Page 9 of Pulse
The referee held his hand between us. “Round two,” he said to us. “Make it count.”
The whistle blew sharply and it was game on.
I ducked as Fury’s fist came at me, air whooshing by my ear. I didn’t have enough momentum to come back at her so I pivoted on my heel, twisting a whole one-eighty degrees until I was facing her back. She wasn’t as quick as I was, and without breaking stride I grabbed her shoulders in my hands and rammed a knee into her right hand side. She cried out as her entire body buckled underneath her and the crowd roared, chanting Reign of Terror over and over.
Fury landed hard on her right knee and screamed in a mixture of annoyance and pain. That had to hurt. It didn’t faze me anymore, which should’ve been a glaring indicator that I should stop and think about what I was doing, but that’s the thing about being numb. I just didn’t give a shit.
I shoved Fury’s shoulders down and she landed on her back, her leg stuck underneath her body. Kneeling, I raised a fist to finish the job and struck. Punching someone into unconsciousness sounded easy, but it required a great deal of force. It jarred and hurt me as much as it did her. She’d have a bloodyragerof a headache later, but my arm would ache well into tomorrow.
As if that was the least of my problems.
The referee slid to his knees beside us and raised his hand, blowing the whistle. The crowd roared, thumping their feet on the stands. Another ten points to Reign of Terror. I figured that put me in about third place now. Didn’t matter either way, the pay out would be a good one tonight. Another pointless check to deposit into my bank account in the morning.
As soon as I stepped out of the cage, Dean pushed through the crowd and grabbed me roughly around the arm.
Shoving him off I snapped, “What’s your fucking problem?”
“What’s my problem?” he exclaimed. “That’s my fucking problem.” He pointed to the cage, anger simmering in his eyes.
“You’re the only one,” I replied stubbornly. “I fucking won if you hadn’t noticed. Third. Place.”
“You need to cut this crap out,” he hissed.
“Crap?” I asked, my eyebrows rising.
“Yeah, crap. You know this could get you kicked out of the league before you’ve even qualified.”
“I know.”
“Then why do you come here?”
Dean was a fighter, but I wasn’t so sure he would get it. He was straight-laced, fought by the rules, preferred order in his chaos, while I just preferred the chaos part.
He placed his hands on my shoulders, forcing me to look at him. “Why? Is it because of-?”
“Don’t say his name,” I spat, shaking him off.
“Ren, c’mon,” he said, trying to soothe. “We’re all worried about you. You’re up and down so much it’s beginning to scare the crap outta everyone.”
“I’ve always dealt with shit on my own. I don’t need you.”
Dean winced slightly and a small flare of guilt began to bloom at my hurtful comment.
“That’s the thing,” he said. “You don’t need to anymore.”
He was right, but I didn’t know how to let anyone in to help in the first place.
He shook me. “Ren.”
“I need to fight, Dean,” I said. “I’m so fucking angry.” I ran my bound hands over my face. “I need this.”
He frowned for the millionth time that night. “You sound like a junkie, you know.”
I stilled, absorbing the word ‘junkie’.
“If you keep scowling like that,” I said angrily, “the wind will change and you’ll get stuck looking butt ugly.”
Dean sighed, rolling his eyes. “C’mon. I’ll give you a ride back to Beat. I’m not letting you get back into that cage. I’ll fucking hold you down myself.”
