25. Colson
TWENTY-FIVE
COLSON
“Last Resort” by Papa Roach roars in my ears, and I look down at my bare hands. My knuckles are scraped open and barely scabbed over from my last fight, but I can’t seem to find a single fuck to give. When I go out there, my scabs will tear off and my blood will mix with my opponent’s. That should worry me, except it doesn’t.
I’ve moved past caring about things out of my control. Things like death, Mom’s secret marriage to Harrison Heights’s biggest drug dealer, and the intrusive fact that I share his DNA. Oh, and that my half brother is a replica of him who put me through hell.
It doesn’t get worse than that.
It can’t.
Which is why I said, fuck it all, and sought Eli out the way I did.
I could bury myself in endless amounts of Jack Daniel’s, or any other bottle of liquor for that matter, but this is the better of two options. Getting my hands dirty wins out over continuously twisting up my insides from the booze and risking an addiction of my own.
In a weird sense, I’m at least mindful of that.
Being in this old shut down candy warehouse on the outskirts of town makes me feel a little less overwhelmed and a little more clearheaded. It’s in an area where a lot of businesses went under a decade ago. When unemployment rates rose so high people had a hard time keeping the money coming in.
The distinct smell of stale cocoa powder permeates the air. If that’s even a thing. I’m not sure if powdery food substances can create their own odors, but there’s definitely a strange smell floating around. It’s as if the mustiness of the building intertwines with the sweetness of the bean. Add in a little bit of bad fermentation and it’s exactly what the place stinks of. I imagine at one time, when the place was bursting with business, it was much more pleasant. Something sugary with floral hints here and there.
Not like it matters tonight.
Pretty soon, the metallic scent of blood and the tanginess of B.O. from too many bodies packed in one space will take over. Then no one will pay attention to the old equipment mixers and conveyor lines to the side. Nor will they care about the bags of sugar that have long since been eaten through by rodents.
If I sit and think about it long enough, disgust will swish through me, so I lightly jump up and down. I roll my shoulders. I crack my neck from side to side. Sweat drips from my forehead into my eyes even though it’s mid-winter and it’s been a long time since this building has had heat. I sprinted here from where I parked my car a quarter-mile away. Eli warned me about the ramifications of having it too close. In case shit turns for the worse, it’s easier to disappear if your vehicle isn’t close enough to draw attention.
Between that and my nerves, I’m heated and ready to walk out there with my chest glistening. That’s another thing Eli shared. The crowd loves it when they see blood, even more when it’s dripping down your chest versus soaking cotton. If you ask me, it’s kind of stupid, but I go with the flow, knowing that their cheers will be one of two things that put the power behind my fists and the endurance in my step.
I grab a towel out of my bag and wipe it over my face. A hand lands on my shoulder, and it causes me to swivel around and pull my earbud from my ear.
Elijah McPearson’s bulky frame comes into view, and while it should make me relax to see it isn’t someone else, it doesn’t. He may have brought me into The Battleground, but I can’t say that I exactly trust the guy. Even back when we were in high school, we weren’t close enough to share secrets. We were acquaintances at best and laughed over the same dumb shit that happened during class. And now, we’re both part of this forbidden, probably illegal, fight club.
Outside of that, I don’t know much about him or why the hell he trains during the day to get into the National Fighting League yet spends his nights in the world of underground fighting.
Seeing each other come and go at Gulliver’s isn’t enough to suddenly hand over my deepest, darkest secrets. However, his offer from a while back was enough to break me—along with life circumstances—and allow myself to get swept up in the same shady shit as him.
Life has pressed its pointed stiletto in the center of both our chests. I have a feeling the impact of it will scar me just as I assume it has him.
He hands me a roll of athletic tape for my fingers and wrists. I accept it with a nod of thanks.
“Amped crowd tonight,” he comments, moving to the radiator at the other side of the small office. I’ve gotten used to the space. It’s where I prepare and collect myself before every match, and tonight will be my fourth.
Now that music isn’t drowning out all noises, I hear the racket in the other room where the fights occur. There’s hooting and hollering, and like every other night I’ve been here, I’m glad for the location. The area is so run-down that no one will drive by or walk around and notice the warehouse has been breached. Especially not this late.
“Yeah?”
“Oh yeah.” Eli runs his hand through his hair. It’s gotten longer since the day he approached me at Gulliver’s. I remember it like it was yesterday, and yet here I am, doing the one thing I told him and Llewellyn I would never do.
Beating a person to hell was never part of the plan. I wasn’t lying when I told them I got what I needed out of a dangly punching bag. Slamming my fists into one was enough to silence the thoughts and break through the stress that continuously gnawed at my back. But that was before.
Before Mom died.
Before I lost the only girl I’ve ever loved.
Before I learned Mom was married to my father my entire fucking life and chose to keep it a secret. Before I found out Aunt Bess paid to keep him away. Before I found out that I have a brother.
“You’re up after me tonight,” Eli tells me.
I rip a piece of tape off the roll and wind it around the worst of my knuckles. They’re still healing from two fights ago, but because I haven’t given myself much of a break, it’s taking longer than normal. The night I busted them, they swelled something bad. When I uppercut my opponent, a scrawny kid who lasted all of two minutes, they didn’t crack the way it did when Finn took that mallet to my hand, but it was nearly as painful.
“Think you’re going to come out on top?” I ask, making small talk, which seems to be all Eli and I do. We talk about fighting and the matches and how to keep Tommy from raging over not making his money. In my short time fighting under him, I’ve learned he’s as greedy as the Lincolns, a common personality trait of residents of Harrison Heights it seems.
He cracks a cocky grin. “You’re really asking me that?”
“They seem eager for something promising tonight.”
“They’ll get what they came for. They always do, and with all the fresh blood, they won’t be able to get e-fucking-nough.”
Eli has told me that I’m not the only new guy representing Tommy’s side in The Battleground, but I have yet to meet the others. They fight on the days I don’t, so our schedules never quite line up. I’m not out here to make friends, so I don’t pay much mind to socializing. I’m here for the fight, to silence my thoughts, and drown out the heartache by feeling something else entirely.
“Yeah, well, that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?”
He crosses his arms over his chest and gives me a look like he’s trying to figure me out. When I walked up to him in Gulliver’s two weeks ago and told him I was ready to get in the ring, he didn’t ask me once what my deal was or why I changed my mind. He simply nodded and told me to wait ringside until he was done training. He gave me his cell number, and when we met outside, we chatted a bit about what he was getting me into.
It’s been fight after fight ever since.
“How’s your head? You ready for that winner’s roll of cash?” he inquires.
These fights bring in more money than Gauntlet Sundays did except Tommy always gets a percentage of what we earn. While the extra cash is helpful and would’ve been even better when I was scrambling to pay Finn back, it’s not why I’m here.
“The money doesn’t matter, but yeah, I’m focused.”
“Well, it matters to Tommy.”
“Your boss has nothing to worry about,” I grunt. A week from now, I’ll still show up for the fights, and he’ll continue to earn what he does. I’m a decent fighter, and so far, I’ve gone up against opponents who match me well, a promise that Tommy made that first night I fought. My desire to run from my life is a lot fucking stronger than anyone else’s, which is why I’ve pulled out the win every fight so far.
“You mean our boss?” Eli goads back.
I hum in response.
“You were dead set on not getting in the ring at one point. What changed?” he finally asks, pressing me for details he should’ve asked when I approached him at Gulliver’s.
“Life.”
“Vagueness never got a guy anywhere.”
I finish wrapping my last finger. “Nothing you say is going to help the battle I’m facing. Being out there, though? Just what I need.”
“Put a lid on boiling water, and eventually, it blows.”
“Let me guess, you know from experience?”
He shifts on the radiator he leans against before straightening. “Protect your face, Pretty Boy. Wouldn’t want you fucking it up.”
I toss the tape to him. He catches it with ease. “I’ll be sure to take a picture of it for you after I go out there and make Daddy proud.”
He chuckles and winces at the same time. “Please never refer to him as Daddy again or my dick might shrivel up and fall the fuck off. Besides, I’m his best earning fighter.” He gets up and heads for the door. “Nothing makes him prouder than when I pull out the W and make him a shit ton of money. He can’t look at me without dollar signs in his eyes. You, on the other hand…” He sizes me up, and I can sense the insult brewing.
I flip him the middle finger. “Get the fuck out of here.”
He smirks. “Sure thing, Fresh Blood.” And then he’s gone, the door closing behind him while I prepare to go out there and knock a guy’s lights out.