1
Sinclair
I bury my fist in my friend’s face. Blood blooms from his nose, drips down his shirt.
"What the hell—?" Saint growls. "You’ve done it now." He lunges forward and catches me with a right-handed hook. My head snaps to the side. Pain explodes behind my brain, and for a second, all of my thoughts fade. Everything is calm, the way it was before the incident.
Then Saint slams his fist in my side, and painshudders up my spine. Sparks flare behind my eyes and the breath rushes out of me.
"Bloody mother of—" I lurch back; the world spins. Sweat streams down my forehead, my back. I shake my head but that only makes it worse. My guts twist. Bile rushes up my throat and I swallow it down.
I will not be sick; will not be sick. Not until I’ve given vent to every last rotten thought that’s twisting inside of me. I charge forward and head butt him in the stomach. I hear the 'oof’ of breath rush out of him. He stumbles back.
I raise my head to find him glaring at me, blood dripping from his face. He peels back his lips to show his bloodstained teeth, then lunges forward. I swerve and he hits the ground, only to jump up to his feet. He races forward; so do I. We crash, chest to chest, and the reverberations from the impact sweep through me. My legs tremble. I put my shoulder into it, draw on every last ounce of strength within me, begin to shove him back, inch by bloody inch. A growl rips out of me, as I grab his shoulders, then hook my leg around his, tug. Saint sways, then crashes to his back. And stays there.
Around us, the crowd goes wild.
"Sinner."
"Sinner."
"Get him, Saint."
"Whip his ass, Saint."
"Sinner."
"Win this round, Sinner."
Yeah, that’s us, Sinner and Saint, two of the Seven, who fight in this underground parking lot every Friday.
What started months ago as a means for us to let off steam has snowballed into a crowd puller.
Guys—and girls—turn up every week to watch us, knowing they are guaranteed a good fight. One of us going up against the other, until someone is knocked out cold. Or close to it. Which is not me. Never me.
I’ve survived every fight against my friends so far, and I intend to keep it that way.
"Give up." I press my foot into the center of Saint’s chest and exert enough pressure to keep him pinned to the ground. "It’s over," I snarl, "I won."
"It’ll never be over, asshole," he spits out. Then he adds in a voice that only I can hear, "You know that the ghosts from the incident will always haunt us."
I freeze, rake my gaze across his face. His eyes gleam at me. Dirt and blood smear his features. His jaw is set, and in his eyes, I see the same determination, the same memories that plague me.
I remove my foot from his chest, hold out my hand.
He glares at it, then back at my face.
"Take it, you wanker," I growl. "Get the hell up already."
He grabs my hand and I haul him to his feet. We stay that way—panting, chests heaving, as we stare at each other.
Saint jerks his head. "Knobhead." He grunts.
"Asswipe," I retort.
"Tosser." He half smirks.
"Degenerate." I punch his shoulder, and he winces.
