Page 6 of Bound by Desire
This is exactly what I was talking about earlier. Now that the real fight is over, the attendees are ready for more blood, and they don’t give a shit whoseitis.
This is morelikeit.
Moving quickly between them, I slam hard into the man’s kneecap, and he goes down withathud.
Yes, I have a lady boner for kneecaps. They always take a person down if you hit therightspot.
The other man takes a swing at the same time, hitting me square in the jaw. I can feel my bright red lipstick smear across my chin as the pain shoots up the side of my face. My head doesn’t turn, though, making the man who hit me take a step back and blink rapidly, the shock quitefunny.
I step toward him and look up since he has a good five inches on me, even in my heeled boots. With a speed I’ve honed in on, I let my fists fly in rapid succession. Up, across, and even to his nose, as he bends a bit because of the blow to his stomach. Blood spurts out, spraying me. But I don’t give a shit, in thismoment.
He puts his hands up to deflect. A couple of times, he even tries to punch back but only hits air as I maneuver away from each strike, getting mine in, in the process. Savagely, I strike him in the gut with my boot, making sure the pointed heel takes the brunt of the contact, and the man falls to the ground, smacking his head and passingoutcold.
Damn, it was just getting to thegoodpart.
“Fucking bitch!” is yelled behind me, and I turn to see the man who I dropped out of the fight early. He’s holding his knee, pain written all over his face. I take simple joy in that, even if his mouth is spouting offstupidshit.
“Aw, you say such sweet things,” I coo before slamming my fist inhisface.
Looking around at the crowd, I first check to see if anyone else is in the mood to bombard me. Not seeing any takers, I inhale a breath, letting the high take me over. It’s better than any fucking drug out there, and one I can ride until the nextfight.
Life has been a challenge. One I refuse to lose. So, bring it on, motherfuckers. That’s how I get through every night atthisjob.
* * *
“Iswear,you get off on this more than anyone,” Schade comments, handing me my envelope of cash after the night is over. Not only do I get a cut of the winnings, I also getmypay.
Schade doesn’t fuck around. When he hired me, he said that it was because I was the best. I don’t know if that’s true, but I do what I do and that’s the endofit.
“Someone’s gotta do it,” I reply, placing the envelope in my black backpack then zipping it up. I throw it on my back, adjusting the straps before making aquickexit.
My bike hums between my thighs as I cruise down the dimly lit streets. The cool night air whips across my face, invigorating me. I’ve always loved riding, ever since I was a kid. Then, money was scarce. Hell, more like non-existent, but we made due, likealways.
I would watch the motorcycles go up and down my street, always dreaming that one day I would own one. Now, the Harley is mine. I’ve worked damn hard for it, but I learned from my parents’ that anything worth having is worth working damn hard for. Having taken that to heart, my entire life has been aboutjustthat.
The air against my skin, the sounds all around me, and the experience of flying down the wide-open road reminds me that I’m alive. Cars, trucks, SUVs, they’re all nice, but being caged in makes me feel suffocated. Riding on the open road, the power of the machine between my legs, it’s a reminder I’m a damnsurvivor.
Pulling into my driveway, I scan the place, looking for anything out of place, noting nothing out of the ordinary. The bricks on the house are exactly the same, landscaping the same, and the one light in the living room glows through the window. Nothing amiss. The same asalways.
I hit the button on my bike and the garage door rolls open. I park the Harley next to my silver Jeep. Climbing off the bike, I unzip my leather jacket and pull my clear glasses from my eyes as I walk tothedoor.
Beeping comes from the other side as I slip through and enter the code for the alarm. Just then, paw steps are heard running through the house. The taps of Brewer’s nails hit the hardwood floor and skid as he turns thecorner.
I kneel as he barrels into me, almost knocking me down. He’s a sixty-five-pound black lab with a ton of energy, and I love him. He’s my solid in a world ofliquid.
He gives me his doggies kisses as I rub him down. When I rise, he whines, then gets excited when he sees me moving toward the kitchen. He loves dinner time. Or, in our house, midnight dinner on days I have to work. He goes to town as I toss my backpack and everything else down on thetable.
When I moved to Sumner, Georgia, it was because of this job. A friend of mine said he knew a guy—when you’re deep in the streets, connections are everywhere. It looked interesting, so I thought I’d give it a shot. Now I’ve been here for threeyears.
My house is simple: kitchen, attached dining room, living room, three bedrooms, and two bathrooms. The furniture is the same—I only have what I need. Nothing fluffy, no throw pillows or decorative vases with flowers in them. None of that shit. Everything in my space serves a purpose. The extras mean nothingtome.
Thanks to Schade, I can afford pretty much anything, but why throw money away on stupid shit? No thanks. That’s not for me. The only luxury I have is my bed. King-sized, extra comfy, with blankets I can melt into. My reasoning for this is a bit twisted, but when you grow up too fast, too soon, too unprepared, you learn quickly the things that make you happy. My bed is one of those. Brewer is theother.
I strip off my clothes, tossing them to the floor, and jump in the shower. After washing off the night, I climb into bed just as Brewer hops up, turns twice, and finds his doggie place beside me. Idriftoff.
* * *
“What?”My tone is clipped and irritated, because I am irritated. As soon as I saw Aunt CB—CB stands for “cunt bitch”—it shot my day all to hell, and I’ve only been up long enough to eat and let Brewer out. Nowhere near enough time to dealwithher.
