I didn’t reply. I threw the phone onto the passenger seat and gripped the steering wheel until my hands shook, a scowl etched onto my face.
Chapter seven
Tristian
By Friday morning, the stakes had shifted. It wasn’t three fighters anymore.
Now, it was five, and the prize money had climbed to fifteen thousand dollars.
To clear my head, I spent the morning running through the dense woods outside of the city, my breath coming in steady puffs of white in the cold air. Dressed in my usual grey hoodie and sweats, I probably looked a threat the way I was moving through those trees. Parents would cross the street with their children to avoid me.
I stopped after three miles, leaning against an oak tree to catch my breath. My mind drifted to the trust fund my father had set up. Over five hundred grand was sitting in a bank account with my name on it accruing interest and collecting dust each day. He’d finally given me the access two years ago, but there was a catch.
The moment I touched a cent of that money, I was legally bound to a contract that put me in his debt, effectively signing my life over to his firm. It was a gilded cage, and I’d rather bleed in a basement ring for scraps than let him own me.
The day bled away, evening racing toward me, the tournament with it. By eight o’clock, I was in the back of the gym, pulling on my gloves.
I never fought shirtless. I preferred the long sleeves, the fabric acting as a barrier between my tattoos and the world. Those marks were mine; they weren’t for the entertainment of the crowd.
A muffled roar filled the gym. These fights always drew a crowd. Drunk men placed bets and roared for blood. Tonight I’d give it to them.
Kane watched me pulling on the boxing gloves, his expression grim.
“I always feel bad for the dude you’re put up against,” he said.
I looked up. “Why’s that?”
“Just because it’s you, man. You don’t lose… And you’ve been pissed off all week with your panties in a twist. Tonight?” He whistled low. “Tonight’s gonna be a massacre.”
I took a final swig of water and shrugged. “Apparently they didn’t get the memo.”
I stepped out of the locker room and headed for the raised ring in the center of the gym’s boxing area. The space around it, usually filled with punching bags and weight racks, had been cleared and filled with fold-out tiered benches to accommodate the crowd. Those benches were piled full, the stink of alcohol thick in the air. Smoke too: tobacco and a more illicit funk. It wasn’t legal, but neither was the drinking and the betting. Lucky for me, the tournament’s organizers at the gym looked the other way. I say lucky, because I was going to make fifteen grand tonight.
I wove through the crowd, as an announcer shouted into a sound system and music blared. Men grabbed for me, howling my name, beer sloshing from unsteady cups. I dodged most hands. One hand brushed too close and lingered—testing me.
I stopped dead.
And turned. I looked him straight in the eye, giving him a lethal look that promised him he’d be next if he touched me again.
He jerked back instantly, face going pale, his friends howling with mockery behind him.
I wasn’t here to entertain them.
I wasn’t here to bleed for them.
I was here to win.
To survive and keep my life out of my father’s hands for one more goddamn day.
I climbed into the ring as the announcer hyped me up to the crowd. My opponent came in from the opposite side, slipping through the ropes. He was big, but twitchy, and when he straightened and we met eyes, I saw a shudder ripple through him. The crowd had roared for me. Not so much for him. Now, facing me down, seeing the pure unbridled rage in my face, he knew why. I meant to destroy him.
We met in the middle of the ring, tapped gloves. Stepped back to our corners.
The bell rang.
When he lunged, I saw red. I didn’t care about form or technique; I ducked his wild swing and landed an uppercut so clean it practically lifted him off his feet before he fell to the ground.
The crowd roared their approval.
