I blink to focus on the line of bottles against the wall behind the bar, various brands of tequila and bourbon, not a single bottle of vodka. The bartender looks just like the rest of the guys in this hole: too much hair, too much gut, and too much leather to hold it all together.
“Leather and together. That rhymed.” I muffle a giggle and bring my room-temperature beer bottle to my lips. Tilting back the last of the lukewarm liquid, I try to count how many I’ve had. I’m almost positive this is number five, but the way my head is swimming I’ve probably had more.
Not that it matters. Nothing matters.
My heart beats its fluttered objection.
“Nope. Not listening to you ever again.” Stupid heart and its stupid plans.
“Yo, Ann Wilson.” The bartender’s voice sounds as if he’s been smoking since birth. “’Nother beer?”
I face the grungy biker. “Sure, why the hell not?” I’ve got nowhere to go and no one looking for me. I nudge my empty bottle toward him. “What did you call me?”
He coughs or laughs, most likely a combination of both. “Don’t tell me you don’t know who Ann Wilson is.”
I scrunch up my face in thought. “No clue.”
Propping his forearms on the bar, he leans in. “How old’re you, kid?”
“It’s rude to ask a woman how old she is.” And telling a guy who looks as if he’s seen his fair share of death and mutilation anything about me is fucking freaking me out.
“I’m assuming you’re old enough to drink. If not, I don’t really give a shit as long as you don’t get in any trouble.”
I don’t say anything to confirm or deny. I’m old enough to drink, but just barely, not that he needs to know that.
“Ann Wilson’s the lead singer of one of the greatest bands of the late 1970s.”
“Huh.” My head spins. I squint one eye. “Which one?”
“Which one? You’ve got to be kidding me. Your parents did you a huge disservice by not sharing this shit with you.”
Ha. My parents did a lot worse than a simple fucking disservice. “My parents are dead.” Most likely murdered, but whatevs.
“Tough break, kid.”
I shrug. “Not really. They were assholes.”
His lips tick beneath his thick beard and ’stash. He goes back to standing and tucks the corner of his bar towel into his belt. “Yo, Trek, name the greatest chick rock group of 1978!”
“Heart!” The voice of what I’m assuming to be Trek calls back from the other end of the bar.
His eyes swing back toward mine. “Heart. Ann Wilson. You’ve got her hair.”
Okaaay. “Um . . . cool.” I guess.
A couple of guys dressed in matching leather cuts drop down in stools close to mine. “What is this shit?” One of them flashes a few fingers to the bartender, his eyes on the flat-screen TV hung high behind the bar. “Fight’s been on for over an hour. I got some serious dime riding on the main event.”
Bartender guy gets busy pouring him a generous amount of bourbon. “Gimme a sec.” He drops the drink in front of the guy, a fresh beer for me, and messes with the remote.
I nod a thank you and take a long pull from the bottle. I try to keep my thoughts focused on the future and not dwell on the last forty-eight hours, but the memories lure me in. His body, so strong wrapped around mine, holding me close while I caught my breath. Hands capable of knockout punches, or creating beautiful music, stroking up and down my sensitive skin. Hearts pounding against each other as if being separated by bone, muscle, and skin couldn’t keep them from becoming one. Stop it! He’s gone and memories won’t bring him back.
It’s over.
I’ll never feel that again.
I toss back a good half of my beer, tasteless against my tongue, but it’s doing the job.
The room erupts in cheering. My eyes dart to the TV. It takes a second for me to realize what they’re getting worked up over, until . . .
“Oh shit.” I blink to make sure I’m not hallucinating.
Rex’s fight.
~*~
Rex
“Don’t let him go!”
“Keep ’em down, T-Rex!”
“Lion killer! Get ’em in a lion killer!”
The hollered instructions of my team would usually push me, but tonight they’re just words. The smell of blood and sweat, the rush of adrenaline from the fight, the pain of every hit—the things that would get me fired up before now have zero effect.
I squeeze my legs together, locking Reece in a heel hook. “Tap.”
Reece thrashes in my hold. “Fuck . . . you.” He kicks at my thigh with his free leg.
“You got ’em, T!”
His garbled curses filter though the shouted encouragement from my corner.
I’m weak. Tired. My muscles shake and scream with fatigue. But I won’t lose.
The ref yells. End of a round.
I release him, jump up, and head to my corner. The crowd roars, but it’s static in my ears. My head throbs. I drop onto the stool, trying to hide my exhaustion. As fucked as my head is, I won’t let my team down. I’d rather die out there than lose this fight.
“Look at me.” My cutman is crouched in front of me, wiping down my face. “Small cut.” He presses an eye iron to my cheek while swabbing a cut above my eye.
For the first time ever, I don’t feel the pain. I’m detached, empty, immune to its seduction.
“He’s getting some good shots in.” Owen’s at my side, yelling close to my ear to be heard over the crowd.
I try to focus on his words.
“His left leg is weak.
Jonah’s there, squatting in front of me, listening to Owen. He nods, his lips move, but I’m deaf to his words.
My cutman tilts my head back. I squint against the bright lights above the octagon. My vision goes spotty. I pull from his hold on my chin and blink. My head spins. The faces around me go blurry, twisting and stretching. I rub my eyes. How hard did I get hit?
I look into the eyes of my cutman. He’s talking, asking if I’m okay. His expression morphs into visions, faces of men, different ages and ethnicities. I slam my eyes shut as the pictures flash behind my eyes. My teeth crash together, and I force back the images. God, there were so many of them. I shake my head.
I need to stay in the fight.
“Rex, man. Talk to us.” Jonah’s hand is on my shoulder. “You good?”
“Yeah, I’m good. I’m good.” My voice is robotic, but they respond and seem convinced.
I try like hell to focus on Owen’s voice. Concentrate.
“. . . that side-angle kick. Take him down for a submission.”
Right. I can do that. I nod. Submission.
That’s all those sick-fucks wanted from me. My submission. I was a child, a desperate kid with no one to protect him. They knew that and used it to get what they wanted. I clench my hands; my pulse pounds in my ears.
“. . . you’re death walkin’ out there.” Jonah’s voice is at my ear. “We see it; his camp sure as shit sees it.”
Someone needs to pay, take the beating for the years I was raped, molested, manipulated. I mentally bind all the faces in my head and wrap them up with threads of fear, hopelessness, and shame. I ball up my anger and cram in the feelings of betrayal over Mac’s confession: the men, her family . . . her. Demons that do the devil’s work. All of them.
I stare at Reece across the octagon, projecting what’s in my head, coiling in my chest, eating away at my insides. I put all of it on him.
He’ll pay. Tonight. This fight. I’ll deliver him the beating as the punishment for my past.
The sound of the bell, and the ref motions for us to meet in the middle.
Owen’s hand firmly grips my shoulder. “Make it happen. You got this.”
The cutman swipes Vaseline over my eyebrow and jumps out of the way. The arena erupts, igniting the air that surrounds me with the electricity of their enthusiasm.
But my eyes are locked on my opponent. All of the reasons why I started fighting become insignificant. Everything I’ve been through comes to one moment, this moment.
This is my chance to unleash what I’ve been holding back, release the feelings I locked up as a kid and kept hidden so well that I couldn’t even fucking remember.
It’s time to unload the burden, and what better place to do it than in the octagon?
“Fight!”
~*~
Mac
He’s circling the octagon, his hands raised and a small cut above his eye. My breath hitches, and I cover my mouth as a whimper falls from my lips.
He’s never looked so beautiful. I hadn’t realized how much I missed just seeing him until this moment. His opponent throws a punch. Rex avoids it and follows up with a kick, which sends the guy to the ground. I’m mesmerized, watching this deadly dance between two men that I pray doesn’t end in him getting hurt.
And I’ve hurt him worse than any physical pain ever could.
I shake off the guilt and watch in awe as Rex takes down his opponent in a tangle of arms and legs. People cheer and yell. He punches and tightens his hold. It looks like he’s winning. I drive my fingers into my hair. How long until it’s over? The ref slices his hand through the air. The bar explodes in applause. Rex jumps to his feet and shoves both fists into the air. I exhale and my shoulders relax.
He won.
Pride and loss swirl in my chest, and I fight to take a full breath.
I should be there, sitting behind Rex and his camp, between Layla and Raven, enveloped in Rex’s family, accepted as one of them, there for the sole purpose of support. But instead I’m here, kicked out, forced to move on from everything I’ve ever cared about. My life, my future, ripped from my hands.
Jonah, Caleb, and some good-looking surfer guy smother Rex. They hug him and pound his back with congratulations. An announcer says something into a microphone and then shoves it in Rex’s face.
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