7. Tristian
Chapter seven
Tristian
By Friday morning, the stakes had shifted. It wasn’t three fighters anymore.
Now, it was five, and the prize money had climbed to fifteen thousand dollars.
To clear my head, I spent the morning running through the dense woods outside of the city, my breath coming in steady puffs of white in the cold air.
Dressed in my usual grey hoodie and sweats, I probably looked a threat the way I was moving through those trees.
Parents would cross the street with their children to avoid me.
I stopped after three miles, leaning against an oak tree to catch my breath.
My mind drifted to the trust fund my father had set up.
Over five hundred grand was sitting in a bank account with my name on it accruing interest and collecting dust each day.
He’d finally given me the access two years ago, but there was a catch.
The moment I touched a cent of that money, I was legally bound to a contract that put me in his debt, effectively signing my life over to his firm. It was a gilded cage, and I’d rather bleed in a basement ring for scraps than let him own me.
The day bled away, evening racing toward me, the tournament with it. By eight o’clock, I was in the back of the gym, pulling on my gloves.
I never fought shirtless. I preferred the long sleeves, the fabric acting as a barrier between my tattoos and the world. Those marks were mine; they weren’t for the entertainment of the crowd.
A muffled roar filled the gym. These fights always drew a crowd. Drunk men placed bets and roared for blood. Tonight I’d give it to them.
Kane watched me pulling on the boxing gloves, his expression grim.
“I always feel bad for the dude you’re put up against,” he said.
I looked up. “Why’s that?”
“Just because it’s you, man. You don’t lose… And you’ve been pissed off all week with your panties in a twist. Tonight?” He whistled low. “Tonight’s gonna be a massacre.”
I took a final swig of water and shrugged. “Apparently they didn’t get the memo.”
I stepped out of the locker room and headed for the raised ring in the center of the gym’s boxing area.
The space around it, usually filled with punching bags and weight racks, had been cleared and filled with fold-out tiered benches to accommodate the crowd.
Those benches were piled full, the stink of alcohol thick in the air.
Smoke too: tobacco and a more illicit funk.
It wasn’t legal, but neither was the drinking and the betting.
Lucky for me, the tournament’s organizers at the gym looked the other way.
I say lucky, because I was going to make fifteen grand tonight.
I wove through the crowd, as an announcer shouted into a sound system and music blared. Men grabbed for me, howling my name, beer sloshing from unsteady cups. I dodged most hands. One hand brushed too close and lingered—testing me.
I stopped dead.
And turned. I looked him straight in the eye, giving him a lethal look that promised him he’d be next if he touched me again.
He jerked back instantly, face going pale, his friends howling with mockery behind him.
I wasn’t here to entertain them.
I wasn’t here to bleed for them.
I was here to win.
To survive and keep my life out of my father’s hands for one more goddamn day.
I climbed into the ring as the announcer hyped me up to the crowd.
My opponent came in from the opposite side, slipping through the ropes.
He was big, but twitchy, and when he straightened and we met eyes, I saw a shudder ripple through him.
The crowd had roared for me. Not so much for him.
Now, facing me down, seeing the pure unbridled rage in my face, he knew why. I meant to destroy him.
We met in the middle of the ring, tapped gloves. Stepped back to our corners.
The bell rang.
When he lunged, I saw red. I didn’t care about form or technique; I ducked his wild swing and landed an uppercut so clean it practically lifted him off his feet before he fell to the ground.
The crowd roared their approval.
Just like that, one down.
The next three rounds were a blur. By the time the final opponent stepped up, my knuckles were throbbing and my adrenaline was peaking. This guy looked cocky, leaning against the ropes like he’d already won.
The bell signaled the start of the match, and I moved in, landing a series of punishing body blows. He was crumpled on the floor within seconds.
The smell of sweat, blood and cheap liquor got stronger. The heat from the crowd pressed in from all sides, bodies packed tight, the roar so loud it vibrated through me.
This was my element. The only place the noise in my head went quiet.
But in the deafening roar of the crowd, a sound sliced through the noise.
A small, piercing squeal.
I turned toward the front row. My heart nearly stopped.
There sat Ingrid, flanked by Amber and May. My hoodie. On her body. In my gym. Even in the smoky, dim light of the room, her doe eyes were unmistakable—wide with a mixture of terror and awe. Every territorial instinct I had fired at once. What the hell was she doing here?
A heavy glove slammed into my jaw, breaking my distraction and sending a shockwave through my skull. The crowd gasped. I stumbled back, rubbing my jaw with the back of my wrist. I pulled it away to see a smear of blood.
The pain didn’t register. But amusement did.
I laughed. A low, dangerous sound that made the guy’s bravado evaporate on the spot.
I cracked my neck.
“You’ve had your fun,” I growled, stepping forward. “Now it’s my turn.”
He didn’t even have time to bring up his hands. I buried a hook in his stomach, followed by a rib-cracking blow and a final strike to the temple. He went down hard, unconscious before he hit the floor.
The ref grabbed my arm and hoisted it high, but I didn’t hear the cheers. I was looking at Ingrid. She stared up at me, breathless.
The prize winnings came in a duffel bag stuffed with crumpled bills gleaned from bets and profits from the drinks—and whatever else had been sold tonight. I took it, hoisting it high to another cheer, and then hopped out of the ring.
The crowd was beginning to thin already.
Most people filed out when the fight was done: that was the big draw, and now it was over.
They could settle their bets in the street.
A few more might stay around for a little while, try to slur congratulations or insults at the winners and losers, but the organizers pushed them out rapidly.
Though putting on a boxing tournament was perfectly legal, everything else about it fell clearly on the wrong side of the law.
It would be irresponsible to let a crowd stay longer than they needed to be here, especially when drink and drugs and the ugly atmosphere threatened fights.
Amber and May made their way toward me, Kane right behind them. I ignored both girls, bringing my attention solely to the doll that looked out of place.
Her hair fluttering around her shoulders, freckled face flushed, low-rise jeans hugging her ass, my hoodie was now unzipped, hanging loose off one shoulder around a thin light pink top.
I nearly reached out and snagged her around the waist, brought her to where she should be. But then I remembered she hadn’t texted or called, and I fought back the urge.
“Doll... I thought I told you this wasn’t a place for sweet girls like you,” I murmured, my voice low and dangerous, my body towering over hers.
She bit her lip, looking up at me through her lashes. “I-I wanted to see you.”
My heart skipped. Maybe I should have pulled her into my arms after all. “And did you enjoy the show?”
She nodded. “It was kind of violent… but it was impressive seeing you win against all those guys.”
Something glinted in her eyes—attraction, shy, hungry but fascinated, I was sure of it. Her fingers worked against the sleeves of my hoodie.
I was about to give in and just pull her into me, when a cluster of rowdy, drunk men stumbled by on their way to the exit. I felt their looks on me as they went past. Most were smart enough to keep walking.
One wasn’t.
A heavyset guy, eyes glazed, staggered over. His plastic cup of beer teetered, fluid spilling down the side and over his hands.
“Big man!” he grunted happily. “Made mad cash on you tonight. Five hundred big ones! Great work—”
The last word turned into a yell as he stepped toward me, intending to clap me on the shoulder for my win, then his feet went sideways. He didn’t fall, but he did tumble forward, throwing his arms out. Beer jetted out of his plastic cup—and drenched Ingrid’s head and torso.
The effect was instant.
Her pink top turned sheer, clinging to her breasts, outlining her bra, her cleavage.
The onlookers gasped.
Amber and May shrieked with laughter.
And Ingrid—my poor, sweet Ingrid—went still before bolting like a terrified deer, trying to yank the hoodie tight around herself.
The friends of the guy who’d hurled his drink all over Ingrid grabbed to steady him. “You idiot!” said one.
“Nice rack though…” slurred another.
I wanted to break his skull open. Wanted to end him right there in front of everyone—make him regret ever breathing in her direction.
But finding Ingrid mattered more.
“You’re lucky you’re not a dead man,” I growled at the big guy. Then I was off, pushing through the departing crowds after Ingrid.
I caught her just outside of the door. She was running blindly, drawing even more eyes.
“Ingrid!” I called. “Wait!”
She didn’t stop. But I was bigger, faster, and I caught hold of her. I pulled her around—she tried to fight, pulling away. Tears filled her eyes. She’d clutched my hoodie tight around herself, shielding her body. I helped by pulling her in close, wrapping my arms tight to still her.
“Ssh. It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
She sobbed, voice trembling, “Just—just let me go home.”
“I’m just trying to help you, doll. Will you let me?”