Chapter 6
Mari
Violet’s message following our GTFO coffee meet a week ago was clear:
Let’s go to Kas’s fight next weekend. Remember, GTFO.
As the fight neared, I was beginning to imagine what the event would look like. Perhaps it’d be at the gym Kas frequents, the same one where he volunteered me to be his guinea pig.
Turns out, I couldn’t be more wrong.
Kas is fighting in what I believe is an evil villain’s base. The flickering industrial lighting above the steel doors does little to put me at ease; it might be communicating to me in Morse code, trying to tell me to leave while I can. It’s attached to a damp brick wall where a woman leaning against it scoops some white powder onto her pinky nail and inhales it through her left nostril.
Great.
Freya’s car crunches over some of the crumbling cement covering the worn parking lot, and she yanks the parking brake with a mechanical screech.
“What the hell is this?” I ask.
“I’ve already told you, it’s bare-knuckle boxing, baby,” she drawls.
“Why am I kind of nervous? I’ve literally gone to worse.”
I used to attend Isaac’s motorcycle races at an abandoned airfield. It was where I first met Violet, who went to watch Devon race—and beat—Isaac. The night ended with swarming cops and Isaac earning himself a punch courtesy of Devon after initiating a fight. The one positive was that the races were in an open area with plenty of escape routes—I don’t think this venue has emergency exits.
“This will be a breeze,” Freya sings, stepping out of the car. She rounds it to meet me on the passenger side and grabs my shoulders to steer me toward the entrance of the venue. “Devon and Vi should be inside.”
Freya nods toward Devon’s motorcycle she’s conveniently parked next to. It’s his pride and joy, second to Violet.
“Violet didn’t confirm if photography is allowed,” I say, resisting Freya’s push a little.
“We can ask.”
The looming man checking IDs and bags at the door makes my stomach drop. I continue to look at Devon’s bike, willing it to come to life and whisk me away.
Freya clears her throat. “You’d kill Devon by touching it and kill yourself by riding it. C’mon.”
We head for the bouncer, and I busy my hands by brushing them over my black overalls. Music blares out of the entryway, and with the volume this loud outside, I’m sure the noise inside isn’t legal.
“ID please,” the bouncer demands gruffly.
He wears no uniform, unless jeans and a tight white T-shirt is the uniform. I nod and dig around in my small fanny pack for my ID, handing it to him once I find it.
“Do you know where Violet would be?” I ask Freya.
“No!” she shouts and passes the bouncer her ID. “I’ve never been.”
“You’ve never been? So when you said it’ll be fine, you said that based on ...”
“Absolutely nothing!” Freya then has the gall to wink at me playfully as if she brought me to a soft play party and not a shitty excuse for a venue.
“All bags,” the bouncer grunts, nodding to the camera case I should’ve left at home. He reaches forward with meaty hands, grabbing it roughly.
“Careful!” I say louder than I anticipated.
The bouncer raises an eyebrow as if my words have incriminated me. Some familiar-looking guy from the Women-troduction thing manages to slip past security and turns at my exclamation.
“Hey, I recognize you ...” He nods toward the camera case. “You the photographer?”
What was his name? Drake? Dustin? Something beginning with D.
He discards the end of his joint after one final pull. Freya sucks in a sharp breath and receives a smoldering grin from the guy with a name beginning with D. His beard matches Freya’s hair color, and it’s neatly trimmed to compliment his slicked-back hair of the same hue.
I look helplessly toward Freya. “Um ...”
Without breaking eye contact with D, she nods so violently, her head might fall off and roll into the building without her. “Yes, she is the photographer.” Freya bends slightly to whisper into my ear. “Our safe point is Devon’s bike. I’ll find you once I’m in.”
I nod, trying hard to shake away the nervous lump that lodges itself in my throat. Spontaneity is not my thing, nor is being left alone. It probably has something to do with my birth parents leaving me on Auntie’s doorstep when I was little and then cutting ties with everyone they know. It could also be because I’m not a photographer for the fight, and I’m now potentially risking my life for a few photos to add to my creative portfolio.
“You don’t have to do this,” Freya says. Her eyes glimmer with warmth, and I know she’d take me right back home.
I inhale and shake my head with a smile. “No, this will be good for me.”
Freya nods supportively and remains outside the venue as I follow D inside. We approach a large, caged ring in the middle of a rapidly growing crowd. The venue is dark and dingy, and my shoes adhere to the sticky floor with every step I take.
“So, you know Kas?” D shouts from a few steps ahead.
He accepts shoulder slaps and handshakes from the mass of attendees he carves a pathway through, like a person leading a hike to take on the wrath of cobwebs.
“Kinda,” I say to his back, unsure if he’s heard me.
I jump up to see over the crowd and make a note of any exits available to me in case I need to make a great escape. I spot Devon and Violet when I jump for a second time. I wave at them only for some random person in front of them to wave back at me instead. Goddammit.
“Three matches, six fighters. Don’t let the crowd rough you up, Sunshine,” D shouts and nods to my graphic T-shirt dotted with suns.
He looks over the crowd with brows furrowed unhappily and walks away before I can vocalize my question. Rough me up? What the hell is that supposed to mean?
Clutching on to my camera, I nestle myself next to the ring alongside who I hope is another security guy wearing the same outfit as the bouncer outside. I smile politely at him, and he looks at me like I’ve just become a minor inconvenience.
You know what? Maybe getting the fuck out is a brilliant idea.
“Let’s go!” I shout alongside the crowd, bobbing my head to the bassy techno song playing while we wait for the last fight—Kas’s fight.
I’m having a lot of fun, even if the venue is significantly more congested compared to when I first arrived; I was a fair distance from the ring and now I’m half a meter away from it.
I’ve captured some amazing photos that I can add to my photography portfolio, and one of the hot fighters winked at me. I’m starting to believe that a shady fighting event is my kind of scene after all.
The music diminuendos into a low hum and the crowd erupts into cheers and whistles behind me. I focus my lens through the cage and spot a shirtless man in bright orange shorts vaulting the height of it. He bounces from one foot to another and is followed by none other than Kas.
He looks different, rougher. I could tell he was strong based on how he held himself at Violet’s art exhibition. He had a level of physical prowess that the average person failed to have. Now in nothing but shorts, I can see every carved-out muscle that was hiding beneath the pressed suit at the gallery and the T-shirt he donned at the gym. He looks unreal.
D speaks into the mic and begins the same speech he’s recited before every fight tonight. “Alright, gents, we went through the rules earlier. I need you to obey my commands at all times, protect yourself at all times, and if you want to touch fists ...”
“I advise you do it now,” I finish the end of the phrase to myself.
The fighters step back, limbering up their shoulders and bouncing on the balls of their feet. Both look unfazed to potentially have their faces smashed into smithereens. D announces the round, and I break away from the security guy to orbit the ring, capturing Kas hurling kicks.
I realize pretty quickly that I’m engaging in my own fight with the crowd behind me shoving at my back to get closer to the ring. This wasn’t an issue fifteen minutes ago.
“Can you stop?” I hiss to nobody in particular.
I’m not loud enough because hands continue to grapple against my back. The moisture at the nape of my neck is an unpleasant mixture of my sweat, the building’s humidity, and the gross saliva of the crowd screaming close behind. If I don’t stop moving, I might get crushed against the ring. The one security guy is little help too, considering he’s on the opposite side using his body as a barricade against the feral crowd.
“This is why I don’t leave the house,” I say to myself.
There’s been no sign of Freya, Vi, or Devon, which is no surprise given how packed it is now. I’d be surprised if they can move.
A sharp pain jolts through my shoulder, and the pressure behind me escalates from a mere push to relentless clawing. The cotton of my tee, once a shield against the chaos, threatens to tear under the assault as the left latch of my overalls undoes itself.
This is just like a mosh pit without the music. In fact, it’s more akin to what I’d imagine are the pits of hell. My eyes begin to water, and the fight in front of me transforms into a blurred, nightmarish haze. The crowd gets rowdier when Kas throws a right hook at his competitor’s head.
“Knock him out already!” I shout, my plea unheard over the screaming.
I don’t care who gets knocked out, I just want one of them down so I can get the hell out of here. Even if it means Kas getting his ass kicked.
There’s a sudden flash of bright orange that connects with the mat directly in front of me.
It’s Kas’s opponent, barely moving. His face is swollen and unrecognizable under a thick sheen of blood. There’s also a dark orange patch on the crotch of his shorts where he’s very obviously pissed himself. Holy shit.
A shove at my back resulting in my braids being tugged is enough for me to turn around in a blinding rage. “Fuck off!” I shout to a heavily intoxicated man.
The resonant thud of skin against skin forces my attention back to Kas. He pins down his opponent and lays several more punches to his face. The guy at the receiving end of Kas’s fists can’t defend himself. He has no control over his bladder, let alone the rest of his body.
“Oh my god,” I gasp.
D steps in, using his body to prevent Kas from annihilating the guy. Blood blankets the small area where they fought, adding to a morbid concoction of bodily fluids. I breathe in through my mouth to try and prevent myself from freaking out.
Kas gets up and roars. Blood and saliva spray from his mouth, making him look like a dragon spitting fire with the fluids highlighted by the spotlight over the ring. He thumps his chest and hops onto the barrier of the ring directly above me. I crane my neck, breaths coming faster as Kas unknowingly towers above me. His roars of victory vibrate through my very bones.
I scramble to retrieve my camera and take a few more pictures in quick succession, my shaking fingers barely able to press the shutter button. Each consecutive snap of the camera captures Kas’s head turning and after each shot, he goes from looking at the crowd to directly at me. He anchors my eyes with his, and the camera slips from my grip when I’m propelled forward.
I feel the exact moment the lens gives way against the side of the ring.
I can’t turn, and I can’t move. I can barely breathe. All I can see is a passed-out body in sodden orange shorts being tended to in the ring.
This is where I die. Compressed against a rusty ring next to a fighter who has pissed his pants.
My breathing comes in fast pants, and my chest tightens with each one until I struggle to draw in oxygen.
I want out.
Now.
“Get back! Get the fuck back!”
The pressure against my back finally gives, and I push away from the ring with an aching sternum. A warm arm circles my neck and pulls my face against a damp, naked torso.
“I’ve got you,” Kas reassures with a panting breath. “I’m gonna get you out of here.”
I know it’s Kas, not just because I recognize his voice, but because there’s only one sweaty, shirtless person here who is conscious enough to save me from being squished to death.