Page 72 of Invisible String
We take our seats at the front of the ring. The crowd is rowdy. Andrew sets a bid for the other guy, Atomic Bomb, and not Master of Disaster like everyone does. This is a very large warehouse. It must have been some kind of factory. From the looks of it, it’s illegal fighting, or they wouldn’t have asked us to shut our phones off.
With a booming voice, the announcer fills the warehouse, introducing the night’s first fight. The crowd roars as the two fighters enter the ring, muscles tense and eyes focused. The sound of fists connecting with flesh echoes throughout the arena as they trade blow after blow. Blood splatters across the mat, and I have to look away, feeling queasy at the violence before me. This is nothing like the fights you see on Showtime, Pay Per View, other live streaming events or even YouTube. This is a straight-up savage fight with very limited rules. Andrew cheers among the crowd while my heart speeds up. The fight ends when a guy lies on the floor, and his trainer lifts him out of the ring.
Another fight continues, and it’s the same amount of violence, one after the other. People are going absolutely nuts. The smell of the arena is of sweat and blood. I can handle clean professional fights, but this is a big fat no. I don’t know why Andrew brought me here with him. Couldn’t he have taken one of his friends?
“It’s time. The fight you’ve all been waiting for,” A man in a suit announces. “The main event with Master of Disaster and Atomic Bomb,” he shouts.
The crowd roars, chanting Master of Disaster and other shouts for his opponent. The majority is for Master of Disaster.
“Atomic Bomb,” the announcer shouts, and the boxer walks out, hands in the air, showing his muscles bulging. The guy is tall and well-built, and the majority of the crowd boos. “Now, for the man you’ve all been waiting for. This man is undefeated, and they don’t call him the Master of Disaster for nothing. Let’s give it up for Master of Disaster,” he yells.
A chill runs through my veins.
The man walks out. He doesn’t peer at the crowd; he’s expressionless, his face set as a stone. The people around are going crazy for him while Andrew boos. His trainer and others stand next to him, talking to him. He simply nods, dancing in place. I take a good glimpse of his face, and it’s him, Max, but my heart already knew that. It’s been racing since he walked out. He looks different. He is so muscular all around. His frame dominated attention the moment he entered the room, a testament to all his training throughout the years. Broad shoulders stretch his t-shirt and taper his slim waist. He takes his shirt off, showing the classic V-line. Every move sets his biceps in motion—tense, sculpted, and rippling with controlled power like they’re forged for dominance. Veins trail subtle patterns beneath his skin. Tattoos cover his back. He has two full sleeves and two more on his chest. He’s older, but something about him seems different besides his appearance. A part of me wants to leave, but another part wants to ensure he’s okay.
I shouldn’t care.He left me.
They stand toe to toe, and my stomach tightens. I pinch my thighs as they move. Max goes for a hook while his opponent blocks it and throws a jab. Max’s body is like a stone. The hitsdo nothing to him. Max takes the lead with an uppercut, making the big guy fumble slightly. He goes for another blow after blow. The guy’s face has developed a cut under his left eye. That doesn’t stop him. He keeps going. The guy, Atomic Bomb, must be seven-something feet tall. My heart wants to leap out of my chest when the guy launches a haymaker. I learned all this from Max when he would explain all the different hits. A haymaker is a wide-angle punch similar to a hook. Max stumbles but doesn’t fall. The guy throws the same punch over and over again, not giving him a chance. Max covers his face and backpedals to his side, hitting the rope.
A woman next to me shouts to a woman next to her, “He’s excellent in bed.”
“Who?” she shouts back.
“Master of Disaster!”
My heart rolls out of my chest. Would he sleep with her? Is he doing what we did with them?
“Oh.”
“Yeah, the men need a stress reliever, so they ask women to help. We like to line up at the door. We give them whatever it is they need to relieve the tension.” She grins at her.
I turn, and my gaze returns to Max. Now he has him cornered, throwing punches. Something happens that causes the surrounding noise to freeze in place. Max turns, and our gazes meet. His piercing green eyes focus on mine. I don’t blink. I simply can’t. Four years. Four damn long years, and here he is—the man I hate with a passion.
His beautiful, venomous eyes stay pinned on me, and his opponent takes a jab at him. It’s like he doesn’t acknowledge the guy hitting him. A pair of warm hands wrap around my waist. Andrew’s hold is possessive, and I don’t like the feel of it. Max’s gaze averts to Andrew’s, and Max’s jaw tightens and nostrils flare.
“Max!” I shout, pointing to the guy who’s about to throw a punch at his face and possibly knock him out. He already has a gash on his cheek. Max punches him blow by blow, then turns to me again.
Trying to decipher Max’s expression is like staring into an enigma. His face is a labyrinth of emotions, impossible to navigate. His eyes widen in disbelief, as if I were a ghost materializing before him. He squints, tilting his head in a scrutinizing manner, while a crimson stream trickles steadily down his cheek. The sight is maddening, a visceral punch to my gut, and I am on the verge of unleashing a frantic scream, desperate for someone—anyone—to come and cleanse the blood from his face.
“He’s looking at me,” the woman beside me gushes stupidly.
I shake my head at him. You idiot, pay attention. The guy takes advantage of him and goes for a bolo punch. A hit that distracts his opponent. It is jarring how it all happens. Max falls to the floor. The Atomic Bomb looks over at me, and he grins. Max looks at where Atomic Bomb is peering, and rage has him jumping to his feet. He goes for a combination of hits. One after another, and a hook to the face repeatedly until the guy falls to the ground. And that’s why they call him the Master of Disaster. The guy’s face is bloody and hardly visible because of the slash on his brow. His trainer speaks in his language, but he’s not listening. Max takes his mouthpiece out and addresses the guy on the floor, snarling at him.
The crowd goes crazy. “Let’s go,” I shout to Andrew, ripping his hands off of me. I peer at Andrew, and he and Max stare at one another. “Let’s go now,” I repeat. People rush to the ring. I don’t wait to see what happens. I know Max won, and it’s over.
“Hey, hey, slow down, Ney.”
“Why would you bring me to this, Andrew?” My hands signal to the warehouse behind us.
“It’s just a fight. I thought you would like it. But what I want to know is, how do you know his name? You called his name out like you knew him. He kept staring at you. He stopped giving a shit about the brick wall beating on him.”
I’ve never mentioned Max to him.
“He’s Max Cano. He went to our high school for a very short time.” When he unlocks the door, I get in, slamming it shut. My hands are shaking. I didn’t think I’d see him again. I didn’t know if he still lived in Vegas.
“I don’t remember him.” He groans when I pinch his arm, when he tries to rub my leg.
“Take me home.”
