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Okay, ten.
I clock him right under his eye. He loses his balance, and I’m on fire so I keep punching him. I hear nothing except the ringing in my ears. I ignore the stabs of pain coursing through my body; anger and adrenaline take over, and I keep punching the son of a bitch.
Ryan gets a couple good uppercuts in; fuck, the guy can still throw a mean right hook. I taste blood on my lips, and it brings back too many fucked up memories.
Jay pulls me from Ryan, who’s bleeding as much as I am. Before I can blink, Ryan punches me in the jaw, and my teeth clatter in response.
“Fuck you, Ryan,” I tackle him to the ground before Jay drags me off him again.
Neil points a finger in my face. “We are going to report your ass.”
I spit on the ground, wiping the blood from my bust-up lip. “Fucking try me, old man,” I grunt, holding my ribs.
“Oh, I will,” he says, helping a pissed off Ryan off the ground, but Ryan pushes him away.
“Fucking hell, Hunt,” Jay chimes in.
“Leave me alone,” I hiss, shrugging Jay’s hands off me.
Jay lets me go. “What the fuck were you thinking? You probably have a concussion,” he says, sounding worried and angry at the same time.
“Nah, man, it’s all wood.” I shake my head. “Good, I mean.” I scrub my hand over my two-day stubble and my forehead. Shit, it hurts. And, apparently, trying to walk in a straight line is not so easy with everything spinning like a motherfucker.
“Hunter,” Jay warns.
I shake my head. Fuck, this is not good. I stumble over my own two feet, or is that four? Shit, I’m losing it.
My beat-up bike is the last thing I see before my forehead makes contact with the dirt, and I pass out.
