Hugh runs the fight club. We follow him over to the guy who announces the fights. I always make a couple of grand, sometimes more, when I fight, but for me, it’s not about the money. It’s the adrenaline rush, the pleasure I feel breaking a motherfucker’s bones, inflicting pain.
“Mav the Merciless is here, tonight. Add him to the books now. After this fight is over, put him on next.”
“Whatever you say, boss.”
Hugh walks back into the crowd to resume his spot.
“You haven’t been here in a while. What brought this on?” asks Nix.
I don’t answer him. Dee and Nix exchange looks. They know that, if I don’t want to answer a question, nothing they do or say can make me respond. My reasoning is not something I want to discuss. They both know how fucked my childhood was. They know my father is a deranged lunatic. They get me, so they don’t judge me.
I walk over to an empty chair to the left, throwing my bag to Dee. I pull my shirt over my head as I sit down. Dee takes the empty chair next to me and places it directly in front of me, then sits down. He wraps my hands, pulls on my boxing gloves, puts a mouthguard in my mouth, and then slathers my face in Vaseline.
“Next on the books are Mav the Merciless and Herb the Hurricane,” says the announcer over the speakers.
I rise from my seat, walking through the crowd to meet my opponent in the middle. Herb is a big burley motherfucker, with wild, thinning red hair and a mustache. This should be light work, but I never underestimate my opponent. When the bell rings, we circle each other. He swings, connecting with my jaw. I shake my head to regain my focus.
Shit, he caught me sleeping.
I need to clear my mind and get in my zone. I deliver a jab to his ribs and a comboto his torso.
He swings, I duck this time.
A left jab followed by a right to the face, then an elbow to the throat. After a right to the temple, he falls to the ground. I know he’s not coming back from that. The crowd goes wild.
The next day, I arrive in physics class on time. When Maverick walks in, I do a double-take. He has a busted lip and a cut above his left eye.
Did that happen during football practice?
“What the fuck are you looking at?” he asks as he sits down.
“Let’s get one thing straight, we’re partners, so we have to work together, whether we like it or not. I tried to persuade Mr. Barnes to assign me a different partner, but he refused. This project is thirty-percent of our grade, that’s a big deal. We need to get together to figure out what we’re going to do.”
“I’m not doing shit, just let me know when you’re done.”
“Excuse me? I’m not doing this project alone.”
“Yes, you are, or you’re getting a zero.”
“You fucking bastard.”
“No. I’m not just a fucking bastard, I’m a motherfucking bastard.”
He’s right, I won’t risk getting a zero, and I really want to get into a good college. I won’t let this jackass ruin my opportunity. I’m going to complete this project alone, not for him, but for myself. I face the front of the class, planning to ignore him.
After a while, I can see Maverick watching me from the corner of my eye, so I look over at him. “Stop staring at me.”
Before I can figure out what he’s about, he jams his hands between my thighs, forcing them apart underneath the table, his fingertips brushing my cotton-covered vagina.
“If you call attention to us, I’ll tell the teacher that you asked me to play with your pussy in front of the whole class. You’ll be labeled a slut.”
My hands are digging into the flesh of his arm, drawing blood.
“There’s a lot of heat down here between your thick thighs, hiding the treasure I know is there,” he whispers in my ear.
We’re in the back of the classroom, so what’s happening is going unnoticed.
His finger burrows beneath my panties to press against my clit causing me to whimper.
