Page 11 of Southie
“I think it will if you give me a chance. But if it doesn’t, then you got to eat a bomb ass meal, and you made a devoted friend. Just think about it, okay?”
If I didn’t agree to at least think about it even though my answer would be no, he’d hound me until I gave in and made a colossal mistake. However, becoming friends wouldn’t hurt anything.
“Friends don’t go out on dates, Damian,” I repeated, causing him to roll his eyes. I cut him off before he protested. “But…”
“But…” he repeated.
I chuckled. “But, I’ll at least think about it.”
The wide smile that highlighted those dimples caused me to grin. From what I knew, which wasn’t much, Damian wasn’t an awful guy. If the myriad of women who threw daggers my way or came up to me because of him was any sign, he was just a man-whore.
My physical attraction toward the man would not cause me to spread my legs for him. I had already gone down that road, it ended badly, and I was still dealing with the ramifications of a terrible choice in getting involved with playboys. I wasn’t looking for a relationship; not after I escaped a toxic one. Regardless of my feelings about dating Damian, I could see us being actual friends.
“You’ll think about it?”
“Yes, Damian. I’ll think about it.”
He clapped, and bounced lightly in place. “That’s all I ask.”
“Now, let’s get out there before my dad gets even more pissed at me.”
He nodded. “Yeah, but he’s not just pissed at you, though. He’s been railing on all of us. I haven’t known your father long, but something has him stressed out. He’s not acting like the same person I met a few months ago.”
I grabbed my camera and followed him out of the office toward the ring, letting his words about my father’s behavior sink in. If he was treating his fighters badly, something was wrong.
Wonder what’s going on? I understand him acting like that with me. That’s nothing new. But not his fighters.
Chapter 3
Liam
Sweat, body odor, mildew, and menthol filled the air of the filthy, dank, empty locker room.
The beige tile floor with mildew-darkened grout that had long lost its luster, and the single long wooden bench sitting on top of it, could barely support my weight.
My head dropped. I closed my eyes and propped my forearms on my thighs. The usual tingling sensations enveloped my body, my stomach twisted in knots, and my right leg bounced in anticipation.
The roar of the crowd echoing in the background always gave me an enormous adrenaline boost while I demolished my opponent in the octagon without regret or mercy. However, hearing the screams of the fans while having to wait for the match to begin was the only part I hated about fighting.
After so many years in the octagon, waiting drove me insane. I tried to use this time to block out everything that had nothing to do with my opponent or the cage. No worries about my parents’ bullshit and no worries about leaving Southie entered my mind. Distraction inside the cage could cause me physical harm or cost me my life. The only thing on my mind tonight was beating the shit out of my opponent and winning the fight.
At the firm hand landing on my shoulder, I lifted my head, pulled my headphones out of my ears, and greeted my cornerman, Gerald. For the past six years, Gerald Hawkins had been in my corner at these underground fights. After the first fight I entered because Pops needed to pay a bookie for a busted bet, Gerald approached me and offered his help after the match. He’d said I had potential and wanted to help me get better with my ground game and my overall technique.
As a natural fighter, I had no professional training. The only fights I’d been in were on the streets of Boston, mostly in Southie. But Gerald had some training through his military service. Why a former marine would be involved in the underground fighting circuit, I had no idea, but I eagerly accepted his help. If there was an opportunity to learn the craft of boxing, I took the chance.
He was in his early thirties and was more like an older brother than my cornerman. Having him beside me had helped me out a lot these past few years.
He pulled the hunter green flexible wraps from his duffle bag, grabbed my right hand, and wrapped it. “Five rounds instead of the usual three. Five minutes each. You got Jones tonight in the main event.”
“Of course, I do.”
My shoulders remained lowered and loose after Gerald informed me who my opponent would be. I guess Chaney thought I’d give a fuck, but I couldn't care less who I fought as long as I got to fight. I should have known Chaney would pit me against the dirtiest fighter on the circuit.
“He’s got some heavy hitters coming tonight,” I explained, giving Gerald the reason behind the changes made to the fight. “He wants me to give them a show.”
Gerald’s deep chuckle echoed through the empty locker room. “Let me guess, he wants you to take it easy for a few rounds before you go in for the kill? Make it worth their money?”
“Yep.”
