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He growled, baring razor-looking teeth when I didn’t bother paying my respects. Didn’t scare me one fucking bit.
“Beat that motherfucker’s ass, Doom! Let’s go! Fuck him up!” Wildcard shouted behind me.
“Drop that motherfucker, Doom! Come on!” Otto hollered. “Doomsday! Doomsday! Doomsday!” Otto started a chant and everyone that had his or her money on me followed suit. Practically everyone in the Dawg Pit had money on me.
Why?
Because I was Doomsday, and I never lost.
I was a champion.
The chanting got to my head, swelling my ego. The ref gave the signal for us to fight, and I stomped across the mat, tired of watching this motherfucker watch me. He was an ugly son-of-a-bitch. Meaty, bald head, crooked nose, beady fucking eyes.
I wanted to get rid of him, toss him out of the Pit like he was a dead rat. I swung, he ducked and tried to land a blow on my jaw. He missed my jaw, but caught my shoulder with strong force. Twisting around with rapid speed, I rushed him, causing him to stumble.
He went wide-eyed. Didn’t even see it coming.
I took advantage of the opportunity—his small moment of weakness—by decking his fucking face, and then slamming his heavy body on the mat.
The crowd went fucking wild, shouting my name. Shouting until it sounded like their lungs would pop. I had no clue how we never got caught in this fucking Pit. Right in the basement of Flex’s rundown boxing gym. Only three blocks away from the police station. With how loud they were tonight, I knew someone was going to rat us the fuck out.
But I didn’t give a single fuck in that moment. I joined in on the thunderous commotion.
“Fucking pussy!” I roared, landing on top of him, crushing hard knuckles against bone. My hands swung and flew. I dropped blows, landing them on his face, butchering what was left of him. He groaned beneath me, a signal of defeat.
He wanted out. But I didn’t stop. I couldn’t stop.
I wanted him dead.
Fucking dead.
All I could see was my mother. All I could think about was Grandma Marie.
All I could imagine while pinning that motherfucker down was my father, how I would one day be running the show, proving to him that I was better—that I had always been better—and that he’d hated me for it.
He blamed me for everything, just like I blamed him for every shitty situation in my life.
I hated him.
I wanted him gone.
So I punched.
And punched.
And fought harder.
And growled.
I roared.
I hollered.
I continued hitting until I was finally yanked off of my opponent, my arms held down tight from all directions. I breathed raggedly, my body pumping with way too much adrenaline.
Spit spewed from my lips, blood dripping off my tender knuckles. I barked at my unconscious opponent, snarling—demanding him to get the fuck up.
He didn’t budge.
He just lay there, and I realized that he was nothing.
And I also realized I did this because I was nothing.
I had always been nothing.
My eyes went over the frenzied crowd, watching as they all tried to catch my eye. I ignored them, pulling my sight up and focusing on my target. Flex.
He stood in the same spot during every single fight. Up a level, arms folded tight across his chest, his nostrils flared, eyes boring into mine. He stood alone, as if he were the king of the Pit. The ruler.
He organized the fights and got twenty percent of each brawl, but he was no king. He wasn’t shit—a pussy that was scared to fight me, no matter how many times people brought up the idea. I had no problem facing the motherfucker. It was him that always declined.
He had twenty years on me. He was still young himself. There was no damn excuse. He was just afraid of losing to his son. I would give him the ass whipping of a lifetime. One that would make him regret all of the things he did to Mom.
My nostrils were flared as well, my upper lip peeled back in a snarl. I could take him. I could… but I also couldn’t.
Grandma Marie told me not to.
I made a promise to her a long time ago to never harm him. She always told me I wouldn’t get anything out of fighting him—stooping to his petty level.
He was lucky I loved and respected her, because if it weren’t for her patience with the both of us, my fucking father would have been dead a long time ago, and I wouldn’t have given a single fuck about it.
Chapter 6
Jenny
I woke up to a pitter-pattering noise, a rather annoying dribbling.
I groaned, my mind foggy, as I turned my head and gazed up. The water was coming from the faucet.
Wait… the faucet!?
I pushed myself up, palms flat on the cold, tile floor. I sat up, observing my surroundings. Kylie had her arms draped around the toilet bowl, but the vomit obviously didn’t make it to the toilet because it was all over the seat and the sides.
