Page 53 of Off Balance

"I didn't know what to do, and Dwayne always?—"

"What you do is let me handle it!" he yells, throwing his arms up in the air.

"And exactly how are you handling it?! By letting him off the hook? By letting him prance you around and tell you what to do? What kind of man lets his boyfriend be treated like that and then just leaves him there?"

"My relationship is none of your business!"

But I'm not hearing it. There's pressure building inside me, crowding in with all the stress and weird feelings and worry over someone who clearly has zero self-preservation skills.

"No. I want to hear how you're handling it.By letting him fuck you? Humiliate you? Degrade you? Is that what you're into, Cam?"

"Stop!"

The sting of his palm over my cheek hurts more than any blow I've ever taken. Not physically. It’s something else. This hurts on a deeper level.

"How fucking dare you?" he says, eyes welling with tears.

My fingers touch the buzzing skin where his hand just was, and then my chest, where the pain radiated to. My shoulders slump.

This time when I speak, it's softer. "Why do you let him hurt you?"

"I…" he hesitates. "I don't know."

"You deserve?—"

"You don't know anything about what I deserve, Dom."

"You deserve a lot of things. But more than anything, you deserve respect. From yourself most of all." I continue. "You deserve better than this."

I toss a flash drive at him and walk away.

The seedy bar hasn't changed since I was young and still new on the scene. I never fought here myself. My dad was too concerned with keeping my nose clean, but I snuck in to see him fight a few times. It was a good way to walk away with a pocket full of cash back in those days, and my dad used it as supplemental income. There was more than one night he'd come home empty-handed and with more than his fair share of bruises, but he always laughed it off and said that losing one now and then kept it interesting, and he'd always make more on the next fight he won.

I don't know what I'm doing here, other than I have too much frustrated energy to work out than a punching bag can take.

When I approach the bar and the bartender asks what he can make me, I shake my head and cast a furtive glance at the stairs that lead downstairs. That's where the fights used to be held, but that was years ago, and I can't be sure if they're still running them. The bartender looks me up and down before giving me a clipped nod. He hands me a bottle of water with a black X drawn on the bottom and indicates that's how I'll get in. Back in the day it was something similar, so I'm not too surprised.

The bouncer at the bottom of the stairs barely looks at my "credentials," knowing just by looking at me what I'm here for. He opens the door for me, and I walk into a dimly lit basement. Patrons are circled around a clearing in the middle of the floor, where the sounds of bare knuckles meeting flesh can be heard all the way over to where I'm standing. An older woman sitting behind a bar that runs the length of the room beckons me over.

"You fighting or watching?"

"Fighting," I answer, hoping I sound more sure of myself than I feel.

She gives me a calculating look, and then charges me fifty bucks to participate. After she points out who to give my pass to so I can get on the list to fight, I turn to face my fate.

I'm man enough to admit that I've had it pretty good. Fighting isn't the easiest way to make a living, but for the most part, every fight I've ever been in has been sanctioned, with referees and medics on standby. This is different. These fights are ruthless, no holds barred, and there are very few, if any, rules. The so-called ref is the same guy that matches up the fights and takes the bets, and if he's anything like the guy that took bets when my father fought here, he's as slimy as they come.

I'm not here to win money, though. I'm here to throw hard punches and dodge blows that would otherwise get a fighter banned from the ring. I'm here to condition myself for the level of ruthlessness I'm expecting from Bo "The Red Rebel" Hoyt.

I'm here to forget about green eyes and long limbs and the look of disappointment he seems permanently saddled with.

My first fight is sad. Almost comical, even. I feel bad for the guy when my first punch of the night sends him straight tothe ground. The room of spectators is hushed for several long moments while I look up at the fight master. A grin breaks out across his yellowed teeth, and he calls for the floor to be cleared. A couple guys step forward to drag the unconscious body away from the floor in front of me, and then a number is called out.

The moment I stepped into the crowd of people and saw the behemoth that is now stepping into the circle, I had a feeling I'd be pitted up against him. I was actually surprised when the other guy was called in with me, but he was closer to my size. This man is only a couple inches taller than me, but easily has a hundred pounds on me. He's not as built as I am, but the gut he's sporting looks solid, and I have a feeling he doesn't lose often.

Lo and behold, he's announced as their undefeated champion, making a big deal out of asking if I'm sure I want to go forward. I could collect my measly earnings from my easy win and walk out now. Or I can face the beast of a man staring at me like I'm the one that made him so ugly.

I shake my head at the game master and give Ogre an up nod. Bring it, buddy.

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