Break Me

There is no octagon tonight, no ring, just a chalk line drawn on a cracked concrete floor. The crowd is sparse, and this isn’t one of the usual locations. This wasn’t arranged by the usual connections. Tonight is a risk and a gamble. Now that I’m in it, I’m beginning to wonder if this was a mistake.

I try to shut down my mind. I try to zone in. I need to get fight ready.

Instead, I think of Missy. I think of her message after lunch telling me she’s going to find her way to Caldwell since I found my way to lunch with his wife. There was a time when her games with Jagger would work me up, but knowing what he has waiting for him at home, I know he’s not giving that up for Missy.

I made a decision today. Missy and I are over. Tatiana was right; this is a toxic relationship for us both. I am not the man I want to be with her. I will never be a good man, but I can’t continue risking her pushing my buttons.

My blood pumps harder as I let my adrenaline build. Mixed thoughts about my future only fuel my need to beat the shit out of someone. Tonight’s fight isn’t full of the usual onlookers. It doesn’t have any fluff or fanfare. There is no announcer. There are no gloves, no tape, no headgear, and no protection of any kind.

Tonight is a street fight, winner takes all. No rules, no referee, just one man left standing to take home the money. There aren’t rounds to take breaks and regroup. This is nonstop until it is done.

It’s a bare-knuckles brawl with only Brock at my back.

It’s not about the money for me; it’s not about a title. Fighting for me is conquering and controlling. When I go round for round and pound for pound, it’s about being in control of the physical punishments, both given and taken. It’s conquering my opponent and conquering my past.

Every win is a win I never had as a child.

The mindset of a fucked-up boy grown into a fucked-up man. Break the cycle or break some noses . . . I’m better at the latter and wish I had been able to do the first.

My opponent stands in front of me—Chainz—all six foot six of him. The man is a beast. His olive skin shines in the firelight. He’s lubed up, the smart fucker. I didn’t, and this gives him the advantage. The tattoo of a chain winding up and down his right arm goes over his shoulder and wraps down his back and across his torso, going down his leg and ending at the top of his left foot.

Rumor has it, when he gets you in a lock, the grip is like he’s wrapped a chain around you and is slowly pulling every bit of energy and life out of you.

Well, motherfucker, I’m Cobra, known for my quick strike and ability to move with speed. I have the movements to mesmerize and hypnotize like a snake dancing to a fife. He’s going to have to catch me to wrap me in his chains.

The sideline’s coordinator nods to me, nods to Chainz, and then we nod to each other. Then the cowbell rings.

We dance around each other. He’s measuring me up as I do the same to him. I strike first, a jab with contact, and his head snaps back from the impact. He shakes it off as blood immediately pours from his nose. Then he glares at me as I glare right the fuck back.

I have no fear. I have nothing to lose on this cement tonight or any other night—except my need to come out on top. I will not let myself down.

We dance around each other again. He swings with a hook, and I move, making him miss. Dropping in, I take him out at the knees. He falls back and goes down hard. We grapple, and I come out on top of him. Swing left, swing right, then I pound away.

My knuckles burn as my skin splits again from this morning. Pain shoots up my arms with each blow. I don’t stop. I’m relentless.

“Cobra!” I hear Brock yell. “Drop!”

I can’t react. A blunt object comes down on my head, and I am knocked off my man. The next blow comes down on my ribs. I can’t breathe as the hits keep coming.

I hear Brock vaguely yelling. I hear the popping of gunshots, and then everything is silent.

The steady beeping of the machines, the bright lights . . . Things went bad. That’s all I can gather.

I open my eyes again when I feel small fingertips on my wrist. What happened with the shots? Who hit me?

Inhaling, I’m in agony. Every breath feels like my chest is one size too small for my lungs. There’s too much pressure, too much pain. I want to crawl back into the darkness.