Sick Heart: A Dark MMA Fighter Romance

I didn’t exactly agree to the interview. Udulf insisted. But I’m trying not to make waves here, since pretty much everything is on the line, so I don’t kill her outright when she saunters up to me, sticks her microphone in my face, and tells her cameraman to roll film. “Tell me, Sick Heart. Did you ever think you’d be back in the ring after that disastrous last fight?”

“Disastrous?” She is enthralled by my voice, I can tell. She’s never heard it. No one outside of my camp, and Udulf, of course, has ever heard it. Because I have never given an interview. Maart was always there to do my talking. And now he’s not.

“I’m still here,” I say, unable to hide the annoyance in my voice. “So I would not call it disastrous.”

“Some say the only reason you won is because Anya Bokori helped you. Some even say she is the rightful winner of that fight.”

I just blink at this woman. She is too old for that revealing red dress and heavy makeup. And if I were to touch her hair, it would be stiff and sticky from all the product. She is a shadow of the beautiful woman she was twenty years ago and I feel sorry for her. She was probably a whore. A very alluring one, for sure, but I can see the slave girl in her eyes. I can hear her history playing on repeat in her head. She probably started her life much like Anya did—a cherished toy as a child, a young girl just a little too pretty to throw away at the proper time, a woman to be used out in the wider world, and finally, when no one quite knew what to do with her, a reporter.

It’s not her fault she ended up here. She was born into this. She doesn’t even know better. But she is a grown woman. So she should know better.

“Anya Bokori’s name wasn’t on the playbill,” I say. “She didn’t give an interview for the Ring of Fire magazine.”

“Neither did you.”

She’s got a point there. “And yet you pulled one together. Anya Bokori is a simple, stupid girl who managed to stay alive longer than most. But her time is up.”

“Why do you say that?”

I’m tired of this woman, so I narrow my eyes at her. “Or maybe I’m wrong. Maybe your time is up.” I look her up and down in a demeaning way, then find her eyes again. “I mean… you’re getting a little old for this gig, don’t you think? Maybe Anya Bokori wants your job? The future belongs to the young, isn’t that what they say? And your youthful days are definitely over.”

She huffs, then lowers her microphone, motions for the cameraman to stop rolling with a slicing motion across her throat, and says, “You’re a dick, you know that? No wonder they don’t let you talk. Good luck today.” She looks me up and down the same way I did her. “You’re gonna need it.”

She’s not wrong. I am going to need it. I haven’t been training the way Maart has. I am not in shape. There is no way I could beat Maart in a fight today and my mind is swirling with anxiety about Ainsey.

What are they doing with her? Who has been taking care of her? Will they bring her today? Will they make her watch?

I think Rainer is taking care of her. I think they will bring her today. And I am positive they want her to watch me die. They want her to see it, be traumatized by it, learn from it. That’s how they get us when we’re young. It took me longer than I’m proud of to realize that, but it’s not my fault. It’s easy to deceive children. Way too easy.

I don’t think they’re doing anything to Ainsey. Yet. But if Lazar takes her home—and he will, if I can’t stop him—then my little girl’s life will end soon, and it won’t be quick. He will go slow. He likes to go slow.

The rage building up inside me is so thick, I almost can’t contain it. But the loud sound of a bus rumbles through camp. And when I walk over to the edge of the porch, I catch a glimpse of the front end through the trees.

The invited guests are already here. This is not a sanctioned Ring of Fire fight, so that guest list was fairly small. Only the other owners were invited, and that number is exactly nine, plus Udulf and Lazar, and the mercs, doubling today as drivers since Udulf wants to keep this little party as elite as possible.

Ego man, it never fails.

So they have a grand total of thirty. Plus the reporter and her cameraman, that’s thirty-two. But I’m not sure they really count.