Page 2 of Talk Howly to Me

Sloane ducked under the ropes and made her way through the crowd toward the locker room. Hands reached out to pat her shoulders and voices called congratulations she didn't acknowledge. The attention felt heavy and unwanted. She'd joined this world for the money, not the fame.

Minutes later, the locker room door closed behind her with a satisfying click, muffling the noise from the venue. Concrete walls, metal lockers, and a single flickering bulb—it looked exactly like every other basement she'd changed in over the past year.

Sloane pulled off her gloves and unwrapped her hands methodically, checking for new damage. Her knuckles were swollen but intact. A small cut on her cheekbone would heal within days. Nothing that would keep her out of the gym.

Eleven thousand dollars.

The number still felt surreal. More money than she'd seen at once since aging out of foster care. Enough to stop calculating every grocery purchase, every utility bill, and every small expense that added up to constant anxiety.

She splashed cold water on her face from the rusted sink, washing away sweat and the metallic taste of adrenaline, and her reflection stared back at her—hazel eyes still sharp with post-fight energy, brown hair escaping its braid, and a face that had learned not to expect anything from anyone.

Twenty-six years of survival had taught her that money disappeared as quickly as it appeared. But tonight, for just a few hours, she could pretend that eleven thousand dollars meant safety instead of just another temporary reprieve.

Sloane changed into street clothes—jeans, boots, and a hoodie that had seen better years—and stuffed her fight gear into a worn duffel bag with efficient and practiced movements. Time to go and disappear before anyone decided they wanted to discuss her future, her potential, or any of the other lies promoters told fighters who won too often.

The underground circuit had given her something no legitimate job ever had: the ability to earn enough money to survive without depending on anyone else's promises. And after a lifetime of broken promises, relying on herself felt like the safest bet she could ever make.

Sloane shouldered her duffel bag and headed for the locker room door, exhaustion settling into her bones now that the adrenaline had faded, and the door swung open abruptly.

"Well, well. Look who just made Roxy eat canvas."

Tasha stepped inside, her compact frame filling the doorway with quiet confidence. She carried a thick manila envelope in one hand, her dark eyes scanning Sloane's face with the practiced assessment of someone who'd seen too many fighters push through too much.

"Are you counting my money for me now too?" Sloane dropped her bag beside a rusted locker, though her tone held no real irritation.

"Someone has to make sure the promoters don't shortchange their best earners." Tasha extended the envelope with a slight smile. "Eleven thousand, exactly as promised."

Sloane accepted the envelope, feeling the satisfying weight of cash through the manila. More money than she'd held at once since—well, ever. But instead of relief, a familiar hollowness crept through her chest.

"Nice work out there," Tasha continued, settling against the doorframe. "Your footwork's improved since last month. Roxy never saw that hook coming."

"I know I could have anticipated her combinations better." Sloane tucked the envelope into her duffel bag, avoiding Tasha's perceptive gaze. "Got a little too eager for the knockout instead of staying patient."

"Exactly." Tasha's voice carried the tone of someone who'd learned these lessons through her own mistakes. "Patience is what keeps you on your feet and wins fights. Roxy's dangerous when she's desperate, but desperation makes fighters sloppy. You read that perfectly."

The locker room's fluorescent light cast harsh shadows across the concrete walls, making everything look bleached and temporary. Like her entire life.

"Speaking of reading situations," Tasha pushed off from the doorframe, "why don't we grab some burgers from Jerry's down the street? Celebrate your win properly."

The suggestion caught Sloane off guard. Tasha rarely suggested anything beyond fight strategy and practical advice. Their relationship had always operated within carefully defined boundaries—professional respect wrapped in mutual understanding, but never quite crossing into genuine friendship.

"That sounds exactly like what I need right now." Sloane zipped her duffel bag closed, surprised by how much she meant it. "I'm starved."

They soon walked through the venue's maze of corridors, past clusters of fighters and spectators still buzzing with post-fight energy. The basement's stale air gave way to cooler night air as they emerged into the back alley behind the building. Streetlights cast pools of yellow light across cracked asphalt, and the distant hum of traffic provided a steady backdrop to their footsteps.

Neither woman thought twice about walking through the alley. They'd both survived worse neighborhoods and faced more dangerous opponents than any street criminal could offer. But Sloane automatically cataloged potential exits while Tasha kept her hands loose at her sides—old habits that had kept them both alive in a world where showing weakness invited predators.

Suddenly, a black SUV appeared without warning.

It cut across their path like a blade, tires squealing against asphalt as it lurched to a stop barely three feet from where they stood. Then two men emerged from the front seats with the coordinated efficiency of people accustomed to intimidation. The driver stood well over six feet, his shoulders straining the seams of his leather jacket while his companion was shorter but broader with hands that looked capable of crushing bones without much effort.

"You need to come with us." The taller man's eyes fixed on Sloane with predatory focus, completely ignoring Tasha's presence.

Sloane's body shifted into a fighting stance without conscious thought as every instinct screamed danger. "I'm not going anywhere with you two."

"Our employer wants to speak with you." The shorter man stepped closer, his voice carrying the kind of casual menace that suggested violence was always his preferred solution. "Best to do this the easy way."

Tasha moved slightly to Sloane's left, creating space between them while positioning herself for maximum mobility. Her expression remained calm, but Sloane caught the subtle tension in her shoulders. They both recognized the situation for what it was—not a request but a barely veiled threat.