Page 53 of Uppercut Princess

“You should be saying the same thing to yourself,” Brawler challenges.

“I can’t do that…yet. Or ever. We’re not talking about me,” I snap.

He lifts his hand, conceding. “I can’t do that either,” he says after a while. “I’m pretty sure these gyms will want money. Don’t have much of that.”

“But you get paid for the fights, right? And for running it?”

Brawler nods. “Yeah, I do. And if it was just me, I might be okay, but I have to take care of my mom. She can’t work, so it’s all on me.”

I see Brawler in a whole different light. He’s the only one who makes money for his family? It’s just so…sad. I wish I could change that for him. But like with Oscar and Johnny and any of the rest of them, do they even really have a way out of this?

Brawler reaches out his hand, placing it on my calf. I suck in a breath. Every time he touches me, the pull gets stronger. “You know we can’t,” I say. “He’ll kill us.”

In any other scenario, I might be exaggerating, but not this one. I don’t know what he did to the waiter, but I have a feeling if he’s not dead, he wishes he was at the current moment.

“I’m trying to figure out if I care or not.”

I pull my leg back and out of his reach. “I’ll care for the both of us. You saw what he did to that waiter.”

“I’ve been waiting to fight Johnny for a long time, so maybe I don’t give a fuck.”

My mouth slams shut. What Brawler’s just said is akin to treason. If anyone else were here and overheard what he said, he’d be dragged in front of Johnny and his father to be taken care of.

“Don’t act so surprised, Princess. You don’t like him either. You didn’t want him. You didn’t ask for this. He took you, remember? He just decided that you were his one day and now you have to live with the consequences. He forced his lips on you today.” He shudders. “Not because he wanted to, but to prove a point. You don’t want to be anyone’s point, do you?”

My hands fists the sheets at my waist. “Are you trying to piss me off?”

“Actually, yes.”

“Well, good, it’s fucking working.”

“Then leave.”

I shake my head. I can’t believe we’re going through this again. “I’m not leaving.”

“You need to. You need to get the fuck out of here. It’s dangerous. I know you’re a kick ass fighter, but you’re too close to the top now. It’s not safe for you. You’re a target.”

“What do you know?” I ask.

Brawler stands from the bed, his hands diving through his blond hair. “I know what happens to people close to the fucking top!” He turns his back to me, walks a few paces away, and then starts again. His shoulders drop. “You asked if my brother was in the Crew, and I said yes. I already told you he’s dead.” He turns back toward me. His face twisted. “He’s dead because of them, and that’s not even the worst part. My sister’s gone too. She died as a bystander.”

Horror rips through me, and I’m not doing a very good job of acting like it’s not. The Crew killed his brother and sister. “Your sister? Was she—?”

“Fuck no,” he breathes. “Caught in the crossfire when one person is aiming for another and accidentally takes someone else out. That’s what happens in the Crew.” He reaches his hands up to his neck, pulling at the bandages there. He reveals part of a wing, drawn on skin that’s still red and raw. He keeps pulling at the bandage until his whole tattoo is revealed.

I suck in a breath at how beautiful it is.

I drop my feet off the side of the bed and stand, already making my own conclusions on what the tattoo means to him. When I get to him, I reach my fingers out to graze along the crisp edges. Under his left ear is a large, black wing, like an angel of death. It starts in the middle of his throat where his Adam’s apple bobs and reaches all the fleshy dip under his ear, the tip of the wing disappearing there. Under his right ear is a polar opposite tattoo, shadowed in a gold color, but filled in with white like a wing from an angel itself.

Brawler catches my hand. He moves my palm over the black wing. “This is for my brother.” He takes my other hand and places it over the white wing. “This is for my sister. Together, they’re like two parts of me. Some days I feel like this is the only life I’ll know,” he says, squeezing the hand that’s over the black wing. “Other days, I want to be this,” he says, squeezing my hand that’s over the tattoo for his sister. “Most days I’m afraid I won’t live up to either one.”

My breath catches. I haven’t heard such honesty before unless it’s in my own head. “It’s okay to be both,” I say. “A little dark. A little light.”

As I talk, I draw closer and closer, like I’m called there. My lips brush his, and the whole world tilts on its axis. I’ve never met someone so much like me before. What does it say about me that I feel more at home here than I ever did at my aunt and uncle’s house? That I see some of these souls as kindred spirits. Like we were cut from the same cloth. His pain is a Siren’s song to me. I want nothing more than to bathe in it, free my own dark thoughts, so we can emerge from the water free together.

I press my lips more greedily against his. A brush isn’t enough. This is why I was totally against it. This is why I wanted nothing to do with it. Because I knew once it started, it would never be enough.

He winds his arms around me like two thick tree trunks of muscle, pulling me toward him. My chest brushes his, sending delicious sensations to my core.

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