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The music stops abruptly as the speakers are cut off. The lights rise slightly while a spotlight hits the center of the ring. With a wireless mic, Derick climbs into the ring dressed in every piece of logo he owns—no doubt fakes, but he doesn’t care as long as his high-life image is in our faces.
“Gentlemen and my ladies.” He lets the word hang in the air as if he’s flirting with every woman in the warehouse. “Tonight is the night you don’t want to be at home. Where do you want to be? Here at the Pit to see the extravaganza of pain.”
The shouts of the crowd shake the ancient glass in the blacked-out windows as Derick lifts his hands in the air. The place is hyperactive on cheap booze and medicinal weed as the dense smoke tickles my nose.
“Everybody wants to be seen in the ring, but few are called,” he continues. “You know him by his massive reputation.” Derick emphasizes each syllable as Stockade climbs into the ring. “This man can block out the sun. Hey, let’s get fucked up in an insta-minute.”
Derick dances around a few steps as if the crowd is cheering for him. He glances up toward the catwalk, and Grinder is giving him a vile look. The grin slides quickly off Derick’s face. “And his opponent, Mask. Enjoy the fight.”
Derick speeds out of the ring, climbing between the ropes, and disappears briefly into the crowd before reappearing next to Grinder on the catwalk.
Grinder looks down at me. At least, I think he is. I look away, but the sensation of being watched doesn’t disappear. Seating reflects status or willingness, so I’m stuck down here, which is fine by me. Stockade moves into the center ring, showing off his build as he checks out Mask from a distance. There are no bells, referees, or protective gear. The fight is over when the winner steps over the loser.
“Fuck, this is going to be bloody,” laughs a guy standing too close behind me. “Look at that guy; he thinks it’s Halloween.” The guy gets too close, and I give him a dirty look until he backs off me. “Sorry.” He smirks. “It’s crowded.”
“Watch your hands,” I snap. “You know where they were.”
The guy’s smile morphs into a sneer. Asshole thinks it should be easy because he has a pulse. My attention flies back to the ring when someone in the crowd shouts. Stockade has taken a swing, and that asshole made me miss it. No problem. The fight is literally inches away from me. Mask is still in the fight with his fists poised. He takes a jab, toying with Stockade. His footwork is pure talent, bouncing on his feet and ready to spring. He must know MMA.
There’s another shout from the crowd as I press against the side of the concrete platform. Stockade’s face is covered with sweat as his eyes narrow to slits in frustration. He wants to connect his fist with Mask’s face.
“Show me pain!” A lone shout rises above the rest. “Show me pain!” A chant starts in the dark as everyone focuses on the ring. “Show me pain!”
A twisted look forms on Stockade’s face as the crowd pushes him to tear the guy up. Losing his patience, Stockade rushes Mask. The dumbass has brawn but no skill. Instead of retreating, Mask ducks then weaves and plants a right hook under Stockade’s chin. The sweat flies off in an arc, landing on the spectators. A girl screams, and the chant is replaced with a deafening roar. They don’t care who wins as long as someone bleeds.
Stockade throws a punch, but Mask is way too fast. Using Stockade’s momentum, he grabs his arm and sends him into the ropes. The mob gasps, leaning away as if Stockade might crash through, but he doesn’t. Mask lands another punch, angled perfectly into Stockade’s ribs, and Stockade doubles over.
Stockade lashes out his hand and grabs the newcomer by the arm. A bare fist plummets into Mask’s face, and he brings up his arms to block. I wince as Stockade’s meaty fist gets in another punch. But this is a warm-up as Mask straightens up, ready to go at it again. The new guy is making Stockade look like a fool.
Mask slips behind Stockade with grace never seen before in this place. He grabs Stockade’s arm, spinning him around and sending him down on his knees. Stockade lands hard on the concrete as his smug face dissolves in agony. Mask twists and kicks, landing a sharp blow to Stockade’s calf. Nice. I open my mouth in surprise as the realization hits my brain. He’s going for all the spots with the least muscle. Smooth.
I look on with respect as Mask grabs Stockade’s arm so he can’t get back up, and batters his face with savage blows. Stockade is pinned like a beetle on his back, dying slowly in the hot sun. Well, fuck him. The fickle crowd shouts each time Mask makes contact with his huge fist. Soon Stockade is a heavy mass on the concrete, and most fighters would take advantage and finish him off for spite.
Not Mask. Instead, he peels off his sweaty shirt, revealing a body that is hard, lean muscle, while his pants hang low on his hips. I grab Nova’s shoulder, and she squeals but not in pain.
“Yummy,” she says, “Girl, he should win for his bod alone!”
His body is ripped and gleaming with sweat, and the women are hollering his name. But the sound dies in my throat when he turns, and I see the tattoo covering his entire back—a phoenix ascending with wings outstretched and curls of flames shooting from its tail. When Mask flexes his muscles, the bird moves as if it’s about to soar straight into the sky.
“Shit, Astrid,” says Nova, “That’s the drawing you sold to Hank’s tattoo shop.”
I smile as I watch Mask raise his arms above his head and stretch his beautiful ink. Stockade stays on the ground, unable to get up on his own, and Grinder nods, making it official. Mask has won the fight. He wasn’t the favorite going in, but he is when he steps out of the ring.
Mask moves near to where I’m standing, and I watch him closely as people lose their shit all around us. He bends his head and wipes his hand over his face, knocking his mask off. Holding it in his hands, our eyes lock. Fuck. He’s hot from head to toe. His gaze scans me quickly, but before anyone else notices, he slips his mask securely over his eyes. With a smooth walk that a panther would envy, he disappears into the crazed crowd.
