Chapter 27
“How many times do I have to tell Mickey that I don’t need a fucking handler?” I snap at the gigantic fucker behind me as I run through my warm up.
I have to say, I’m really not fucking happy to be fighting for Mickey again, but getting back into the gym has been nice.
Feeling the bag under my knuckles with each snap of my fist, the way the pain shoots through my hand in a tight and controlled way that I crave, the way my muscles pull with each movement. I’ve missed it.
What I have not missed is the pressure Mickey puts me under. The sword hanging over my head, the rope holding it up that frays with every breath I take… I feel like Damocles.
And it’s getting old real goddamn fast.
“He’ll back off after the fight.” The guy following me is one I haven’t met before.
Mickey must have had to hire a new lackey.
He’s easy on the eyes for sure, but he’s also creepy.
Looking him up and down I try to bite my tongue on how easily he could get girls that he’s probably not getting now if he’d change his clothes.
I mean, come on. Dirty, ripped, baggie jeans, stained wife-beater, greasy as fuck hair…
It all takes away from his actual attractiveness.
I pull the shirt that I stole from Ty over my head, letting the fabric drown me and hope that it’s a clear enough signal to him to back the hell off.
He hasn’t touched me, and I’m not about to let it happen.
“How much longer?” I snap under my breath, knuckles aching as I hit the bag again and watch with satisfaction as it sways.
The lackey looks at his watch with a bored expression before sighing.
“Forty more minutes.”
My eyes drift over to the electronic clock in the corner, one that’s mostly hidden, but I can see it. And he’s fucking lying.
“What the hell, man?” I snap, my hands dropping as I turn to face this guy. I should really learn his name, but at the same time… I really don’t give a shit. “You and I both know that I am only meant to be here for 90 minutes. That means I have ten minutes left on Mickey’s stupid timer.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
Someone’s watching me.
“You don’t know the time, bitch. I’m following orders,” he snarls and flips his phone around to show me.
“The bitch better be training until 10pm, she needs to get better and she’s falling behind. Do not let her leave until then. Use whatever force necessary. She does not leave your sight.”
Charming.
“Why’s he suddenly thinking I’m not upholding my end of the bargain?” I say with annoyance, and turn back to the bag, throwing out a hook-jab combination.
“Just shut up. I don’t want to hear your voice for the rest of the time.” He rolls his eyes and turns his attention back to his phone and honestly, I’m fine with it because it means I don’t have his creepy fucking eyes checking out my ass every two fucking seconds.
Do you know that feeling that makes you stop in the middle of the street and look over your shoulder? The feeling that makes you check that the door is locked and that you turn over to make sure your back is against the wall while you sleep…
Yeah, that exact feeling makes me scour all around me.
Someone’s watching me. I know it.
Without alerting my babysitter, I turn, under the guise of stretching and slowly monitor around me. There’s two older fighters training a young buck in the makeshift ring, but they’re deep in discussion and focused on their guy in the ring.
My gaze drifts upward and I look for hidden cameras. There’s only one I can see–an old one that looks like it’s from the 70’s.
There’s one window towards the front door. Big enough that anyone walking by could see in, it’s dirty as shit, but when I step closer, I see two dark eyes staring back at me in the darkness before vanishing. The feeling of being watched vanishing with it.
“Oi! Get back to work!” Babysitter snaps at me and I turn back to the bag as anxiety creeps in.
Mickey’s amping up his surveillance. Or Mario’s watching me to get payback.
This fight… It’s not going to end well.
Swallowing hard, I straighten my shoulders and nod.
If I can’t make it out of this… Ty’s going to.