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Graham grinned like the Savage that he was and nodded. “Then you gotta pay for it, lad.”
“How?” I asked. “I have no money. Can’t you tell by my fucking clothes?”
They were torn, ragged, and I stank. I knew I stank. That was the worst part of it all. I knew I fucking reeked, and there was nothing I could do about it.
“I don’t need your money, you stupid little shit.” He laughed, but there was no humor in his voice. “I want you to fight for me.”
“To fight for you?” Had he looked at me? I was skin and bones. At that point, I highly doubted I could take down a chick who weighed a buck twenty. But he just nodded, like this was some sort of a good deal on his part. Was he drunk? More important —did I actually wanna do it? I didn’t mind fighting. I never cared too much about the blood or the pain. I was always able to see through the pain. I guess years of being abused by my stepdad trained me well.
“I’m not going to fight for you for a sandwich,” I said. It was negotiation, and we both knew it. For one sandwich? Hell no. But for three good meals a day I was willing to do a lot at this point, including sucking his dick. Okay, that was a blunt exaggeration. But I’d eat out Mrs. Singh from down the road, and that old bitch was 110. Easy.
“How about if you get three big meals a day, two snacks, and protein shakes?” Graham grinned, and I noticed the commotion around us died down. No one cared about this shit anymore. It was obvious he wasn’t going to call the police on me or kick the shit out of me.
It’s funny how human nature worked. No wonder people love watching cage fighting. People just enjoy it when others get hurt.
“I say bring this shit on. I’m game.” I hitched one shoulder, and Graham threw his head back and laughed before handing me the sandwich and the Coke. I breathed in and snatched them, then tore into the sandwich and cracked open the Coke right there in the middle of the convenient mart. My mouth watered all over the bread, and the first
time my teeth sank into it, I actually moaned.
“Who do you want me to fight?” I asked between swallows.
“Not sure yet. But I can guarantee he will be bigger and stronger and will kick your ass. Don’t worry. I got a bloke named Carter who can stitch you up.”
“Hey, I’m stronger than I look.” My brows furrowed.
“I don’t give a fuck.” Graham laughed. “I need you to lose. I’m going to bet on the other guy.”
And just like that, the last bite that I took got stuck in my throat and my breath hitched.
Fuck, I was going to get so screwed.
Oh well, at least I’d have food in me.
One week later, I had my first fight.
One month later, I was already taking weekly fights, and winning most of them, too.
One year later, I was officially a Savage, with the legal documents to prove it.
“Wrap me up,” I ordered my roommate, Carter. We were sitting behind the bar. It allowed me a perfect angle of the commotion of the Irish pub we were at. I heard the loud noises and banging of beer against old rotten wood and fuck if it didn’t make my heart beat ten times faster. I loved this part. The moments before the fight. I knew that soon, I’d enter the cage. Soon, he’d get in, too. Soon, I’d look him in the eye and I’d smile, and he would cave and he would lose—yes, lose—before we’d even touch gloves. Then it would all be over.
It was what I did.
How I made a living.
How I made a dying.
Literally.
Ever since I killed that guy in the ring three months before, things changed, and not for the better. Graham had to put me up against guys who were much bigger and much stronger because no sane man wanted to fight me. My Irish boss plucked out heavyweight fighters from the WWL and the UFL. For the right kind of money, they showed up and fought me. No one wanted to place their bets against me. It was great for my ego and catastrophic for the business. And in our business, The Savages’ business, we needed people to put a lot of money on the guy who lost.
Which was why this evening, I was up against someone who was eighty pounds heavier than I was and a master in jiu-jitsu. I started my formal MMA training when I was fifteen, a couple of years after Graham took me under his wing. This meant that I was a pro and knew exactly what I was doing.
But he was huge, Brazilian, and people called him “The Killer”. I may have been cocky, but I wasn’t stupid. I still gave respect to those who fought me, and I was interested to see how the night was going to unfold. Carter wrapped the black cloth around my knuckles tightly, throwing a glance behind his shoulder. His eyes were on me and on the shelves of alcohol, not on the crowd.
“See anyone you fancy?” he asked in his funny Irish accent. He had a thick one because he was from Northern Ireland. “Norn Iren so it is,” he always slapped my back while he said. I had no idea what it meant and didn’t give two shits either. But I liked Carter. We were the same age—twenty-eight—and we both owed our lives to Graham Savage for different reasons. I never asked too many questions, but Graham made it sound like Carter’s story was even sadder than mine.
“Not yet, but don’t worry. I’ll get out of here with a piece of ass,” I groaned, looking at the time on my smartphone. Ten more minutes. I was ready. So fucking ready. The adrenaline in my body was too much, and I felt like I could fucking fly if I wanted to.
