Page 26 of Wilde's End
I can’t blame Kennedy because that’s all I want too. “Unfortunately, these guys aren’t giving us that option.”
“I don’t want to make things worse. This was supposed to bring us together.”
Hart cackles. “This? Really?”
We both ignore him. But I can’t ignore what Kennedy says next.
“I’ve been so worried about both of you. Back home, we were lucky if Hart showed up for work, and if you weren’t making yourself depressed by fucking Sutton, you were drinking to forget about him. I was worried you’d … you know,relapse.”
It’s hard to hold those thoughts against him when I’ve been having them myself. I’m completely caught off guard that it’s something he picked up on. “I’m over that. It was shortsighted teenage stuff. That’s it.”
His gaze is unexpectedly shrewd. “Wasit?”
We’re not going there. I pick up the helmet and hold my hand out to Hart. “Keys?”
He fishes around in his pocket before he tosses them to me. “Where are you going?”
“To find Wilde.”
“Hudson—”
I cut Kennedy off before he can worry. “Totalk. To make a truce. You’re right, this is all stupid and needs to end.”
“Promise you won’t start anything?”
“I promise.” He gets a real smile from me. “I’m an easy guy to get along with. All Wilde needs is a bit of the old Bellamy charm.” And a kick up the ass.
“Don’t go too far,” he says. “Your phone location is on, isn’t it?”
I don’t bother reminding him how shit the reception out here is. “Of course.”
“Then be safe. And, Huddy? Good luck. We kinda need this.”
That’s the whole reason I’m doing this. For my brothers. The two people who mean more to me than anyone in this world.
CHAPTER
TEN
WILDE
I’m rippling with agitation as I head around the property, checking for fire hazards and testing to see if the perimeter fence is still intact. I’m no less annoyed by the time I get back to my place, so instead of spending the day pissed off, I grab my post—a polished stick that’s about three feet tall and an inch thick—from inside and make my way down to the Lair. We only officially built this place ten years ago, and just like the Cutty—our town bar—we keep it pristine. The external timber is oiled and polished to a gleam, standing ten feet tall all around, and whenever I’m here, it’s like everything else falls into place.
Wilde’s End has survived through luck, and we’re not the only remote community out here. The Dale is closest and the biggest, but there are plenty of others that need money to keep going as well. It’s where Peril originated.
It started as illegal fighting rings. People would show up once a month to place bets, beat the shit out of each other, and then leave. The problem with angry people in an arena is that thematches were fast and dirty. There were also injuries severe enough that if we didn’t change something, people would start asking questions.
So the podiums were added. Like an obstacle course to fight on, with the main objective being to knock your opponent off instead of beating them to within an inch of their life. In order to get close enough to knock someone off though, it also gives them the chance to pull you down with them, and matches ending in a draw aren’t profitable.
That’s where our posts came in.
The Lair is roughly the size of a lecture hall, with seating on all four sides and a sunken floor in the middle. The floor is padded to prevent serious injury, but the tiered platforms in the middle and the bars hanging overhead are shiny, unrelenting metal.
No matter how many fights I win or lose here, it feels like home.
I cross the padded floor to reach the starting platform and climb up onto it. My post is heavier than what most people use, but it’s perfect for what I need today.
From the first swing, my muscle memory takes over. The effort I have to pour into each strike and movement focuses all my thoughts into my training and helps drain the frenetic energy from my limbs. I move from one platform to the next, testing my balance as I hit and attack imaginary opponents, all of them looking exactly like Foley.
