Chapter 4 Definitely Not A Shakedown #2
It was two minutes. Just two.
He’d said something about pressure points, about how most fighters lose strength when they wrap wrong—too tight on the knuckles, too loose at the base.
His hands had been steady when he showed me, like every motion had a reason.
He didn’t touch more than he had to, but his touch still lingered long after he let me go.
That's scary enough.
I curse as I unwrap the band and start over, because wanting something I can't have is worse than having Bash breathe down my neck. I've been alone, dealing with this mess on my own, refusing to drag anyone else into this. Especially three hot strangers who can't take no for an answer.
I don't need a hero. Let alone three.
I focus on wrapping, shoving them out of my head. Wrist first, between the fingers, under the thumb, and then pull tight. Finally, I cross back over my knuckles. I tighten the last loop and flex my hand. It feels right, almost like armor instead of fabric.
I do the other hand slower, testing each pull until it matches. When I finish, I hit my fists together once, noticing how solid it feels.
“Good enough,” I mutter, even though it’s better than that.
The duffel zips shut with a soft hiss as I close it and stand, rolling my shoulders, feeling every muscle screaming to hit. I grab the keys, kill the last switch, and step out the back. The air outside is cold enough to sting; bike season is coming to an end, and that's never good for business.
My bike waits under the streetlight, matte black and perfect. I swing a leg over, settle into the seat, and pull on my helmet, sliding the visor down and cutting the world off.
I roar the engine to life, letting the growl fill my chest. I twist the throttle once, feel the vibration through my ribs, and pull out of the lot.
There’s no buffer here, no steel cage or glass between me and the night, just air rushing past and the constant awareness that one bad move means skin meeting asphalt.
My headlights flare across the pavement as the city blurs by me.
The warehouse comes into view at the end of the block, all shadow and corrugated metal, lights leaking out of grimy windows like it’s trying to pretend this is normal. I cut the engine and the sudden quiet hits hard, ringing in my ears after the ride.
I pull my helmet off as I walk in. There’s guys whistling, but I’m still too in my own head to care. Like that’s ever worked on anyone with a pulse.
Heat swallows me the second I’m inside from the body heat of the crowd alone.
The building’s all steel bones, exposed beams cutting across the ceiling.
Pipes and wiring run wherever they fit, and the overhead lights hang too bright over the taped-off ring like they’re interrogating whoever steps into it.
Everyone’s standing, packed shoulder to shoulder with no seats and no mercy, bodies forming a rough circle around the tape, boots planted on concrete that’s been scuffed raw by too many nights like this.
The walls are bare metal and patched sheetrock, streaked with grime.
Along the back wall there’s a row of doors, plain and dented, leading to the locker area where fighters disappear to tape up, bleed, and come back out like it’s nothing.
That’s where I spot Bash’s men, in fucking suits even here. Two of them stand by the entrance like vultures in tailored wool. Their eyes sweep the crowd, searching for something, or someone.
Are they looking for me?
I slow, watching as one of Mack’s guys steps in their path, big enough to block the view. There’s a short exchange—like they're arguing—then they’re turned away, muttering curses as they vanish back into the night.
Good. That’s one fire I don’t need to dance through tonight.
I weave deeper through the crowd, past the smell of sweat and beer, until I find Mack near the back.
He's easy enough to find, practically impossible to miss at six-four with shoulders as broad as a damn fridge. His dark hair’s more gray than it used to be, and his beard matches.
To everyone else, he’s terrifying. To me, he’s just Mack.
He spots me through the crowd and grins around the stub of his cigar. “You showed. And here I thought you’d ghost me.”
I push through a cluster of guys near the cage, stopping in front of him. “Like I'd ever,” I feign offense, rearing my head back. “I’m not about to turn down easy money.”
He barks out a laugh, smoke curling from the corner of his mouth. “Easy, huh? Tell that to the guy you’re up against. He’s got a hundred pounds on you and zero brain cells. You’ll get along great.”
“Perfect,” I deadpan, crossing my arms. “Means it won’t take long to take him out.”
He chuckles again, shaking his head as he flips through his clipboard. “You’re still a mouthy little shit, you know that?”
“Comes with the trauma.”
“Don’t start with that smart-ass attitude.” He jabs the end of his cigar toward me, eyes narrowing. “You good to go?”
“Always.” I glance toward the ring, the crowd pressing close to the tape. “Who’s the brick wall tonight?”
“Some new kid out of Larkfield Gym. Big, angry, thinks he’s immortal.” Mack shrugs like it’s not his problem. “I figured you could teach him reality.”
I grin with my hands over my chest. “Aw. The confidence is touching.”
He huffs, glancing at his clipboard again like it deserves all his attention. “You’ve been taking too many fights, Raine. I shouldn’t even be calling you in this often.”
“You say that like I’m not the reason people are paying your entry fees.”
“Yeah, yeah. You get ‘em here, then you bleed all over my floor. Not exactly the business model I’m going for.”
I tilt my head, smiling just enough to piss him off. “I hardly ever bleed on your floor. You worried about me, old man?”
He looks at me long enough that it almost feels like a yes, but then he exhales through his nose and goes back to scribbling. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
I nudge his clipboard with my finger. “Put me down for more fights, Mack.”
He pauses mid-scribble, eyes snapping back toward mine in disbelief. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not.”
“You’ll burn out before the debt does.”
Mack is the only one who knows about my debt, having helped my dad the same way he’s helping me. Back then, I thought dad was just fighting to keep the business afloat. I didn’t know—or maybe I refused to notice—that he owed some scary people money.
“I won’t burn out.”
“Raine—”
“Mack.” I raise a brow in challenge. “I can handle it. You know that. You know the kind of girl my dad raised. So, just scribble my name down and don't feel so guilty about it.”
He stares at me, jaw flexing, then mutters something that sounds suspiciously like a prayer for patience. “You’re just like your father.”
“Yeah,” I say, tugging my wraps tighter. “Except I don’t crash.”
That earns me a snort. “Smartass. Fine. I’ll put you down for one more after this one. But if you start slipping, you’re out.”
“Deal.”
He points a thick finger at me, like he's accusing me of something. “You’re a damn headache.”
“Wouldn’t want you getting bored.”
He huffs out a laugh, flicking his cigar into the corner ashtray. “Go warm up, Raine. And keep your head down. Bash’s guys keep showing up like they know you're here.”
“I saw,” I mutter, pulling my hood up as if that could hide me. “You got someone to send them away.”
“Doesn’t mean they won't be back.”
“I doubt you'll let them catch me. It's bad for business,” I counter, stepping past him toward the lockers.
Mack grunts, but I catch the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth before I disappear into the crowd.
Time to get my head in the game.
Ear buds in and “New Way Out” by Poppy screaming in my ears drowns out the nerves threatening to consume me. No matter how many fights I've been in, I still get nervous before each one. Punches hit differently depending on who's throwing them. Some land harder, others hit sharper.
I never know what I'm going to get.
I shove my duffel into a locker, snapping a lock I brought closed over it. I tap the gray metal once, then move to the freshly taped ring. The new lines catch the light; easier to spot when you step out.
Can’t let myself slip here.
My opponent is already there, a brick wall in human form. All muscle, all aggression, and very little tact. He waves his fists in the air, trying to pump the crowd up when his name's announced. I tap the tip of my right boot against the heel of my left—my stupid little ritual—then step in.
Brick Wall laughs like I'm pranking him, looking around as if waiting for someone to tell him this is all a joke. They always do that. Stupid men and their arrogant high horses. When I ready myself—hands up, knees bent—he realizes this is really happening.
“You can't be serious. This isn't even worth my time,” he laughs, crouching like he’s preparing to catch a pig and not a girl with experience.
Your funeral, buddy.
The bell rings and I run in, his stance too open not to take advantage of. I run, duck under his reach, and drop to a knee as he lunges, sliding past him. One quick, low punch to the gut, and two to the ribs. I sting him three times before his brain catches up to his body.
I’m small, yeah. But I’m a live fuse.
Light me and watch me go.