Strike (Sphere of Irony 2)

I punch my pillow miserably. My day has officially begun.

“You need help?”

My brother Liam ignores me, choosing to stretch his own muscles instead of answer as he readies for his fight.

“Fine,” I snap, using Liam as an outlet for my irritation. “I don’t give a rat’s arse if you’re tight and pull every muscle in your body!”

Liam doesn’t fight often. He’s not weak by any means. He honestly just doesn’t care enough to win, which makes our dad mental. The intense, burning fountain of rage and testosterone that the rest of us feel before a match doesn’t seem to extend to this particular Davies. Somehow, Liam maintains an even, Zen-like attitude no matter how much our dad berates him or how hard he works him. He doesn’t have to hide his emotions like the rest of us do.

“Will you shut yer hole, Dax?” Shaun’s huge form barges into the tiny locker room, all puffed up and set to defend his less aggressive twin brother.

“Fuck off,” I say lightly. Shaun glares at me, but his lips twitch just enough that I know he’s amused not angry. Thank god, because fighting Shaun is a nightmare. He’s ruthless.

Shaun turns his attention to Liam. People say they can’t tell them apart, being identical twins and all, but for me it’s easy. Maybe it’s the way Liam’s eyes shine with compassion and warmth while Shaun’s are hard and cold. Hell, I’m Shaun’s little brother and the teeny tiny smirk he just gave me is about as much of a laugh as I’ve ever seen on his face. Polar fucking opposites, those two.

They put their heads together, nodding and whispering and doing that strange twin thing they have with each other. Now I feel like an intruder. I have to get out of here. “I’ll be out by the cage,” I growl as I leave the suddenly stifling room.

Liam and Shaun have each other. Ethan is never around anymore and with him being the oldest, I was always just the annoying kid brother. Dad only cares about the club and mum is too busy taking care of and feeding five huge, hungry men to worry about me.

I live in a crowded fucking flat with five other people and I feel completely alone. Really, the only attention I get is when I’m fighting or when I get my reward. Right now, I live for those fucking rewards. It’s the only human contact I get that doesn’t involve punching, and the only time in my life when I have some sort of semblance of control.

After Liam’s fight, I trudge down the dark streets towards my flat. By the time I’m nearly home, I feel guilty. I probably should have gone out to celebrate Liam’s win with the rest of my family. This particular match was such a big deal even my mum went with them to the local pub.

Rule 1—Family first.

Whatever. So I broke a rule. I’m the youngest, the defiant one, the one they always expect will go left when they say go right. I’m sure no one thought I’d turn up anyway. I told them I’d meet them out at the pub and came home instead. Any punishment dad comes up with won’t break me. I’m used to his methods by now. Yet those sodding rules still gnaw at me like Catholic guilt, popping into my thoughts every time I do something that doesn’t follow their restrictive instructions.

As I approach my crumbling old building, I see the dark shadow of a person sitting near the graffiti-covered entrance. No matter how good I am with my fists—and I’m good—I’m still wary of getting into a street fight with a bloke on the piss or a nutter who went off his meds. When I get close I have my hands clenched and ready for whatever comes next.

A low moan breaks the silence and the figure turns his head towards the dim streetlight.

“Adam?”

Fuck! I sprint the remaining distance, dropping to the cold ground next to my best friend. My heart seems to clog up my throat, making it difficult to breathe. Something is very wrong.

“What happened? Are you hurt?”

Adam wheezes, wincing from the effort, but doesn’t answer. Gravel digs into my knees as I check him for injuries, but I ignore the sharp pain. All I can see are a few scrapes on his face, some worse than others. It’s not nearly enough to have him looking this pale or to render him practically unconscious.

“Adam!” I lightly shake his shoulders.

Still no answer. Adam’s hazel eyes are glassy, unfocused. Panicking, I yank up his thin jumper, exposing his undershirt to the cold air. My mouth dries up and I let out a gasp, bending over in pain as if I were punched in the gut.

Holy fuck!

It’s dark out, so the shiny, dripping wetness on his white shirt looks black. But it’s not. It’s blood. Loads of it. So much so that I can smell the metallic tang in the crisp January air.

“Adam! I need to get you to hospital.”

I reach down to help him up, shoving one arm under his arms from the back and the other in front. I’m easily able to hoist him to his feet. Miraculously, he doesn’t collapse even though I’m supporting most of his weight.

Adam whispers in my ear, so soft it’s just a faint rasp.

“Come again?”

I can hardly hear him, but his words are clear. “No. Hospital. Danny.”

His own brother? Bastard!