I tie the tourniquet on my bicep, just tight enough to force the veins to the surface. After I prepare the needle, I plunge it into the exposed vein and welcome the rush of euphoria. Fucking finally, I can relax.
***
I’m pretty sure Andre is short for Andre the Giant because that guy at the back door was a fucking tank. I didn’t recognize him, but that’s not unusual. The location changes from night to night and so do the people at the door. It’s the nature of the business.
The warehouse is packed. Bodies stand in rows like sardines and smell like them, too. The putrid smell of body odor, hard liquor, and cheap body spray consumes the breathing air in the room. They vie for the best possible position to see the two guys in the middle of the room beating the absolute crap out of each other. People call out to the guy they bet on in hopes he won’t lose, and they’ll get their cut of the cash, while the referee watches the match and tries not to get hit by a rogue punch. All he’s really good for is making sure nobody ends up dead.
The only rule here is fists only. No weapons. Anybody goes all Tyson and uses their teeth, they won’t have any left once Andre’s finished with them. Other than that, the last man standing wins.
But I’m not here to win. I’m here to fight until I’m a bloody heap on the concrete. I’m here to take my penance like a fucking man.
At six-feet-five, I stand nearly a head taller than most the people in the room. All the exposed flesh wandering about does nothing for me. If anything, it amps up the paranoia. My mind instantly goes back to its comfort zone, and I crane my neck painfully, checking the face of every dark-haired woman to make sure they aren’t Molly.
She haunts me.
I lead a sick existence, always looking over my shoulder for the dead sister I’ll never see again.
The bell sounds, and my muscles tense as if they know my slot is up. When I step toward the ring, the guy I see entering it doesn’t leave any disappointment. He’s a fucking brute, a scarier bastard than me if that’s even possible.
The man’s got a swastika tattooed on the side of his bald head, for fuck’s sake. He’s giving me a run for the most ink, that’s for sure, but that’s not what makes him frightening.
It’s the dead look in his eyes that makes my blood run cold.
This is exactly what I’ve been looking for. What I need.
I remove the black tee I’m wearing, leaving me bare from the waist up. A pair of gray mesh athletic shorts sit low on my hips. My inked chest glistens in the bright overhead lights. Even with the removal of clothing, I’m still sweating from the heat.
The fear.
The anticipation of redemption.
The bodies in the crowd move, sending a gust of air in my direction. It blows against my damp flesh, sending a flash of coolness through my body. I shiver, roll my neck, and pop a mouthguard in.
Then the ref steps up between us.
“Ready?”
I lock eyes with the other fighter, nodding my head before he nods his.
My name is Sin, and I’m here to repent.
With the first hit, the buzz of the crowd dulls like someone turned down the radio. A second later, the sound cycles back to a loud roar, and I begin to move. My feet are quick, but this isn’t about the fight. This is about taking all my body can until I’m nothing but a bloody heap.
When we were kids, before my life turned to hell, our parents made us go to church. Catholic church. We were just past the age where Molly and I had learned about reconciliation, and Ma had begun taking us to confession weekly. It felt strange going into a room with a strange man and telling him all the things I’d done wrong. Afterward, he’d give me a few prayers to say, and suddenly, I was absolved.
I didn’t get it.
I didn’t feel any different, and speaking about the bad things I’d done didn’t suddenly make them okay or take away the guilt. Maybe I had been looking at it all the wrong way, but I hated confession. I wanted to be given something to do or to be told I had to repay my sins in a physical way.
I guess that’s what led me to now.
I couldn’t talk about Molly to make myself feel better, but I could let someone beat the guilt out of me.
I play the part. My footwork is choreographed precision, and my punches land with expertise. But the number of blows I let him have makes me look weak. To the crowd, he’s taking me down. He’s not stupid, though. Two minutes in, and he knows what I want. And he’s more than happy to give it.
Chest, two to the gut, uppercut to my jaw. I blast his left cheekbone through a grunt, but he retaliates quickly, walking me backward with blows to the edge of the ring. I take three to the face before I give him a bloody grin. Fucking finally, I can feel the tension start to ebb away. This is what I want. This is what I need.
The match after that is a blur of movement, and every inch of my body’s screaming in pain. Halfway through, I start to lose consciousness. Black spots flicker across my vision like pictures in a kaleidoscope. Except, instead of colorful splotches and shapes swirling in my vision, I see Molly. And Shelby. The two mix and spin until it becomes hard to separate who is who.
They don’t even look the same—one dark and one light. How I ever thought Shelby was Molly is beyond my comprehension. The drugs, booze, and desperation painted that poor, dying girl into the vision I’ve longed to see for what feels like an eternity.
A blow snaps my head back, and I know this is the end. Of the fight. Of this damn cycle. My body feels warm and cocooned in the blackness taking over me.
I welcome it.
Chapter Six
Sin
“Oh my God, what happened to him?”
“Go wait in the car. You don’t need to see this.”
“No! I don’t want to be alone. I don’t want to leave him like this.”
“Shelby.”
Something warm pushes into my hand. “I’m not going anywhere.”
That voice is filled with concern. It tugs at me, pulling me from the warmth of the unconscious bliss. Where there is darkness, there is no pain. As soon as my mind starts to rouse, the extent of my self-punishment makes itself known.
Every inch of my body pulsates in time to my beating heart. My skin blazes hot with cuts and inflammation. And I can feel her there. Her tiny hand grips my much larger one. It warms me and pisses me off all at the same time.
“Get the fuck off.”
The voices around me quiet, but her presence never leaves.
Mustering every ounce of strength, I try to sit up and open my eyes. The left one doesn’t move, and the right is instantly blinded by the harsh sunlight overhead. “The fuck time is it?”
“Noon,” Elias growls from somewhere behind me. I go to turn my head, but my neck screams in pain.
“Did I ask you to hold my hand, princess?”
Shelby drops my palm as if my words delivered a high voltage shock. “No.”
I let my eyes do the talking as I deliver a revolting glare her way.
My arms shake as I drag my ass back against the brick wall behind me. As I lean against the building for support, I give my arms a rest. “Why’re you here?”
A water bottle is shoved in front of my face, but I wave it off.
“You know why,” Elias responds angrily.
“Go. I don’t need you.”