Prologue
Bronson
I swung my fists over and over again into his face until the ref pulled me off my opponent.
My hand was grabbed, then thrown up in victory.
I stepped forward and then helped him up off the concrete floor.
He nodded at me, then looked at his friends, who no doubt were coming to help him, and then I turned and barreled my way through the crowd.
Weekly underground fights were held in an old, abandoned warehouse.
Ignoring the slaps on my back, the chin lifts, hell, even the women who tried to shove little slips of paper at me.
Did they not see that my hands were clenched into fists?
That meant I wasn’t fucking interested.
I let out a breath as I entered the small six-by-six room that served as the locker room and headed straight for my locker.
I shook my head as the only reference to the faded green color on the doors could only be described as vomit green.
I pulled on my black hoodie and used my knuckles to wipe the blood off the corner of my mouth.
And then... I grinned.
Cause no pain meant no gain.
And I owned that match.
My gaze flickered up at the clock on the wall, and I sighed.
I had half an hour to get to my job.
Yes, it paid the bills, and then some... but fuck, was I tired of wearing steel-toe boots.
And I was also tired of being on my feet for fourteen-hour days on concrete floors.
I made my way out of the locker room while tugging the keys to my truck out of my pocket.
Just as I rounded the corner of the hall that would lead to the side door, I heard a man’s voice call out, “Bronson ‘Beast’ Adams, do you have a minute?”
I shook my head, “Gotta get to work.”
And I walked out.
***
A month later, after my fight, I heard, “Bronson ‘Beast’ Adams.”
I turned my head and eyed the man.
Close-cropped blonde hair, a bump in his nose, shorter than me, I lifted a brow, “Do I know you?”
He shook his head, then he handed me a card, “Fighters like you don’t come around very often. I want to work with you. Train you.”
And that was when I read the card as the man walked out of the concrete building.
