Chapter Fifteen #3
He rubs his chin. “I’m not sure how to answer that…”
My eyebrow cocks, and he grins.
“Let’s just say, I’ve been around the block. But I don’t believe that makes me a fighter . I simply… do what I must. To survive.”
I find myself nodding. Relating in a way.
“What about you?” He steps in closer.
He likes to be close, this one.
The urge to back up is strong, but I ignore it, allowing him to push into my space. He holds out his hands, and it takes me a moment to register that he’s waiting for me to tape his knuckles for him. I’m immediately smacked upside the head with a memory…
But I don’t want to think about that right now.
Sucking in a secret breath, I take his hand in mine. Nerves are bunching, and I’m trying hard to pretend it has nothing to do with touching him. How cool and soft his skin is, or how long and slender his fingers are… They’re very masculine and proportionate to his size.
These are nice hands…
Stuffing away those thoughts, I wrap tape around his knuckles as quickly and as professionally as I can.
“Yea, I’m a fighter.” I answer his question. “I’ve been practicing Tae Kwon Do since I was a boy. I’m also into Jujitsu, Moi Tai, Krav Maga… most Mixed Martial Arts. You name it, I’ve done it. I was planning to become a trainer before…” My words trail, but he gets the point.
Trevel’s brows lift, that glittering purple stare moving from my face to his hand. He looks beyond impressed. “Wow… So what you’re saying is, none of these other blokes stand a chance?”
My mouth slopes into a small grin I can’t get a handle on. It feels good to be acknowledged. To have someone focusing on me for once.
Plus, I like his accent, and his British words. Reminds me of my grandfather.
Crushing my smile, I let modesty tug me back to earth. “I don’t know about all that.” Returning to my task, I take his other hand and wind tape around to cover his knuckles. “It’s been a while…”
“Shame.” His tone goes soft, and I peer up to find him gazing down at me intently. “That you don’t get to do what you enjoy…”
His fingers brush my wrist, and I shiver.
Michelangelo.
I taped his knuckles for him… That night.
Dropping his hand fast, I step back, clearing my throat. “Yea, well… Welcome to fucking prison, right? You’re, uh… all set, by the way.”
The way he stares is weighted with curiosity and dazed wonder. Any time his eyes are on me for more than a few seconds, I start to feel all hot and fidgety inside. Thankfully, cheers and roars give me an excuse to turn away and get my bearings.
It’s starting.
Stalking over to the circle, I can sense Trevel scampering after me. “Do you have any advice for me?” he asks over the noise. “I’m really more of a lover than a fighter.”
I gawk at him like he’s insane. “Don’t go in there trying to love these guys to death. You’ll get your ass handed to you. And not in a nice way.”
“Ooh… saucy .” He bites off a grin, and I just shake my head.
He is a bit of an odd duck.
I allow the violence to distract me from the warmth that won’t stop creeping up my neck and into my face any time he’s around.
It’s not him. It must just be the excitement of the fight, that’s all.
It’s normal to feel awkward around such a… compelling new character.
Trevel and I stand side by side, watching two inmates, Valcic and Jermaine, beat the shit out of each other. I can tell this is something Trevel’s never been presented with by the way he’s sort of flinching and wincing every time one of them takes a heavy hit.
He doesn’t seem affected by the blood or the pain they’re inflicting, but more by the senseless violence. Fighting without purpose, I guess.
By the next match-up, he’s leaning in to ask me questions. Often .
“Shouldn’t he have blocked that?”
“Why do they call it an ‘uppercut?’”
“Do you think his nose is broken?”
“Is that a proper stance?”
“What happens if you run away?”
It’s actually kind of funny. He clearly knows nothing about professional fighting while being genuinely interested in my insights. Like I’m a UFC commentator or something— the Joe Rogan of underground prison fights. Honestly, it’s more entertaining than the match after a while.
The blood is flowing, fire being fueled enough that the next time Linetti is calling out, “Who’s next?” I’m stepping forward and cracking my neck.
“I’m in.”
Everyone cheers, I guess because, technically, I’m still undefeated. And the bets start rolling in, cash being tossed at Brenner from all sides.
“Fuck yea!” Linetti claps, looking around for someone to pit me against.
Before he can choose, Humphrey steps into the circle, serving me a look that’s overflowing with something to prove. “Let’s go, champ.”
I narrow my gaze at him. Justin Humphrey is a big guy. Not that it means anything per se, but he’s always done pretty well down here. His last fight was against O’Malley. And he kinda sorta whooped my friend’s ass.
Still, I’m not worried. The dude has no form, and he wears himself out too fast swinging sloppy haymakers.
“Bets in!” Brenner shouts, signaling that we’re about to start.
Rolling my neck in Trevel’s direction, I find his eyes rounded, wide enough that the violet in his irises is visibly shimmering. He’s grinning, but it’s strained. Like maybe he’s… nervous. For me. How sweet.
Or maybe he’s nervous for the other guy. Either way, he’s clearly anxious about me fighting, and it sets the strangest sensation in my chest.
I don’t have time to be perplexed by it, because Linetti is hollering, “Fight!”
And we’re off.
As suspected, Humphrey’s coming at me quick, throwing big, meaty punches like Mike Tyson’s older, fatter cousin. Blocking him is easy, but when he does catch me, the pain lights me the fuck up.
Fuck yea. You want some, old man?!
My body shots are tight, head shots fast and precise. Stick and move, I’m dancing around him like Ali, in my fucking zone . The noise fades away, until all I can hear is my breathing. It’s like I’m underwater. Everything is rippling, slow-motion helping me to anticipate his jabs.
Ducking and dodging, I work on his legs, and his kidneys, kicking and kicking, sprinkling in blows so he doesn’t know what to expect.
Head, body, head.
This is where I feel at peace.
No more stressing, or obsessing…
No more doubting, questioning…
All eyes on me, because this is who the fuck I am.
A fucking warrior .
Sweet, simmering fury personified.
Humphrey is exhausted in mere minutes, wobbling and bleeding from his mouth. That’s when I make my move.
I launch my palm at his nose to disorient, get his eyes watering up nice. Then I hit him with my signature combo… Uppercut to the chin, followed by a spin-kick to finish him. He goes down like a sack of shit.
Boom. KO.
The crowd erupts, guards and prisoners bellowing as Lucas calls it. And not that I believe in this shit, but I make the cross motion over my chest. For O’Malley.
“No mercy.” I spit blood onto the floor where Humphrey is lying. “No fuckin’ surrender, baby.”
Rest In Peace, Shamrockstar.
Stomping out of the circle, I’m refreshed.
My head is clearer than it’s been in months .
I’ve got dudes slapping me on the back left and right, calling things out.
And I won’t lie, it feels good, the recognition.
But I don’t do it for that. I don’t crave attention or validation when I fight.
I’m sure I would feel just as satisfied if I’d lost.
Because it’s the fight itself that settles me. The pain, the adrenaline… Hell, even the fear. They remind me that I’m still alive when, in here, it’s so easy to forget.
Striding past Trevel, the illumination on his face has me smirking.
“Byron! Fucking hell… That was amazing! ” He breathes a laugh, following me over to the water bucket. “I’ve never seen anything like that!”
I give him a skeptical side-eye. “You’ve really never seen any boxing? UFC?”
He shrugs. “I told you; I’m a lover, not a fighter. Plus, that was obviously different from what’s on television…”
Perplexed by how good his praise feels, I ignore it with a huff, focusing on cleaning myself up. But when Trevel grabs the wet cloth from my hand, I freeze.
Standing stock still, I watch in bemused unease as he brings it up to my face, dabbing my brow. I might’ve stopped breathing; a Byron statue, gaping up at the stranger who’s gently cleaning blood off of my face.
Why is he doing this? Why am I letting him do this?
It’s… weird. Isn’t it? A weirdly intimate thing to do for someone you hardly know… While shirtless and… sweaty.
“I can’t believe you can fight like that,” Trevel murmurs, all of his attention on what he’s doing while I just stare. “Do you pretend that bloke hurt your family or something? Imagine he killed your puppy or slashed your tires…? I think I’d have to do that. I’d need some motivation, or—”
“Motivation can be more than just revenge,” I cut off his rambling, my voice extra raspy.
His purple eyes meet mine. “What’s yours?”
Swallowing, I consider what I could share with him. If I could tell him things… About me. My life.
Ultimately, I decide against it. This guy has already pulled more words out of me than most others can. I don’t understand how he does it.
Ducking away from his touch, I take the cloth back, because now it just seems like he’s fussing over me, and I don’t need that. I’m barely even swelling. There isn’t much blood.
And I think I felt his fingers on my lower back…
Shut it down.
“So vengeance is, like, your thing ?” I ask my own question, remembering what he said to me the other day in the cafeteria.
“You might like the taste of revenge…”
“Bit of an odd thing to have, I suppose.” He grins.
“Look, I’m no Batman , roaming the streets, seeking to avenge the deaths of my parents.
It’s just… Well, the only times I’ve felt the blinding need to inflict pain on someone were instances where they deserved it.
They wronged me, or someone I cared for. And because of that, they had to die.”
His words give me chills.