Right before they call the start, I bump his knuckles with mine and as soon as I am given the green light, I swing, not giving him a chance to see it coming. My bare knuckles connect with the side of his jaw, and he spins with the blow, catching himself on the ropes. His eyes light up with satisfaction as he wipes his mouth with his hand, and it comes away with a streak of red.
“That’s what I’m fucking talking about,” He hollers, “Let’s fucking go.”
He charges me and while I dodge for the most part, he manages to catch me around my middle, knocking the wind out of me which stuns me enough to give him an opening to crack his fist across my face. I feel my brow split immediately with the blow, the pain bursting through my skull.
It’s an instant relief. I physically feel my whole damn body relax with the pain.
I look up as blood drips down my face and give him a feral grin and then I let loose.
Fists swing and blood sprays as the two of us fight it out, but while he only gets a few good punches in, they’re mostly to my lower body, a hard punch to the ribs and gut but my fists are harder, quicker.
I land a solid hit to his jaw that whips his head to the side and sprays a mixture of blood and saliva from his mouth. He catches himself on the ropes, practically folding himself over it as a string of bloody spit dangles from his mouth. His face is a combination of blue and black, swelling almost closing both his eyes.
Tap out.I think. I don’t want to kill a man tonight and definitely not him.
Slowly, he pushes himself to stand, swaying on his feet but he charges for me.
“Fuck,” I grunt and swing, clocking him on the temple. He’s down on the mat in the next second, a steady stream of blood dripping down his face to pool beneath his skull.
I watch him closely, holding my own breath until I see his chest rising and falling. Not dead.
He’s dragged from the ring by a couple of guys and will be dumped at the nearest hospital and after he’s gone, I hop out of the ring, grab my things and my prize money and fuck off out of the pits, the burning anger inside of me sated.
At least it is for now.
Chapter Seven
“Do not tell your father,” My mother hisses at me over the breakfast table the following morning, “This is your mistake, and you will fix it, Marly.”
I don’t know how to tell her going to the south side wasn’t a mistake nor was ending up at Sinclair Motors.
“You’re lucky no one saw you,” She continues, curling her lip, “Or that you didn’t get robbed. You’ve been warned about going to that side of town.”
I have to stifle my eye roll. Sure, as a kid I believed the stories, believed it when they told me it was unsafe and little girls like me would never come home if I ever ventured across that invisible line that divides this damn town.
They’re blind if they think it’s the south side that’s the problem.
I move the low-fat yogurt around the bowl, pushing the fresh berries around and watch as it leaves streaks of color in the white. I’d kill for a stack of pancakes or some bacon but if I wascaught eating that in front of my mother, she’d force me to throw it back up.
I lift my eyes to her, she’s focused back on her cell, scrolling something, probably a newspaper or magazine searching for her name. A morning ritual she’s done for as long as I can remember. I’ve never been happier knowing her and dad are heading out of town for three weeks, first into the city for business and then it’s their annual vacation to Bora Bora. My brother no longer lives at home, so I don’t have to deal with him either, other than maybe once or twice.
It's my favorite time of year, the only time I’m able to have a little bit of freedom.
My mother places her cell down and glares at me, “Stop playing with your food, Marly.”
“May I be excused?” I grind out.
Her blue eyes narrow, “I’m serious, Marly Della Winchester, you fix this and do not tell anyone.”
“I understand,” I swallow, hating it when she full names me, purely because my middle name is hers. I don’t want to be anything like the woman in front of me. Not cold. Not calculated or manipulative. I am nothing like her.
The resentment for my parents has been growing for some time but I hadn’t realized just how far those roots had grown. They’re in my marrow and all I feel, as I stare at the woman who birthed me, is this intense kind of hatred. And then there’s the guilt for feeling that way. Because I love them, right? They’re my parents.
“You’re excused,” She dismisses me, and I move so quick, you’d think the chair was on fire beneath me. I take my bowl into the kitchen and rush for the stairs, bumping into my father on the way up.
“Woah, Marly bear,” I cringe at the lifelong nickname, “Why are you rushing?”
“I’m meeting a friend for some shopping,” I lie, “Need to get ready.”
