“Pretty stupid bet to make. This guy is barely staying on his feet,” he says.
I shrug and fold my arms over my chest as I catch the underdog’s eye and wink. He turns back to his opponent and grips him in what looks like a hug. In fighting, this is known as a clinch. They use this move for a multitude of reasons, but this time it’s so he can let his opponent know the deal has been struck and it’s time to take a dive.
The underdog sends forth an uppercut when their bodies part, and the other guy takes it and goes down. The upset sends the crowd into a frenzy, and I take a moment to enjoy the look of shock on the man’s face.
Ah, yes. Victory.
His gaze runs over my muscles, as if he’s considering backing out on our deal and he wants to figure out if he can take me. He can’t. Realizing this, he shoves his money into my hand, tucks his tail, and pushes toward the exit.
As much as I’d love to hang around and add a few more twenties to my stack, I won’t be able to watch the main event. Especially since Iamthe main event.
I head to the back to prepare myself. I spend my time street fighting and ripping people off. Sometimes both at the same time. Well, it’s less “street” and more “dilapidated building,” but still. I bare-knuckle box, which is a fancy term for those of us that fight raw and dirty, without gloves between us. It’s the most brutal way to fight, and it suits me well.
Before I leave the locker room, I check the roster. I like to know who my opponent is before I see his face. My finger scrolls down the chicken scratched list, and I release a sigh of relief because I’m not against one of the “Kursed” brothers. Gentry and Karson recently got back into the game after years away. Those two fight like bona fide psychopaths, and I’m not in the mood to earn a few more scars tonight. I heard they were hitmen before they became fighters, and while I don’t usually put much stock in rumors, I believe this one. The bigger one is built for homicide, and the other looks crazed enough to do it for fun.
When I finish taping my wrists, I cut through the crowd and step into the ring to a wave of murmurs rippling through the room. Those disgruntled voices probably belong to the morons who just realized they were taken for a ride when I parted them from their money last night. If my boss paid me half a living wage, I wouldn’t need to swindle people. If he didn’t keep most of the money from those of us balls deep in the blood sport, I wouldn’t have to work the crowd and my fellow fighters wouldn’t be so willing to take a dive for a little extra cash.
The crowd transforms into a churning sea of screaming, chanting, roaring faces. Their fists pump the air as they demand more brutality. The audience is alive. I can feel the strength of it in my bones as I approach the ring. A woman in a bikini lifts a sign, panning it over the crowd. It’s tacky. Putting someone pretty beside the ugly doesn’t make these fights less ugly.
As we ready ourselves to begin the match, the roar of the crowd voices their disdain for the space between us. Makeshift stage lights and neon signs flicker above us and illuminate their red faces. Time to give them the show they came for.
I take the first swing, and blood slips from a split in my opponent’s lip. He opens his mouth, turns his head, and spits out a tooth, which causes a roar of laughter and catcalls from the crowd. With a dazed look in his glassy eyes, he falls back into the corner, trying to recover. In a normal fight, this is where a ref would step in and call for a medical team to give us the go ahead to continue, but this isn’t a normal fight. There is no medical team.
I charge toward him again, and he catches my jaw with a surprise right hook. My teeth click together on the side of my tongue. The pain fuels me to hit him harder. His blood splatters on my cheeks and forehead like war paint.
My scarred body crashes into his as we take turns searching for soft spots. We’re evenly matched in body size, but he doesn’t have the years of experience I’ve gained. Or the anger. I don’t have enough time to collect myself before he throws a punch to my face that sends me stumbling backward a step. Blood flows from my nose, and it hurts like hell, but it doesn’t hinder me; it fuels me.
Thin scarlet ribbons drip from my chin, leaving little red stains all over the cracked floor. I lick the blood beads rolling down my lips so they fill my mouth with their iron tang. Nothing tastes better than blood drawn from pain—and there’s something about tasting that pain.
The lights warm my sweat-slicked muscles, and I send my cut fist into his face. His scream echoes in my ears, and I revel in the power and violence. It’s my love language. The crowd roars in approval, growing louder with each blow.
When he finally falls to his knees and clutches what must be a broken jaw, I let out a sadistic laugh. An audible crunch rings out over the cries from the bloodthirsty crowd as I prey upon that weakness and knock his head back once more. Blood sprays from his mouth and stains the concrete, and he doesn’t rise to his feet again.
I win.
Nothing in my life feels right, but this? This feels right. When I’m surrounded by cheering crowds while covered in someone else’s blood, knowing it will never be my life essence leaking onto the ground, I feel normal. And that’s saying something. Not even the skin I wear feels normal. It’s a tattered costume I can’t take off.
I run a hand through my dark blonde hair. A few strands fall into my eyes, and it looks almost brown from the amount of sweat woven through it. Red lights catch on my scars—tough strips of tissue lacing my body. I can hide the worst of them with clothing, especially the deep gouges I received on my abdomen, but I’m forced to show them to the world when I fight. It doesn’t matter here, though. It adds to my persona and makes me seem like I’ve been through some shit.
They have no fucking idea what I’ve been through.
While I can hide the scars on my body outside of this place, I can’t do shit for those on my face and neck. I keep the sides of my head shaved because it’s patchy as shit if I let it grow. These marks keep me from blending into society, so I’ve given up on trying.
Who needs a fucking society that set free the monster who did this to me?
I look down at my beaten opponent and smile. Yeah, I win. It’s what I do. Every time I step into that ring, I win. But I never feel like I’ve won as I leave—my body battered and bruised, my heart beating hollowly against my chest. On the outside, I’m un-fucking-defeated, but inside, I’m fighting to feel something more than numb. It’s a place to push my constant anger.
But winning doesn’t feel as good with no one in your corner.
The crowd quiets and begins filing out of the building. Everyone loves the scary, scarred-up fighter in the ring, but I’m dogshit on the soles of their shoes once it’s over. Their eyes are no longer glued to me. Now they just want to look away. They cower from me or shield the eyes of their curious kids. Some of them know about my past. Some people even think I’m immortal. No little boy should have survived the damage flashed all over the paper and the six o’clock news. I’m the living embodiment of their worst nightmares.
I throw my shirt over my shoulder and head toward the makeshift locker room. The stench of men and unwashed towels fill the space, and I fling my shirt onto a metal bench against the wall. I stroll past a line of warped lockers and a dirty, cracked mirror, then groan as I run my hands beneath the sink’s cold tap. Before I can even dry my hands, my “boss” storms in, his face contorted with anger. He raises his hand and sends his palm against the back of my head. The red rage spilling from his veins has now infected mine. I exhale, trying to keep from killing him.
“Why the fuck are you working the crowd like that, scar?” he shouts.
“It’s none of your business,” I say. I hate when he calls me that. I am not just my scars.
Darby’s eyes narrow. “Itismy business when you’re doing it under my name. This whole thing is my business.”