Chapter 1 - Bruiser
The ringing in my ears won't stop.
It never does right after a fight. Not for at least twenty minutes, sometimes longer. The crowd's still roaring somewhere beyond the static in my head, but it sounds like they're underwater. Distant. Muffled. Like they're happening to someone else entirely.
I stand in my corner, the one everyone knows to stay the hell away from, and let the adrenaline bleed out of my system one violent pulse at a time. My knuckles are screaming. Split open across three fingers on my right hand, swelling already on my left. Blood, most of it not mine, dries sticky between my fingers.
The other guy's on the mat still. Face-down. Not moving.
He'll get up. Eventually.
They always do.
I crack my neck to one side, then the other. The tension doesn't ease. It never does. Not completely. Ten years in a cell taught me that some things live in your spine permanently, coiled tight, waiting. The Iron Pit's the only place I can let it uncoil without ending up back behind bars.
People are clearing out now. The crowd's thinning, voices overlapping, someone laughing too loud near the stairs. Money changes hands. The Savage Riders, three of them tonight, stand posted at the exits like they always do, arms crossed, watching everything.
I don't look at any of them.
I breathe. In. Out. Count to ten. Do it again.
The warehouse is enormous, all concrete and exposed steel beams, dim lighting that makes everyone look half-dead. Perfectfor what happens here. Perfect for men like me who don't belong anywhere civilized.
Rampage is across the room talking to someone. He’s the only man who ever put me on my back. I respect the hell out of him for it, even if I'd never say it out loud. He glances my way once. Brief, assessing, then goes back to his conversation.
Even he knows better than to approach.
Everyone does.
I shift my weight, rolling my shoulders. Everything hurts, but it's the good kind. The kind that means I'm still standing and the other guy isn't. That's all that matters in the end. That's the only math that makes sense to me.
The cleaners are starting to move in.
They always wait until the fighters clear out, until it's safe. Smart. I've seen what happens when someone gets in the way of a man still riding the high. It's not pretty.
There's three of them tonight. Two guys I've seen before. Older, probably need the cash, don't make eye contact with anyone. And her.
Joanna.
I don't know her last name. Don't need to. She started a few weeks ago, and I noticed her the first night. Hard not to. Not because she's beautiful, though she is, but because she's different. Doesn't belong here. Doesn't fit.
She's got dark blonde hair that's always pulled back in a messy bun, a few strands escaping around her face. Tired eyes. Blue. The kind of tired that doesn't come from one bad night but from months, maybe years, of not enough sleep. She's curvy in a way that makes men look twice, but she dresses like she's trying to disappear. Baggy jeans. Oversized hoodie. Head down.
Always head down.
She's hauling a mop and bucket toward the center of the Pit now, where the blood's pooling. My blood. The other guy's blood. All of it mixing together on the concrete like some kind of fucked-up communion.
She doesn't look at me.
She never does.
I told myself weeks ago to leave her alone. She's got "off-limits" written all over her. The kind of woman who deserves better than this place, better than these men. Better than me, sure as hell.
So, I keep my distance. Stand in my corner. Decompress. Pretend I don't notice the way her hands shake sometimes when she's wringing out the mop, or the way she flinches when someone raises their voice too loud.
I'm still watching her, can't seem to stop myself, when some asshole in a leather jacket sidles up next to her.
I don't recognize him. Probably one of the crowd, someone who bet big and won bigger. He's got that look about him. Swagger. Confidence that comes from thinking the world owes him something.
