45. Raf
CHAPTER 45
RAF
I’ve got Eminem blasting in my ears, but it’s still not enough to drown out the sound of Ford’s laughter or Ava’s high-pitched giggle from the back seat. My forehead is pressed to the cold glass of the passenger window as I try to get in the fucking zone, but it’s impossible with the way those two are all over each other back there, flirting like they’re on a date.
Oh wait, they just were last night.
I try to shove the thought away, focus on the music, clear my mind– but then Ford murmurs something in her ear and she laughs again, way too loud, like she’s doing it just to piss me off. Wes glances back at them in the rearview mirror and a smirk pulls at his mouth, like he’s in on the joke.
My hands curl into fists on my lap, shadows bleeding into the edges of my vision.
This shit has gone way too far. The guys have gone soft on Ava, forgetting why we pulled her into our orbit in the first place. She should be cowering in fear of us, not sitting back there looking all cute and tipsy, glassy-eyed from the whiskey she’s been sharing with Ford and bouncing along with the music Wes plays. She’s getting way too comfortable with my friends, and vice versa. They’re reaping all the benefits of her being our Doll, while I’m slowly descending into madness.
I never should’ve let them talk me into bringing her along tonight.
I’ve been itching for this fight, and I’m gonna blow it if I can’t get my head on straight. The closer we get to the warehouse, the more focused I should be, but having her there with us is throwing everything out of sync.
Ford says something and she covers her mouth, trying to keep her laugh contained, but it bursts out and fills the car. I grip the door handle, squeezing it until my knuckles turn white.
In for three. Out for four. Just fucking breathe.
The vehicle bounces against the potholes as we pull into the parking lot, and I can’t take it anymore, throwing the door open before we’ve even rolled to a complete stop. I sling my duffel over my shoulder and slam it behind me, the soles of my boots chewing up the asphalt as I stalk toward the entrance to the warehouse.
The bouncer looks up when he sees me coming, lifting his chin in acknowledgement. “Raf,” he greets, quickly stepping aside to allow me entry. “Hope you’re here to win, I’ve got my money on you tonight.”
I just grunt in response, brushing past him and making my way inside. The atmosphere in the warehouse is gritty and raw, music thumping, crowd already roaring. I sink into the seedy ambiance, allowing the wild energy to wrap around me while trying to shake off all the bullshit from the ride over. A few people call my name, trying to capture my attention as I make my way to the locker room, but I ignore them all. I need to focus.
Pushing through the door, the smell of sweat and mildew hits my nose, disgustingly familiar and oddly grounding. The locker rooms here aren’t much, but at least I can seal myself off from the chaos outside. I drop my bag on the bench and start to get changed, still struggling to get in the right headspace for my fight. The guy I’m up against is some thick-necked brute named Chaz, and while I’ve never fought him before, I’ve gone up against plenty of guys just like him. Every fighter thinks they’re special, their moves unique, but they all bleed the same.
My mind gradually starts to clear, and by the time I start taping my knuckles, I feel like I’m almost fully in the zone. Wes comes in, all business as he looks me over like he’s taking inventory. “He’s got fifty pounds on you,” he states. “Stay quick on your feet, wear him down.”
I nod, listening, starting to see the fight in my head.
“Keep your distance,” Wes adds. “He’s going to try and get you in a grapple, throw his weight around.”
"Got it," I say, pushing to my feet and rolling my neck on my shoulders. The shadows lift just a little, and the world around me feels sharp and focused for the first time all night. “I’m good.”
Then the locker room door swings open, and everything immediately goes to shit when Ford and Ava walk in. My stomach does some weird fucking twist at the sight of her, like my body’s trying to turn itself inside out. She’s smiling, tipsy and warm from the alcohol, chestnut hair falling in loose waves around her shoulders.
“I bet on you,” she announces, the look she gives me hitting like a punch I wasn’t ready for. “So you better not lose.”
“Or maybe I’ll throw the match just so you do,” I growl, glaring back at her.
Ford barks a laugh, leaning a shoulder against the wall as he digs in his pocket for his cigarettes. “Christ, can you two just fuck already and put us all out of our misery?”
“Out,” I snap, stabbing a finger in the direction of the door.
Ford rolls his eyes, heaving a sigh as he pushes off from the wall. “C’mon, Ava baby,” he drawls, hooking an arm around her shoulders and guiding her back toward the exit. “Let’s leave the big guy alone, it’s not your fault that you’re his kryptonite.”
I glare daggers at him, all the fury I just worked so hard to contain rapidly building again as he drags her through the door. The second it swings closed behind them, I snap my gaze to Wes, silently giving him the same directive.
“You’re on in ten minutes,” he warns, giving me a pointed look before turning to follow the others, leaving me alone in the locker room.
I turn and punch the door of a locker, metal vibrating against my knuckles. How the fuck did we get here? Making Ava our Doll was supposed to be just a means to an end, and now I’m the one all twisted up while my friends are having a fucking field day with it, toting her around like she’s actually part of all this.
I feel my pulse ticking underneath my skin as I start pacing back and forth, Ava’s presence still lingering with me like a cloying perfume. I don’t even want her, yet she’s in my veins like a damn virus, slowly dismantling me from the inside out. I draw deep breaths as I flex my fists, clenching, releasing, focusing on my body, on the distant roar of the crowd in the warehouse.
Time to bleed out some shadows.
Time to get this shit out of my system.
The sound of the crowd outside rises and falls like a taunt while I force myself to breathe, deep and slow. I focus on the fight, on my opponent, on anything but her .
But every time I push her away, she’s right back in the middle of my head. She’s fucking everywhere . I need to get out there, lose myself in the ring, beat the shit out of something before I implode.
My song comes on, signaling that it’s finally time. I roll my shoulders as I push out of the locker room to screams and chants, the noise hitting me like a wall. It’s like swimming through chaos, but I keep moving forward, focusing on the ring up ahead. My vision tunnels, narrowing to where I need to be. Each step away toward it loosens something tight in my chest.
Wes and Ford are waiting by my corner of the ring like always, but of fucking course she’s with them. They suddenly have this easy relationship with her, and I’m just on the outside looking in, relegated to watching from the shadows as they touch and laugh and flirt with one another. I try to block it all out, focus on the matchup, on the brute pacing on the other side. Chaz is built like a linebacker, but I’ve taken down guys twice his size before. As long as I can stay in the zone, I’ve got this.
I climb into the ring, the ropes groaning beneath my grip as I duck between them. The mat gives under my feet, a cheap, bloodstained surface that reeks of stale beer and cigarette smoke. I start to pace, trying to lock in, trying to center. It’s always been about focus. About shutting out everything that isn’t fists and footwork. But tonight, I’m off. Way off.
My muscles are tight, the roar in my brain louder than the crowd.
I glance across the ring, and Ava’s looking right at me, brown eyes wide and shiny under the bright lights. The bell sounds, snapping through the noise like a shot.
Chaz comes at me fast, fists already cocked like he’s aiming to end this quick. I manage to dodge his first punch, then the second, but it’s not smooth. Not instinctive. I’m out of rhythm.
I hear Wes barking from my corner. Ford’s voice cuts through too, sharp and angry. Everyone’s shouting, but none of it breaches the static in my skull. I look over, see Ava again. Her eyes follow me, wide and wild. Chaz’s fist crashes into my cheek.
It’s a clean shot. My jaw snaps sideways, pain spiking through my skull, but I don’t go down. I stagger, tasting the metallic tang of blood as it coats my tongue. My vision swims as I try to dig in and reset, try to breathe. But any semblance of control I had when I stepped into the ring is slipping through my fingers fast.
Another punch lands, and I stumble back into the ropes, arms tangling, the crowd roaring in my ears.
Get up. Focus.
I shove off and find my footing, but the mat doesn’t even feel real beneath my feet anymore. Nothing does. Ava’s still there, still watching, and it fucks with me. She’s always there, in every shadow of my mind, and now she’s real and close and right fucking there , watching me unravel in spectacular fashion.
Another swing from Chaz. I duck, just barely, and the bell rings again, saving me from myself.
Round over. Thank fuck.
I stagger back to the corner, chest heaving with exertion. Wes throws the stool out for me and I collapse onto it, shadows pressing in at the edges of my vision as I try to catch my breath. My lungs burn, my pulse a drumline in my ears.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” Wes yells, slamming a water bottle into my hand and splashing more on my face.
I tip it back and take a long drink, but it doesn’t help. Because the real fight tonight isn’t in the ring. It’s in my goddamn head.
“He’s got a handicap tonight,” Ford says, half-laughing, his gaze sliding toward Ava like it’s all part of the performance.
She meets his look with a smirk of her own, arms crossed, chin tilted. Like this is entertainment. Like I’m entertainment. Rage burns hot inside me, unfurling like a rising tempest. I’m unraveling, and she’s watching it happen with that little smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, so damn smug about being the catalyst to my downfall.
Ford grins, all teeth and zero warmth. “Maybe you should give him a kiss for good luck, Ava baby,” he suggests, wagging his brows.
She rolls her eyes, shoving at his shoulder. “Yeah, right,” she scoffs.
My jaw clenches, and something in me snaps. I can’t take the sound of her voice, the heat of her standing there with my friends like this is all just some sick joke I’m not in on.
I’m on my feet before I even know what I’m doing, leaning through the ropes. My hand wraps around her throat, pulling her face to mine. Her eyes widen, her breath catches, and just as those puffy lips part, I slam mine against them.
The kiss is rough and raw, desperate and searching. It’s a warning, a promise, a scream with no sound. Her lips part in shock, and for just one beat of suspended breath, she melts into it. Into me . The noise, the crowd, everything around us fucking disappears. It’s just her and me, the heat between us, the line I can never uncross.
I pull back with a grunt, my breath ragged, her lipstick smeared and eyes blown wide, tinged with a heady mixture of fear and desire.
I don’t say a word. I just turn and walk back toward the center of the ring, the bell seconds from sounding.
Everything narrows. The lights. The noise. The ring. And for the first time all night, I’m clear.
Chaz charges, and I see it coming before he even cocks a fist. I duck low, twist in, and drive my own straight into his jaw. There’s a satisfying crack, and he drops, lights out.
The crowd explodes around me, but I don’t hear it. All I hear is the rush in my ears, the echo of Ava’s breathless surprise as she gapes up at me.
The fight’s over in one punch, but the real war has just begun.