Chapter 3 - Bruiser
I can't stop watching her.
I should. I know I should. Standing here in my corner like some kind of creep, tracking her movements across the warehouse floor. But every time I try to look away, my eyes drift back. Like they've got a mind of their own.
Joanna.
She's scrubbing the same spot she was five minutes ago. Working harder than she needs to. Putting her whole body into it, like if she just pushes hard enough she can erase what happened. Erase that asshole's hand on her arm. Erase the fear I saw in her eyes.
Erase me, probably.
The way I'd snapped at her when she offered to help with my hands. I'd seen her flinch, seen the walls go up. Good. Better that way. Better she keeps her distance.
Except I don't want her to keep her distance.
I want to know why her hands shake sometimes. Want to know what put that bone-deep exhaustion in her eyes. Want to know if she's safe when she leaves here, if she's got someone waiting for her at home, if she's okay.
I flex my fingers, feeling the sting of split skin. Blood's stopped dripping but my knuckles are swelling up nice. Nothing new. I'll wrap them when I get home, ice them if I remember. By tomorrow they'll be stiff and sore, and by next week's fight they'll be fine again.
This is the cycle. This is what I do.
The warehouse is almost empty now. Most of the crowd's cleared out. The Savage Riders are doing their final sweep, checking for stragglers, making sure no one's passed out drunk in a corner somewhere. One of them—big guy named Beast—catches my eye and nods.
I nod back.
They're good people, the Riders. They protect this place. Protect the people who work here. I'd heard them tell Joanna that on her first night. *Anyone bothers you, you come to us.* She'd nodded, looking overwhelmed and scared and like she was two seconds from bolting.
But she'd stayed.
She's still staying.
Marcus and Pete are finishing up the bleachers. They're good at their jobs. Quick, efficient, know better than to make small talk with the fighters. Pete's probably sixty, moves slow but thorough. Marcus is younger, maybe fifty, talks more but in that easy way that doesn't demand anything back.
Joanna's different from them. She's younger, for one. Mid-twenties, maybe. And there's something fragile about her that the other two don't have. Like she's held together with string and willpower and not much else.
Makes me want to stand between her and everything that could break her.
Which is insane, because I'm one of the things that could break her.
She's moving to a new section now, dragging that bucket behind her. It's heavy. I can tell by the way she's pulling it, using her whole body. The water's dark red. Mostly my blood, probably. Some from the guy I put down.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out. Text from my sister, Erin.
**Erin:** *Did you win tonight?*
I stare at the message for a second. She always asks. Every fight night. She knows when they are. I can't hide that from her, but I've never told her the details. Never told her how brutal it gets. How much blood there is. How close I come sometimes to crossing lines I can't come back from.
She thinks it's like regular boxing. Regulated. Safe-ish.
I let her think that.
I type back: *Yeah. I won.*
**Erin:** *Good. Be safe, Danny. Love you.*
*Love you too.*
She's the only person I say that to. The only person who's earned it.
She stood by me when no one else did. Visited me every single week for ten years.
Never missed one. Brought pictures of her kids, told me about her life, never once made me feel like the piece of shit everyone else saw when they looked at me.
She saved me in ways she doesn't even understand.
And I'd go back to prison in a heartbeat if it meant keeping her safe. If it meant making sure what I did, what I had to do, mattered. But she doesn't need to know that. Doesn't need to carry that weight.
I pocket my phone and look up.
Joanna's closer now. Maybe twenty feet away. She's wringing out the mop, her back to me, and I can see the tension on her shoulders. Still wound tight from earlier.
That guy's lucky I let him walk away.
Lucky I've learned control since prison. Lucky the Riders were watching. Lucky Joanna was standing right there, because if she hadn't been, if I'd caught him in a dark corner somewhere, I'd have done more than just scare him off.
The thought should bother me.
It doesn't.
Marcus calls something to Pete, and they both head toward the exit with their supplies. Joanna glances up, watches them leave. For a second, she looks uncertain. Like she's not sure if she should stay or follow.
She stays.
Of course she does. There's still blood on the floor. Still work to do.
I check my watch. Nearly one in the morning. She's been here for hours. When does she get home? When does she get to rest?
None of my business.
Except it is now. I made it my business the second I stepped in.
She moves closer. Not intentionally, just following the pattern of stains across the concrete.
She's maybe fifteen feet away now. Close enough that I can see the details.
The way her hair's falling out of that messy bun.
The smudge of something, dirt, maybe, on her cheek.
The way her jeans are worn at the knees and her hoodie's three sizes too big.
She's trying to disappear.
I know the tactic. Used it myself in prison. Make yourself small, unremarkable, not worth the effort. It works until it doesn't. Until someone notices anyway and decides you're exactly the kind of target they've been looking for.
That guy in the leather jacket noticed.
How many others have noticed?
The warehouse is quiet now. Just the two of us and the distant sound of the Riders talking outside.
The overhead lights buzz faintly. Somewhere a pipe drips.
I should go. Hit the showers, wrap my hands, head home.
She's fine. The Riders are outside if she needs them.
She doesn't need me standing here like some kind of guard dog.
But I don't move.
Can't.
Not until I know she's safe. Not until I see her walk out that door and get into her car and drive away. It's irrational. I know it is. She's been doing this job for weeks without me hovering over her. She's capable. Strong. She doesn't need protecting.
Except tonight she did. Tonight, some asshole thought he could put his hands on her, and if I hadn't been here, if I'd left five minutes earlier, what would have happened?
The thought makes my hands curl into fists.
Pain shoots through my knuckles and I force myself to relax. Breathe. Count to ten.
This is what the corner's for. Decompression. Letting the adrenaline drain out before I do something stupid.
Too late for that, apparently.
Joanna's finishing up now. Dumping the dirty water into a drain, rinsing out the bucket. She's done this a hundred times. She hangs up the mop, wipes her hands on her jeans, and glances around the warehouse one last time. Making sure she didn't miss anything.
Her eyes land on me again. This time, I don't look away. Neither does she. We stand there for a handful of seconds that feel longer. Her expression's guarded but not hostile. Wary but not terrified. Progress, I guess.
She breaks first, turning toward the exit. She's got a small backpack slung over one shoulder. She pulls it tighter against her body, like she's trying to make herself smaller again. I push off from the wall.
She doesn't hear me at first. I'm quiet when I want to be, something else prison taught me. But then my boots scuff against concrete and she spins around, eyes wide.
"Sorry," I say. Hands up. Non-threatening. "Didn't mean to scare you."
"You didn't." A lie. Her pulse is probably hammering right now. "I'm just... heading out."
"I know."
"Okay." She shifts her weight. Uncertain. "Did you... need something?"
Yeah. I need to know you're safe. Need to know that asshole didn't rattle you so bad you quit this job and end up somewhere worse. Need to know you're going to be okay.
Can't say any of that.
"I'm heading out too," I say instead. "I'll walk you to your car."
Her eyes widen. "You don't have to do that."
"I know."
"Really, I'm fine—"
"Joanna. Let me walk you to your car."
She stares at me. I can see her weighing it. Deciding if I'm more dangerous than whatever might be waiting in the parking lot.
Finally, she nods. "Okay. Thanks."
I fall into step beside her as we head for the exit.
Not too close. Don't want to crowd her. The Riders nod at us as we pass—Beast, and two others whose names I forget.
They don't ask questions. Just watch us go.
My breath mists in front of me. Joanna hunches her shoulders, pulling her hoodie tighter.
The parking lot's mostly empty. A few bikes belonging to the Riders, and Rampage's truck.
"Which one's yours?" I ask.
She points to a small sedan in the far corner. Older model. Dented bumper. Rust around the wheel wells. Of course, she's parked in the darkest corner of the lot. We walk in silence. My boots are loud against the asphalt. Hers are quieter. Sneakers, probably.
When we reach her car, she digs keys out of her backpack and unlocks it with shaking hands.
Still shaking.
"Thank you," she says. "For tonight. For... everything."
"Don't mention it."
She opens the driver's door, then pauses. Looks back at me. "Your hands—"
"Are fine."
"Danny—"
"Joanna." I step closer. Not threatening. Just close enough that she has to look up to meet my eyes. "Go home. Get some sleep. I'll see you at my next fight."
She nods slowly. "See you then."
She slides into the driver's seat and starts the engine. It turns over rough, coughing before it catches. She puts it in reverse, and I step back, watching as she pulls out of the spot and heads for the exit. I stand there until her taillights disappear into the night.
Only then do I turn and head for my own truck. My hands are throbbing now. Swollen and stiff. I'll definitely need ice tonight. But all I can think about is the way Joanna's hands were shaking. The red marks on her arm. The exhaustion in her eyes.
And the fact that my next fight feels like a lifetime away.