I swallow hard at the memory of her breasts. No, definitely not a kid. Why did I think it would be a good idea to show her my scars? I wanted to put her at ease, and it worked when we were kids.
Right. See again point one. We aren’t kids anymore. Fuck, the devastated look on her face... The horror. I can’t stand it.
So okay, I lied. I do think scars are ugly. Mine are. Not hers. My scars are a mark of my inability to fight back, to win the fight between me and my dad. My weakness. My failure. I hate them. I never show them to anyone.
But Audrey isn’t just anyone, a little voice in my mind throws my words back at me, mocking me.
Yeah, but it doesn’t matter. Now she won’t look at me again like she did before my act of idiocy—with desire; with need.
All that’s left is horror. Pity. Revulsion.
I walk faster, jamming my hands in my pant pockets. God, she’s so pretty. Her face, her eyes, the freckles on her nose—and her body... Christ, her breasts! Full and fitting perfectly in my hands. They drive me crazy.
Stop thinking about her.
The town seems empty. Everyone is at home with family, celebrating.
Dammit, that sort of happiness isn’t meant for me. I can scarcely remember what it’s like. I felt so good for a while back there, in her apartment, in her arms, that I forgot this little fact.
Hell, I’d give anything to stay with her, be with her—not just today but every day.
Audrey doesn’t hate me. She said that. Can I believe it? And she kissed me back, this time I’m sure of it. The girl wants me. But would she hate herself come tomorrow if she made out with me? Today she might be lonely—but tomorrow with her friends at college, would she still look at me that way?
And when she finds out about my plans for the future...
Screw this. Better nail this day in my memory for future reference with a step forward—a step toward my new life.
I cut through the quiet neighborhood toward downtown. Festive multicolored lights flash in the shop fronts. The Bulldog, the illegal fight club, is tucked in the basement of a run-down block of offices. A rusty sign sighs with the icy breeze. Dirty steps lead down to a massive metal door.
Nobody answers for a long while, long enough that I think about leaving. Maybe they closed for Christmas?
Then a lock unlatches and the door swings open. “Yes?”
I try to see who’s behind but there’s only darkness. Damn creepy. “I’m here to see Marty,” I say, nerves making my hands shake. “Name’s Asher.”
“Marty ain’t in today. He’s with family. No business on Christmas day. Come back tomorrow.”
Marty has a family. Huh. Who’d have thought? Even in this world of thugs and death dealers, I’m an oddity. “All right.”
“Who’s that?” another male voice asks from inside, and a pair of eyes glint in the opening.
“He says name’s Asher.”
“Asher?”
I nod, not sure what this is about.
“And you’re here because you wanna fight, is that right?”
“Yeah.”
“You look way too young for this.”
“I’m twenty-one,” I lie. “I’ve fought here before. Marty knows me.”
“This isn’t a place to fuck around, boy. Here’s the big fish. Men wanna see blood and a real fight.”
“Got it.” My heart is in my throat. “I can do this.”