Page 26 of Filthy and the Beast

I raise an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”

He hesitates. Buck has always been an honest man, but he also cares about boxing for one reason alone: making money.

That’s why he actually met me here. There’s something.

“Tell me.”

Avoiding my eyes, Buck turns back to face the bar while he drinks and talks. “There’s this guy, runs a bunch of cage fights. You know, that MMA stuff is big now. The old boxing fixers don’t have their fingers in the pot. It’s not your thing, but this guy I know, he’s said a few times he would love to work with you. Called him up and confirmed it on the way here.”

My shoulders sink. “Cage fighting. Is that the catch?”

“You wish,” Buck grumbles. “The way he’ll sell it, that’s the catch. You know. Check out the monster. The dirtiest fighter in boxing history, feral and back for one bloody match. No honor, no—”

“I get it.” I cut him off, my ears ringing with anger and shame. “Shut your fucking mouth.”

“Didn’t think you’d like it.”

I’m fuming. The only way to fight is to sell myself out. Play into the story that ended my career in disgrace. And not even for a boxing match. Fucking cage fighting.

I can’t perform that role. Couldn’t handle being seen that way.

Rather die than have Damian see me that way.

Buck slaps my back. “Think about it.” Standing, he tosses a few dollars down. “We’d make it worth your while.”

After he leaves, I sit at the bar. Not drinking, just glaring.

I’m not wasting my time stewing over how unfair life is. I stopped crying about that when I was a kid and I found the boxing gym. Better to fight.

I am, though, fixating on the assholes who put me here. Countless sellouts, cheats, and fixers, low-life scum I let beat me.

They’re still fucking with me today, and I hate it.

And I hate that the world will only ever seethat. My disgrace.My lowest moment broadcast globally.

I storm out of the bar and drive home. On the way, my back starts smarting, and the pain radiates up, giving me a headache.

I can’t tolerate feeling powerless. Can’t stand feeling like I lost, but I have. They’ve taken everything from me. It didn’t matter that I was one of the best. Didn’t matter how good I was in the ring. I was just the orphan boy who grew too big, a pawn they could push around.

Shame clouding over me, I park the truck.

I stomp through the house, straight to the kitchen for a bottle of whiskey. The light is on. When I round the corner, Damian is standing there in a tiny pair of shorts and an oversized t-shirt, this one with a dragon. He’s frosting a tray of cupcakes pink.

“Did I just hear you come in?” he asks immediately, perking up on his toes. “Did you go somewhere?”

I grunt. I’m not prepared to talk to him. Too many fucked-up thoughts in my head.

Storm clouds.

But it’s Damian.

He lets out an exaggerated sigh. “I know there’s enough Enzo to go around, but I’m going to get jealous. You’re hanging out with other people all hours of the night, training other boxers in secret—“

My thoughts flash back to the months after Vegas, how I failed to keep anyone safe in the end. “I’m not going to train you!” I bark out, and this one comes with a bite. The rage I was stewing in earlier is right there, and all the ways I’m beating myself up ring through my voice.

I sound mean.

Damian steps back, surprised. Hurt.

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