When he finally looks at me, even the fury is gone from his eyes, they’re blank and emotionless, just like the rest of him. “I haven’t decided.”
“Mason-”
“Talon and Vincent are here to guard you,” he cuts me off. “Don’t make their job more difficult by attempting something foolish.”
“Please, just let me explain- I never-”
He turns around, my husband. And walks out the door without looking back. I watch out the window, sobbing as he drives away, feeling like my heart ripped itself out of my chest and left with him.
Chapter Twenty-Six
In which we learn what Mason does in his free time.
Mason…
The man on his knees groans, spitting out a tooth, then he’s up again, faster than I anticipate, nailing me in the shoulder with a roundhouse kick and nearly knocking me off my feet. I barely keep my balance and use the momentum to punch him in the side of the head.
The thinnest part of the skull, by the temple.I think.One of the quickest ways to incapacitate an opponent with the increased risk of brain damage or death.
The damage was already done on this fucker countless fights past and it’s uncertain whether he still has a functioning brain. He’s big, as tall as me but not as fast, especially half-stunned. I take advantage of his stumble to deliver three vicious jabs to his chest and swipe his feet out from under him. He’s covered in blood, rolling on his back like a turtle, holding his shaved head and groaning.
The buzz in the back of my mind pushes forward, turning into the screaming of the crowd.
“Kill ‘im!”
“Finish the fecker!”
“C’mon, ye pansy prick get up!”
Stepping back, I crack my neck, forcing my shoulders to loosen. He’s not getting up again. The red mist is slowly retreating, but not fast enough. So, when someone in the front row throws his lager bottle at me, I catch it, leap over the ropes, and smash it over his head.
More cheers.
I’m gripping the broken neck of the bottle, waiting to see if this one wants some more. “Get up, you motherfucker. You wanted this, aye? Get the fuck up and fight me!”
He’s fallen back into the chairs behind him, people scattering as I stand over him. The fool’s eyes are wide and terrified, blood trickling down the side of his face.
“Hey. Hey now, cousin. Ye got him. Come on back. Come on, then…”
I angrily shrug off someone trying to grab my arm and I lean over the fool who threw the bottle. Atme.He fucking threw-
“MASON! Get it together, ye fecking eejit!”
It’s Michael. He takes my arm again, pulling me away. From there, I don’t remember the referee holding up my hand as the victor, or pushing through the crowd back to the dressing room. When I’m finally back to myself, I’m sitting on a bench, staring at my bloody hands.
“Well, that was quite the fecking show. Are ye happy now?” He leans against the sink while I pull off the filthy handwraps.
“I’m not sure I’d use the word happy,” I say. “Better.”
Michael’s frowning as he takes the wraps and hands me a towel. “I’ve seen cleaner meatpacking plants. Look at yourself.”
Iama sight. There’s a cut on my chest that’s still dripping blood, stinging from my sweat, my lip is swollen and that bruise on myjaw is going to be there for a while. Gingerly moving my jaw back and forth, I’m pleased to note it’s not broken, at least.
“Go take a shower and put yourself back together,” he says.
The shower stall is filthy and I’m likely to come out of here dirtier than when I came in. I brace my hands against the wall and let the water stream down my back, staring sightlessly at the cracked tile. It wasn’t enough. I should sign up for another bout tonight before I leave…
“C’mon, killer. Get dressed. Let me buy ye a drink.”
