Because Shayna was his.
Except, because he was a total fuckhead, she wasn’t. And, really, he hadn’t even fought for her, had he? He’d taken too long to get his damn head together and been too late. So every bit of the shit sandwich that was his life right now was on him.
And hell if the guilt over surviving when others hadn’t wasn’t beating his ass a little harder as a result.
Which was maybe why Billy ended up in front of an old warehouse in Upper Northeast. One he hadn’t been to in a long string of months. One he’d convinced himself he wouldn’t need to come to again.
Warrior Fight Club hadn’t taken the edge off the way he’d needed it to. And the idea of turning to one of his former lays to try to find some release was a total non-starter now that his heart had set its sights on Shayna.
All of which left him one option—the underground fight club ring another Army buddy had first invited him to more than a year ago.
The guy had come out for WFC but been frustrated that it hadn’t been more about fighting. A few weeks later, he’d found what he’d dubbed “the real thing” and sent Billy the information in case he was interested, too.
Billy’s curiosity had been piqued.
Especially once he found that getting pounded on helped to quiet the accusing voices in his own head. Not that he couldn’t give as good as he got. But here, the guys didn’t fight by the rules of any particular style of martial arts or and they didn’t fight fair. And back then his recovery hadn’t been quite far enough along to give him the physical edge that he’d since gained. Thanks to Warrior Fight Club, which had provided enough release and solace for him that he’d stopped coming here.
Until tonight.
Billy pushed out of the car. He needed the fucking voices to shut the hell up. He went to the door around the corner in the shadows and knocked.
A metal plate slid to the side, revealing a pair of dark eyes that immediately went wide in recognition. The door swung open and a giant mountain of a man filled the breach.
“Billy Parrish, what the fuck are you doing here?” Abe said. Billy only knew him by his first name. They clasped hands.
“Same thing everyone does here,” Billy said. “I’m here to fight.”
“Well, come on in then.”
Billy nodded and went in the direction of the voices, not that he needed that clue since he’d been there before. At the back of the warehouse, he founded a set of stairs down and followed them to a basement level. Twenty men stood around, some already shirtless and shoeless. Others were heading in that direction.
His friend wasn’t there, though. Billy was glad.
And didn’t that tell him a whole helluva lot about what he thought down deep about being here. He didn’t want anyone from his real life to know. Because talk about fucking reckless. He knew it was. But he also knew it’d been effective before at releasing the pressure valve in his head.
Right now, the benefit outweighed the risks.
Billy kicked off his boots and stripped off his T-shirt. Earlier, he’d worn his compression vest under his tee at WFC to protect a back already achy from all the hours of sitting. But that wasn’t allowed here. He felt the eyes on his ruined skin before he saw them. And he met the gazes of every goddamn man.
Go ahead and underestimate me, assholes.
He grinned and a lucky-if-he-was-eighteen-year-old nearly scampered away.
By the time Billy was called out to fight, four pairs had already gone at it and he was nearly itching to get this over with.
And then he was in the ring with a twenty-something guy with a lot of ink and even more attitude. Sneering, the man came at him.
His defensive instincts kicked in and Billy dodged and caught the man with a hard back elbow strike into his kidney. His opponent careened into the circle of onlookers around them, who helpfully shoved him back into the center.
Billy could’ve probably taken the motherfucker out with a few well-placed jabs to his vulnerable rib cage, but winning wasn’t what he was here for. He let the guy get squared off again. He even let the guy gain a little confidence by not dodging some easily avoidable hits.
But in the end, the asshole was all powerless, unfocused bluster, and it was pissing Billy off because it wasn’t giving him what he needed.
So he finished him with a combination of hooks and uppercuts until the guy was laid out on the floor and yelling, “Stop!”
Which brought Billy another opponent.
A much more promising one. A little taller and bulkier than Billy, and with an air about him that was entirely unrushed and relaxed. The guy wasn’t arrogant and didn’t gloat, both of which were often hallmarks of someone whose confidence was backed up by actual skill.