Page 214 of American Hellhound
The old familiar feeling of victory filled him – a preemptory sense, one that had come to him before every sparring match of his life. He’d never fought for money, no, in shiny shorts and with name-brand gloves, but he’d won every bought with every opponent he’d ever faced. He didn’t need the fame: winning was his drug of choice. And he was going to win now; he couldtasteit.
“Mouth-guards, boys?” Mercy asked, just to be a shit. “Don’t wanna mess up those pretty teeth.”
“Fuck off,” Ghost told him, and he laughed.
“Alright, then. Let me get out of the way before I get caught in the middle.”
“Mercy,shut up.”
More laughter.
Ghost tuned it out. Tuned out everything except Roman across from him, looking a little more fifty-three than Ghost did. He was still trim-waisted, still had strong arms, but he wasn’t fight-ready. Not like Ghost was.
He seemed to know it, too, flickers of doubt beneath the rage in his eyes.
“Last chance to apologize,” Ghost said.
Roman spat on the ground.
Okay then.
“Gentlemen,” Candy said theatrically. “Begin!”
A whoop went up from the crowd.
Ghost settled into his stance, taped knuckles held up in front of his face, light on his feet and ready for action. And waited.
Opposite, Roman was boiling with energy…some of it alcohol-fueled. “Seriously?” he hissed. “What an asshole.” He began a slow pace, foot over foot, circling. Ghost moved with him and he said, “Come on!”
On the next pass, Ghost side-stepped in closer, closer.
Roman blocked, anticipating a punch that wasn’t there, then flinched away, cursing himself.
It was the flinch, hands up high by his head, that gave Ghost the chance to deliver a strong right to the guy’s solar plexus.
The air went out of Roman’s lungs with a startledoofand he doubled forward, punching out of reaction and not strategy.
It wouldn’t last long now, Ghost thought. But the impact had angered Roman, and he regathered himself and went on the offense. Ghost danced and parried…and grinned.Nowthey were fighting.
Fresh from weeks of cardio and hitting the bag, his body slid into the old routine like a hand into a well-worn glove. Block, parry, strike, connect. Again. Again. Dance, slide, advance. It was muscle memory, instinct, and training, the rational part of his brain lost to the analytics. Shouts, cheers, and gasps went up around them, but Ghost couldn’t see any faces, couldn’t focus on anything except Roman across from him, wild-eyed. Gasping. Blood on his mouth. Blood on Ghost’s knuckles, warm and wet on his fingertips.
Roman.Fucking Roman. Always wanting to be loved, wanting to be royal, but never wanting to work to get that way. Slinking around in the dark, making under-the-table deals that crossed and double-crossed the people he’d pled loyalty to. Rat. Traitor.Damn him.
Time…slipped. The way it always did when he fought. Became a blur of pain: this time only in his knuckles, because Roman didn’t get a pop in. He fell into a rhythm of punches and parries…more of the former.
And suddenly there were arms around his waist, holding him tight, dragging him backward.
He kicked once, bowed his back, tried to break away.
Mercy’s voice in his ear, “Easy, killer. You’re done, you’re done.” A gentle pat from a giant hand across his stomach. “Switch off, boss.”
And then his vision came back.
Oh.
Roman had slumped to the ground, curled in protectively on himself, hands covering his face. Hands that were bloody; Ghost knew he’d hit his mouth and nose, probably his eyes. Bright pink bruises were already coming up on his ribs.
Ghost drew in a ragged breath and became aware of his own body. He was slick and itchy with sweat, overheated, breathing like a racehorse.
