Page 5 of Bound by Desire
Men and women hold money in their hands, waving it high in the air, each one wanting a win on the man they chose. Bets have to be placed before the first fist is thrown, so this is just grandstanding, reminding the fighters there is a prize to be won and only one of them will come outontop.
The crammed group pushes their way closer, everyone wanting as much of the action as possible, wanting to see every cut or possible bruise. They suck in each strike, grunt, and movement each man makes in themakeshiftring.
The entire space smells of sweat and blood. The excitement in the air blends with it, making for an intoxicating experience foreveryone.
One that I love to get lost in. One that not only feeds these people but feeds me,aswell.
My skin prickles with each rumble as it syncs with each blow. While everyone’s eyes are on the action, mine is on them. Scanning. Targeting. Watching.Waiting.
There’s a moment during every fight, a peak one would say, where someone watching gets the idea they can swing like the men in the ring. Normally, it’s a push or a shove the wrong way that sends everything into atailspin.
My job is to keep that from happening. Easy?Fuckno.
A rush like no one has ever known?Hellyes.
In my three years of doing this, I can count on one hand the nights there was nothing to break up. Those three times, I almost thought of starting something just to get a rise, to see some sort ofaction.
I don’t do boring. Refraining is very hard, but I’m paid to keep things in line, not add to the chaos. The pay is so damn good that I need for nothing. So, no way I’ll fuck up this job. I know what you’re thinking: why in the fuck does an underground fight need security? Schade, my boss, claims the violence, chaos, and the potential injuries are bad for business. He’s all about the money and been doing this longer than me, so I rollwithit.
“Rylie!” The deep voice somehow carries over the roar, and I turn toward it. Becks, another of the team, lifts his chin, telling me he’s got aliveone.
Finally.
My blood pumps as the adrenaline pushes its way to thesurface.
Weeding through the crowd, hands touch my body, but are ignored, at least for now as the warm bodies bumpagainstme.
Making my way over to Becks, he’s in the middle of what we call a Douchebag Dance—two men who are trying to prove how big their balls are. Average sized men, both taller than me, and each has between fifty to a hundred pounds on me, as well. One is dressed like he just came from some type of office job with a navy Polo shirt and dark jeans. His build isn’t enormous, but he’s not lacking,either.
The other is a regular, Jackson. Of the hundreds of altercations I’ve broken up, he’s been in several of them. He came from the streets and is a hell of a scrapper. In his late twenties, he loves the pain and gets off on it. Even a punch and he’s happy. One of these days, I’m going to throw his ass in the ring and let one of the guys show him real pain. Or just do it myself. That’s where he needs to be instead of throwing his weight aroundouthere.
Jackson rears back his arm for a punch. Before he can do so, though, I loop my arm through his crooked one and twist it behind his back, at the same time kicking his kneecaps and causing him to fall harshly to the partially concreted and dirtfloor.
With his arm locked and me slightly bent, he can’t move, and with the serious blow to his kneecaps, he’s down for abit.Pity.
Becks rushes Polo man and has his ass down on thefloor,too.
The people around us move just enough to give us space, but still staying in the action of the featured fight. They couldn’t care less about this one. Now, if the main event was over, this would be an entirely differentanimal.
Polo man looks shocked that his ass is lying in the filth. This makes me smile. Stupidfucker.
“Out,” Becks calls over the rumble, picking Polo man up to his feet and escorting him fromtheroom.
I tug on Jackson’s bent arm, and he yelps. “Up,” I command, knowing full well that he won’t be able to walk smoothly out of here. But there is no way in fuck I’m carrying his ass out. Not that I couldn’t. I’ll just leave it to the cleanup crew. Schade doesn’t fuck around with his job. Therefore, neither do anyofus.
Speaking of cleanup crew, Turner shows up, an angry scowl on his face that I’m pretty sure is permanently etched there, considering that, for as long as I’ve been here, he’s never oncesmiled.
He says nothing, just grabs Jackson by the arm and neck, dragging him through thecrowd.
Well, that was uneventful. What a fuckingletdown.
The loud bell chimes, signaling not only the end of the match and someone completely down and out, but also ringing in my fucking ear. Schade insisted on the fucking thing. Why? I have no clue. It was put in about two years ago when he got a wild burr up his ass, and to my regret, it hasn’tdisappeared.
Hands from the audience fly down as the sound grows more intense. Some are pissed they lost their cash, while others are brimming withexcitement.
Becks catches my vision, lifts his chin, and moves through the crowd, same as me, scanning andwatching.
A body crashes into my back, making me stumble forward, but not enough for me to go down. Turning, I see a man with brown hair look back at me for just a second before he turns back toward another man who is charging at him. Arms swing, punches connect, grunts sound, and blood sprays the surrounding crowd that has now turned to these two, their cheering and egging on now goingtothem.
