"Cool," I say, trying not to feel like a burden.
"I'll partner up with you, cutie," some guy comes up to me. Tall, with long straight hair to his neck, and skinny as heck. Kind of looks like a French model or something with defined features, black eyes, and a big nose. He really doesn’t seem like he fits the scene, or maybe that's just my impression. But I'm pretty sure he's checking me out, his gaze traveling all over me, even pausing on my shorts. I suddenly feel exposed, as if he's eyeing me like some snack. Usually I'm used to all sorts of guys and girls hitting on me, but this feels different. I shrug it off, figuring it's just my imagination running wild. As a newbie here, I can't be too picky about who wants to spar with me. Or to do anything with me, really.Even spank me.
"Sure," I say, trying not to sound like a complete dork, and he shoots me another hungry look, even licking his lips.
"What’s your name, cutie?" he asks. His tone is odd as fuck.
"Liam. Just got here today," I reply.
“I love fresh meat," he says. "Name's Garrett, but you can call me daddy."
"That’s a weird thing to say, man," I mutter, feeling my stomach twist a bit. This guy is weird. He laughs loudly at my answer, though, like it's the funniest joke.
"Enough chat, let’s get to it," Griff calls out to us. Other pairs are already practicing their punches. Garrett shows me how to punch the pad that he holds in front of his face, and I already know how to throw a decent punch from my days fighting in the streets. Then, it's my turn to hold the pad. But this guy is definitely off, just like I first thought.
He takes off his gloves and throws them to the ground. Then he pretends he's going to punch the pad but instead goes for a grab at my balls.
I don't see it coming. One moment, I'm bracing for a punch, all my weight set, and the next, I feel his bony hand clamping between my legs, fingers clawing upward so fast I think I'll throw up.
Instinct takes over before my brain can catch up: my hand shoots up, and I clock him right in the face. Not a slap. Not a tap. A real, full-force punch that makes my knuckles ache with the old, familiar thrill of street fighting.
Garrett staggers back, clutching his cheek, and before he even hits the mat, he's shrieking at the top of his lungs. The whole gym goes dead silent for a second, then the chaos starts. A dozen heads snap to us at once. Some kids howl with laughter, some jeer, and some scramble to get a better look. I hear one guy yell, "Holy shit, the rookie just dropped him!" and another, "Cheap shot, man!" Garrett is flopped on the mat, rolling around in agony like I’ve just stabbed him, not punched. But the worst part is the noise he makes: long, high-pitched wails, way louder than any real injury could explain, like:
WAAAAAAANNNHHHHWWWWNN
He's milking it for every ounce of drama, howling and sobbing.
I stand over him, panting and blinking, trying to process what the hell just happened. I don’t even feel bad. Not one bit. If anything, I brace for him to get up swinging, but he just lies there, screeching, face buried in both hands. Blood trickles between his fingers where I've split the skin above his cheekbone. Maybe I should feel guilty, but all I feel is adrenaline, and a cold pride that I haven't just stood there and taken it. "Damn, new kid's got a mean right," someone says under their breath. Even Ethan is staring, eyes wide, mouth open.
But he doesn't seem very amused. He seems angry. More than angry. More than furious, even. He seems like he'll have my ass for that. My heart pounds so hard my vision sparkles at the edges.
Griff comes over right away while the baby keeps whimpering and making a big deal out of it. "Come here," he says sternly, grabbing me by my arm and leading me off the mat. “Garrett, go wash your face. Reed, keep the class going.”
I follow him, almost stumbling. We go to the next room, apparently his office, and everything happens so fast I can barely process it all.
In the quiet of his office, he seems terrifying.
"Whatthe hellwas that?" he asks, his eyes icy. My stomach churns. From what Jack has said, he might punish me somehow, and I'm still sore from the beating I took from Ethan and really am not up for another round of whatever type of sick punishment they do here, even if it isn't corporal. Griff folds his arms, gaze fixed on me.
"Sir, he grabbed my balls and came at me. I was just defending myself."
He doesn’t blink. “Do you really think punching him in the face is the best way to defend yourself?”
I open my mouth, instinctively about to sayof course, but falter, suddenly feeling hella tired, and again that feeling of wanting to vomit is stronger than ever. The room is hot, the air in here thick with that old gym stink, and I can hear the rest of the class through the thin wall, the thumps of gloves and padding.
“It was just a reflex. Sorry,” I say, struggling to sound as sincere as possible. I force myself to hold his gaze. Fucking hell.
“Reflex,” he repeats. Something flickers across his face, not a smile, but close. He kills it fast. “You must have one hell of a reflex, Marsal.” He props himself up on the edge of his battered desk. “Let’s get this straight. You’re not home anymore. This isn’t the street. You don’t solve problems here by knocking someone’s teeth in.”
“He was…” I start, but Griff cuts me off with a look.
“I know what he was doing. Still, you don't react like that.” His jaw works for a second, like he's chewing on something he's not going to say. "Garrett's not your problem. He's mine. And believe me, he will be dealt with. But only I can do it. Not you. Am I clear?"
I’m upset, but I try to swallow it down; this place is all about swallowing things down.
“Yes, sir.”
He stares at me for a few seconds. “Now, I'm going to call your leader to discuss your behavior.”
