared it. Probably felt like he hit pay dirt with what he did find." I bit my words off with disgust. Screw the commentators. Marty White was a lowlife piece of shit. He was what I really wanted to get my hands on.
"Sorry about Jewel and her dad," Bailey said. "I know how much you wanted her here."
My guts twisted but I shrugged it off. "It's fine," I said evenly. "Her family needed her. She went." I turned my back on my brother, hoping he’d take the hint and quit talking about Jewel. I knew I couldn't afford to think of anything but the fight, with three bouts ahead of me, but I couldn't stop.
It felt like the bottom of my fucking world had broken apart, without her.
THE DAY ONLY got worse from there.
The Douchebag Duo was now on a mission to berate my performance as much as possible. They apparently thought I was deaf.
I was struggling against my first opponent of the day. The kid was wily, strong and fast, and I’d underestimated him. He was putting up one hell of a fight, and now in the fifth round, without the TKO that I was infamous for, I was growing increasingly more pissed off.
"Well, The Tornado certainly isn't living up to his name today, huh, Jeff?" Douchebag Number One called out behind me. It took every ounce of self-control I had, not to jump over the edge of the cage and strangle him. "Maybe it had something to do with the quick departure of his girlfriend early this morning."
"I did notice she is not in attendance today," Douchebag Number Two agreed. "Some fighters just can't handle having their significant others here with them at things like this."
Are you fucking shitting me?!
The sudden surge of anger proved to be just what I needed to put the amateur down. I blocked the flurry of punches from the kid, shoved him back, and leapt out of the way of a sweep kick. Feinting to the left, I brought my knee to the kid's face before jumping onto his back and putting him in a chokehold, until finally, he tapped out.
"Finally!" Douchebag Number Two called sarcastically. "That's fifteen minutes of my life I'll never get back."
"You know, you come to expect a certain standard of performance from a pro fighter," Douchebag Number One agreed. "And when he falls short, well...it's just boring."
I whirled around and glared down at them, heaving breaths. They both looked back up at me, their faces wearing a mixture of slight fear and defiance. After a long, hard moment, I stalked out of the ring, out of the arena, and back to my dressing room. I refused to allow anyone to enter or speak to me, until it was time for my next bout.
I didn't have to wait long. My next card was called sooner than I'd anticipated. I was facing off with Clay Bronx, one of the two most prolific fighters there, other than me. I needed to be at the very peak of my game. I couldn't be distracted by Jewel or pay attention to those asshole commentators.
I wanted to knock Clay out as soon as possible, but the man proved to be quite a challenge. He was a little faster than me. But I was stronger. The first three rounds between us were brutal; we both shed blood, we both were getting lumped up, and both were trying to go for the knock out punch that would end this dance. We were fighting for high stakes. Winner would progress to the final round.
I refused to get knocked out. It had never happened, and it would never happen as long as I still drew my goddamn breath.
Finally, in the fourth round, when my back was pressed against the mesh wiring of the cage, I tucked my chin and ducked a lightning-fast left jab from Clay even faster, and as Clay's fist connected with the wiring, I shot up with a brutal knife-sharp uppercut. Clay's head snapped back, his eyes rolling, and blood gushed out from his mouth. At least one tooth flew out before he stumbled backward and finally toppled over on his back.
"A knock out!" I heard one of the Douchebags shouting from behind me. "Praise Jesus!"
"Not exactly a one-hit Tornado," the other taunted, "but it'll do. Asher Prince advances to the championship round and one step closer to that two-million dollar purse."
"And there he goes, storming out of the cage as he always does," the first taunted as I slammed the door open and ran down the steps. "Can't be bothered to stay and appreciate the fact that he has dedicated fans."
I snapped my head over and found them both looking at me. Their smirks quickly turned upside down when I pointed my finger at them and then slowly slid my finger across my neck.
I hustled off to my dressing room, wishing the Douchebag Duo would get in that cage with me for just five minutes.
FINAL ROUND.
Logan ‘The Punisher’ Cavasso.
Logan reminded me a lot of myself. He seemed to be quiet, keeping to himself, avoiding the reporters and the fans. He also chose not to have any walk-out music. We were both silently focused the second we went eyes-on with each other.
We studied each other across the ring intently. There was no real animosity, no anger, no misdirected violence. We both knew we were there to do a job, to get paid, and to leave it at that.
Nothing more, nothing less.
That made Logan my most challenging opponent yet.
Five five-minute rounds, with a minute break between each round. The next thirty minutes wouldn't define my future, but with my recent decisions, they damn sure would have a heavy impact. Thirty minutes until I found out which direction my life would take, u
nless I could get in a knock out. But I knew from the hours I'd spent intently studying Logan that it wasn't going to be easy. Logan, much like me, had never been knocked out.
The bell was rung, and we went to war.
After the first couple of rounds I knew Logan was the last one standing with me for a reason. After ten minutes, I was already tired, and I could tell Logan was flagging too. We were equally matched in strength, speed and skill.
I heard the shouts of the audience, heard the voices of the commentators, but I blocked out the details of what was being said. I couldn’t focus on it, was unable to focus on anything but the fighter in front of me.
Logan was like my mirror; we punched the same way, we predicted each other's moves accurately. It was turning into an exhaustive stalemate as we struggled to land punches and kicks and block others.
I felt the air whoosh out of my lungs when Logan caught me with a surprising, punishing body shot to the lung, the instant before the bell rang. Two rounds left. I stumbled backward, my back hitting the cage, and I felt Bailey grab my ankle and shake.
"Wake up, little brother!" Bailey yelled. He tended to the little cut erupted over my right eyebrow, and squirted water in my mouth. "Be smart! This guy is like you. Now you gotta be three steps ahead of him. You can do this! Now, go!"
The bell rang again for round four, and I moved into the ring. This round went better. Logan's energy was depleting a bit more quickly than my own, and I used it to my advantage. Though I still wasn't able to get a knock out or a tap-out, I was able to land a great number of my punches and kicks, and gradually more bruises marked Logan's body, his nose bloodied, and I gave him a cut over his brow to match my own.
"That's it!" Bailey shouted, as I sat in my corner after a round ended. "That's it! He’s getting tired, Asher—pay attention to that. You notice how he’s favoring that left side?"
Breathlessly, I nodded.
"Use that shit to your advantage," Bailey went on. "That last punch you threw in his kidney—that one humbled him. He keeps grabbing at his side. But you need to concentrate on those feet of his—he’s fast as shit. Can you do that? You need to get him off his feet and get that tap-out. You're not gonna knock him out, that's clear—it ain't gonna happen. You need to get him to the ground and make him tap-out. Get him off his feet. You hear me, little brother?"
I nodded again, and the bell rang.
"Round five!" Bailey was shouting as I got to my feet. "Play time is over, Asher. Bring this shit home!"
Keeping a rough score of the rounds, I assumed it would be a rough tie. The last round had worked well for me, but the first three rounds were mostly in Logan's favor. That was too close for comfort for me. I couldn't not win. I couldn't. I had a dragon to slay, and so I re-entered the battle.
The round was playing out almost like the last one had. Logan was hurting, real bad. His side, where he’d taken a brutal body shot, was giving him fits. His arm would unconsciously go to clutch at it when his fists weren't guarding his face. I hated to play dirty, but I knew a few more body shots would put Logan down for good.
I caught my last wind, and went on full attack-mode, launching a flurry of kicks and punches against my opponent. Logan caught me with a couple of surprises. A sharp left-hook to my ear left me hearing ringing. A hard roundhouse kick to my ribs sent me reeling; if they weren't outright broken, they were cracked. I knew that much as I doubled over, assailed by white-hot sharp pain.
"Get up, Asher!" Bailey yelled. "Get up and put him down! End this!"
When I launched myself back into the fight and flew at Logan, this was the moment I lived up to my name.
The Tornado.
I rained blows on Logan, punching his body in places I knew would hurt, throwing an elbow into the back of his head, kicking his knees out from under him. I was the tornado in a raging storm that no man could survive. When Logan was on his knees, I lashed out with a stiff sharp jab, and chopped down hard on his shoulder. I broke Logan’s nose before he toppled over.
The bell rang. It was done.
"Asher!" Bailey shouted, moving around the ring to my side. "Asher, you okay?"
"Good," I gasped out. "Great."
"Just hang on," Bailey said. He got into the ring and hauled me to my feet, dragging me to the corner to minister my injuries.
"Ribs," I croaked. "Broke or cracked."
"Tough little son-of-a-bitch," Bailey said, pressing a Q-tip dipped in alcohol to the cut above my brow. "But you got this in the bag, Asher. I'm proud of you. You are a fucking beast," Bailey said admiringly. "A fucking beast." He ruffled my hair affectionately.
Several moments passed as the judges tallied up our points to score the fight. I felt confident. Felt that ultimately I was in the lead. Maybe not by a huge margin, but I led. It came down to simple mathematics where the scoring was concerned, and I waited for my name to be called. It wasn't out of cockiness, it wasn't out of arrogance.
It was what it was.
So I was utterly dismayed and shocked when I heard the name of Logan ‘The Punisher’ Cavasso being hailed the winner and Champion of the first annual Ithaca tournament, taking home every dime of the two-million dollar purse. Logan's people rushed into the ring, screaming ecstatically as the entire arena erupted into noise. Logan himself looked completely dumbfounded, his eyes flying to me.
I was stunned.
"No way!" Bailey was shouting angrily. "No way! I counted the points! No fucking way!" He stared at me in disbelief, and I could only look dully back. "This ain't right!" he continued to shout, pointing at the judges. "You know this ain't right!"
I looked over to where the judges were; all three of them were looking at me, talking behind their hands. Then, simultaneously, they each looked away and got up from their table.
"Hey!" Bailey rushed to the wall of the cage, shouting at the judges through the wire mesh. "Hey! What the fuck you doing? You know this is wrong!" One of the judges stopped in his tracks and glanced coolly back at Bailey. The judge glanced around then chuckled before walking off. "Goddamn it!" he raged.
"Let's get the fuck out of here," I muttered. I made my way to the entrance of the ring, then turned suddenly. I crossed the ring to where Logan stood, being interviewed by Douchebag Bryan. Logan still looked utterly confused.
"Good job, man," I said quietly to Logan. Logan looked at me, opening his mouth to speak. Whatever he wanted to say never came out as if he thought better of it.
"Thanks," he managed, shaking my hand. "Hey—you, um, you put up a hell of a fight." I gave one nod of acknowledgment and headed out of the ring.
What a fucking bust.
I'd had major plans for that money, but it was nothing that needed to end those plans. It wasn't that I felt like I was invincible, but something about this situation didn't sit well with me. It had been a close fight, to be sure, but it hadn't been that close.
The uneasy feeling that grew in my gut intensified, and doubt started to claw at my brain. When I was back in my dressing room, I glanced at my big brother's face in the mirror. His unease mirrored my own.
"Something about that seem utterly fucked up to you?" Bailey finally asked, folding his arms. "I scored all your rounds in my head. Both you guys. And you came out on top, Asher. There's no way that kid won. There's just no way."
I shrugged, pulling off my wraps. I didn't feel like talking. I didn't feel like doing a goddamn thing. Except sleep. I winced as I checked my face. Besides the cut that refused to stop bleeding, I had a lump on my cheekbone and my lip was split at the corner. My body ached and my neck and shoulders were sore. My ribs hurt like hell and drawing in breaths was painful. I knew I'd need to see the medic and get them taped before I left.
Bailey handed me a cold bottle of water and two Ibuprofen pills. I nodded my thanks and drained it quickly. I glanced at Bailey again and felt a surge of annoyance at the concerned look on his face.
I stared at the floor. "Let it go, Bailey," I said impatiently. "Kid won. Apparently fair
and square."
"Bullshit," he grumbled. "Fair and square, my ass."
"Please," I muttered. "It is what it is, now." I looked at Bailey. "Right?"
My older brother met my eyes, and I saw deep suspicion and something else in them, as though a light bulb had just gone off in his head. "Yeah," Bailey said, narrowing his eyes. "It is what it is." He pulled his phone out and began to call someone furiously.
"Who’re you calling all pissed off like that?" I asked absently, wincing as pain tore through my abdomen when I tried to draw a deep breath.
“Wilcox. It’s Bailey Prince here,” my brother said into the phone. The hell’s he ringing Wilcox for? “You see the fight?” There was a long pause as Bailey listened to the other end. “Yeah. Thought so. What you gonna do about it then? Because if this is how you’re gonna motherfuckin’ run things, you think fighters are gonna want to participate in this clown show?”
I had to laugh at my brother. He was talking to the man who owned the tournament. There was no man higher up than Wilcox, and Bailey, apparently, didn’t give a shit. I guess being Champion, four years in a row, gave him standing.
There was another long pause as Wilcox spoke to my brother. Finally, Bailey ended the call. “Yeah. We’ll be there tomorrow morning. Thanks, man. I knew you’d see right…Yeah, will do and you give my love to the Mrs. too.” My brother had made a huge impact in the MMA world, and Tess and him had been invited to Wilcox’s mansion for dinner on numerous occasions. Wilcox had a soft spot for my brother. Said he was like the son he never had.
“What was that?”
“Wilcox watched the fight. He also didn’t like how shit hit the fan. He’s called an official meeting with the board tomorrow morning at ten. He said you needed to be there.” Bailey grinned then. “Think he’s gonna revoke the results and declare you rightful champion, little brother.”
I shook my head, stepping into my trainers. “Can’t do that.”
“The fuck you can, Asher. What’s more important than a two mill purse?”
There was only thing more important. I glanced up at my brother.
“New York City.”
