Then we go home, he tells me when the next fight is, and I save every spare cent I can so that I can afford my own apartment. I’ve already started the process to get into cosmetology school, just crossing my fingers that I get accepted, so I just need to make a little more to cover two years of tuition so that I can get out from under Mickey’s thumb.
He’s controlling me with my goals, and he knows it. He’s controlling me in every fucking aspect of my life; sleep, water, training, who I see, where I go. If he says I need to train, I train. Because everything–everything–is tied to food and the amount of the cut I get.
When I say he’s controlling me with food, I mean it. His parents don’t make enough to feed us both so it’s up to Mickey to give me half.
And I know how well he shares.
If I want to eat, I do what he says. If I want to make money, I do what he says. I’m sure people would scream at me;“Why don’t you tell his parents? They’re supposed to be the ones to help you!”
They could not care one fucking bit if I go hungry. They believe every single utterance Mickey says. I’ve never been hit by his mom, but I’ve sure gotten close.
I can’t fucking wait to have enough to get my own apartment. I need out of here. I…can’t keep living like this.
The way Mickey’s been looking at me lately has turned from opportunist to something more…permanently cruel. And I do not want to wait around to find out what the fuck he’s thinking.
“She gets TKO by minute five, do you understand? Toy with her a little and then knock her shit out. Each minute after five is fifty dollars less you’ll get to keep, got it? Don’t let your stupidity stand in your way. You might be a good fighter, but you’re still a nothing of a person,” Mickey snaps, ripping the baggie shirt from my body over my head and I shudder from the sudden cold and from suddenly being so exposed.
I have to focus on what he’s saying, I have to narrow this adrenaline to focus. Moving past it as quickly as I can, I slip on my overly-confident mask I wear to protect myself from bullshit like him.
“Got it.” I smirk, crack my neck to both sides and make eye contact with the girl opposite me right as the bell dings overhead.
She looks terrified, but I can’t focus on that right now. Even though I want to tell her to fucking suck it up and stop showing her cards. I have a time limit from Mickey today and that’s what I have to focus on.
At the last second, my eyes dart to the opening of the pit and a small knot in my chest loosens because all the guys from Ty’s group are gone. If the crowd had caught up to Ty, they’d have dragged him back inside and let everyone have a piece of him.
He got out.
Hopefully he’s okay.
I turn my attention back to my fight and lean to the side when I see her fist flying at me. Mickey was right, she’s strong–that much is evident from the fucking guns she has for arms–but she’s slow and emotional. Five minutes shouldn’t be an issue today.
CHAPTER 10
Haven hasn’t changedat all since I’ve been alive. The old two-story buildings all along main street, lantern lampposts dotting each side, kitchy little shops, our favorite diner on the corner that has literally saved our bacon multiple times.
Speaking of, I wonder if I go see Harriet, the wonderful Black lady that treats Asher and I like her own who owns the diner, if she’ll give me some pancakes.
God, those pancakes are so fucking good. My mouth is starting to drool.
I walk down the street, hands in my hoodie pockets, and keep my head down. There aren’t many—any—people walking out right now, but my face looks pretty gnarly.
Asher caused quite the stir when he bought this place just last year. All the old geezers on City Hall thought that a tattoo shop right on Main Street would cause a fuss, but Asher didn’t let hisage deter them from signing on for this. I’d never seen him so studious in his life.
My brother wasworkingto get this place off the ground, one late-night study session over law books and business books at a time.
I did everything I could to help, but our roles switched a bit. Where I was working one job and fighting here and there, Asher was filling his days and nights with as much work as he could. Then he caught a break, and I lost one.
Now, I’m working three jobs and fighting three to four nights a week. Although, probably not very many for the foreseeable future. My hand is fucked and I can’t walk for very long without feeling like I’m going to pass out.
Pushing the door open, I walk into my brother’s oasis.
“It looks good in here,” I say loudly, and from the backroom, out comes Asher with a disbelieving smile on his face. He’s holding boxes of something in each hand but still looks at me with excitement.
“You’re here! Finally!” he says boisterously.
“I am, I… I thought about what you said,” I pull a hand out of my pocket and let it fall at my side nervously. “Obviously, I can’t fight right now.”
“Oh, so you’re going to listen to me now?” Asher smarts off and I grind my teeth. I know he’s joking but this isn’t the fucking time.
