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“Time is up,” the man states. “Chucky’s already in the wings.” With that, he hastily shuts the door behind him.
Daze sighs, turning his focus back to me. “Keep your promise.” He kisses my lips once more, then drops me to my feet. “Let’s go.”
He takes my hand, and we exit the locker room. Shoulders squared, Daze weaves us through the crowd. He shifts his gaze to someone behind me—a man standing behind what appears to be a DJ booth, blasting pulsing rock. “I’m here,” Daze shouts.
“About damn time!”
Daze laughs in that low, unsettling way as he lets me go and nudges me closer to the console. He wrenches off his shirt and tosses it toward me. I barely manage to catch it, only to find that he’s halfway down a nearby aisle by the time my mouth opens for a retort. One look at him, and I bite my tongue. His hands flex in an out of fists at his sides, his head down.
I remember what he said to me in the bar.Howhe said it—remind me of what matters.
“Have it your way,” the man in the booth mutters, despite Daze already being out of earshot. He shoots me an odd look and then raises a microphone to his mouth.
“You fuckers ready for the fight of the goddamn century?”
Fight. That word lingers in my skull as the crowd roars at the top of their lungs. There must be at least fifty people crowded in this small space. They all jostle for the best seats closest to the ring, reminding me of eager parishioners late to one of Father’s sermons.
I doubt they hope to find spiritual enlightenment, however.
They are here purely to spectate whatever will occur in the ring at the center of the space. I’m alarmed to see that Daze’s already there, climbing through a chain-link door on the side of the cage. He ditched his jeans and shoes somewhere along the way. Wearing only black boxer briefs, his body glistens beneath the artificial lighting, a beautiful canvas for his numerous tattoos.
“I know you like the buildup, Ladies, and Gents,” the man in the booth says to assorted jeers. “But who am I to refuse a legend? Let’s get this party started. Who’s ready to ruuuuumble?”
More cheers. It’s so loud in here I can’t hear myself think. My senses can only register bits and pieces of the chaos. Shadow. Light. Noise. Desperate for an anchor, my gaze settles on one of the few stationary people in this damn room—a familiar figure in a corner opposite mine. Silas?
He’s fixated on the center of the ring where Daze stands alone, at the mercy of the shouting crowd.
“Isaid—can we hear it for a fucking legend?” the emcee demands. More shouts ring out, and I try to see Daze as if for the first time. He looks older again. Maybe too old, and my lips tingle, remembering the feel of his. At the same time, he looks...
Lost. But not in the way Hale had during those final terrible days. Not in the way I look now. With his eyes narrowed and mouth flat, Daze resembles someone untouchable. The shadowy, enigmatic type of man I’d usually avoid.
Someone dangerous.
A man with nothing left to lose.
To equal fanfare, the other fighter comes from nowhere and lunges into the ring. He’s muscular as well, nearly as tall as Daze.
“Let’s get this shit started!” The emcee shouts, and the two square off in a circling motion that seems rehearsed. They watch each other rabidly, like wild animals hunting for a weakness in a potential prey item.
Maybe this is a normal occurrence and not a sign of something more sinister to come. After all, I wouldn’t know the difference. My knowledge of fighting comes from the few choreographed television fights I watched with Hale back when I shadowed him like a lost puppy. Those brawls had been pretty, painstakingly structured. Almost like a dance.
That comparison shatters when Daze’s opponent lunges and slams a punch into his ribcage. This is no charade designed solely for entertainment.
This is messy.
I lean forward, my eyes bug wide. I think I must cry out because Daze’s eyes cut in my direction. In the same motion, he betrays a predatory grace that allows him to pivot on his heel to avoid another punch. Mid-motion, he slams his own fist into the other man’s shoulder. Flesh connects with flesh with a sickening thud—again, reinforcing the brutality of this event.
It’s not faked. Neither man holds anything back.
Daze’s opponent lunges, trapping him against the chain-link fence as the crowd roars its approval. Dear Lord. I’m sick to my stomach, unable to tear my gaze away. I feel like I’m in ancient Rome during biblical times—in the coliseum, a witness to unfathomable violence. A vicious spectacle.
An arena awash in blood. Red drops fly from Daze’s mouth as he catches a blow to the face, and I wince in sympathy. As he sways on his feet, I fear that he might have lasting damage, like a concussion.
And it bothers me. It frightens me.
Before I can fully think the thought through, I cry out consciously this time. “Daze!”
Head cocked, he stiffens, dodging another punch, and I cry in relief. Then he twists at the waist, and holds his own with a retaliatory strike.
