Nights in the basement, witnessing the bloody acts of violence hadn’t prepared me for that anger and intent on Dean’s face. It almost scared me, but I knew it was coming from somewhere more than what Frank had done. If he did it... But Dean wasn’t the type to randomly fly off the handle for no reason. From what I had seen, he managed his anger like his fighting style. He was in control.
I made my way over to the couches and perched myself on the edge of the cushion to wait, watching every fighter with a little more scrutiny than I usually would. Dean accused Frank of being one of the men behind the strangling, but he also mentioned there had been a second. Any one of the men downstairs could’ve done it with the right motive.
Dean was a fan favorite, Antonio’s favorite, and unbeatable. It was easy to see why an opponent would want to take his mantle.
Dean’s accusation towards Frank caused the atmosphere inside the basement to remain tense. Everyone in the back room was eyeing them as if they expected one of them to finish what Dean started earlier. But they kept their distance.
Frank was busy boasting to his small circle of friends about how he hadn’t been intimidated by the confrontation, even though he went out of his way to avoid Dean all night.
Dean sat on the back stairs, forearms resting on his knees as he spoke quietly with Seb and prodded the rope burn on his throat. Never mind the bruises blossoming across the side of his ribs.
Other than the fact his right knee was bouncing again, sending a subtle tremor through his taut muscles, he looked focused. Whatever Seb was saying calmed him down. Or at least helped him redirect that anger into the fight ahead. The fact he was even fighting wasn't up for discussion. The decision was made, and bets were placed regardless of injury or that he had been unconscious.
My night wasn’t busy. No one had any serious external injuries from what I could see as they marched or staggered out of the pit. Which left me twiddling my thumbs until the second last fight, Frank’s fight, when I wandered over to the entrance for a better scope of the outcome.
Joe the announcer rang his bell just as I reached the basement's dividing wall and peered down the pit walkway.
Frank won, but there was a decent enough split on his cheek that could need stitches. He realized this too as he made his way into the back room, smirking in my direction as my stomach dropped.
“Looks like you’ll finally get some time with me,” he said, walking closer than he needed to. The stench of his breath filled my nostrils and only made the uneasy feeling in my stomach worse.
I tried not to grimace at his scarred face and yellow teeth, before reluctantly following him to the couch. My attention was so overshadowed by my anxiety over being alone with Frank, that I hadn’t even noticed anyone approaching until Dean stepped into my tunnel-visioned line of sight.
I stopped short and looked up.
“You gonna be okay?” he asked quietly. He hadn’t taken his eyes off me as he adjusted the black gauze on his knuckles.
I looked past him to see Frank collapse into one of the couches. He sat with his legs spread and arms out along the back of the seat as he smiled smugly to himself.
My throat bobbed but I nodded. Distantly.
“Seb has gone to the bathroom. He should be back soon,” Dean added, but we knew with the downstairs toilet out of order, the line to the upstairs bathroom could take forever.
“I’ll be fine.” I offered him a small smile in reassurance, but it wavered when Joe announced his name for the next fight.
Dean hesitated as if reconsidering fighting at all, but he pressed his lips together and reluctantly strode into the pit.
I forced myself to walk over to the couches, where Frank’s attention slid to me. His eyes dropped over my body as I took a seat beside him with as much space between us as possible.
The faster I do this, the quicker I move on.
I fumbled for the items I needed to clean the wound and then turned my attention to the side of his face.
He closed his eyes, resting his head back while I hastily got to work, hating every second of being so close to him. He was sweaty, bare-chested, and was built of stocky muscle, like an old-style wrestler. Every so often his tongue darted out to lick his bottom lip. Unbothered by the stitches I threaded into his scarred and poxy skin, his eyes parted just enough to watch me.
The crowd erupted with a roar and drew my attention to the entryway for one second. But the bell hadn’t been rung which meant the fight wasn’t over yet. From what I could make out beyond the top of Frank's head, through the doorway, and down the walkway, Dean was fighting efficiently.
“You’re definitely a nice distraction to have down here,” Frank said. His head was still back but his eyes drifted down.
I straightened, focusing on cutting the thread dangling from his cheekbone instead of the uncomfortable shiver that raced down my spine.
“How does that feel?” I asked, refusing to make eye contact.
He chuckled dryly, his tongue darting out. “Perfect.”
“Good.” I didn’t bother cleaning up the blood on his face. Instead, I stood quickly, stuffing things back into the first aid box before bringing it to the kitchen with me. I placed it beside the sink and started washing my hands under the cold water. Scrubbing my skin as blood and soapy water washed down the drain.
The bell rang, signaling the end of the fight. It had to be Dean’s fastest one yet.
