Page 24 of Reckless
A will to live.
“… three silvers Slick will win. The bastard’s undefeated.”
The rumbling voice distracts me from my spiraling thoughts. Boredom and curiosity mingle to create a dangerous concoction of intrigue that has me leaning against an alley wall, intent on eavesdropping.
Another man scoffs, his accent thick. “Undefeated, eh? Maybe ’cause the mate’s only fought ’n three matches. Lucky bastard is what he is.”
“You bettin’ on a rookie then, aye?” The first man leers.
“I’ll decide when I see ’em.” He laughs then, a gruff sound I doubthe makes often. “Maybe I’ll get in the ring. Show ’em how it’s done, eh?”
Rough laughter drifts down the alley as I casually step away from the wall to stroll at a safe distance behind them. Every bit of me itches for excitement, for something to occupy me other than my troubling thoughts.
And where there are bets, there is money to be won.
And where there is money to be won, there is money to be stolen.
An elbow sinks into my stomach, sucking the air from my lungs.
I push through the crowd, trying my best not to drown in the sea of sweaty bodies. Shouts and sneers ripple through the cellar, all directed at the caged violence on display, though I can hardly see it.
I’m being suffocated by sticky bodies, forced to peek through slivers of space in the wall of shoulders. Annoyed, I whip my head around, nearly smacking it into the one directly behind me. I’ve already lost the two men I followed down here after copying the sequence of knocks they wrapped on the hidden door. I drum the pattern on my leg, engraining it in my memory even as I attempt to weave through the crowd.
I recognize the sound of fists finding flesh, though I’m far more interested in the pockets of those I’m wedged between. I attempt a subtle swipe of my hand toward the body beside me, only to be shoved from the back by a bellowing man.
I blow out a breath, feeling people pressed against me.
How am I supposed to steal if I can barely move my arms?
My fingers curl into a fist at my side while I fight the urge to throw it at someone.
I blink, eyes flying toward the cage and bloody brawl within.
I can get paid to throw a punch if it’s in there.
An entirely new, foolish plan begins to form as I attempt to push through the crowd once again. I’m greeted with more elbows to the stomach and shoulders to the face that I ignore in my search of whoever runs this illegal fighting ring.
The fight finishes in a final bloody blow by the time I stumble to the front. Curses and cheers echo through the cellar, everyone’s mood suddenly dependent on who they did or didn’t bet on.
“Betting tickets! You lot know the drill. Bring up your betting tickets and we’ll get your cut sorted out!”
I follow the crudely formed line leading to a rickety table beside the cage. A strand of silver hair threatens to slip from beneath my scarf, and I quickly tuck it back with the rest as I strain to see the man exchanging tickets for coins.
His slicked ponytail shines in the dim light he stands beneath, his back bent over a mound of tickets. He wastes no time plonking the appropriate number of coins into each hand, barely bothering to glance at the person before him.
“Your ticket?”
I blink at his outstretched hand, stunned by how quickly I’m suddenly standing before him. “No, sorry, I actually wanted to talk to you about fighting in the ring.”
“No ticket,” he sighs without looking up at me, “no talking.”
I shake my head, stepping closer until my hips meet the edge of the table. “But—”
“Next!”
His shout has a woman stepping beside me without a second thought. After being shoved aside when she hands over her ticket, I plant my feet at the end of the table.
“Let me fight.”
