11. Kingsley
Kingsley
Whoever came up with the idea of Fight Club is a genius.
Crowds gathering to watch two fools fight in a ring, with massive bets hanging and little to no regulations? Stellar idea. Who wouldn’t find it entertaining to watch unhinged fuckers beat the hell out of psychopathic fuckers? Pussies, that’s who.
But being one of the deranged fuckers that fight in it? Not as fun.
I’ve been fighting in the ring since I was thirteen.
Dad used it to test out the skills my sisters, cousin, and I learned in lessons at the base.
When I was younger, it was the one day a week I looked forward to.
Every other child against me was no match for me, and winning every time gave me the ego boost of the century.
But then I grew taller, gained muscle, and developed facial hair, and Dad decided it was time to put me up for a real challenge. I was fighting grown men at a mere fifteen years old. I won some; I lost some, but the losses weren’t the reason I stopped enjoying my time in the ring as much.
When you’re fighting grown men, you’re fighting grown men. Not all grown men stick only to their fists.
I’ll never forget the fight that left me incapacitated for two months. They put me against one big-ass dude with rippling muscles as if he were on steroids. Thinking back, he probably was.
But it was his knife to my gut that fucked me over, not his Wreck-it-Ralph fists. He sneaked a pocketknife into the rink and stabbed me with it the second he got a chance.
The man had been a regular at the club. He wasn’t part of the Crowncrest—only a random, lowlife looking to blow off some steam—but Fight Club welcomes people from all over. In his years of fighting, he had never smuggled a weapon into the ring. Until he fought me. I almost fucking died.
Dad shot him in the head the next day.
I still fought after that, but not as often. With the world I’ve grown up in, I knew it wasn’t the last time I’d be stabbed, but I sure didn’t want it to happen again. The one thing that got me to stop fighting for good was Sylvie’s death.
Even though we had a terrible relationship and didn’t want to marry each other, her death still made me lose interest in things I used to love. I think it’s time I take back some of them.
“Shit, King. I hate this.” My sister is pacing, hands on her head. “You don’t have to do this again to prove yourself.”
“I’m not trying to prove myself, Odie.”
“You have been forever.” She rummages through her purse and pulls out a wrapped hamburger, handing it to me. “One round of beating someone bloody will not prove anything to the Crown or to Daddy.”
My stomach churns as I eye the fast-food burger. Just as Odette was there to watch me during all my fights when we were teenagers, she also brought me food beforehand. It was her way of showing she cared, even though she hated how I continued to fight for so long.
“He’s not doing it to prove anything to Xavier.” Shawn closes the door, and the shouting from outside the room fades. “Kingsley is trying to get back to where he used to be. He’s tasked with a lot of crap right now, and he needs to be sharp.”
“I’m not sure beating up a few guys is the type of skill he needs to be sharpening,” Odie says, shaking her head. “We do that every day.”
“Kingsley’s been on a year-long vacation. This is step one of re-earning his name.”
“And who made you an expert on turning a man into a feared crime boss?” my sister taunts.
“I know my shit,” he tells her. Shawn’s eyes land on my unopened burger. “Eat up, King. You’re out there in ten.”
Odette punches me lightly on the shoulder. “I’ll go find my seat. You’re going to win, King. I know it.”
The door slams behind her as Shawn grabs a chair, turns it around, and straddles it. He nods at me. “You planning on wearing that huge shirt during the fight?”
I give a sharp nod as I swallow. “I’m not taking it off.”
He stares at me as if I had told him I was jumping into the fight blindfolded. “Are you insane?”
Sometimes. “I don’t want to fight without a shirt.”
“Oh, so you want to get yanked by it? You want to be choked with it? You know how crazy these guys are, and you’ll look ridiculous wearing that.”
“It’s a risk I’m willing to take.”
“Why?” Shawn asks, his voice rising. He pinches the bridge of his nose, fed up. “If it were a tank top, then sure. But you know what people will think if you walk in there in a baggy T-shirt.”
Does he know what they’ll think when they see me topless for the first time in forever?
I set the half-eaten burger down, and before I can decide against it, I tug my shirt over my head. Tossing it on the ground, I stand up, putting my arms out wide to give Shawn a full view.
“What will people think when they see this?”
Shawn’s narrowed eyes soften, but go wide at the same time. Unable to look at the shock on his face anymore, I turn to the mirror.
I miss the old me. The me with the athletic build and a near six-pack. Who everyone used to see fighting in the ring, going out on missions, and leading people who were twice my age. The one they’re all expecting.
It’s clear personality-wise, I may never be the same, but did my physique have to suffer too?
Shawn can’t help but gawk. He’s never been good at masking his emotions. “What the fuck happened?”
“I stopped giving a fuck.”
He frowns sympathetically. “I knew you were going through it, but… damn.”
“Thanks, Shawn,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm as I drop my head into my hands. I can always count on him to cheer me up.
Seconds later, a comforting hand lands on my back. “Don’t beat yourself up, man. You haven’t changed much, you just… caught me off guard. You can build that muscle back later, but it’s not important right now.”
I shrug. “Not everyone will have that thought.”
He grabs my shoulders, forcing my hands away from my face and making me look at him. “Make them have that thought.”
That wasn’t an award-winning pep talk, but it’ll have to do.
The stench of sweat and blood fills the humid air of the arena, where the crowd’s cheers welcome me as I jog into the ring. My heart pounds, and I fear a dizzy spell, yet I hold my unclothed chest high as I move. Confidence is my only friend here.
I unlock the gate, step onto the court, and meet the ref. To be honest, he’s barely a ref because he doesn’t monitor the fight much at all. Since the only frowned-upon activity in this illegal club is the use of a weapon, he just watches. The man is a glorified spectator.
My opponent arrives moments later. He’s my height, but double my age, all muscle and brawn.
I’ve never fought him before. On the plus side, there is no way he’s holding on to some petty grudge from years ago, but on the downside, I have no clue how he fights.
And for my first time back in the arena, I have to win.
He sizes me up with what I’d describe as pity. “Damn. You sure you’re up for this, kid?”
Before I can respond, the referee introduces us. Without a microphone, he has to shout at the top of his lungs. “Today we have Victor Plaster versus Kingsley Beaumont!”
The crowd roars, and Victor’s brows raise. “You’re Kingsley Beaumont?”
Instead of answering, I glare at him as I crack my neck.
“I don’t fucking believe it,” he laughs incredulously, still eyeing me. “I’ve heard a lot about you, and you do not seem like what they’ve cracked you up to be.”
“Yeah? Well, I’ve heard nothing about you.”
His gaze darkens. “You will after this.”
The ref throws his hands up, and the match starts. It’s like a dance, us circling each other, waiting for the other to start the fight.
Victor’s fist flies at me, and I dodge it and take a swing of my own. My fist connects with his gut, sending a sharp pain through my hand as if I had struck solid steel. I cradle my hand in awe, and in that vulnerable moment, Victor manages to land a forceful blow to both my jaw and my stomach.
I stumble but catch my balance before I’m on the floor. Lunging at him, I try to pull him into a headlock, and he struggles against me, but I only tighten my grip. I’m crushing him and pulling him down, maybe suffocating him, but I don’t let up.
Now is my chance, and I can’t fucking lose it.
Victor’s flailing around, shouting, but it’s not helping him escape. The blood in my veins pulsates through me like a drug as I lower us to the ground, both thrilling and exhausting. Fuck, when will the ref call this?
My eyes flicker to the gate. Odie and Shawn are cheering me on, grins wider than ever. I glance at the crowd, and they’re all on their feet, yelling and cheering like fiends for the game. If they thought anything about how I looked, they don’t care enough now to say anything.
But then my eyes land on a specific blonde-haired hothead.
No, I must be seeing things. Rip is not in the crowd in the arena. How could he be?
This is me being delusional again. The figure is wearing a black hoodie that hides most of his face, so it’s tough to say for sure, but his build is similar, and those are absolutely his ocean-blue eyes. What. The. Fuck.
Just like that, he disappears, and I’m falling to the floor, a searing pain shooting through my balls. Victor catches me off guard with a backward kick to the dick, causing me enough pain to set him free. My legs clamp together, and I drop to my knees right before his punch lands square in my neck.
I hit the hard floor, clutching my neck, gasping for air, and coughing like crazy. He’s on top of me in an instant, unleashing a constant barrage of attacks to my gut, chest, and head. I register the shift in the audience from hype to shock, back to hype.
I protect my face as best I can, but Victor’s a strong man, so it doesn’t do much. The hamburger in my stomach threatens to lurch out of me, but I swallow it down, because the last thing I need is vomit to accompany the blood everywhere.
I’m lying there, with not a clue of how to get out of the situation. But then I picture Victor’s ugly face. The way he looked down on me when he recognized me, how he thought I wasn’t anything close to what people perceived me as.
How he and the Crown believe I’m a weak bastard who couldn’t even stand up for his dead fiancée.
Those people don’t know shit about me—they like to talk because that’s all they can do. They will never be who I am, and knowing that pisses them off. So, they gossip and judge, and make idiotic theories.
But that’s all it is. Theories. They don’t know the truth because they don’t deserve to.
Desperate, I sweep my leg under Victor to knock him off balance. He stumbles enough for me to get on my feet and create a little distance, but he’s ready to gouge my eyes out right when I do. Victor lunges at me, his fingers digging into my shoulder blades, and I hold him steady.
I pull him close to me, chest to chest, and lower myself between his shoulder and neck. My heart pounds in my ears as I bite down hard on his trapezius muscle like a wild animal, then rip upward in a rage.
Blood spews from the gap between his neck and shoulder, and he lets out a guttural roar. I spit out blood and bits of skin onto the mat and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.
Victor’s either in too much shock or pain to throw any more punches. He crumbles to the ground, face contorted as he shouts. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
I don’t respond, and Victor taps out and calls for medical help in a frantic yell. I’ll cut him some slack. He’s never had someone rip the flesh off him before.
The referee runs between us, his eyes a type of giddy I’ve never seen before. He raises my hand. “Give it up for Kingsley!”
The thunderous applause from the crowd, as much as I adore their excitement, makes the room tilt. Or maybe that’s the usual lightheadedness that follows me around these days.
The next thing I know, I’m taking a seat on the mat. It’s either that or fainting in front of the crowd, so I choose the former.
My sister and Shawn appear by my side in no time. They wrap their arms around me, helping me out of the arena and probably to one of the few medics upstairs in the base.
“That was insane,” Shawn says as we wobble through the crowd of onlookers. “Did you see the look on Victor’s face? I think he pissed himself.”
“I for sure saw a wet spot at his crotch,” Odie giggles. “That was disgusting, King.”
I crack a smile at their conflicting astonishment and disgust, but I can’t even fully enjoy it. I’m still thinking about the face that I should never have spotted in the crowd.
“Guys,” I croak. “I think I saw something.”
My sister’s smile falls. “What?”
“I think I saw Rip in the crowd.”
“Now? Here?” Shawn asks pointedly.
“The social media marketer?” Odette asks at the same time.
I nod to both of them. “Yes. If Rip was in that crowd, we have a fucking problem. A big one.”
Shawn nods, already pulling his phone out. “I’m gonna send some people to search the crowd. If he’s there, we’ll know, and we can deal with it.”
Could Rip really be the mole?
What other reason would he have to be in the arena? Unless he’s just a marketer who dabbles in the less legal side of life. That could be it. Or maybe I was seeing things, and he is back in his room with Tommy, planning our next video.
Fuck. I hope that wasn’t him. I don’t want it to be him.
I don’t want to deal with what happens if it were him.