I pause for a moment, looking over my shoulder to read their expressions. “Why would Georgia…?”
Only, now I’m realizing exactly what Georgia has to do with all this. I’m realizing why that video of Sydney seemed uncomfortably familiar. It’s been years since I saw the video of Georgia, and even then, I’d only gotten halfway through it before closing it out.
“He’s the one,” I say, not even feeling surprised. “Of fucking course.” I had been wondering. Heston making a threat toward Vandy, but not Georgia, hadn’t made sense to me at the time. I understand now. He never needed to threaten Georgia. He’s been tormenting her for years without even having to lift a fucking finger. “Well, that sucks, because all they did was expose themselves. When he finds out—which, he will—he’ll tell everyone it’s them in the videos. Their last shred of anonymity will be gone.”
“I don’t think you’re picking up what I’m putting down,” Emory stresses, expression strangely urgent. “Georgia said the cops believed them. They’re pressing charges.”
“Oh,” I tug off my sweatshirt, hoping the chill in the air can energize me. “The cops believed them, huh?” I nod over their heads. “Then what the fuck is my brother doing here?”
Reyn looks back, jaw tightening at the sight of Heston. “Maybe they’re still looking for him?”
“Or maybe,” I rip off a piece of tape with my teeth and begin wrapping my hands, “my father already made this disappear.” The grin I give them feels brittle and wrong. “There’s no getting out of this, boys. But do me a favor?”
Emory grimaces. “What?”
“If things go badly and I end up in the hospital or something, make sure I get a hot nurse, okay?”
“Don’t be such a fucking—” Carlton starts, but I’ve already jumped into the pool. That act brings a round of excited cheers from the kids sitting and standing on the deck. My opponent strolls down the shallow end steps, like he’s Muhammad Ali. I half expect him to be wearing a goddamn cape. I search the crowd, looking for familiar faces, but only see the Devils down on the end, none looking too pleased. Heston stands by the bookie, arms crossed, like he should be the one wearing a cape. Why not? We’re all just his fucking pawns. Me. This kid I’m about to pummel. The girls…
I look around one last time, but none of them are here. I don’t think they’ve ever missed one of my fights. Not since we all became Devils. I want to get pissed that they’re not supporting me, but I know that’s not right. The last fight of mine they watched was a shit show. And it’s not like I can expect Sugar to come here and watch me get my brains splattered on the concrete like I had that night. She’s had enough violence for a lifetime.
Which is just one more reason we can’t be together.
I hop on my feet, trying to get some blood pumping against the cold. The guy in the ring with me, for all his swagger, doesn’t look so tough. But that can be deceiving. He’s shorter than me by a couple inches at least, even if his arms are bigger. This is probably as fair a fight as I can expect from Heston.
I don’t talk shit this time or hype up the crowd. This is a job. This is something I’m doing because I don’t have a choice. Nothing about this is fun or exciting.
It’s not like it used to be.
This becomes clear after I draw first blood, landing a whopper of a punch right in the guy’s teeth. At this point, my blood would usually be pumping hard and fast. As it is, I feel sluggish and slow, completely unable to block the punch he answers with. It snaps my neck back, but I recover quickly, shaking off the ache.
It seems like everyone’s screaming now, bodies looming along the rim of the pool like a fence, trapping us in. There’s just no fucking excuse for the next hit I take, stumbling back a couple steps before regaining my footing and ducking the next swipe.
Fuck, I need to get my shit together.
Centering myself, I focus on the guy in front of me, following my tight, bouncing circles out of his reach. It’s not hard to imagine he’s Heston. I’ve gotten really good at that over the years. It gets me a couple more solid right hooks.
But there’s just something about it.
Something isn’t clicking.
Maybe it’s the lack of sleep, or that I’ve been hitting the booze and weed a little too hard this week. Maybe, like with lacrosse, I’ve just been out of the game for too long, less capable of competing.
But even deep down, I know that’s bullshit.
I could have kicked ass on the field—if I really wanted to. If I wasn’t consumed with this bitter fucking resignation that Heston will always knock down the best parts of me.
The guy takes a shot at my jaw and it grazes me too high, glancing off my cheek in a bad way. I feel the skin split, but it doesn’t hurt. Nothing hurts. I try to dodge his next hit, only for my hair to be caught in his other fist, driving me down into his knee with a blow that makes my vision go momentarily white.
I shove him off and try to shake it off, using a wrist to wipe the blood from my mouth. He gives me a slick grin, clearly proud of himself. “Motherfucker,” I spit, some of that hot fury finally coming to life inside my chest. I clutch onto it for dear fucking life, willing the ember to grow, to burn. I strike out, finally getting in a good round of blows. The crowd’s shouts pitch higher when he stumbles to the side, running from my wild barrage of fists. It’s sloppy, primitive bullshit. Not my finest work.
He comes back moments later, recharged and smarting from the energy of the crowd. There’s a clear favorite here, and it’s not him. His fist meets my temple, and goddamn. Cocky little fuck, but there’s some power behind his hands. I edge away, willing my sight to steady out before he returns, and I can’t pretend anymore. My heart’s not in this.
Fuck, I don’t even think my lungs are in this. All of my organs are firmly out of fucks to give. It doesn’t make sense. All I wanted for months was to finally get in a ring with some motherfucker and go to town. Beating Doug’s ass, for all the turmoil it caused, was the highlight of my whole fucking winter.
What changed?
Apparently, I’m spending too much time in my own head about this, because the guy gets a good one on me, right in the eye that just began healing from Doug. It’s a real bitch of a hit, too. Nearly sends me right to my knees. I skirt around him for some distance, because that’s apparently how I fight now. I run and wait.
Because there’s nothing to fight for.
My fists drop, landing heavily against my thighs as I gasp in huge, sucking breaths of chilled air. I get this split-second thought that I should just lose. I should get my ass handed to me down here, let Heston think that I’m useless to him.
That’s when I know I’m done.
The guy laughs when I climb the steps of the shallow end, pushing past the throng of confused, disappointed people eager for their pound of flesh.
“Not gonna fucking be mine,” I mutter, clumsily tapping out a cigarette as I idly watch Heston shove through the crowd.
“What the fuck are you doing!” he shouts, face gnarled with fury.
I take a long drag from my cigarette in reply. “Seems obvious, doesn’t it?”
There’s this vein in Heston’s temple that gets all bulgy and gross when he’s pissed off past the point of maintaining composure. It hardly ever makes an appearance, considering composure is his whole thing, but there it is. Bulge bulge bulge. “I have seven fucking grand riding on this fight. You get your ass in that pool and beat that motherfucker down, or—”