Page 28 of Rent a Bad Boy

It lasts long enough that I start bracing for the part where she tells me this is too much. That she didn’t sign up for this. She wanted a guy to scare her HOA, not a guy who gets punched in the face in the back of a warehouse so he can pay his mortgage.

Nothing could’ve prepared me for what comes out of her mouth. “I want to see it.”

My head snaps around. “What?”

“A fight. I want to see one.” She wraps her arms around her knees and looks at me with an expression I wish I could read. It’s not like she’s scared or disgusted. More like she’s determined. Like she’s made a decision, and she’s going to see it through whether I like it or not. “If this is part of your life, I want to understand it. I can’t just hear about it and fill in the blanks with whatever my brain comes up with, because my brain will come up with the worst possible version. I’d rather just see the real thing.”

“It’s not pretty.”

“I didn’t think it would be.”

“I’m serious, Isla. It’s not a football game. There are no refs, no rules, and there’s no one to stop it when somebody goes down. It’s ugly, and it’s loud, and people get hurt. People bleed.”

“Do you bleed?”

“Sometimes.”

“Do you win?”

Something tightens in my chest. “Always.”

She nods once. “Then I want to see it.”

The warehouse is about forty minutes from campus. The kind of building you’d drive past a thousand times without even looking at it: gray cinderblock, no signs, a loading dock on one end that hasn’t been used in years. From the outside, it’s nothing.

From the inside? It’s a cage.

Not literally. There’s no cage. There’s just a circle of bodies, maybe sixty or seventy people deep. They crowd around a space on the concrete floor that’s been cleared of pallets and debris. The lights are industrial fluorescents, and half of them are out, so everything has this dim, yellow quality to it that makes the whole scene feel like it’s happening underwater. There’s no announcer or walkout music. There’s just noise. Talking, shouting, the sound of someone’s speaker blasting something with too much bass from a corner I can’t see.

Isla stands close to me. Her hand grips the back of my jacket, and she’s pressed against my side. I can feel her pulse through the contact, quick and jumpy. She’s overwhelmed, even if she’s trying not to show it. The crowd, the noise, the smell—sweat and concrete, and cheap beer, and something metallic underneath all of it that she probably doesn’t recognize.

I do. I’ve tasted it enough times. The place smells like blood underneath everything else.

“You okay?” I ask, leaning down so she can hear me.

“Yep. Totally fine. Just a normal night in a warehouse full of strangers watching people fight for money.” Her voice is doing that thing where she talks faster when she’s nervous. “Very chill. Very casual.”

I almost smile. “Stay here. Don’t move. Don’t talk to anybody either. If anybody gives you trouble, you find Reece.” I point to a guy near the wall with his thick arms crossed as he scans the crowd. He runs the fights and owes me a couple of favors. “Tell him you’re with me. He’ll keep you safe.”

“You say that like there’s a chance I won’t be safe.”

“There’s always a chance.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“I wasn’t trying to be.” I pull off my jacket and hand it to her. Underneath, I’m wearing a tank top and sweats. My hands are already taped—I do my own wraps these days, thin enough that it barely counts as protection but thick enough to keep my knuckles from splitting open on someone’s teeth. “I’ll be quick.”

“How quick is quick?” Her eyes are darting back and forth, and now she’s breathing faster. She’ll chew her lip off if she’s not careful.

“It depends on the other guy.”

Tonight, the other guy is someone I’ve never fought before. He’s about my height, heavier by maybe twenty pounds. He has the kind of build that tells me he trains, but not smart. Muscle guys always think size is the whole game. It’s not. Speed is. Knowing where to hit and when to stop holding back. That’s what wins fights. Anyone can throw a punch. Not everyone can end one.

I don’t look at Isla when I step into the circle. I can’t. If I look at her right now, I’ll see her face. If I see her face, I’ll think about what she’s thinking. If I think about what she’s thinking, I won’t be able to do what I need to do. And I need to do this. Not just for the money, though the money is the reason I’m here. I need the quiet. I need the part where my head empties out and there’s nothing left but the hit and the sound it makes, and the half-second of silence that follows.

There’s no bell to start the fight. No countdown. Just two guys in a circle and a crowd that wants to see somebody bleed.

It takes about ninety seconds.