Page 56 of Nothing To Lose
He reaches for my hand. "You are, are you?"
Isaac stops walking, looks around us, then takes a sharp right around the side of the library building. He pulls me along to an area shaded by a few small trees and presses my back to the wall.
The way he kisses me, the way he possesses every nerve ending and thought in my brain, makes me think I'd try a lot of things right now.Exhibitionism, anybody?
By the time Isaac pulls away, I'm breathless and seconds away from rubbing myself on him like a cat until I embarrass myself for the umpteenth time.
I don't want him to go, but I would never keep him from helping his mom. How am I supposed to sleep without him?
I'm entirely too attached to this man, but how can I help it when he's just so perfect?
18
ISAAC
This place stinks. It smells like rancid beer, sweat, and the sour tang of desperation.
The crowd presses in close. There's no cage or even a ring here. It's just a dingy warehouse with a circle marked out with duct tape. My mind flashes to the day Tyler went to the hardware store with me and the rainbow duct tape he bought. I can picture it in place of the silver tape on the floor now, and it makes me smile.
"The fuck are you smiling at?"
The guy I'm fighting is shorter than me, but stockier. His body is covered in a thick blanket of dark hair, from his toes, up his legs, his rock hard belly and barrel chest, and his back and shoulders. He has a thick beard. All of that hair everywhere, except for the top of his head. It's bald and shiny as a polished bowling ball. You can see where he's shaved his head around the sides and back, but most of his head is completely smooth.
We haven't been here long, but he's getting impatient with me. The way he's acting, his jerky movements, and over-hyped attitude make me think he might be on something. Coke probably. A lot of that gets passed around here. Some fighters think it helps them, but it doesn't. His movements are clumsy and his reaction times are off. He doesn't appreciate the way I've been playing with him. If he wasn't high, he'd probably have noticed me daydreaming and could have made a move.
Instead, he tries some weak insults and comes at me with zero finesse. I look over at the guy who runs these fights and give him an exasperated look.This is really all you have for me?
He gestures for me to get on with it and calls over one of the security guys, who has a clipboard with all the people signed up to fight tonight.
Ready for a real challenge, I put the hairy guy out of his misery. He practically knocks himself out, running straight into my fist with his throat. My foot coming around the side of his head is on me, but if I didn't knock him out, he'd just keep trying. He feels nothing now, but that's gonna hurt in the morning.
I stand in the middle of the circle, not talking to or even acknowledging anyone. I'm here for one thing, otherwise I wouldn't be here at all. It's been a long time since I fought in a shithole like this. I try to stay away from the betting rings and less-than-legitimate fights, but I needed to work off some tension, and the extra cash is always useful.
Someone new steps into the circle, and the crowd goes wild. My new opponent. He's big—built like a damn tank, all bulk and no neck. He paces across from me, cracking his knuckles, glaring at me while he pumps himself up.
A lot of guys feel like they need to hate the guy they're fighting. They need to get angry. I smile at him to help him along. That usually pisses them off enough to get on with it. I've never had that issue.
A fight is like any other sport. It's muscle memory, precision, instinct. Everything makes sense here. I don't need to be angry or hate someone to pull off the moves, and because of that I go into a fight more clear-headed.
Or at least I normally do. Right now, my head is a mess. Because right now, instead of focusing on Mr. Muscles, I'm focused on how Tyler makes me feel like I'm coming apart at the seams and putting myself back together all at once.
The crowd loves this guy. He's the kind of fighter they bet on without thinking. And they expect him to win, to obliterate, to give them a show.
Good.
I want him to hit me. I need him to.
Then, when I'm ready to end this thing, I’ll walk away with fatter pockets as well as a clearer mind.
A ref stands between us and makes a joke about there being no rules. He raises his hand, then drops it, signaling for the fight to begin.
The brick shit house charges, throwing a heavy right hook. I don't move to dodge it, letting it connect with my jaw in an explosion of pain, blood, and spit. It sprays the people standing closest, and they roar their excitement and approval. I shake my head out, but otherwise barely react. I just smile, blood pooling in my mouth.
The crowd eats it up.
I dodge his next punch, and then another. He tries to connect with his foot, but he's not fast enough. With every punch I take, the crowd grows wilder. I could take him down right now if I wanted to. I could end this in seconds. But that's not what I'm here for. I shift on my feet and throw a lazy jab to his ribs just to keep him engaged. I take a heel to the kidney, but I barely register the impact.
I came here to stop thinking. To drown out the mental image of Tyler on the ground, unconscious, and the previously faceless man holding him down. He has a face now. The same face that had Tyler backed into a corner yesterday. The sneering, spitting snake that had my Tyler ashen faced.
