Play Tough (Blackwater Falls: Fighters #1)

Chapter 1 - Bruiser

The ringing in my ears won't stop.

It never does right after a fight. Not for at least twenty minutes, sometimes longer. The crowd's still roaring somewhere beyond the static in my head, but it sounds like they're underwater. Distant. Muffled. Like they're happening to someone else entirely.

I stand in my corner, the one everyone knows to stay the hell away from, and let the adrenaline bleed out of my system one violent pulse at a time.

My knuckles are screaming. Split open across three fingers on my right hand, swelling already on my left.

Blood, most of it not mine, dries sticky between my fingers.

The other guy's on the mat still. Face-down. Not moving.

He'll get up. Eventually.

They always do.

I crack my neck to one side, then the other. The tension doesn't ease. It never does. Not completely. Ten years in a cell taught me that some things live in your spine permanently, coiled tight, waiting. The Iron Pit's the only place I can let it uncoil without ending up back behind bars.

People are clearing out now. The crowd's thinning, voices overlapping, someone laughing too loud near the stairs. Money changes hands. The Savage Riders, three of them tonight, stand posted at the exits like they always do, arms crossed, watching everything.

I don't look at any of them.

I breathe. In. Out. Count to ten. Do it again.

The warehouse is enormous, all concrete and exposed steel beams, dim lighting that makes everyone look half-dead. Perfect for what happens here. Perfect for men like me who don't belong anywhere civilized.

Rampage is across the room talking to someone. He’s the only man who ever put me on my back. I respect the hell out of him for it, even if I'd never say it out loud. He glances my way once. Brief, assessing, then goes back to his conversation.

Even he knows better than to approach.

Everyone does.

I shift my weight, rolling my shoulders. Everything hurts, but it's the good kind. The kind that means I'm still standing and the other guy isn't. That's all that matters in the end. That's the only math that makes sense to me.

The cleaners are starting to move in.

They always wait until the fighters clear out, until it's safe. Smart. I've seen what happens when someone gets in the way of a man still riding the high. It's not pretty.

There's three of them tonight. Two guys I've seen before. Older, probably need the cash, don't make eye contact with anyone. And her.

Joanna.

I don't know her last name. Don't need to. She started a few weeks ago, and I noticed her the first night. Hard not to. Not because she's beautiful, though she is, but because she's different. Doesn't belong here. Doesn't fit.

She's got dark blonde hair that's always pulled back in a messy bun, a few strands escaping around her face.

Tired eyes. Blue. The kind of tired that doesn't come from one bad night but from months, maybe years, of not enough sleep.

She's curvy in a way that makes men look twice, but she dresses like she's trying to disappear.

Baggy jeans. Oversized hoodie. Head down.

Always head down.

She's hauling a mop and bucket toward the center of the Pit now, where the blood's pooling. My blood. The other guy's blood. All of it mixing together on the concrete like some kind of fucked-up communion.

She doesn't look at me.

She never does.

I told myself weeks ago to leave her alone. She's got "off-limits" written all over her. The kind of woman who deserves better than this place, better than these men. Better than me, sure as hell.

So, I keep my distance. Stand in my corner. Decompress. Pretend I don't notice the way her hands shake sometimes when she's wringing out the mop, or the way she flinches when someone raises their voice too loud.

I'm still watching her, can't seem to stop myself, when some asshole in a leather jacket sidles up next to her.

I don't recognize him. Probably one of the crowd, someone who bet big and won bigger. He's got that look about him. Swagger. Confidence that comes from thinking the world owes him something.

He says something to her.

She shakes her head. Keeps working.

He doesn't leave.

My jaw tightens, but it’s not my problem.

I force myself to look away. Focus on my breathing. Count to ten again. The ringing in my ears is fading now, replaced by the dull roar of conversation, the clang of metal chairs being stacked, someone's boots on the stairs.

When I look back, Leather Jacket's still there. Closer now. He's leaning in, saying something that makes her take a step back.

She's shaking her head again. Firmer this time.

He grabs her arm. The adrenaline that was bleeding out of me floods back in an instant. I'm moving before I decide to move.

Across the Pit. Through the thinning crowd. People get out of my way without me having to say a word. They always do. I'm six-four, two-fifty, and built like I was designed specifically to break things.

Most people have survival instincts.

Leather Jacket doesn't notice me coming. He's too focused on her, on whatever bullshit line he's feeding her while his fingers dig into her arm hard enough that I can see her wince.

"Let go," she says. Firm. Trying to stay calm.

"Come on, sweetheart," he says, grinning like he's doing her a favor. "Just one drink. You work here, right? You know how to have a good time."

"I said no."

"Don't be like that—"

I stop right behind him. Close enough that my shadow falls over both of them.

"She said no."

My voice comes out low. Rough. The kind of voice that's spent ten years learning exactly how to sound dangerous without even trying.

Leather Jacket spins around, and for half a second, he looks annoyed. Like I'm interrupting something. Then he sees me, and the color drains out of his face.

"Whoa, hey, man," he says, hands up, taking a step back. "We're just talking."

"No," I say. "You're leaving."

His eyes flick to Joanna, then back to me. He's weighing his options. Trying to decide if his pride's worth the hospital visit.

It's not.

"Yeah, alright," he mutters. "Jesus. Didn't know she was spoken for."

He turns and walks away fast, disappearing into the crowd still filtering out toward the exits. I watch him go. Make sure he's actually leaving and not just circling back. When I'm satisfied, I turn to her.

Joanna's staring at me. Wide-eyed. Like she's not sure if I just saved her or if she's in more danger now than she was a minute ago.

I take a step back. Give her space. Don't want her thinking I'm the same as him.

"You good?" I ask.

She blinks. Nods. Doesn't say anything.

"He touch you anywhere else?"

"No." Her voice is barely above a whisper. She's still holding the mop, hand trembling around the handle. "Just... just my arm. Thank you."

I grunt. I don’t know what else to say. Talking's never been my strong suit. Especially not to women like her. Women who look at me and see exactly what I am, a man with a violent past and a violent present and nothing in between worth mentioning.

"If anyone bothers you again," I say, "tell one of the Riders. Or tell Rampage. They'll handle it."

"I will." She's still looking at me. "Are you... are you okay?"

I frown. "What?"

"Your hands." She nods toward them. "They're bleeding."

I glance down. She's right. Blood's dripping off my knuckles onto the concrete. I hadn't even noticed.

"Happens every fight," I say. "It's fine."

"That doesn't look fine."

"I've had worse."

She hesitates. Bites her lip. Then she says, "There's a first aid kit in the back. I could—"

"No."

It comes out harsher than I mean it to. She flinches, and I hate myself for it.

"I'm good," I say, softer this time. "But thanks."

She nods. Looks down at her mop. I can see her shutting down, pulling back into herself. Building the walls back up.

I should walk away. Go to the locker room. Wrap my hands and get the hell out of here before I say something stupid or do something worse.

But I don't move.

"What's your name?" I ask even though I already know it.

Her eyes snap back to mine, surprised. "Joanna."

"Joanna," I repeat. It sounds different when I say it out loud. Heavier. "I'm Danny."

"I know." A faint smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. "Everyone knows who you are."

Right. Bruiser. The guy who beats people unconscious for money. The ex-con with a temper and a reputation.

Yeah. Everyone knows.

"Thanks again," she says. "For... for helping."

"Don't mention it."

I turn and walk away before I can do something stupid like ask her if she needs a ride home, or if she's working next week, or any of the hundred other questions rattling around in my head.

Back to my corner. Back to decompressing.

But when I glance over my shoulder, she's still standing there. Watching me.

And for the first time in longer than I can remember, the rage in my chest doesn't feel quite so loud.