Niro (Henchmen MC Next Generation 1)

Being the one who had to deal with me on a daily basis, Jax had long since given up telling me to take it easy, to save it for fight nights.

He knew the words fell on unhearing ears, so he saved his voice.

"We're sparring," I said, shrugging as I rolled my neck, feeling a satisfying crack.

"You're intentionally ramming your face into a brick wall over and over," Ross Ward shot back, shaking his head. "At this rate, you're not going to be able to fight this weekend."

"I'll be fighting."

"Not if you break your hands."

"Eh, even then."

"I get it. Your father left a wild legacy, kid. Fighting with broken shit all the time. In his fucking jeans. Smiling through the blood filling his mouth. But you don't have shit to prove."

"Not trying to prove anything."

"Then what—" he started to ask, getting cut off by his son.

"He likes the pain," Jax said, snapping the folder shut as he unfolded from his chair, walking over in his gray slacks and black button-up, his jacket still tossed over the back of his chair.

"Well, how the fuck am I supposed to reason with that?" Ross asked, snorting.

"You don't. You let him do his thing, and pray the medical bills aren't that bad," Jax said, smirking.

The club paid for the stitches, for the knocked-out teeth, for the broken ribs. They couldn't technically give us health coverage, seeing as their club wasn't supposed to even exist, but they could cover the damages.

"Though, last time, he had one of his brothers stitch him together with a fucking sewing needle and some vodka tossed on as an antiseptic, so all things considered, he's been a pretty model fighter."

I remembered that. Finn, my fellow biker brother, the son of the president of our MC, had been pissed that I'd forced him into it. He'd always been a little less into the violence, more into the research, the details, the books, and the brotherhood.

But, in the end, he'd caved, cursing me out the entire time. The younger brother to the future president, he sometimes felt the need to prove himself in little ways, even if it wasn't something in his wheelhouse. Like doing battlefield surgery even though he looked green the whole time, just so he could brag about it over drinks later, get some respect from the others.

My scar was jagged as fuck, but he still complimented his handiwork whenever he got the chance.

"He does bring in the money," Ross admitted, torn between wanting to be a sort of uncle figure to me, given his friendship to my father, and being the owner of a business that profited off of my blood-thirst, off my recklessness.

That said, he knew that my father knew where I was, what I was doing, and had no problems with it. So he really had no leg to stand on to try to step in and put a stop to it.

"And when we pair him with anyone smaller," Jax said to his father, "he hurts them and then they can't fight. So let him ram himself into the brick wall that is Ig," he said, nodding toward Igor Jr., the son of a fighter my father used to fight back in the day, who was sweaty and a little bruised, but otherwise unharmed. "Then he will fight someone his size for the fight."

"Are you still not going to tell me who I am fighting?" I asked, a little annoyed at all the secrecy. I couldn't imagine why it would need to be kept on the down-low. I knew all the fighters. Or, at least, I thought I did. Maybe there was someone new in town.

"Nope," Jax said, getting a sideways look from his father, but ignoring it. "Hard to be so fucking cocky when you don't know if you can win or not, huh?" he asked, smirking.

"I can always win," I told him, shrugging, leaning down to slide my feet back into my boots, then grabbing my leather cut off the mat outside of the cage. "Ig, same time next week?" I asked, looking up at him.

"I got nothing better to do," he agreed, nodding.

"You gonna save room for my brothers?" I asked, looking at Jax. Sometimes the clubhouse parties could get a little redundant. They were always looking for something to do to get out for a little while. And while a cage fight wasn't the best place to meet women, typically, they had a good time, then called up some of the clubwhores to meet us back at the clubhouse.

"What? Like the Fire Marshall is going to come and tell us we're at capacity? It's gonna be a busy night. Tell them to come early if they want good spots. That's the best I can do."

"Right," I agreed, grabbing a bottle of water as I made my way across the floor, pushing through the doors, then heading upstairs.