“How’s your head? You ready for that winner’s roll of cash?” he inquires.
These fights bring in more money than Gauntlet Sundays did except Tommy always gets a percentage of what we earn. While the extra cash is helpful and would’ve been even better when I was scrambling to pay Finn back, it’s not why I’m here.
“The money doesn’t matter, but yeah, I’m focused.”
“Well, it matters to Tommy.”
“Your boss has nothing to worry about,” I grunt. A week from now, I’ll still show up for the fights, and he’ll continue to earn what he does. I’m a decent fighter, and so far, I’ve gone upagainst opponents who match me well, a promise that Tommy made that first night I fought. My desire to run from my life is a lot fucking stronger than anyone else’s, which is why I’ve pulled out the win every fight so far.
“You meanourboss?” Eli goads back.
I hum in response.
“You were dead set on not getting in the ring at one point. What changed?” he finally asks, pressing me for details he should’ve asked when I approached him at Gulliver’s.
“Life.”
“Vagueness never got a guy anywhere.”
I finish wrapping my last finger. “Nothing you say is going to help the battle I’m facing. Being out there, though? Just what I need.”
“Put a lid on boiling water, and eventually, it blows.”
“Let me guess, you know from experience?”
He shifts on the radiator he leans against before straightening. “Protect your face, Pretty Boy. Wouldn’t want you fucking it up.”
I toss the tape to him. He catches it with ease. “I’ll be sure to take a picture of it for you after I go out there and make Daddy proud.”
He chuckles and winces at the same time. “Please never refer to him as Daddy again or my dick might shrivel up and fall the fuck off. Besides, I’m his best earning fighter.” He gets up and heads for the door. “Nothing makes him prouder than when I pull out the W and make him a shit ton of money. He can’t look at mewithoutdollar signs in his eyes. You, on the other hand…” He sizes me up, and I can sense the insult brewing.
I flip him the middle finger. “Get the fuck out of here.”
He smirks. “Sure thing, Fresh Blood.” And then he’s gone, the door closing behind him while I prepare to go out there and knock a guy’s lights out.
TWENTY-SIX
COLSON
I swingmy arms back and forth and roll my shoulders a few more times. I’m off to the side of the area where the fights occur. There’s a lot of fucking people in attendance tonight, but because I’ll be in the ring in less than twenty minutes, I get a front row seat with Tommy and his other fighters. On the other side are our opponents and the guy that manages them. The guy glowers at us like he’s the Grim Reaper and one glance will take us out.
“Eli is about to wreck that fucking guy,” Remy, the guy next to me, says. He’s the last fight of the night. I won’t see it happen. After our rounds, we typically head somewhere in the back of the building or return to our area where we got ready. Turns out, grown men don’t take to losing very well. We like to lick our wounds in peace without an unforgiving audience. Eli told me they had to enforce that rule when one fighter put another in a comaafterthe fight. The winner didn’t see him coming, but the sore loser peeled his back off the ground and got a cheap shot in at the back of his head.
Fights were shut down for weeks until the dude came out of his medically-induced coma. He walked away with brain damage, still can’t talk or eat on his own to this day.
I try not to think about all the risks that come along with what I’m doing. I know why I’m here, but if I let my mind wander on all the horrible ways my fights can turn for the worse, I’ll be back in Mom’s room with a big ole bottle of amber.
And no one needs that.
“Look at the weight he has on him.” Remy snickers, running a hand over his bald head. He’s in his thirties and lives for this shit. Literally. He’s known Tommy since getting locked up in juvie for fighting and pickpocketing his way through his teenage years. “How long you give him?”
“You don’t think he’ll make the full three minutes?” I question, knowing by now that it’s best to just go along with Remy than ignore him altogether. The dude rarely shuts up.
“Fuck no. No way in hell he makes it to the third. When he goes down, he’s going down like a fucking pebble.” He chuckles at his joke, and I have to say, Remy isn’t wrong. Eli’s contender is tiny. His muscles aren’t as corded or ripped as Eli’s. Nor does he have height on his side. He’s lean like a swimmer, not ripped like a weight lifter, which makes me wonder why he’s not going up against someone who’s more of an equal in terms of weight class.
“Have to watch out for the small ones,” I chime. “They can be scrappy.”
“I’m not getting those vibes.” He slaps my shoulder with the back of his hand. “How about we have a little wager? I’ll throw a couple hundred on it.”
