Page 6 of Violent Things
“Tired?” I clench my hands into fists, lowering my cantering of gravity before putting my guard up and stalking forward. “I don’t get tired when it counts, Michael.”
“And when does it count?” he laughs, putting up his own fists, rocking from side to side on the balls of his feet. Michael may not be able to hit quite as hard as me, but the guy’s quick on his feet. He snaps out punches faster than lightning.
“When I’m fighting and when I’m fucking, of course,” I tell him. “Not that you’d know anything about the last part. When was the last time you got laid again?” I feint to the left, bringing home a nasty uppercut with my right hand. It connects with his side, right in the ribcage. His breath wheezes out of him, but his guard stays up. Whoever taught him to fight taught him well.
Yeah, that would be me.
“I got laid last night, boss.” Out comes his left fist in a jab. It makes contact with my jaw, snapping my head around. Fucking hurts, but I grin at him. I know my teeth are stained red with blood—I can taste it on my tongue, the copper lighting up my senses. I’m vaguely aware that I must look like some kind of monster.
“Bullshit,” I say. “If you used your dick last night, you wouldn’t be fighting like such a fucking pussy.”
We circle one another, both looking for an in.
“If I’m fighting like a pussy, then I dread to think what kind of pussy you’ve been getting.”
I immediately stop, freezing to the spot. I straighten up, letting my hands drop to my side out of guard. Tipping my head to one side, I shake it at the same time, pinning him in my unblinking gaze. My boy stills himself too, realization dawning on his face. He knows what he’s said. And I can clearly see that he wishes he could take it back.
“Fuck, man, I’m sorry. I guess I’m just not used to you having a partner.”
I give him a dark look.
A girlfriend?”
I growl, low and deep in my throat.
“A mistress? Fuck, man, I don’t know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it. You know I love Sloane.”
“You’re not helping.”
Michael holds up his hands. I can see the smile begging to spread across his face, but he’s smart enough not to let it happen. “You know what I mean, Zee. I love her like a sister. A white, super tall, ridiculously attractive sister.”
I go for him, charging across the ring, ready to pick his ass up and slam it down onto the boards. Michael barks out a singleha!of laughter before my body slams into his, driving him backward. We’re on the ropes then, and I’m raining down strikes to his torso while he shields his head with his arms. I can still hear him laughing. The bastard is as crazy as me.
“You wanna take that back?”
“Yes! Yeah—ah—fuck!” Michael gasps in between his laughter. “Jesus, man!”
I stop, stepping back, my chest hitching, my breathing fast as I playfully thump him on the arm. “No one gets to talk shit about my girl, Michael. Not even you.”
“I think I’ve got three broken ribs that will attest to that,” he says, pulling himself upright. He knows I’m mostly joking. Mostly. I wasn’t hitting him anywhere near as hard as I could have, but I know a few of those punches must have rung his bell a little. I smirk at him, assessing how fucked he looks. I’m too busy admiring my handiwork to see the intent in his eyes, before he launches at me with a barrage of his own punches. I can do nothing but duck and shield while he lands a succession of powerful hits to my arms, shoulders, ribcage and the side of my head.
It’s not long before I’m laughing, too. The sound must throw Michael—laughter is a relatively new development for me, after all—because he eases back a little. Big mistake. I take the opportunity to go for him again, this time for his legs. I land a solid front kick, right in his stomach. He goes down with a strangledufff, and then I’m straddling him in mount, smashing my fists into him again.
“Fuck me, you guys are insane!”
My head snaps to the side, my right fist frozen in mid-air, Michael’s bloody wife beater bunched up in my other hand. Michael stills too, peering out from behind his guard.
There’s a kid standing at the side of the ring, chewing on gum, ball cap flipped backward on his head, staring at us like we’re fucking insane.I look down at Michael, lifting one eyebrow. “You see what I see?” I ask.
Michael nods. “I sure do.”
“And there was me thinking we were closed.” I slowly rise to my feet, stepping over Michael and pacing carefully, deliberately toward the intruder. I let every single ounce of malice I can muster radiate through me as I stop in front of the kid. “You wanna tell me how you got in here?” I ask slowly. “Because I fuckingknowI locked up for the night.”
The kid has the common sense to look worried. I take him in, assessing him as he shifts from one foot to the other. Clear, open-looking green eyes. He’s tall, maybe six-one, six-two. There’s a small scar running down the side of his head, from his temple to the curve of his cheekbone. Can’t tell what color hair he’s got underneath that ball cap but from his eyebrows I’m going with dark brown. Even though he’s clearly shitting himself, he holds himself upright and rigid. It’s a fighter’s stance, if a bad one. I catch sight of his Gracie Barra hoody and I know what that means: he’s either a wannabe Ju Jitsu fighter or he just loves watching UFC on TV. “You feel like answering me anytime soon?” I rumble.
“I just wanted to train. I didn’t—”
“Break in?”
