Rule number one: when dealing with these fucks, you do not give a fuck about these fucks.
Rule number two: never fight in the same location twice.
Rule number three: hear no evil, see no evil, and speak not one damn word about what goes on in this world.
The stakes are high.
The players are fierce.
The game is hard.
Winner takes all.
Unlike a typical fight, where opponents are matched evenly, here everything is a lottery. Fighter’s names are drawn just before each match. Bets are set up like picking numbers for a lottery. The buy in is five hundred per fighter for whichever one you choose to back. Each fighter pays two hundred to fight.
Ten percent off the top goes to The Lottery fund. Fifteen percent is used to pay the winning bets their prize. The only way to win is to pick the fighter who tops them all. With the fighters, it is simple—pay in for the opportunity to fight. The winner of each fight who moves onto the next round, all hoping to be the winner for the night.
The goal as a fighter is to pay a two hundred buy in and win all your rounds, all the way to the top. Make it to the top, and the lottery is yours. Side bets are placed between patrons and fighters alike. Money talks and the pussies hope they are able to walk at the end of the night.
The odds are always against you. There are too many variables, too many unknowns. We all go in blind. We are blind to the location until three hours beforehand, unless the drive is farther away. We don’t know how many fighters will show up or to what caliber they train and fight. We basically don’t know shit until we show up.
The Lottery is a club of sorts. There is a buy in to even receive the location. There is a buy in to be a participant at any level. Money. This is all about money for everyone involved, except maybe the fighters and trainers. Of course, some of the fighters do this for money, but most are looking for experience or release.
Me, I am looking for validation.
Validation that I am not the piece of shit my father always said I was. Validation that I am not the scrawny kid who got pushed around until he was too big to be. Validation that I am not like these fucks in their suits, betting on these fights, all looking to make another dirty dollar. Validation that, even though I lost something good, I can still do something good.
I hop around on the balls of my feet, trying to loosen up. Once a professionally trained boxer, now a scrap fighter looking for validation. What a story this could be.
Fight One: Hitman versus Lights Out.
Boxer versus boxer. How many hits below the belt will this fucker try simply because he can?
Boom. Boom. Bam. Two rounds and he is out. Hands up, protect yourself. He didn’t. I did. He will remember for next time after he comes to from my knock out.
Fight Two: Professor versus Spaz.
Mixed martial artist trained in Brazilian Jiu Jitsu versus a mixed martial artist trained in Muay Thai.
Both lack stamina. In a sport run by criminals, in a league such as this, one must prepare in case it isn’t a regular cage match. No, The Lottery consists of fights held for seven, three minute rounds inside a square cage, not the octagon of the MMA leagues.
Why the change? Simply because the people who created it can.
By round six, the fatigue shows. By round seven, Spaz is no longer looking like the definition of hyperactivity, but rather a worn out, overly worked man.
The three judges tally their scores, and Professor wins by two points.
The night continues on, and I finish winning two more fights.
Final Fight: Hitman versus Professor.
“He’s sharp. He’s powerful. Don’t let him get you to the mat. He has tapped out more fighters than anyone in the league. Watch his legs; he has kicks that will break your ribs. Don’t let him get in there. One hit, man. Get in, get out, and go the fuck home. Do this, Heath!” Wendol pumps me up from my corner.
I watch as Professor arrogantly stares me down.
“Teach him a lesson. The fucker has a side bet with us for five large. Only three peeps backed you tonight—me and two Joe Shmoe’s—so this could lock us in for twenty tonight. That will finish the center. One hit is all it takes. Break him.”
On his final words, the bell rings, and we are drawn to the center. The referee gives the usual mutterings of keep it clean and all that bullshit that is far from anything to stand up in, especially in a place like this.
The crowd is loud. The beat of my heart as the adrenaline courses through me thunders in my chest. The sweat runs down my face as I eye my opponent.
I am a lion. He is my prey.
I am on my throne. He will not defeat me.
Welcome to my kingdom. He who enters will forever know my name.
Time to protect my pride.
While we dance around each other, his fatigue shows behind the glint in his eyes. He has underestimated me.
The kick comes. I take the hit to my thigh.
The burn is welcome. The pain is intense. The power shows. I will bring him to his knees.
Impatience builds inside him, and the jab is predictable. I move; he misses. I swing with a right hook to his jaw, and his mouth bleeds as his head comes back around. He shakes it off as he tries to focus on me and my next move. The uppercut to his abdomen takes his breath away.
He is off his guard.
We dance around until he moves to take me down, but I counter. The minutes tick by, feeling like hours. My body is on a high I will soon crash from.
Round after round, we are matched evenly. Professor has studied me and has come back from everything I have thrown at him.
As we move, he backs himself into the corner.
It’s his final mistake.
I pin him there with a left, right, left, right, left, left. He becomes my bag, and I land hit after hit after hit.
He is limp in front of me as I continue to land punch after punch before being pulled away.
My arm is raised up.
Victory.
Pete ‘Professor’ Charleston is laid out in a pool of his own blood and saliva in the corner of the ring. Medics rush over, and after a moment, he comes to. Wendol and I make our way out after he collects our envelope from the coordinators.
Pete’s brother, Joel, informs us that our payment will be made at my house the following morning as Pete apparently needs medical care.
“If he doesn’t pay up, we’ll come for him, and it’s more than money we’ll seek,” Wendol warns.
The high of the night quickly wears me down. I don’t care to discuss the details any further. I need to get home, get showered, and ice up.
He will pay up. This is not the kind of league where you short change anyone.
CHAPTER FOUR
~LoraLeigh~
Brutal. Watching the last fight of the night, my chest feels like it is going to beat right out of my chest. Watching Pete lose is brutal.
Joel practically carries him to the car. We arrive home, and I immediately get the antiseptic and begin to clean up Pete’s cuts. He winces yet remains silent.
When we finally all go to bed, something feels off. Normally, after a fight—win or lose—Joel comes for me. Pete never has sex with me the day before or the day after a fight. Joel, though, is a guarantee. I have always assumed it was because he didn’t actually fight but needed to work off some pent-up testosterone.
Neither man has ever been overly rough with me. They aren’t what I would call gentle, but it has been a far better experience than any other place I have been.
Maybe I am finally going completely crazy. I must be completely insane to miss sex with Joel tonight. In some ways, I have finally come to terms with my life. Either way, sex is sex, and although I don’t find that it feels good, it doesn’t rip me apart painfully like it once did.
Dread fills me with the thought that I am waiting for this and more so because it isn’t happening. Change in routines has never meant anything good for me. My stomach churns as m
y thoughts run wild.
Morning comes after a long night of tossing and turning. The light filters in from my bedroom window.
Dear Diary,
Today is day two thousand, one hundred, ninety-one since my mom overdosed. It is day two thousand, one hundred, eighty-nine since her dealer sold me to the highest bidder.
Today is six years and a day from when I said goodbye to one prison, only to fall into another.
At fifteen, I was a mess. At eighteen, I was beyond help. Today is day one thousand ninety-six since I tried to run. Today is day two hundred sixty-five since my last thought of committing suicide. Today is day three hundred twenty-one since my last attempt at suicide. Today is day four hundred thirteen with my current owner.
Pete lost his match last night. My gut is screaming at me that something isn’t right. I have certainly been wrong in the past. Let me be wrong today.
Daily reminder: I will survive another day. I will find hope. One day, I will be free. One day, I will be me.
Signed,
LoraLeigh Riffel
“Pack up, Annie,” Joel’s voice comes from the other side of my bedroom door. “Everything.”
I drop to my knees.
“Dear God in Heaven, if you could lend me your ears, grant me your strength, and give me hope. I want to find it in my heart and in my soul to believe. Dear God, give me something to believe in right now,” I whisper to the silent room around me.
I stay there in the middle of the room, on my knees, quietly sobbing as the fear of the unknown grips me. I keep trying to believe in something, and every single time, I am let down.
“Grab your shit, Annie. Let’s go.” Joel pounds at my door.
Funny, the one time I don’t care if he walks in and beats the ever loving daylights out of me and he knocks. Life is one cruel joke after another to me.
Scrambling, I change into yoga pants and an old T-shirt from one of the guys. Over the years, I have managed to acquire a few articles of clothing, but I have never had much. Pete and Joel have been the only ones to actually go out and purchase clothes for me outside of what I am expected to wear to fights.
My mind races with questions, and fear courses through my veins as my emotions grip me. What if the next place is worse than the first? How much more can I take? What did I ever do to deserve this?
Another bang on the door signals my time is up. Wiping my tears away, I roll my shoulders back and ready myself to face whatever comes next. With my pillowcase filled with my belongings in hand, I am reminded of the orphan I am and have been practically my entire life.
When will it end? When will I be free to find me?
After a long ride in the car overnight and alone with Joel, I am put out in a strange front yard. I don’t know where I am, other than somewhere in Texas. I remember the sign saying we crossed the state line from New Mexico. From the few memories I have of being in school, I know Texas is beside New Mexico on the map of the United States. I may have only made it to my freshman year of high school, but I did take in everything I could while I was able to attend. Funny how many kids complained about going to school, yet I lived for the opportunity to escape my home.
“Get inside. He has to accept you as payment from Professor. If he doesn’t, Pete’s dead.”
My mind tries to comprehend what he is telling me as he continues to shout instructions to me from the driver’s seat.
“You get me, Annie?” Joel yells.
Joel never yells. This is serious.
I don’t move. I don’t blink. I don’t know what to even think.
“If Pete’s dead, you’re dead, Annie. Now get on the porch and get Hitman to take you in. We’re already late, so you better make it good for him.”
Without a word, I make my way to the porch. When I knock, there is no answer. I wait on the porch as I look over to see Joel has parked just down the street. Great, no escaping.
What will Hitman be like? I remember him from the final fight. He is tall, muscular, and has short, blonde hair. He has tattoos over his right shoulder and a full back piece. I was so caught up in my fears that I didn’t take in any details beyond those.
Will Hitman take the payment? What will he do to me?
If he doesn’t accept, what will Joel do? Is he waiting to pick me back up and take me home? I almost laugh at the thought. Home. I have no home. Pete and Joel’s house was far from being my home.
God, I really am a mess. Who gets sucked into this kind of life and actually somehow twists it in their mind to call one of their captive’s places home? There isn’t enough therapy in the world to help me sort my life.
Why go on living? I have no family. I have no home. I have no job. Hell, I don’t know anything about myself except my damn name. I don’t have a birth certificate. The reality is, I am a living, breathing, walking Jane Doe. Would it matter if I died? No one would even be around to bury me.
I can’t even say I am a productive member of society. I’m not even another number on a national census. My life ended the day my mother’s did; only, they forgot to bury me, too.
I look around me to see if there is something sharp.
Joel pulls the car closer. He is watching. He will step in and save me. I can’t do this from here.
Okay, he said get inside. Once I get inside, there has to be something I can use to end my misery before I completely give in to this world that has become my life.
Get him to accept me as his payment.
Get inside.
End it all.
CHAPTER FIVE
~Heath~
This has been a long damn day. The work day passes on as I push through. The combination of the Texas heat and my stiff muscles still sore from the exertion two nights before only adds to my agitation at being ripped off. All of this comes together and puts me in a foul mood. Fight money isn’t bill money.
Drill money is bill money.
I fight to give back. Every dime Wendol and I make on my fights goes into the House of Hope, a battered women’s foundation. More than a shelter, House of Hope rebuilds each woman from the ground up. They provide food, shelter, clothing, education, counseling, and so much more for women of abuse, rape, assault, and young women who have been abandoned.
Wendol grew up with a mom and a dad who were soul mates. His parents have the kind of marriage they should base instruction manuals on.
His sister met a guy when she was sixteen. He was twenty-three.
It started out okay, despite the age difference. Unfortunately, it did not end that way. One fight went too far. One fight called an angel home to Heaven. One fight changed the course of many lives. Wendol’s sister Shayla ended up in a casket, and her boyfriend got a reduced charge to manslaughter and is currently serving time in a correctional facility.
My upbringing was far different from my best friend’s. My dad is a lowlife, a drunk, a user. And, although not physically, he is an abuser. I know all too well how words can hurt.
Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me. If that isn’t the biggest line of bullshit we ever teach children, I don’t know what is.
When Wendol opened The Basement, we immediately began offering free self-defense classes to all women. You have to stand for something, as the saying goes, and this is what we stand for.
Professor owes me money. He owes House of Hope this money so they can help a single mom of two cover her attorney costs for her custody hearing. They also have four women who are in need of scholarships for the GED program at the local community college. We have children who need clothing and women who need general physicals as they haven’t been seen by a medical professional in years.
Why place the bet if he didn’t have the funds? I mean, sure we all get desperate for money. However, not paying up in this league could get you entered into a death match—where the winner is the only one left alive—or get you dead at the hands of a goon. Either way, you have a low chance at being able to breathe much longer.
; Morally, it might not be the best way to support House of Hope, but it takes more than a regular salary to support the facility. I can’t go back to the big league, so I survive in this one. I will keep on until I can’t do it anymore if that is what it takes to help these women not end up like Shayla.
Pulling up to my small house, I have to blink as I see a stranger on my porch. Why is there a red-headed woman on my front porch? I think as I continue to stare at my home.
All funds donated to the facility are done anonymously. Only a handful of people know I fight to give it to charity. House of Hope certainly doesn’t know the money comes from me. It isn’t exactly taxable income, so I don’t need a donation voucher.
Parking my truck, I hop out with questions running through my mind. I am dirty, sweaty, tired, and hungry. I am not in the mood for company.
“Can I help you with something?” I ask as I approach.
She stares up at me blankly. Maybe I should have started with a hello. Then again, I am not one for apologies, either, so moving on.
She doesn’t answer, only continues to stare.
“You a mute?”
She shakes her head as she looks around as if something is going to jump out and get her.
“You on drugs? You high? You lost? You drunk? Are you just plain fuckin’ nuts?”
She stands finally. Walking to me, she rolls her shoulders back as if she is trying to gather some sort of courage. She looks around nervously again as if someone is watching her.
“I’m your payment.” The words come out barely above a whisper.
My head pounds. She is my what?
My question must show in my face as she repeats herself with her voice a little stronger. “I’m your payment from Professor.” She looks over my shoulder nervously.
Heath (Roughneck Book 2) Page 2
