“Sort of,” Clara answers, her eyes gleaming in the rearview mirror. There’s a look about her that screams mischief, and I haven’t had fun in ages. A party is exactly what I need, no matter the kind.
It takes roughly around forty-five minutes to reach the barn in the empty field, but when we do, it’s alive with laughter, cheering, and screams to get my blood flowing.
“Come on!” Clara, already holding onto Kassidy, takes my hand and yanks me from the car. Together, the three of us rush into the lamp-lit barn. I want to take a second to look around and explore the darker corners of the rustic space, but Clara has other ideas. I didn’t realize she was so pushy until she began shoving people out of her way, fighting for our place in front of a group.
“What’s going on?” I ask whoever is listening, and then we come to a stop. My pulse races and slows as I stand before a makeshift ring. Inside, two bloody men not much older than me circle each other. Their hands are raised, faces bloody and swollen—and gleaming. Their rabid smiles send a thrill down my spine, and when the smaller one, a man I recognize as Jim Lawson, the town’s friendly mailman, charges headfirst, blood in his teeth, I feel at home.
After another round and a few minutes pass, Jim goes down with a roar—dark, gooey splatter marring the makeshift sparring floor. “So!” Clara shouts. “What do you think?!”
“That’s our fucking mailman!”
“I know!” she laughs, hanging onto my arm. “Anyone can fight!”
My heart flutters as her words sink in. “Anyone?”
“Anyone.”
Turning back toward the arena, the jitters amplify when the winner calls out for his next challenge. “How do you do it?”
Clara, breaking her gaze away from the man strutting around the square, pulls me close, lips brushing the shell of my ear. “Just get your ass in there.” With a shove, she throws me toward the corner. People immediately get out of my way, cheering while throwing me forward.
Stumbling into the ring, I eye my opponent, a man I’ve never seen, who bounces on the balls of his feet. He’s ready for me. I can smell it as his pupils consume the bright blue of his irises. I flick a glance at Clara, who flexes her skinny arms, mouthing, “Use those muscles!”
Those nerves quickly transform into blissful serenity. A calm that I haven’t felt since leaving home washes over me, and I fall into a position that matches his. Dressed in jeans and a graphic tee, I copy his movements, circling the dirt-covered mat. My back is facing the crowd when he throws his first punch. I don’t know if it’s me or something guys have in common, but I take that initial swing, right on the jaw. I swallow the pain and smile when the blood bursts on my tongue. It’s a flavor that’s all too familiar, not just from the rumbles in the back of school but from home—those nights my father would drunkenly stumble through the door or when he woke up, itching for a brawl. I grew to look forward to the bright burst of iron that would fill my mouth, and when it was taken from me, I grew to miss it.
I take it all in now, swallowing every drop that makes its way down my trachea. Having yet to take a swing, I hear the gathering begin to jeer. Continuing to circle, I eye all the recognizable faces, ending on Clara, who sneaks off toward the darker spots in the back. My curiosity almost gets the better of me and earns me another blow to the jaw. Luckily, I caught that one in time, slapping it away before striking him in the opposite cheek. He stumbles back, foot almost off the mat, but rights himself immediately. I can’t hear what he says over the rumblings of the crowd, but there’s an exhausted fire burningin his eyes. His movements are a little slower than before, but there’s still power behind his punches.
For the next minute, we trade shots, every blow harder than the last until I get him in the soft spot of his temple. Instantly, his legs turn to jelly, and when he stumbles, he falls. Exhausted and bloody, I wait, questioning if he’ll attempt to get up. In the background, chants begin to rise.
“Seven!”
“Six!”
“Five!”
Four, I breathe, heart thumping in every growing bruise.Three.
“Two!”
Someone storms the makeshift stage and takes my hand. “Winner!” he shouts, raising it victoriously in the air. “What’s your name?” I’m asked.
“Cade.” I can barely huff it out of my wheezing chest.
“Cade!” the announcer shouts.
The crowd joins in. “Cade! Cade! Cade!”
After three more fights, the night ends the same, with my name on everyone’s tongue. Every opponent is destroyed, and I hop from the mats with triumph dripping from my flesh. Hands touch every inch of my bare back as I walk tiredly away from the ring. Somehow, I lost my shirt. I don’t know if it was in the first match or the second, but some girl holds it in her hands, eyeing me with want as I approach her.
“You need this back?” she asks, lashes moving like slow fans. Instead of extending it, she holds it tight against her chest, outlining her perky tits.
“What’s your name?” I ask, pushing the sweat back into my hair.
Grinning, “Amanda.”
“You can keep it. It looks better against you anyway.”
“Aww,” she drawls, stepping closer. “Then let me give you something in return.” I let her take my hand and pull me outside, where, after a few dozen feet, she shoves me into the filthy shack wall and drops my pants as quickly as she falls to her knees.
