Chapter 9
EARLIER THAT NIGHT
Is that…
It couldn’t be…
It has to be him.
Ty.
It has to be.
There’s a cut over his eyebrow and bright red blood is pouring into his eye. But I can see those dark brown eyes that I still dream about. It’s Ty. My Ty.
What the fuck is he doing fighting in The Underground?
The Underground is an underground fight club in Haven that’s only for the worst of the worst–or the most desperate of us.
The crowd is full of people looking to make as much money by as much bloodshed as possible.
People making drug deals, selling sex, drinking until they’re braver than they should be.
There’s a world of money to be made down here for those willing to put their lives on the line.
Like I do.
And apparently just like Ty Hernandez does as well.
The catcalling and screaming gets louder as Ty takes another hit, but he doesn’t fall.
His opponent is bigger than him. Much bigger.
Big enough that I’m about to step in and void the fight for his safety, but then just as the opponent takes a victory turn, Ty attacks.
I clenched my hands into fists, chewing on my lower lip in worry, heart slamming against my ribs as Ty lunges forward defiantly.
I can imagine every fucking movement hurt him, but his eyes burned with something deeper than pain—something close to desperation, or maybe pride. The crowd roars around me, but all I can hear is my own breath, shallow and tight.
One more hit and he’d go down, I know it. Who the fuck set up this fight for him? They should be the one in the ring, not him.
But still, he swings.
Fuck, even just watching him, I know he’s too slow. His numerous injuries are slowing him down.
The bigger guy laughs—fucking laughs—as he dodges the punch, cocky and careless. He scoffs at Ty like he’s already won the fight and that was his mistake. Ty’s second fist came out of nowhere, a brutal uppercut that cracks into the giant’s jaw with a sound that silences the whole room.
The man staggers back, blinking like he can’t believe it, but Ty uses the confusion to his advantage and hammers him. Another hook that sends him crashing to the dirt. He isn’t moving.
The roaring crowd silences and for a split second, no one moves. In the space of a breath, Ty stands there, swaying on his feet before looking up and making eye contact.
With me.
Just as I’m about to rush to help him, the place erupts. I watch as a guy that looks young pulls him from harm.
“Roxie, come on,” Mickey, my old asshole foster brother and keeper snaps, pulling at my arm. I’ve only been fighting here for a little while, so I’m still learning the ins and outs of The Underground. There’s a lot to learn.
“What happened?”
“The crowd’s turning on him, doesn’t believe that The Destroyer could KO The Fist.” Mickey explains, pulling me roughly towards the other side of the pit where my fight will be.
The Underground is basically a large bunker that wasn’t finished.
It’s got–hopefully–a sound ceiling structure to keep the roof from caving in, but that’s in terms of infrastructure.
It’s a dirt floor, strung up lighting, one door at the entrance to the pit and a hand dug tunnel from the hidden entrance in the desert.
My eyes scan my surroundings, clocking all the different fuckers who will probably want to try and get at me, but I’m looking for him.
Did he get out? Across the room I see Ty limping along, holding his ribs and stumbling as he and the two guys at his sides try to help him climb the stairs that connects to the tunnel as quickly as possible.
There are grumblings, I can hear the complaints from here, and I hold my breath as I will them to move faster.
There’re a few drunk fucks following them up the rickety staircase, but the guy at the back of Ty; a guy who barely older than Ty who is built like a fucking tank, turns and stops them, buying Ty and the younger guy who’s helping him move some time.
“The Destroyer?” I ask Mickey distractedly.
“The guy running. They’re all pissed off because they thought they made a sure bet and they think Destroyer cheated. They’re going to try to get their cash back.”
“That’s a thing?” I ask, rolling my shoulder back and forth to warm my muscles.
“Very much a thing. That’s why I’m starting you off with the newbies so that you can knock them out fast, gain a name for yourself and climb the freaking ranks. The money you’re bringing in right now isn’t enough to cover shit.” Mickey crosses his arms over his chest and rolls his eyes.
He never passes up a moment to remind me that I’m just a walking paycheck to him, that’s it.
“Got it, Mick,” I grumble.
“That bitch over there.” He steps closer to me, filling my nostrils with that stale-piss beer he drinks when we’re here, as he points to a girl about my age across the way. “She’s the one you’re fighting tonight. Calls herself The Valkyrie.”
Now that’s an awesome fucking name.
“Interesting,” I say, jumping up on my toes a few times to get my muscles warm. I wish my fight name was better. Mickey decided on “The Annihilator” because my full name is Roxanne. He thought it was “punny”. And he’s an asshole because I’m stuck with it.
“You need to knock her out in less than a round and then we’ll get four hundred,” he says quietly.
“How do you know that she’s not going to be a challenge?”
“She’s brand fucking new to The Underground. Plus, I have it on good authority that she’s strong, but slow,” he mumbles, speaking low enough that only I can hear.
“How would you happen to have heard this?”
“I have eyes and ears everywhere, Rox. You should know that by now,” he says, raising one of his eyebrows and smirking sinisterly. I do my best not to react. Mickey thrives on reactions. He likes knowing that his words have had an impact, have caused me to be scared or shrink away. He lives for it.
“Remember Roxie, if you don’t do this, and you don’t win, you’re worth absolutely nothing.” His eyes narrow at me and I grimace. I try to do my best to keep how much his words affect me by rolling my eyes, but goddamn.
Being told you’re nothing over and over for years by everyone… it takes its toll. And Mickey discovered that it was a trigger word for me so he uses it every chance he can. Just a little jab here or there, but it’s like I’m dying by a thousand cuts every time he uses it.
I’ve heard and seen some things of my own that are enough to make me wish I was able to get out from under his thumb.
He’s a fucking shitty human; a leach, a user, a manipulator.
And my foster brother. If I had any money, I’d be out of there so fucking fast there would be a Roxie-shaped hole in the front door.
But I never seem to be able to make enough.
Mickey’s over twenty-four and has risen in rank in this stupid gang so his parents let him run the place. And by letting him run the home, they let him control me.
His parents, my foster parents, shouldn’t have been allowed to foster. They’re 100% playing the system in order to get checks every month. Money that has never been used for its intended purpose.
I learned really quickly that if I needed something, I’d have to find a way to foot the bill.
And once I turned eighteen they said I was welcome to stay, if I paid rent. Four hundred dollars a month, with utilities included and that seemed like a steal.
Because it was a trap. I’m stuck now and clawing my way out any way I can.
Hence why I’m here.
Mickey stood on the edge of the small corner of the living room they’d “given” me with his pristine white t-shirt and his too-tight, ironed, bedazzled jeans asking if I knew how to fight and if I wanted to make a quick buck.
How the Franks got away with not giving me an actual bedroom, I’ll never know.
I highly suspect that Mickey’s paying them off… but why?
The only answer I could come up with is that he saw me as a way to make his own money and I wasn’t really a liability if he paid off everyone who might look too closely.
And besides, you shouldn’t ask someone starving and hurting if they want to make money quickly. The answer is always yes.
That’s how I was convinced to start bare-knuckle fighting in The Underground.
Fighting is a way to honor that short time where I felt like I actually had a family.
It was a way for me to get stronger, feel better, but now…
Mickey’s turned it into something sinister.
I’m getting a cut of the winnings, but not my fair share.
Out of the four hundred I might win, I’ll get maybe one.
If I please him, maybe two. That’s it. Mickey takes a steep cut.
Then we go home, he tells me when the next fight is, and I save every spare cent I can so that I can afford my own apartment.
I’ve already started the process to get into cosmetology school, just crossing my fingers that I get accepted, so I just need to make a little more to cover two years of tuition so that I can get out from under Mickey’s thumb.
He’s controlling me with my goals, and he knows it. He’s controlling me in every fucking aspect of my life; sleep, water, training, who I see, where I go. If he says I need to train, I train. Because everything–everything–is tied to food and the amount of the cut I get.
When I say he’s controlling me with food, I mean it. His parents don’t make enough to feed us both so it’s up to Mickey to give me half.
And I know how well he shares.
If I want to eat, I do what he says. If I want to make money, I do what he says. I’m sure people would scream at me; “Why don’t you tell his parents? They’re supposed to be the ones to help you!”
They could not care one fucking bit if I go hungry. They believe every single utterance Mickey says. I’ve never been hit by his mom, but I’ve sure gotten close.
I can’t fucking wait to have enough to get my own apartment. I need out of here. I…can’t keep living like this.
The way Mickey’s been looking at me lately has turned from opportunist to something more…permanently cruel. And I do not want to wait around to find out what the fuck he’s thinking.
“She gets TKO by minute five, do you understand? Toy with her a little and then knock her shit out. Each minute after five is fifty dollars less you’ll get to keep, got it?
Don’t let your stupidity stand in your way.
You might be a good fighter, but you’re still a nothing of a person,” Mickey snaps, ripping the baggie shirt from my body over my head and I shudder from the sudden cold and from suddenly being so exposed.
I have to focus on what he’s saying, I have to narrow this adrenaline to focus. Moving past it as quickly as I can, I slip on my overly-confident mask I wear to protect myself from bullshit like him.
“Got it.” I smirk, crack my neck to both sides and make eye contact with the girl opposite me right as the bell dings overhead.
She looks terrified, but I can’t focus on that right now. Even though I want to tell her to fucking suck it up and stop showing her cards. I have a time limit from Mickey today and that’s what I have to focus on.
At the last second, my eyes dart to the opening of the pit and a small knot in my chest loosens because all the guys from Ty’s group are gone. If the crowd had caught up to Ty, they’d have dragged him back inside and let everyone have a piece of him.
He got out.
Hopefully he’s okay.
I turn my attention back to my fight and lean to the side when I see her fist flying at me. Mickey was right, she’s strong–that much is evident from the fucking guns she has for arms–but she’s slow and emotional. Five minutes shouldn’t be an issue today.