He grinned like he’d won something. “I can use both.”
The first real meal I ever ate, he bought for me. He slid the plate across the diner table with a flat palm, then watched to see if I’d use a fork or just go in with my hands.
I never gave him the satisfaction. I used the fork.
That night, he set down the rules. “You want to make something of yourself, I’ll give you a shot. But you mess up, you’re gone. Understand? I’ll raise you like my own son, but you will act like an Ellis outside of the ring, got it?”
I nodded. But inside, the words were heavy. I didn’t know how to act like old money. Make something of myself. What does that even mean, for someone like me? All I knew was how to take a punch and how to make it hurt when I gave one back.
Colton and I started off real rocky, until he learned it was better to have me on his side, than against him. One punch straight to his chin and he understood the pecking order.
The Boss saw it, even then. He didn’t want a project. He wanted a weapon.
He got what he paid for.
The wind shifts and brings me back. I shake my head to clear it. The fight ring is nothing compared to the Academy, I know that now, but it’s where I belong. It’s where I was meant to end up from the moment Mr. Ellis got me a haircut and some new clothes.
I pull out a wad of bills and peel a few for the cab. The rest will go to beer money for the dorm. I run my tongue over the gap where a molar used to be, savor the memory.
I’m running late for a Board meeting, but I don’t care. This fight earned me ten thousand. Mr. Ellis knows I still fight, he doesn’t mind so long as I fulfill my duties the rest of the time.
And win.
Of course.
Out of the corner of my eye, someone’s watching. Not a cop. Not a mark. Just a junkie with more time than sense.
I don’t stop long enough to see if it’s my mom. For all I know they died years ago.
I growl, low in my chest, and the junkie scurries off, disappearing into the dark like all the rest.
The cab pulls up to the gates and I hop out, heading through the side gate and up the path. It’s cold for February, but I don’t bother with a jacket. I shove my hands in my pockets, blood stiffening on my forearms.
If there’s a heaven, it’s nothing like this. If there’s a hell, I’m already home.
Westpoint’s just as shitty as the first time I stepped foot in here. Every time I come back from a fight, I hope somehow this placehas burned to the ground and I can just disappear, but just my luck, it still stands.
Even now, with winter sun burning through the glass ceiling, you can taste it: something old, rotten, pulsing under the gold and stone. Students loiter in groups, gossiping in a dozen dialects, but their eyes track me like weak animals clocking a wolf in the room.
They try not to make it obvious. It’s obvious anyway.
I cut through them at my own pace. My suit fits too tight across the shoulders; the tailor’s best effort but it still feels like someone else’s skin. No one bumps me. No one so much as grazes my arm. Last year, a junior from prep thought it would be funny to “accidentally” shoulder me.
He’s still in PT, learning to write with his left hand.
The meeting room’s down the east corridor. The ‘fancy’ board room. The one where they all attend and make it some big show of pomp and circumstance.
Colton’s already inside, sitting like a good dog at the long table, hands folded, head low. He nods when I enter. Julian’s next to him, legs crossed at the ankle, phone in hand, lips curled at whatever game he’s playing. Even in uniform, Julian looks like he owns the place: silk tie, cufflinks, face too pretty for anything but trouble.
Rhett’s here, too. Head of the table, not in our normal seats, but sprawled in the Chair. Leather throne, gold filigree, built for intimidation. Rhett does it better than the Chair itself. He doesn’t bother to look up. Dr. Abelard stands at his left, hands folded, expression sharp enough to cut glass.
Guess while I’ve been off in my own world, he took over his seat. Good for us, I guess, making moves against the rest of the Board. Bad too, because now Issy is going to bother me even more than she does to do shit around the cabin for her.
She’s become quite irritating the bigger she gets, and I have half the mind to get my dick fixed so I never have to deal with a pregnant woman.
The rest of the Board filters in, all ceremonial robes and blank faces. I count eight tonight. Abelard makes nine. They sit in order of seniority, candles flickering overhead, casting their faces into demon masks.
Julian finally looks up, smile wide, exposing his perfect fucking teeth. “Look who finally made it,” he drawls, voice rich and practiced. “Was beginning to think you’d lost your appetite, Bam.”
