“Yeah.”
“So your daddy taught you how to fight.” He sneers.
I roll my shoulders. “That’s right.”
“This isn’t formal boxing, boy. It’s ugly and it’s dirty, got it? All tricks allowed.”
I tense up and rotate my arms to unlock them. “Got it.”
Then he springs forward, forcing me back, and the fight is on. He tests me, jabbing at my head, distracting me with a kick to the side of my knee.
Shit. Dirty tricks. Gotcha.
My dad has trained me alright. They have no clue how thoroughly.
Forgetting the rules—like my dad had—I kick and elbow and punch Carl, countering his every move. I send a right hook to his head he barely manages to block and follow through with an uppercut.
He doesn’t hold back, either. He gets through my defenses, landing a punch to my solar plexus, winding me.
My vision blurs; I see my dad’s face. Springing forward, I throw another right hook, followed by a left cross. I throw a flurry of punches, breaking through Carl’s defenses. He falls back, raising his fists to protect his face.
I kick his shin, move closer, throw a right uppercut he blocks, then fall back a step when he breaks his defense to jab at my face.
Then I’m attacking him again, raining punches on him. On my dad. I kick the legs from under him and follow as he goes down. I throw myself on him, grappling with him, pinning him down with my body weight and my left hand, using my right to punch his jaw.
Hands grab me, pulling me back up, and I jerk like a fish on the line. Takes me a moment to realize it’s Johnny, dragging me away from Carl.
“Okay,” he says, turning me to face him. “Good enough. Calm down.”
I draw shuddering breaths, trying to ground myself in the here and now. The cage. The fight club.
Carl, bleeding from a cut under his eye, one side of his face darkening into a giant bruise.
Shit.
Johnny pulls me out the cage door, a massive arm around my aching shoulders. “Boy, were you planning to kill Carl?”
A shiver goes through me. “No.” I’d never kill anyone. But anger got the better of me. I have to get a grip on it.
“Good. I’ll put you on the roster tonight. Just remember not to kill anyone. Okay? The rich guys got a thirst for blood. They want their violence. But no one dies. That would complicate things.”
I nod, still trying to catch my breath. “How much?”
“Payment? Not much, kiddo. A hundred dollars tops, if the betting’s good. You’re a newbie. Payment goes up the more fights and victories you got under your belt.”
Not much, but I have nothing. It’s a start.
***
The club starts filling after nine. My opponent is one Shady Sam, a lean, grim guy with a huge tat covering his back. A winged skull.
I focus on stretching and warming up. We’re to open the evening, being the newbies—though Shady Sam doesn’t look like a newbie to me, at all. New to this scene, perhaps, but I know a seasoned fighter when I see one.
It comes with having been raised by one.
Shady doesn’t acknowledge me as he does his own warm up and his rituals. Every fighter has them, I know, and his are nothing short of a full pagan celebration. He bows and chants and grimaces. All that’s missing are black candles and incense.
I’m done with my warm-up long before he is. My only ritual is to think of Audrey—to regret being here, to long to be with her, then to remember what happened and let it fuel my anger—and then I’m ready.