Page 25 of You Had Me At Thirteen

Tommy walks out a few seconds later, lifting his chin my way. I greet him with a nod.

One thing my father taught me is a man should always learn to fight. If he isn’t a fighter, how can he expect to defend himself from all the monsters out there? He’s the only monster I know of, though. Not that he does any fighting these days. He’s a fucking pussy who can’t handle life when it gets a little too hard for him.

Maybe back in his day he was good. Mum had told me a few things about my dad’s fighting days, but he struck out, then tried to live vicariously through me. My early years were filled with weekly MMA lessons, and when I showed potential, Dad wanted to put me in the cage. But I refused. Until now.

At first, I needed to control the anger coursing through my body, then it became about the money. Putting my body on the line like this is my way of making a shit load.

Jordan gives me a nod as Dan announces the start of the fight, so I move into the centre of the cage, my hands up in front of my face, a bounce in my step.

Tommy comes at me fast and attempts a takedown with a leg trip, but I shove him off me before grabbing him around the back of his neck and striking him in the ribs with my knee. He slips from my grip, stumbling to the side before composing himself.

His tactic is way off if he thinks he can surprise me, so when he charges at me again, I drop, wrapping my arms around his knees for a double-leg takedown.

Once I gain dominance by straddling his waist, I strike his face hard and fast. His attempts at using his forearms to stop my fists are of no use. This guy is a fucking pussy, and even though I expected an easy win, I didn’t think he’d go down this easily.

Warmth spreads through my body, my anger surging through my muscles.

I want a challenge. A goddamn fucking challenge.

But this piece of shit has no right being down here in the underground scene. All my muscles burn as a deep hunger coils in my stomach, and my mind goes blank as my fists connect with his bloodied flesh, over and over, the motions automatic.

My arms are aching by the time Tommy finally taps out. I roll onto the blood and sweat stained floor beside him, my chest heaving as I attempt to suck in as much oxygen as I can.

Stu races over to help his brother up. ‘Fuck Stevenson, you earned your winnings tonight. Hit me up when you want a real fight.’ He winks, pushing Tommy in the back. ‘You’re fucking useless.’

Dick.

Who is he kidding? A real fight? The guy looked the same after he met Jordan in the cage.

When my lungs stop burning, I lift myself up from the floor, my arms dead weights by my side.

Dan announces me as the winner, and Tommy shakes my hand, his face an art piece of blue, purple, and red. He’ll likely need a few stitches, but nothing that won’t heal. Except maybe his dignity.

Once I’m back in the change rooms, I undress and make my way to the showers. As the hot water cascades down my aching body, that hunger still lingers in my chest. I wish it would fuck off, because I don’t know what it is. It’s more than just grief and guilt for my mum.

When I’m dressed, I inspect the cuts on my hands. Even with gloves on, the skin still splits. They aren’t as bad as they’ve been before, but it doesn’t help that my fights are weekly and my knuckles never have time to heal properly.

I scrub my hands over my face. The fight only just skimmed the surface of everything I need to expel, which is a first. After most fights, I’m satiated until the next week, when I’m bouncing off the walls again, ready to beat someone else to a bloody pulp.

But tonight, I’m still wound up tight. There’s only one other thing that helps me loosen up.

Pussy.

I pull my phone out, and stare at the number on the screen. For whatever reason, I can’t bring myself to dial it. Celeste is my go-to girl for great sex with no feelings attached, but thinking about fucking her tonight does nothing for my dick. There’s only one woman filling my thoughts at the moment, which pisses me off even more.

I peg my phone into my bag, just as Jordan clears his throat.

‘Am I interrupting?’

I glance up at him. ‘No.’

‘Everything okay?’

‘Fucking great.’ I run my hands through my hair, tugging at the strands.

‘Want to talk about it?’ he says, slapping an envelope in one hand against the palm of his other one.

‘Nope.’

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