Page 7 of Yours on the Canvas

I smile. This is where I feel at home, amongst blood, fists, and sweat.

I push through the crowd, scanning for Frank, and spot him standing on a makeshift platform built from two cinder blocks and a thick wooden plank. It’s high enough to give him a clear view of the ring and the entrance.

Two massive bodyguards flank him, and I smile, baring my teeth at the one who thinks taking a subtle step toward me is a good idea. I have to bite back a laugh. If I wanted to get to Frank, those two wouldn’t have stopped me.

That’s the funny thing about people here. They look at me and underestimate me. I don’t have the sheer size of Silas or Mack, so they assume I’m weaker.

They’re wrong.

I’m six-foot-two and solid muscle, and I know how to use my body as a weapon.

I step up to the platform, and Frank catches my eye. He waves his hand, flashing me an easy grin.

“Boy, you do not want to cross this little pup,” he tells one of the guards. “He’d kill you with one bite.”

The man looks me up and down, one eyebrow lifting as he smirks. “Sure. This pup doesn’t look that big.”

I shrug, keeping my tone light. “Happy to show you if you like. Just name the place. Or…” I motion with my head toward the ring.

The guard steps back into line. I ignore him, my attention snapping back to Frank.

“Am I still on time?”

Frank nods and points a thick finger toward the ring.

“Yeah, pretty much. This guy in the green just won’t go down. Stubborn bastard. He reminds me of you.”

I glance toward the canvas.

The fighter in green circles his opponent. His face has already taken a beating, skin slick with sweat and dark blood, like someone poured a bucket of it over him.

Rough.

I turn back to Frank. “Who am I up against?”

Frank frowns and reaches down for his battered clipboard. Frank is old school to a fault—he refuses to use modern technology. His exact words are still burned into my memory:

“People can fucking find you, Jack. You don’t want that in my line of work.”

He scans the page, looking up at me with a touch of concern in his eyes. Well, that’s interesting.

“Julian Moreau. You might remember him.”

My eyebrow lifts. “Who?”

“You put him to sleep in Nanaimo.”

Oh shit.

Frank traces a finger down the page before leaning closer. His voice drops, and the strong smell of rum rolls off his breath.

“Guy’s a fucking freak in the ring, Jack. Be careful, I’ve got a bad feeling about this one.”

I draw in a slow breath. Frank’s words worry me; he isn’t one to scare easily. So, when he gives me a genuine warning, I make sure I listen. I rub my arms as a chill suddenly runs down my spine, raising goosebumps along my skin.

Mum used to talk about that feeling when I was a kid. She called it a sign that someone had just walked over your grave.

I glance at Frank, worry etched on my face.