“Louis deserved to die.” Hunt grips my shoulder. “And we all knew it was a long shot. Hearst is well protected. You stood no real chance of getting to him.”
“I need to get out of here.” I eyeball Hunt. “There’s a fight club in Nexton, a couple towns over.”
“It’s too risky, Kai.”
I crack my knuckles. “I don’t have a choice.” I let him see the darkness clawing at my insides. “I need to beat someone to a bloody pulp, or I’ll take it out on her.”
“She’s been hurt enough.” Lauder’s response is predictable, and it grates on my nerves.
“Stop fucking interfering.” I hiss. “She’s mine to worry about, and I know she’s hurting. This has devastated her.” I grip the side of the island. “Why the fuck do you think I’m risking discovery? I need to fight, or I’ll do something I regret. I don’t want to take it out on her.”
And while a part of me knows she needs to be punished so she knows not to fucking keep shit from me again, I can find more creative ways of making her suffer.
Hunt has been watching me. “Okay.” He straightens up. “But we’ll need to make contingency plans to leave sooner than later.”
“Agreed.” I level a look at Hunt. “Start the car, and I’ll follow you out.”
He leaves, and I face Lauder. “Can I trust you to watch over her and not touch her?”
He faces off with me, anger splaying across his features. The enforced weed ban when we first arrived here made me realize it’s been so long since I’ve seen genuine expression on his face. Even now, I’d take his anger over his casual, stoner face any day.
“I haven’t laid a finger on her,” he says through gritted teeth.
“But you want to,” I challenge.
“Doesn’t mean I would.”
“See that you don’t.” I glare at him. “She’s mine.”
“She could’ve been mine,” he bravely retorts, straightening his shoulders.
“We both know that,” I agree. “But she chose me.” I back down, sighing. “I don’t want to fight you. And as pissed as I am, I don’t want to take it out on her either.”
“You won’t. And I would never cross that line, bro. She’s your girl, and I’ll keep her safe.” He clamps a hand on my shoulder. “Go.”
I nod and exit the kitchen, grabbing my jacket before leaving the house.
“This place is a shithole,” Hunt exclaims, as we step into the grungy bar on the outskirts of town. Lighting is dim, but it doesn’t disguise the shabby décor. Paint peels off the walls, and the scuffed hardwood floors have seen better days. The mismatched tables and chairs only add to the whole look and feel of the place. Several heads turn in our direction as we walk in, eyes narrowing suspiciously.
“It’s a typical biker’s hangout. What’d you expect?” I say as we walk toward the bar.
“It’s a far cry from New York,” Hunt says, maintaining his usual unruffled manner.
“It’s more real than any of those bars we used to go to,” I say, leaning over the counter to capture the blonde bartender’s attention.
“Hey there, handsome.” She blatantly eye-fucks me as her eyes roam my body, but she does nothing for me. There is zero action happening in my pants. I wouldn’t mind a fuck because it’s been weeks, but the only woman I want underneath me is the current source of my pain. “What can I get you?”
“I’m looking for Mike.”
She eyes me with even more interest as she crooks her finger at me, motioning me closer. I prop my elbows on the counter and lean in. Her breath falters a little, and her eyes glaze over, but I’m not here to fuck some random chick.
I’m here to pound some random fucker’s face until he’s barely breathing.
That’s the only way I’ll get my rage under control.
“Mike!” I snap my fingers in her face.
“Impatient much?” She smirks, not intimidated, and I must be losing my touch.
“Always,” I growl. “Now where can I find him?”
“Head back out the door, take the alleyway, and knock on the brown door at the rear of the building.”
I stalk off without thanking her, and Hunt follows behind me.
“You sure you want to do this?” Hunt asks, scanning the room once we’re inside. It’s a much smaller venue than the usual warehouses I fight in, but I’ll take what I can get.
A ring is the focal point in the space, and two burly guys are beating the shit out of one another, watched by boisterous, drunk dudes. There isn’t much standing room, and the crowd thrusts and sways, shouting obscenities and encouragement.
The betting is laughable compared to the circuits I’m familiar with, but I don’t care.
It’s not about the money for me anymore, and even when I was fighting for my brothers, to ensure we had enough cash to look after them, it was always more about the high.
I know I’m a sick fuck.
But I’m the product of my upbringing.
Still, it could be worse.
After what I’ve heard about Parkhurst, I think I drew the long straw.
There’s no telling how fucked up I’d be if we’d stayed in Rydeville and they had forced me into that depraved world.
I glare at Hunt, and he laughs. “Try not to kill him,” he says, as the previous fight ends with one guy hauled unconscious from the ring.
“I’m making no promises,” I say, ripping my shirt off my back and handing it to him.
The MC ushers me into the ring a few minutes later, and I assess my opponent with my mask firmly in place. Fighting is as much about mental intimidation as it is brute force or skill with my fists.
The guy I’m fighting has at least thirty pounds and fifteen years on me. His hard life is etched in every coarse line on his face. His full beard is in direct contrast to his bald head, and ink covers his entire upper body. He’s solid, bulky, and he has some muscle definition, but there’s no way he spends hours in the gym daily like me. Still, he’s a formidable opponent, and judging by his conceited stare, he thinks victory is a sure thing.
Normal dudes would be afraid.
But I’ve never claimed to be normal.
This arrogant asshole is the perfect vessel for me to unleash my aggression.
The introductions are made, and I ignore the chorus of boos and hisses leveled my direction. They’ll be singing a different tune when the fight is over.
The bell chimes, and we’re off.
I dance around the ring, letting him lunge at me, easily evading contact because I’m light on my feet. I gather necessary intel. Watching his tells and learning his moves. Once the crowd boos, vocally demanding bloodshed, I swing my fist, landing a strong uppercut to his left cheek.
We go at one another, and he’s a worthy competitor. Every thrust of my fist to his face and his torso fuels the adrenaline coursing through my veins. I hardly feel his hits as I release the monster locked up inside me, pouring all my frustration and rage into the fight. Sweat drips down my back and over my brow into my eyes, but it doesn’t stop me. I throw punches, over and over, barely drawing a breath.