Being in this old shut down candy warehouse on the outskirts of town makes me feel a little less overwhelmed and a little more clearheaded. It’s in an area where a lot of businesses went under a decade ago. When unemployment rates rose so high people had a hard time keeping the money coming in.
The distinct smell of stale cocoa powder permeates the air. If that’s even a thing. I’m not sure if powdery food substances can create their own odors, but there’s definitely a strange smell floating around. It’s as if the mustiness of the building intertwines with the sweetness of the bean. Add in a little bit of bad fermentation and it’s exactly what the place stinks of. I imagine at one time, when the place was bursting with business, it was much more pleasant. Something sugary with floral hints here and there.
Not like it matters tonight.
Pretty soon, the metallic scent of blood and the tanginess of B.O. from too many bodies packed in one space will take over. Then no one will pay attention to the old equipment mixers and conveyor lines to the side. Nor will they care about the bags of sugar that have long since been eaten through by rodents.
If I sit and think about it long enough, disgust will swish through me, so I lightly jump up and down. I roll my shoulders. I crack my neck from side to side. Sweat drips from my forehead into my eyes even though it’s mid-winter and it’s been a long time since this building has had heat. I sprinted here from where I parked my car a quarter-mile away. Eli warned me about the ramifications of having it too close.In case shit turns for the worse, it’s easier to disappear if your vehicle isn’t close enough to draw attention.
Between that and my nerves, I’m heated and ready to walk out there with my chest glistening. That’s another thing Eli shared. The crowd loves it when they see blood, even more when it’s dripping down your chest versus soaking cotton. If you askme, it’s kind of stupid, but I go with the flow, knowing that their cheers will be one of two things that put the power behind my fists and the endurance in my step.
I grab a towel out of my bag and wipe it over my face. A hand lands on my shoulder, and it causes me to swivel around and pull my earbud from my ear.
Elijah McPearson’s bulky frame comes into view, and while it should make me relax to see it isn’t someone else, it doesn’t. He may have brought me into The Battleground, but I can’t say that I exactly trust the guy. Even back when we were in high school, we weren’t close enough to share secrets. We were acquaintances at best and laughed over the same dumb shit that happened during class. And now, we’re both part of this forbidden, probably illegal, fight club.
Outside of that, I don’t know much about him or why the hell he trains during the day to get into the National Fighting League yet spends his nights in the world of underground fighting.
Seeing each other come and go at Gulliver’s isn’t enough to suddenly hand over my deepest, darkest secrets. However, his offer from a while back was enough to break me—along with life circumstances—and allow myself to get swept up in the same shady shit as him.
Life has pressed its pointed stiletto in the center of both our chests. I have a feeling the impact of it will scar me just as I assume it has him.
He hands me a roll of athletic tape for my fingers and wrists. I accept it with a nod of thanks.
“Amped crowd tonight,” he comments, moving to the radiator at the other side of the small office. I’ve gotten used to the space. It’s where I prepare and collect myself before every match, and tonight will be my fourth.
Now that music isn’t drowning out all noises, I hear the racket in the other room where the fights occur. There’s hootingand hollering, and like every other night I’ve been here, I’m glad for the location. The area is so run-down that no one will drive by or walk around and notice the warehouse has been breached. Especially not this late.
“Yeah?”
“Oh yeah.” Eli runs his hand through his hair. It’s gotten longer since the day he approached me at Gulliver’s. I remember it like it was yesterday, and yet here I am, doing the one thing I told him and Llewellyn I would never do.
Beating a person to hell was never part of the plan. I wasn’t lying when I told them I got what I needed out of a dangly punching bag. Slamming my fists into one was enough to silence the thoughts and break through the stress that continuously gnawed at my back. But that was before.
Before Mom died.
Before I lost the only girl I’ve ever loved.
Before I learned Mom was married to my father my entire fucking life and chose to keep it a secret. Before I found out Aunt Besspaidto keep him away. Before I found out that I have a brother.
“You’re up after me tonight,” Eli tells me.
I rip a piece of tape off the roll and wind it around the worst of my knuckles. They’re still healing from two fights ago, but because I haven’t given myself much of a break, it’s taking longer than normal. The night I busted them, they swelled something bad. When I uppercut my opponent, a scrawny kid who lasted all of two minutes, they didn’t crack the way it did when Finn took that mallet to my hand, but it was nearly as painful.
“Think you’re going to come out on top?” I ask, making small talk, which seems to be all Eli and I do. We talk about fighting and the matches and how to keep Tommy from raging over not making his money. In my short time fighting under him, I’velearned he’s as greedy as the Lincolns, a common personality trait of residents of Harrison Heights it seems.
He cracks a cocky grin. “You’re really asking me that?”
“They seem eager for something promising tonight.”
“They’ll get what they came for. They always do, and with all the fresh blood, they won’t be able to get e-fucking-nough.”
Eli has told me that I’m not the only new guy representing Tommy’s side in The Battleground, but I have yet to meet the others. They fight on the days I don’t, so our schedules never quite line up. I’m not out here to make friends, so I don’t pay much mind to socializing. I’m here for the fight, to silence my thoughts, and drown out the heartache by feeling something else entirely.
“Yeah, well, that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?”
He crosses his arms over his chest and gives me a look like he’s trying to figure me out. When I walked up to him in Gulliver’s two weeks ago and told him I was ready to get in the ring, he didn’t ask me once what my deal was or why I changed my mind. He simply nodded and told me to wait ringside until he was done training. He gave me his cell number, and when we met outside, we chatted a bit about what he was getting me into.
It’s been fight after fight ever since.
