I know where I’m headed, even though I tell myself I’m just going for a walk. My beast is pacing and I’m pretty sure when I get where I’m going, he’s going to end up getting his fix.
An hour later, I’m with Pete as he knocks hard on the metal door of a block-sized industrial building in a half-vacant, crumbling part of town. It stinks of garbage and piss, and there’s a freezing easterly wind blowing, but I already don’t feel anything but the urge. The buzz of the rage that needs its release, because until Maggie, it’s been the only release I’ve known and the addiction to it still buzzes inside me.
After a few seconds, a slide is pulled back and two eyes appear in a brightly-lit slit.
“Who’s that?”
Pete glances back at me. “Jacob West. I vouch for him.”
The eyes glare at me and I hear a sharp intake of breath. “Participating or spectating?”
I growl, grabbing Pete’s shirt and pulling him closer. “Hey, if this is a sex club, I’m out.” He chuckles, trying to pull away, but I tighten my grip. “I’m serious.”
“It’s not a fucking sex club, although there’s plenty of sex going on, it’s just not the main event,” he says, then turns back to the opening in the door. “Just spectating. For now,” he says, then nods at me. “But, participating is likely. Just let us fucking inside, Jax. You know me, dickhead, just open the fucking door.”
I hear the heavy clunk of a military-grade lock being thrown aside and the door swings back.
“Have fun,” Jax says as we step inside, and Pete hands him a wad of cash. I hear the faint sound of an excited crowd from somewhere deep inside the building, and I already know my assumption about where we are is spot on.
Distraction, for sure, but it’s not enough to get Maggie out of my head. Even as I follow Pete, my mind is still spinning with thoughts of her pink slit in front of my face, my tongue dancing between those soft lips, teasing her clit until she releases a spray that covers my face and makes me gasp for every breath. I’m going to fucking marry her as soon as possible. I’m locking that shit down because I’ve wasted enough of my life and it’s time for me to have a turn at something different and Maggie’s made me believe it can happen, even for me.
We work down a damp corridor, descending a flight of metal stairs one level, and the noise becomes louder. People move around us, a few at first, smoking and drinking in the corridors, money changing hands.
The stink of sweat and tang of testosterone and blood are heavy in the air as the roar explodes and we take a turn, a few more steps and we are inside the converted warehouse’s makeshift arena. I glance around the huge space. There are four caged fighting areas set up, two on the far side, one elevated in the center and another off to our left.
It’s eighty percent men I see, but there are women too, some clinging onto the arms of a dude or getting up close to the action, slamming their palms on the center ring’s chain-link, while two guys go at each other inside like it’s Thunderdome. There’s blood all over the face of the guy being punched up against the cage, staining the floor, spattered over the crowd.
Pete bumps an elbow into me as we walk toward the center ring, and he yells next to my ear to be heard, “The one with the missing teeth at the front, black shorts, that’s Hoop. He’s been moving up lately, making a play for a bigger show. He’s going to make his move tonight. Smaller guy is called Eighteen.”
I nod. Ambivalence pounds in my temples. The fighter in me is clawing to get out, but the memory of Maggie’s face tells me to keep my beast at bay. She deserves better. More than this, and I want to fight to give it to her but my ever-present rage roars and I battle against the urge to give it the blood it craves.
“See that woman?” Pete tips his head, and I follow his gaze. “The Goth looking attorney type? That’s Delight. Don’t usually see her at smaller fights, so money’s on she’s here to watch Hoop. See what he’s got. She likes what she sees, she can sponsor him up the food chain. The real show, UFC or a few other underground clubs with higher purses than this.”
I watch as Hoop steps back from his opponent, then strikes forward, a shot to the side of the head, then as his opponent bends forward, he shoots three rapid-fire kidney shots, holding his head in the crook of his elbow. “No rules?” I ask, and Pete shakes his head.
“A few. No knives, no guns, bare fists only, no nut shots. Other than that, it’s all in. Your opponent taps, that’s it, fight’s over.”
Hoop raises his fist and slams it into the poor guy against the cage, while my beast paces inside me. In a civilized world the fight would be over, one guy can barely function, but not here. The next punch comes, Eighteen is on the mat, unconscious but the blows don’t stop.
“What if he can’t tap?”
Pete shrugs. “Then the fight isn’t over. Guy on top can keep going, or he can stop. Depends. That’s why people pay what they pay to watch the show.”
Another punch, and another. He’s taking the biggest tap out of all. I can see it in how his body goes slack against the mat, his eyes dim, then finally, he raises his fingertips, half an inch maybe, and taps them three times into the bloody mat.
“Fight’s over!” The ref waves a hand between the two fighters and Hoop pops up, dancing around the bloodied pulp on the mat as the announcer’s voice echoes above the crowd. “By tap out, Hoop is the winner.”
The announcer holds the mic to his lips as Hoop exits the cage and they drag Eighteen out onto a gurney while a clean-up crew comes into the cage, mopping and spraying down the mats in a frenzy. The scent of ammonia and alcohol mingle with the sweat and blood in the damp air. “Saturday night is amateur night!” The announcer’s cracking voice urges more screams and stomping from the crowd. “Who’s next?”
And my beast roars.
“One Shot! One Shot! One Shot!” The crowd chants as Hoop steps into the ring for my third fight of the night. The first time I stepped into the cage, a couple hours ago, the crowd jeered and threw shit when they announced me. I took out my first two opponents with a single punch a piece, and now, I’m their fucking hero.
That Delight chick’s been watching me. And now, she looks like she’s salivating, but it’s greed, not lust. I want her eyes on me when I make Hoop beg for mercy. A couple of hundred dollars per fight is chicken feed, and if there’s more money to be made elsewhere, I want in.
Once her eyes are locked onto me, I nod at the ref, letting him know I’m ready. If I win this, I’ll get into the headline for the night and there’s bigger money when you’re still standing for the last round.
I get the first punch on him, connecting square under his jaw, but it’s really only to get a feel for his tolerance. A shot across the bow so to speak.
He grins through the few bloodstained teeth left in his mouth. “Gonna have to be better than that.”
I go hard at his ribs, fuck the talking. One, two. One, two. One—
He gets a kick into my stomach, then a quick shot to the face, but it’s all part of the plan and that’s when the fight is mine.
I open the floodgates, the memories pounding through me like fists. The sound of Hoop’s punches connecting with my flesh are just like the pounding of my mom’s meat tenderizer that night as she worked a cheap piece of beef she picked up. She worked on the meat as I did something silly, I can never remember what exactly, I was just trying to make her smile. She cooked, I talked, she laughed.
And he came home.
Drunk.
I was first in his path. I vaguely remember the sound of her begging him to stop, trying to step in between, trying to draw his anger onto her instead.
It worked. The rage comes like red fire back as I remember him turning on her. Hoop steps forward, right into the inferno and he has no idea what he in for.
I swipe my foot low, knocking him off balance and sending him onto his ass.
While the crowd chants, the smell of bloodlust fills the air. His face is now my father’s and the red haze tints my vision. Aft
er kicking him in the ribs, I lean down and grab his head, lifting it away from the floor and then slamming it back down. There’s a cracking sound, though whether it’s his skull or the floor I don’t give a shit.
Straddling him, I land punch after punch, until his face is no longer human looking.
“You’re dead, motherfucker,” I seethe, but it’s not Hoop I’m trying to kill. It’s my father.
Hoop’s arm flies out and his hand slaps the map three times. I growl, punching him again, seeing him struggle to breathe through the blood flooding his mouth and airway. I hit him again.
And again.
It takes three guys to pull me off as the crowd screams my name in a frenzy. The ref comes over, grabbing my wrist, sweat stinging my eyes as my jaw locks and darkness falls around me.
“One Shot wins! Number three for the night and he moves on to the final round!” I hear as I take a slow, even breath, and it’s not my father I see anymore.
It’s Maggie. She’s in my head, in my heart and I’ll fight to the death for us.
And just like that, the red mist is gone.
11
Maggie
I can’t believe I’m standing here in some old warehouse with caged-off fighting rings and the smell of piss and spilled beer everywhere. I shouldn’t have caved, but I remind myself it’s for Anola.
I hate fighting. Full stop. It makes no sense to me why two people would voluntarily beat on each other.
I only watched my dad fight once when I was around seven, three years before he killed my mom, and I left crying. I saw enough of him like that at home.
When Derrick showed up at Anola’s saying he wanted to take us out to a club, all I really wanted to do was go home. I hadn’t even had a chance to tell her about Jacob. Not only does she not even know he’s staying with us, but my best friend doesn’t know I lost my virginity to a man I’ve only known a day.
I love my friend, but she’s so gaslighted by Derrick she can’t see the shit in the Shinola when it comes to him. I tried to remind her about what happened with Babka yesterday, but I could see the terror in her eyes.
“No!” She shook her head when I’d confronted her about it. “I talked to Derrick and it wasn’t what you thought at all. Some maniac came up and started attacking them and they tried to protect Oma. He showed me the bruises, Maggie, he was really hurt. Dwight could have been killed. Derrick too. The guy must have been on drugs or something…”
I knew she was talking about Jacob but Derrick was standing there, so I just shut down. I have to help her break away, but tonight she looked at me like a desperate child and I figured better to be with her and help her see who he really is than bail. My stomach was in knots, I knew I should call Jacob or text him like he told me to do if we went anywhere, but if he knew I was going somewhere with Derrick, I know he’d come unhinged.
I’m stuck between my best friend and Jacob, and to top it off, when we got to the car with Derrick, Dwight was inside and the evening has gone from bad to worse.
So, here we are, standing at the edge of the crowd, waiting for Dwight’s last match of the evening at this shitty, underground fight club, I try not to look as the two guys in the ring punch and kick, and one throws his opponent against the cage that’s been set up around the ring. I watch Anola wince and I’ve had enough.
“Come on,” I tell her, gazing around the huge space, knowing the same thing is happening in the other three rings I see farther across the crowd.
“What?”
“We’re getting out of here.”
“No, I can’t…Derrick…”
I glance up at his face, a wide grin splitting his lips as he raises a fist and roars with delight, transfixed. “I don’t think he’ll notice,” I tell Anola. “Come on.”
I tug her hand, dragging her through the crowd and over to a stairwell, far enough from the action we can at least hear each other. There’s a metal bench against the wall and we plop down, a long moment of silence, then I can’t hold it back anymore.
“He’s such an asshole, Anola,” I tell her.
Anola taps the cement floor with her spiked heel but doesn’t answer.
“Can I ask you something?” she says, meeting my gaze. “Will you be honest with me?”
“Always.”
“I mean, we’re both virgins still...” Her cheeks redden, and I just thank God it’s a statement not a question.
My head starts to buzz. Things with Jacob are happening so fast and guilt tightens my throat, but sitting in this corridor with people screaming for blood doesn’t seem like the right place to have some deep-down girl talk.
I say nothing, hoping my silence isn’t quite a lie and she’ll just continue with whatever she wants to say, but the low twinge of pain between my legs is a constant reminder of Jacob.
“Derrick isn’t going to wait much longer for me. He keeps saying I need to…show him that it’s worth it for him to be with me. He says I’m too old to still be a virgin. I don’t know, maybe he’s right. I don’t love him, but I’m thinking I should go ahead. What do you think? Aren’t you tired of not…you know, doing it?”
I focus on her and not the fact that I’m not being completely honest right now. “There’s no age requirement for losing your virginity. That’s such bullshit. He’s gaslighting you, Anola,” I tell her. “If he cared about you, he wouldn’t pressure you. No one should be pressured into something that’s only theirs to give. And especially not by Derrick the Douche.”
“Please don’t call him that.”
“Sorry,” I say, kicking myself for slipping up just when she was starting to listen to me. “Look, whoever it was I’d say the same thing. You’ll know when you’re ready. And you’re not too old to be a virgin.” Heat gathers in my gut, thinking of Jacob telling me we were going to have our first time together.
And how happy I was. Happy that we’d both waited for each other, that it was going to be as special for him as for me. At least that’s what I hope.
“Derrick doesn’t care about you,” I tell her. “He cares about how you make him look. You’re beautiful, Anola. He knows it, he just doesn’t want you to realize, or you might decide he’s not worth it. You should be your own person, like you were when I first knew you. These clothes,” I point to the impossibly short dress, the stilettos, the makeup he forced her to put on to hide the scar on her face, “they’re not you. I know they’re not. And you know it too, don’t you?”
She nods, still silent, the dull roar of the spectators in the background a weird contrast to the moment we’re having.
I start to tell her we should leave, get an Uber and go home, when Derrick sidles up to us looking annoyed and Anola tenses.
She doesn’t want him here. I just need to help her make this break.
“Don’t walk away without telling me again.” He glares at me and I glare right back, so he turns to Anola. “I want you guys to see this next fight. Dwight is up against some new guy. It’s going to be a shit show. Dwight is going to kill him.” He gives me a sneer and I mock him right back.
“No thanks,” Anola says, and I grin.
“We’re fine where we are,” I add.
Derrick’s expression darkens. “Anola, come on.”
Anola shakes her head.
“You’d better get back there, or you’ll miss it,” I tell him.
He grabs her arm. “Anola’s coming with me and you…” He glares at me. “You’re gonna want to see this, too. Trust me.” He physically pulls Anola to her feet, even though she’s trying to hang back.
“Hey, she said no,” I tell him, getting to my feet and following as he drags her behind him.
“And I said yes,” Derrick replies.
“You want me to make a scene? Because I will.” I get ready to scream and get us thrown out if necessary.
Anola reaches out and grabs for my hand. “No, it’s fine. We’ll watch this one last fight, then…” She turns back to Derrick. “Then we’re leaving and I have to tel
l you something before we go.”
“Whatever. Come on, both of you, it’s about to start.”
I seethe but bite my tongue. If she’s about to tell him what I think she’s about to tell him, then fine. It’s worth the price of a watching one more fight. She’s going to need me for back-up and I’m not going to leave her hanging.
Back inside the arena, the crowd falls silent, and there’s a booming voice over the speaker system and Derrick gives me a weird look as he pulls us to a spot by the bigger center ring. He’s smiling, like the cat that ate the canary, but I just sneer at him and watch the announcer pull the microphone to his mouth.
“Ladies and gentlemen, he’s new, he’s hot, he’s here to hit the spot…One Shot!”
I watch the man in the black hoodie enter the ring and raise his head. His face is shadowed, but I recognize the eyes, except, something is different…the blue-gray eyes that looked into mine this morning with such lust and passion are now dead-looking, like a shark’s eyes.
He unzips his hoodie, throws it in the corner and I think I’m going to throw up.
Jacob
It’s him.
That motherfucker who attacked Oma.
For a second, I’m not sure he realizes who I am, but then a smile plays on his lips like he thinks this is going to be fun. Well, sure it is, but not for him. Between my fights I found an empty back room to spend my time, I don’t want to watch anyone else fight. When I’m in the zone, I need my silence so I can’t fucking believe when the douche comes into the ring with a stupid smile on his face.
The ref’s talking but I’m not listening, I’m focused, the red haze comes over me as he claps the boards together and I’m set free.
Derrick or Dwight, or whatever the fuck his name is, comes at me fast, throwing a quick first punch with too much weight behind it. I dodge easily, letting his knuckles crack against my shoulder and anger twists his face. Rage is focused, anger is childish. He’s already lost he just doesn’t know it yet.
One Shot (The Anti-Heroes) Page 7
