by A. Zavarelli
“You ready, Mack?”
I nod and slip into my robe, placing the hood over my hair to conceal my face. “Yep.”
Johnny grins and shakes his head just as the music starts up. I picked it myself. LL Cool J’s Mama Said Knock You Out.
Cute, huh?
Johnny slaps me on the shoulder, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say that his eyes look a little glassy.
“Your dad would be real proud of you Mack,” he says. “Now go show them how a Wilder takes care of business.”
I nod and follow Johnny out of the room in time to the beat of the music. This sport is all about posturing, and even though they can’t see me yet, I’m going to give them the show they came for. Every step I take gets me pumped up to step into the makeshift ring.
My competitor stands across from me at the ready, and I already know he towers over me. I’ve seen him fight before, which helps to ease my nerves a little. He’s decent, but his fighting style is all street and not technically trained. Plus, he lets his arrogance and temper get the best of him and already, it’s plastered all over his face. He thinks he’s fighting a little man, and this is going to be the easiest money he ever made.
I wait until the music stops and Johnny starts his spiel.
“Ladies and gents are you ready?”
The entire crowd erupts into raucous cheers and applause, infusing the atmosphere with a wild energy that only comes with this kind of blood sport. The smell of stale sweat permeates the air, along with the heat of far too many bodies cramped into the dusty old warehouse. This is it. The moment I love. The moment I live for. I bounce back and forth on the balls of my feet as Johnny makes his announcement.
“Fighting out of Dorchester… standing at five feet eleven inches tall, weighing in at one hundred and ninety pounds… Donovan ‘the hook’ O’Connor.”
The boofhead slugs his fists together and spins in a circle to amp up the crowd as they shout and cheer for him. Talk about an overconfident prick. The only thing I care about is that I’ve got the audience’s attention. I cast a glance in the direction of the Russians and take mental note of who’s here tonight.
None of them look familiar. My dad only let me around his own crew, and whenever these guys came around, he made me skedaddle. But right now, they’ve all got eyes on me. That’s good. I glance back at the Irish. The only familiar faces I see are the ones I managed to get some dirt on. The boss isn’t here, but his captains are. And one in particular is staring at me with dark curiosity. Lachlan Crow. He’s third in line to the throne of the Irish underworld, and his reputation proceeds him.
Hell on wheels. He’ll kill you and he’ll do it with a smile on his face. Or so I’m told. I don’t know for certain what his role is besides running Slainte but the stories running rampant about him vary wildly. I’ve wondered if half of them are simple lore, intended to make him seem more dangerous than he really is. But one look at his face, completely devoid of any emotion, and I know they must be true.
You can tell his men respect him, standing like sentinels at his side. Not directly next to him, just a couple inches back. They don’t see themselves as equals to Lachlan. And a man in this life doesn’t gain that kind of respect without doing heinous things and instilling fear in those around him.
I’ve done some research on these guys, of course, but not as much as I would have liked. I couldn’t do a background check, so my information mostly came from word on the street. That’s one of the benefits of being from Southie.
Of course Lachlan’s name is engraved into my brain. He runs Slainte. He’s the gatekeeper of the one place that I need to be to get my information. I hoped to get his attention, but I didn’t expect it to be so intense. I figured he’d give me a cursory glance, and then I could use one of his soldiers to get me an audition with him. But he’s staring directly at me. There’s no way he can see my face beneath the hood of my robe, but for a moment I almost think he can. His gaze is so sharp, so penetrating that it’s a little disarming. I jerk my eyes away and focus on my opponent. I’ll worry about Lachlan after. When I’ve kicked Donovan’s ass.
“Fighting out of Southie,” Johnny continues. “Standing at five feet two inches tall, weighing in at one hundred and twenty pounds… Mack ‘the butterfly’ Wilder.”
As expected, there are some confused murmurs. Once this robe is off, everybody in this building will know who I am. There’s no going back after this.
I jerk the robe off and toss it aside, and the entire arena goes dead silent, including my cocky opponent. Maybe it’s just my paranoia, but for a moment, he looks at me like he recognizes me. Which is impossible. I’ve always made sure to keep a low profile when I come watch the fights.
I didn’t hear an Irish accent when he was stirring up the crowd, so I know he’s from Boston. But I’m also certain this is the only place I’ve ever seen him before. He’s older than me, probably by about five years, so I doubt we have any friends in common either.
He cocks his head to the side, and I catch sight of a large scar on his cheek. Probably from fighting, no doubt. His beady black eyes rake over my body, and I breathe a sigh of relief when I realize he’s just examining me.
“You’ve gotta’ be shittin’ me Johnny,” he says.
He looks around the room with a nervous expression, seeking out Lachlan. I have no doubts that Donovan isn’t afraid of hitting a girl. But he needs permission from his superior to go through with a spectacle like this. Curious myself, I follow his gaze and find Lachlan scowling at me. He isn’t at all comfortable with this, and I’ve put him in a hella awkward position. All of his men are staring at him with bated breath, wondering if he’ll allow himself to look weak. To disappoint all of the fans that came here tonight. I flash him a challenging smile. What’s it gonna’ be Crow?
After an imperceptible nod from Lachlan, Johnny shrugs and winks at me. “She’s earned her way in, Donny. She’s up for it.”
Sensing his skittishness, I turn my attention back to my opponent and crack my neck, hitting my wrapped hands together.
“What’s the matter princess, scared of a little girl?”
His jaw is popping now, his biceps flexing as tension seeps through his body. Boxing is considered a gentleman’s sport. Toss a woman into the mix and they have no fucking clue how to handle it. Lucky for me, this isn’t boxing.
Though I was trained as a boxer first and foremost, I wanted to be more. I wanted to be able to defend myself in any circumstances.
Many people think of MMA as a bunch of caveman crap, but I recognize it for the art it is. It isn’t just about brute strength. It’s about stamina, control, coordination, and learning to trust your instincts. To move fluidly and confidently. Never doubting yourself or letting your opponent see weakness. In my case, looks can be deceiving, and people have always underestimated me because of it.
“Are you sure about this, babe?” Donovan asks arrogantly. “I won’t hold back.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I roll my eyes. “You’re so big and tough and strong.”
Sick of the back and forth, I walk straight up to him and wait for Johnny to give the signal. He throws down the gauntlet, and I slug Donovan hard and fast with a right hook before bouncing back on my feet. When his head snaps back around, he’s stunned as hell, and the crowd is laughing their asses off.
“Come on,” I bite out. “Cut the bullshit. Let’s give these people what they came for.”
“You’re going to regret that kid,” he snarls under his breath.
I flash him a sweet smile and shift my weight to tighten my stance. Knees bent, elbows tucked and prepared to strike. Two shoulder rolls and a deep breath.
Johnny’s word is law in this joint, and he’s already started the match. There are no set rounds. We go until someone knocks out or taps out. The only rule? No hitting near the junk. Bunch of pussy ass men.
Without any more hesitation, Donovan comes straight at me and throws a quick combo of jabs and crosses. I block and
dodge every one of them, which only pisses him off more.
This was one of the first things I learned. Footwork needs to come first, and the rest will follow. In order to be a good fighter, one must be centered and poised. Donovan’s footwork is sloppy. He relies on his fists too much to guide his movements whereas I use my whole body.
That isn’t going to save me though. He has a fight advantage, but they all do. I have the advantage of thinking with my brain and not a cock. Already it’s obvious that my shorts and sports bra are distracting him. Regardless of the fact that I just punched him in the face, he still sees me as a pair of tits and an ass. Go figure.
I use the opportunity to nail him with a left hook and a right low kick. A wheeze escapes his lungs when my heel connects with his shin, and his face contorts into a murderous rage. The crowd roars around us, shouting and cheering us on. Amongst the din, I can make out Scarlett yelling right along.
“Straight from the chin,” she yells out as I take aim. “You’ve got this Mack!”
So much for keeping a low profile. I block her out and focus on the task at hand. I’m not evenly matched in size and won’t have many opportunities to knock Donovan out. My best work with larger opponents is done on the mat. I’ve taken a liking to Brazilian Jiu Jitsu and Judo for situations exactly like these. When I was fighting in back alleys, my opponents were almost always bigger. It can be intimidating if you don’t know how to handle it. But I consider choke holds one of my specialties. I’m hypermobile and therefore it’s a lot easier for me to maneuver on the mat than most. I need to let Donovan get me on the ground so I can grapple with him.
He throws out a left hook that grazes me in the shoulder as I dodge to the side. It hurts like a bitch, and he can see it on my face. He smiles. I hit him with a quick jab-cross combo to throw him off balance and set him up for the power shot. An elbow uppercut strike to the jaw.
This one really pisses him off. And just as I predicted he charges straight at me and uses his brute strength to slam me on the floor. It knocks the wind out of me and sends my tooth into my lip. I make a big production of it with my facial expression and gasping for breath. The whole shebang.
For a split second, he lets his guard down and gets arrogant, thinking he’s already won. Typical of most men, he assumes that since he’s got me on my back he’s asserted his dominance already. A true fighter would know that’s never the case.
I push my hip out before he has a chance to get his arm out of the way. In a flash, I’ve got his arm locked down and my legs positioned perfectly. I barely have time to relish the disbelief on his face before I execute the perfect triangle choke. My thighs squeeze around his neck while he tries to swing wildly with his other arm.
He manages to clip me in the face, but already his strength is waning from the pressure on his neck. He lifts the left side of my torso and tries to body slam me to get out of it. I arch my back and use one arm to block him as best I can while I hold tight. This is it, the real test of my endurance. Every muscle in my body burns from the energy required for this move.
Donovan’s movements grow weak and sluggish as his blood supply is cut off and his air slowly slips away. I count the seconds in my head and block out everything else around me. Three… four… five… six…
Finally, when I think I can’t possibly hold on another second, he goes limp against my body and Johnny comes over to check. He calls the match. I can barely even move as I crawl out beneath him, but the adrenaline drives me up as I scan the crowd around me. I find his crew and flash them an arrogant grin. Take that you bastards.
A few of them walk in to collect their fallen friend as the crowd filters out of the building. I wipe the blood off my lip and watch them curiously while I wait. I only need one of them to bite. One of them to take an interest in me. It can’t be the Russians. They have multiple factions and way too many members to count. The only way to narrow down my pool of suspects is to go straight to the source. The club where it happened.
They’re all tossing glances my way, but it’s Lachlan that doesn’t take his eyes off me. I can’t tell if he’s pissed off or impressed by the expression on his face. Naturally, he’s going to be suspicious of me. They come to these fights every week, and he’s never seen me here before. He’s got no idea who I am, but I know a few things about him.
Word on the street is that he’s twenty-nine years old. Born and raised in Belfast until he migrated to the states in his teens. Grandson of Carrick Crow, the underboss to Niall MacKenna. He runs Slainte and does God knows what else for the syndicate. The rest is a mystery I’m going to have to unravel myself.
My eyes rove over him, taking in every detail. He has a rounded jaw covered in what I’d guess to be about a week’s worth of scruff. It’s a mixture of coppery brown and just a couple shades lighter than the dark unruly hair that rests atop his head. His eyes are guarded and drawn together and probably the most fascinating feature about him. They harden what would otherwise be a soft and almost boyish face. There’s something almost familiar about them, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. Sadness, perhaps?
It doesn’t seem possible, but it’s hard to tell. At present, they are drifting over my body. It isn’t a blatantly sexual glance, not at all. In fact, I can’t get a read on his thoughts, which is unusual for me. This man is growing more mysterious by the second.
He stands like a fighter. I can tell by the way he carries himself, but I’ve never seen him fight here. His frame is jacked. Lean, strong, and solid. His hands are calloused in a way that can only come from boxing.
He clears his throat, and my eyes shoot up and lock onto his.
A dark energy crackles to life between us as I stare into those savage irises. They swirl with an intoxicating and vivid array of colors I can’t drag myself away from. I’d swear they were gray, but the next moment they seem to change to blue and then back again. They are both stark and beautiful in a way I didn’t expect. The windows to his otherwise cold exterior.
Violence. Lust. Confliction. Pain.
I draw in a breath and try to convince myself that the bombastic beat of my heart is from the fight alone. The thrill of knowing how close I am to getting my in. I think.
He still hasn’t spoken. But he will. And when he opens his mouth, I have no doubt he’ll still have an accent.
I don’t encourage him. Instead, I unbraid my hair and run shaky fingers through it. This little war of wills is unexpected. I bet a man like him is accustomed to women falling all over him. There are a few, waiting in the wings, hoping that he’ll notice them. But they haven’t dared to approach him. I guess I’m not the only one who’s heard about his reputation.
As I’m considering it, I catch a glimpse of Donovan charging at me from the corner of my eye. He snarls as he lunges towards me, a need for destruction in his blood.
I dodge back and prepare to hold my ground, but it isn’t even necessary. Lachlan swoops into action and slams his body into Donovan’s side, spinning him around and yanking his arm into a locked position behind his back. It only confirms my earlier suspicion about him being a fighter. Judging by his speed and agility, he’s a natural.
He leans in close and whispers something into Donovan’s ear. Donovan doesn’t take his murderous eyes off me, but whatever Lachlan said has snapped him back to reality. He reluctantly backs down and mutters something under his breath before walking away. It seems like it’s over, but in the back of my mind, I worry that I may have to contend with him later. He doesn’t look like the type who takes being defeated by a woman too easily.
After a conversation with his men that takes place out of earshot, Lachlan stalks over to me, the same dark expression on his face. It pains me to admit it, but he is handsome. He’s also more reserved than I expected. A calm façade to accompany his quiet broodiness. It’s a complete contradiction to the killer I know he is.
He pauses at the concrete pillar across from me, maintaining his distance and keeping his expression neutral.
<
br /> “Sorry about Donny,” he says. “He can be a bit of a tool.”
Just as I predicted, there’s still an accent. I totally underestimated the charm factor there. It’s rare that I find myself tripping over words, but that’s exactly what I’m doing right now. Still, I school my features and try to look unflappable. I need to focus on the Russian, I remind myself.
“No biggie.”
“Is it not generally an unwritten rule for women to fight in these things?” he asks.
“Well…” I flash him a cocky grin. “Lucky for me I don’t play by the rules.”
I expect him to throw me a bone. A smile. A twitch. Something. But I get nothing.
“Ye defeated one of my best fighters tonight.”
I can’t tell if he means it as a compliment or not, but I take it as one. “Thanks.”
Lachlan remains steadfast in his indifference, and I don’t really know how to shake him of it. I need to play my hand carefully here.
“I don’t recall seeing you around here before, butterfly.”
The way he emphasizes my fighting name sounds like a threat all in itself. I hate to admit it, but this guy is a little more intimidating than I want to give him credit for.
I blink up at him, formulating a plan. I’m going to play up the fragile little woman card in hopes it’ll soften him towards me when I pop back up later. I doubt he has any heartstrings to pull, but it can’t hurt to try.
“I only fight when I need the money.”
Lachlan narrows his eyes, and I know he isn’t buying it. He taps his fingers against his thigh, and for a brief moment, I almost wonder if he’s nervous. But then I notice his eyes darting to some men across the room. I turn and my face sours on visual impact. The frigging Russians. They’re eyeing me off, but one of them in particular is looking right at Lachlan.
I flash them a sweet smile and wave. I hate them. I hate them all.
When I turn back to Lachlan, he seems agitated, but it dissipates quickly.
