Page 8 of Violent Things
“What does it matter who it is? I thought you said we looked pretty even.” I smirk because I’m an evil motherfucker and I know, despite how much I respect Michael, that I was winning that fight. I usually do, which is not to say Michael isn’t seriously capable with his fists. I’m just more capable.
“And what happens if Idon’tget a couple of good hits on you?”
“Then I probably knock you out and that’s the end of it.”
“I can go?”
“Sure.” I’m feeling very benevolent, even though I shouldn’t be. At least I know now that I need to replace the fucking locks.
“Okay, then. Fine.” Mason nods, as though he’s steeling himself, and then he rips his Gracie Barra hoody over his head. He moves past me to climb into the ring. The guy’s not really a kid, after all. He’s clearly in shape, arms full of tattoos.He has a fighter’s physique. How long has he been training in my fucking gym without me knowing? I can see by the way he’s smiling that Michael’s thinking the same thing, as I jump back into the ring after Mason.
“You got gloves?” I ask him.
“You’renot wearing gloves.”
I pick up my gloves from the corner of the ring, arching an eyebrow at him. “I doubt you’re ready for the bare knuckle version of me, kid.”
I’ve been fighting like that since I was a teenager, training with Charlie’s bagmen and enforcers all throughout my physically formative years. Most people aren’t like that, though. Most people have never thrown a punch and felt their actual fist make contact with someone’s face. It’s not exactly painless.
Michael tosses up his own gloves to Mason, shaking his head as he takes a seat at the edge of the ring, ready to watch this go down. It starts as soon as the kid has his gloves on. I move in, fast and explosive, landing a heavy hit to his side.
Mason absorbs the blow, wincing only a little as he adjusts his guard. He’s light on his feet like Michael, but I can also see immediately that he hasn’t benefitted from the same training.His guard is sloppy. There are so many gaps for me to get through, it’s not even funny. I point this out by jabbing my fist directly through his hands and smacking him squarely on the forehead. It’s not an actual hit. It’s me showing him how open he’s leaving himself.
We go on like this for a full minute. I see an opening. I take it. I prod or jab him. I show him all the ways I could hurt him, but I don’t. Mason just takes it. He stares solidly at me, wheeling around, trying to get away from me where he can. It’s the third time I jab him on his forehead that he gets tired of the abuse and counters.
I can see the moment where he decides enough is enough. I know what’s going through his head:It’d be better to have him actually retaliating and hitting me properly than to be mocked.He comes at me, sending punch after punch, fast, with a good rhythm, until I find myself taking a step back. One step.
“Boss, if you still want to collect your better half, it’s time we finished things up here,” Michael says.
That’s all I need to hear. I dodge one of Mason’s more powerful punches, pivoting my body to the right so that I have a clear shot at his open side, and then I hit him. I really hit him. He doubles over, and I bring my left fist up in an uppercut that sends him reeling. I didn’t hit him anywhere near as hard as I could, if I’d set my mind to it. I hit him hard enough for him torememberit.
He goes down.
He doesn’t get back up again for six seconds. That’s a hell of a long time to be on the ground if you’re fighting someone. The kid’s eyes are flashing with disappointment and fury when he faces me again. “I thought you were gonna knock me out,” he says.
“Not this time. Maybe I will next time, though.”
“What next time?”
I take my gloves off and toss them on the boards, shaking my head. I can’t believe I’m even about to fucking say this. “The next time you come in here. During open hours. We’ll train again then. But if I find out you’ve been in here again when I’m not, I’ll skin you alive, motherfucker, you read me?”
Mason ducks his head, then stoops and collects his hoody. He puts it back on and then fixes me in that weird, challenging stare of his. Has nobody told him he’s not fucking Al Capone yet? “All right,” he says. “Thanks, man. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, then.” He vaults over the ropes and that’s it. He leaves without looking back once.
“You know you’re turning into a soft fucking touch, don’t you?” Michael says, slinging me my own zip-up hoody.
I glare at him, but we both know I don’t mean it. “Keep saying stuff like that and I’ll have to prove you wrong, asshole.”
As we leave the gym and I make sure everything is locked up tight, pointless though that now seems, Michael digs me in the side. “Seriously, though, man. A year ago someone would have found that kid unconscious in the gutter out here. And now you’re gonna train him?”
I sigh, scratching at my jaw. There are two reasons why I did what I did, but I can only tell Michael one of them. “He didn’t back down. He didn’t give up. He had enough fire in him to force me back a step, too. That’s something. Maybe there’s more.”
“Maybe.” Michael tosses me the keys to the Camaro, and I climb into the driver’s seat, slamming the door behind me. He remains silent on the drive over to St. Peter’s Hospital—the guy just knows when he should talk and when he shouldn’t—and I use the quiet to gather my thoughts. Yeah, I did let the kid get away with breaking into the gym because I can see some sort of potential in him. But I also let him get away with it because the way he looked at me, so fierce and determined yet downtrodden at the same time, reminded me of someone.
Someone we buried next to a river in the mountains.
Chapter Four
Sloane
