Page 13 of Her Name in Red
Sometimes I wonder why the fuck Declan doesn't go pro and fight for real. He's got the skills, the strength, the raw talent that could take him places. But it's none of my fucking business. Maybe he likes the underground scene, the grit and grime of these warehouse brawls. Or maybe he's got his reasons for staying in the shadows. We've all got our secrets.
I push through the crowd, shouldering past the press of bodies until I reach the sign-up table. The guy manning it looks like he's seen better days, sporting a nasty shiner and a split lip that's barely started to heal.
“Rhodes,” I say, tossing a crumpled wad of bills onto the table. “Put me down for the next available slot.”
He nods, scribbling my name on a worn clipboard. “You're up after this fight. Better start warming up.”
I nod, my muscles already twitching with anticipation. As I turn to find a spot to warm up, I catch a glimpse of a familiar face in the crowd.
Ramsey fucking Blackwood. He’s got his hand resting on the neck of a girl that barely reaches his chest. She’s cute with her short black hair, but something about her seems familiar. Something tugs at the edges of my memory, but I can’t place it.
He’s got the same fucking smirk on his face he always had when we play SCU.
“Well, well,” he drawls, his voice carrying over the din of the crowd. “If it isn't the St. James boys. Careful, Rhodes. Wouldn't want to mess up that pretty face of yours.”
I feel my jaw clench, but I force myself to stay cool. Ramsey's got an aura about him—quiet and ruthless, with just a hint of something unhinged lurking beneath the surface. But what else can you expect from a fucking Blackwood? The whole family's batshit crazy.
“Blackwood,” I nod, keeping my voice neutral. “Didn't expect to see St. Charles' star player in a dump like this. Daddy know you're out past curfew?”
Ramsey's smirk doesn't falter, but something dangerous flashes in his eyes. “Oh, you know my family. We've got a taste for the finer things in life. Blood, bruises, broken bones.”
“Yea, I’m sure you do.”
“Word of advice, Rhodes,” he says, his voice low and menacing. “Watch your back in there. Never know when someone might get…carried away.”
I meet his gaze, refusing to back down. “I can handle myself, Blackwood. But thanks for the concern.”
He chuckles, the sound devoid of any real humor. “Oh, I'm sure you can. Just remember, some of us fight for more than just the thrill.”
With that cryptic warning, he melts back into the crowd, leaving me with a gnawing sense of unease in my gut.
“Fuck, man,” Martinez mutters beside me. “That guy gives me the creeps.”
I nod, my eyes still tracking Ramsey's movement through the warehouse.
I lean against a grimy support beam, my eyes locked on the makeshift ring. Two guys are going at it. Blood sprays as a wild haymaker connects, and the crowd roars its approval.
Martinez and Johnson drift away, drawn to a cluster of girls near the back. I catch snippets of their bullshit—“Yeah, we play for St. James” and “Nah, these bruises? Just from practice.” I roll my eyes.
My gaze sweeps the warehouse, taking in the motley crew of adrenaline junkies and desperate souls. There's the usual mix of college kids looking for a thrill, washed-up fighters chasing their glory days, and shady fuckers with hollow eyes and twitchy fingers.
I spot Ramsey again, still with that petite dark-haired girl. She's pressed against him now, whispering something in his ear. His hand slides down her back possessively.
A deafening roar snaps my attention back to the ring. One of the fighters is down, sprawled on the blood-stained canvas like a broken doll. His opponent stands over him, chest heaving, fists raised in triumph. The ref calls it, and just like that, it's over.
My pulse quickens as I realize what this means. I'm up next.
I push off from the beam, rolling my shoulders as I make my way to the ring. The crowd parts before me, their hungry eyes raking over my body. They can smell the violence simmering beneath my skin.
As I duck between the ropes, I catch Ramsey's eye. He's watching me intently, that same smirk playing on his lips.
I strip off my shoes, tossing them carelessly to the side. My shirt follows, landing in a crumpled heap.
A girl with a mess of blue hair piled on top of her head and tattoos peeking out from it feels like everywhere climbs into the ring. Her eyes are lined with thick black liner, giving her a haunted, dangerous look. She's carrying a roll of hand wraps and moves towards me with purpose.
“Hands,” she barks, holding up a roll of hand wraps.
I start to protest, “I've got it?—”
