“Sure, dude,” he says. “Let’s go.”
We step into the ring, Jordan laughing a bit with his buddy, not taking this seriously. Why would he?
Barely conscious but still a decent lay.My muscles flex as I stretch my arms out, eager to get started.
“Gloves or no gloves?” I ask. Technically, it’s against gym rules to spar without padding. But he won’t want to look scared. And these men? These are the ones who never think there are consequences to their actions. Who make shitty fucking choices.
“I’m good either way,” he answers with a shrug.
Perfect.
“No gloves, it is,” I say, dropping mine outside the ring, flexing my hands.
We start to circle each other, and a group of spectators gathers to watch. I can hear it when the whispers start. Thisfuckbag may not recognize me, but others here sure do. It doesn’t take long for the word to travel through the crowd. Someone nudges his friend Harrison and says something to him. When the guy’s eyes go wide, I know he knows. He moves for the ring, trying to pull Jordan back from the fight, to warn him, but I’m faster.
My first punch sends him to the ground.
He wobbles as he stands, but I let him get back up. Make him think maybe it was just a lucky shot, make him think he has a chance. Because I’m not ready for this to be over, not yet. He holds his arms up more confidently when he advances on me, fury in his eyes. I hit him harder than I should have, harder than light sparring rules dictate, and I’ve seen it a thousand times before. My hit embarrassed him. He doesn’t want to lose face, so he’ll overcompensate by getting more aggressive. He throws an uncoordinated punch at me that I easily dodge and return with a right hook to his kidney. I follow that up with a series of hits that have him back on the ground.
He stands again, still not willing to accept that he’s completely outmatched, and throws a wild swing at my head. It connects, but I barely even notice.
My next punch slams into him with an audible crack as his cheekbone breaks. He howls in pain as he hits the mat.
This time, I follow him to the floor.
I’m not fucking done.
Barely conscious but still a decent lay.
I punch him over and over again, without pause. His hand is out, begging for mercy, blood dripping onto the mat. I hear more cracking, more bones breaking, fracturing.
“Stop, man.” Jordan is crying. “Please, I can’t take any more.”
I lower my face to his. “Why should I stop? Your body, my choice, isn’t that right?”
And I level a final punch so hard, he’s knocked out cold.
No one says anything. The gym is silent as a fucking grave as I stand up, wipe the blood off my hands and make my way over to his friend.
“Harrison, right?” The guy nods, swallowing, a look of pure terror in his eyes. “You have five minutes to drag your friend out of here. Consider your gym memberships revoked. And if I ever see you two even speaking to another woman in this city, this will look like a warm up, you understand? Don’t fucking test me. I have eyeseverywhere.”
With that, I grab my bag and head out of the gym.
And wouldn’t you know it.
I’m finally feeling better.
16
SEBASTIAN
Sydney has started sleepingwith the lights on.
That’s new. And while it makes it much easier to watch her from my spot in the tree, it worries me.
I lean back against the trunk and try to relax my tense muscles. Ash’s phone call yesterday wasn’t that surprising. He has a tendency to overreact when he’s upset, catastrophizing the smallest things. But maybe he was right this time. Something scared her, something we missed. She’s unnerved, frightened and jittery as she gets ready for bed.
It’s not exactly comfortable here, with my legs stretched out on a thick branch while I lean my back against the trunk. The rough bark digs into my shoulder blades, making me itch. But I’ve had much worse places to run surveillance.
