Strike (Sphere of Irony 2)

CHAPTER 1

Dax

I was eight years old when I broke my first bone. My older brother is the one who did it, while my father watched, criticizing my fight stance as it snapped.

If you’re male and born in the Davies household, you have one and only one job—to fight. My parents have four boys, which means most of our childhood was spent beating the absolute shite out of each other. As the youngest, and for a long time, the smallest brother, I’ve had so many fractured bones I’m not sure if there are any left that haven’t been cracked at least once.

“C’mon lad, you’re up.”

Out of the corner of my eye I see my dad poke his head into the tiny locker room of his underground fight club, his bushy eyebrows raised as he waits for my response. The strong scent of antiseptic stings my nostrils when I take a few deep, calming breaths.

“I’ll be out in a second.”

He glares at me. “Don’t make me come back in here, Dax. There’s a big crowd and a lot of money riding on you tonight. Plus,” his angry face breaks into a grin. “I got a nice reward for ya afterwards, aye?”

Fuck calm.

A blaze of heat rushes up my chest and neck. “I said I’d be out in a second!” I’m not sure exactly who it is I’m yelling at as my dad is long gone, the doorway he was standing in is empty.

I can’t help my short temper. My dad wants me this way, molded me to be this way, the same he did my three older brothers. Pent up frustration leads to domination in the ring, and my dad is an expert at making you frustrated. He dictates everything—what I eat, who I fight, he even has a system for when I can get laid.

The rules.

I’m so fucking tired of being told what to do. I ache for the day that I can be in charge—dictate, and be as bossy of a prick as I want.

A loud roar surrounds me as I make my way to the ring. The energy seeps into me, my body itching for some kind of release—physical release—whether sexual or not, I need relief.

Heavy hands slap my shoulders and back, sharp voices wish me luck or yell at me to fuck up and lose so they can collect their fifty quid. I stretch my neck from side to side, hopping on my toes once I hit the small set of stairs that leads into the cage. I’m ready and all too willing to set the beast inside me free.

My opponent tonight is hideous. Not just any kind of ugly, mind you. He’s a right minger. Ewan Blair—eighteen, black hair, black beady eyes, acne scars all over—and the meanest bastard I’ve ever met.

“Ya ready for me to pound yer arse into the floor, Davies?”

The dull roar of the crowd fades into the background as I calmly stare at Ewan and his big, bloated face, following dad’s rules to the letter. Even if you’re bleeding from every orifice and your kidney is falling out, if you’re angrier than a bull with a red flag in it’s face, you keep yourself under control, never let your emotions show. It’s part of the rules.

Rule 1—Family first.

Without saying a word, I stare at Ewan’s hideous face. My brother, Liam, puts in my mouth guard and leans close, his massive arm coming round my neck. “Nasty prick is weak on his left. He never remembers to keep his chin down when he throws a right uppercut.” I already know this, but reviewing your enemy’s flaws is part of the ritual dad beat into our skulls. Literally.

I nod and shrug Liam off, more than ready to get this fight going. I feel like I might explode I’m wound so tight. The ref for tonight is one of dad’s regulars, Tommy MacGregor. He’s an okay bloke, fair enough, lets the fighters have a go without interfering too much. Plus, he’s a Scot, which holds more weight than anything else in dad’s eyes.

Tommy raises his hands in the air, motioning us forward. “Fighters to the center!”

Ewan and I walk towards each other, converging in the middle. My training takes over, as natural to me as breathing. I’m thinking about that reward. Like one of Pavlov’s dogs, my cock is already anticipating it, twitching in my shorts.

I never break eye contact with my opponent, studying, intimidating, showing him I’ll never back down. Tommy’s voice booms over the sound system and I simply stare when Ewan frowns. The noisy crowd falls silent as he announces the match.

“Tonight you’re in for a great show. We have two former youth champions meeting up as adult fighters for the first time.”

Loud hoots and hollers bounce throughout the open space of the warehouse that holds the fight club. Tommy thrusts a finger at Ewan.

“In the black corner, we have our challenger, last year’s welterweight under eighteen London Underground champion, at six foot even, weighing eighty-eight and a half kilos or one-hundred ninety-five pounds, Ewan Blaaaaair!”

Ewan does a three-sixty spin for the crowd, holding up his hands and air-punching as he goes round. What a tosser. The idiots in the audience eat it up, going wild

for Blair. Dad told me the betting was especially heavy tonight, with me only getting a slight edge in the odds. Ewan and I have never fought before because until recently, I hadn’t been in his weight class—that plus I used to fight without the thin, fingerless gloves I’m currently wearing.

Tommy turns from Ewan to point at me, once again doing a bang up job of whipping the crowd into a frenzy.

“Aaaaand in the red corner, standing six foot three inches, weighing in at ninety kilos or two-hundred pounds, we have last year’s London Underground seventeen and under bare-knuckle boxing champ, Dax Daaaaaavies!”

Wild shouts come from all sides of the warehouse. The men (and quite a few women) who bet on me call out their cheers of approval. Mingled in are a few boos and hisses, but I could care less. I’m going to shred this prick and I’m going to do it quickly. Yep, I’m a fucking cocky bastard, but I’ve earned every bit of it.

We step to the center, tap gloves, and it’s on.