I didn’t even think about how it would affect them.

I should have.

I made a fist and pounded on their back door. “Jackson!” I tried to scream, but the knot in my throat prevented it. I looked over my shoulder, watching, waiting for my dad to appear from the darkness.

This time, Jackson’s parents didn’t fake ignoring it. Heated words were exchanged over the thudding of footsteps down their stairs. Relief washed through me, but it wouldn’t have shown. I was too far-gone—too physically hurt to do anything but use the door to support my weight.

And then the door opened and Jax was there; his eyes wide as he took in my state. Too weak to stay upright, I fell forward. First to my knees, then the rest of me followed. Even though I’m sure it happened quickly—the fall felt eternal.

I winced in pain as I folded over myself—the one eye I managed to open caught sight of my blood pooling on their kitchen floor. “I didn’t know,” I moaned, but speaking just made the pain worse; I let out an agonizing cry. Jackson squatted down next to me, his eyebrows drawn in concern. He offered a hand to help me up. I stood in front of Jax and his parents, my shoulders slumped. My breath was ragged—caused by the blows my lungs had just copped. I choked on the blood filling my mouth—coughing and spurting—feeling the warmth of it trickle down my chin. I heard a gasp and tried to settle down—tried to push my shoulders back—but my body didn’t allow it. I eyed them all one by one, pleading for something.

“Help.”

I needed help.

My body tensed, as if somehow sensing his presence. The asshole’s voice filled my ears. “Don’t run away from me, you little cunt. Face it like a man!”

At the time, I’d never been more frightened than I was those few seconds before I turned around and faced my dad.

Dad—the epitome of someone who’s supposed to love and protect you. But he wasn’t any of those things. He was the devil. In the flesh. His red-rimmed eyes held so much rage. When the snarl pulled on his lips and he took a step forward, I somehow stood my ground.

His eyes narrowed at Jackson and then at the blood pooled by my feet. Finally, his gaze settled on me. “Useless, weak, pathetic little cunt,” he spit. He took another step forward, his eyes never leaving mine, then his fist rose...The word, “Stop,” echoed in my ears, and I had no doubt they came from Jackson.

Then an unquestionable sound echoed through the house—that ‘click click’ of a pump action shotgun.

“You best be leaving now,” Christine said, her tone full badass. If she was scared or intimidated by the situation, the clarity in her voice completely hid it.

Her name was a whisper as it fell from my lips.

Jeff stepped up beside me.

“Now!” Christine clipped.

The cold steel of the gun barrel pushed against my bare arm as she nudged me to the side and got between me and the Devil. “I’m not afraid to pull the trigger,” she said, her voice remaining calm. She pointed the gun until it made contact with his chest. “Test me,” she challenged. Like she really, really, wanted an excuse to pull the trigger and end him.

Slowly, his hands went up in surrender, his eyes moving from her to me.

“Take one more look,” Christine said. “This is the last time you’ll ever fucking see him.”

***

“You looking to get eighty-sixed out of here?”

I snap out of my thoughts and look up at the man standing in front of me; shaved head. Black suit. Arms crossed over his huge chest. Fatter than a motherfucker.

Wondering for a second why he chose me out of all the people here to approach, I clear my throat. “Who do I need to speak to about fighting?”

He eyes me up and down, slowly, and then he laughs—an all-consuming guttural laugh. “You and all the other punks,” he states. “Watch the fights. We’ll talk at the end if you still want in.” I think he’s about to walk away, but he grasps my shoulders and makes me face the cage. And I’m glad I do because my initial assumption was wrong; the guys in the cage aren’t amateurs.

It’s clear from their appearance that they’re in the same weight class and I can tell just from watching that their expertise in Martial Arts is completely different. The cage itself isn’t an octagon like most MMA organizations. It’s round, which makes it harder for the fighters to corner their opponent and pound them.

The bell dings to signal the end of the second round and a medic comes in to check on both fighters.

The breaks are short but long enough that the fighters can catch their breaths.

And just as quickly as it ends, the final round begins.

The fighters bump their glove-covered fists and circle a few times before the first punch is thrown. The bulkier fighter uses fancy footwork and quick jabs to keep his distance. He throws a mean right hook, dropping his opponent to the ground. He sees his opportunity and rushes the dude, now lying on his back on the mat. He tries to finish him with some decent ground and pound, but his opponent’s good on the ground. Too good. Most likely trained in wrestling or jiu-jitsu. His opponent recovers quickly and catches him in a classic arm bar, but the dude doesn’t tap. The crowd screams for him to tap the fuck out, but his pride wins out and his arm snaps.

He’ll be out of commission for months.

Stupid.

The loser nurses his broken arm out of the cage and down a clear path into another room.

“That guy’s an idiot,” a voice says from next to me. “He should’ve tapped the second his arm was locked.”

I look to my right and come face to face with Nate DeLuca.

Shrugging, I turn away and try to keep my adrenaline in check.

“Tiny tells me you want to fight?” he says.

I face him. “Tiny?”

“Yeah,” He jerks his head to the guy that approached me earlier. “That’s Tiny.” He waits for me to respond. I don’t. He adds, “Meet me up at the bar tomorrow, 1400 hours, soldier.”

I narrow my eyes at him.

He motions his head toward my chest. “Your dog tags,” he says, before patting my shoulder twice and walking away.

I watch as he weaves through the crowd, hands in his front pockets—as if he doesn’t have a single care in the world.

Too bad for him—I’m about to change all of that.

3

I’M USED TO wearing an ambiguous mask. Which helps, especially when Nate DeLuca walks into the bar and takes the stool next to mine.

“You want to fight?” are his opening words.

I nod and focus on the row of bottles lined up behind the bar.

“It takes months,” he adds.

“For what?”

“You saw the fights, right? They’re not amateurs. Months of training just to get looked at, and even longer just showing up to every fight, getting to know the process, the competition...getting to know me...Building that trust...”

Perfect, I thought. I want to build his trust. I want to get to know him, the process...all that shit. But the competition? I couldn’t give a fuck about that. I turn to him. “You think I’m untrustworthy?”

“Here’s the thing,” he starts, turning on his stool to face me. “Normally, we see the prospective fighters around on fight nights. They watch, they learn, and after a while, they get the balls to ask what they need to do to get in that cage. You? You show up out of nowhere, and you just ask.”