Jason
The moon hangs low in the sky, like a spotlight on me alone.
I march to the Kitty Cat Club knowing my chances of getting seriously hurt are strong.
My stomach’s been in knots since I woke up, and not just because of the fight.
Gabe left and didn’t come back until the middle of the night…
Doug and I almost had another goddamn fight, but instead, he hit Gabe.
I really could have destroyed his ass.
Everything Linda said about Doug feels like a million miles away now.
Why should I give a fuck if he’s broken when he hurts everyone around him?
Whatever, it just fuels my fire for the fight tonight.
There’s a line of people waiting to get into the club, all of them clad in black leather. The guys are hulking monsters, and they sneer as I walk past them in my crappy denim and cut-off shirt.
Just focus on the fight. You’re a beast when you turn on.
It’s true. A lifetime of rage courses through my veins constantly, so I barely need a reason to let it rip.
As I approach the door, a massive man with teardrop tattoos on his face stops me. “ID?”
“He’s one of the contenders, Mac.” Tobias Kay’s voice sends a cold streak down my back. He wades through the bodies crowding the entrance, all of them parting and nodding with respect once they see him. “If it isn’t my scrappy blond, Jackson.”
“Jason,” I correct him, and instantly curse myself for doing it, but Tobias doesn’t flinch.
“Right. Jason.” He walks toward me and fingers my ratty T-shirt. “You never disappoint, do you?”
“Um…what do you mean?” I ask.
His gaze is intense as he explains, “You exude a brash trashiness that is simply delicious.”
Is that…a compliment? “Th-thank you, sir.”
Tobias’s eyes widen. “Did you hear that, Mac? He thanked me. Good manners are so hard to come by these days.”
Mac steps closer, looking me up and down. “You really gonna let this little rat into the pen tonight, boss?”
My hackles rise, both fists clenching at my sides.
Tobias notices and tsks. “Save the anger for downstairs, little pup. Mac just likes to fuck with people. Especially if they look as good as you do.”
“I’m stronger than I look,” I say with an attitude.
Mac laughs and replies, “You better be, or you're leaving in a body bag.”
I’m pretty sure people down the block heard me swallow just now.
Tobias gives me his arm. “Let me escort you to the dungeon.”
It feels weird taking a guy's arm like this in public, but I guess I did fuck Gabe four ways till Sunday, only a couple of days ago.
I wish Gabe were here right now.
Focus! Stop thinking about him.
Tobias leads me down a stone flight of stairs to the dungeon. There’s a check-in area that opens onto a semicircle of rafters where spectators already sit, and the sounds of laughter and chatter echo throughout the space.
Everything is black: walls, floor, clothing, everything.
I stand out like a sore thumb in my white cut-off and ripped blue jeans.
“Have you ever been down here before?” Tobias asks.
I shake my head no, and he continues, “It’s typically a maze, but we dismantle the walls for our fight nights.
” He points to what looks like a bunch of dividers stacked against the wall, then motions to another area of the dungeon.
“That hallway leads to cabins where you can do whatever your little heart desires. Tonight, we have medics posted in the cabins with all of the necessary equipment should you need assistance. Mac was just teasing; you won’t leave here in a body bag, though you may leave with a fractured skull, so be careful. The floor is quite hard.”
Oh, my god.
“Yes, sir.”
Tobias grins. “Those manners again. I truly hope you succeed tonight, Jason. I’d like to see more of you.”
He ushers me to a bench where three shirtless men sit. “You’re fighting in the second match,” Tobias explains. “Rules are no shirts and no weapons. Just raw flesh.” He extends the ‘sh’ sound on flesh, and a prickling sensation races across my skin.
“Good luck.” He winks and walks off to take a seat.
With a deep breath, I take off my shirt and sit next to a guy who’s about my height and weight, but then my eyes land on the fucking mutant who sits at the end of the bench.
He’s gotta be six feet seven inches and close to three hundred pounds.
He spits continuously, like a camel, and there's a giant skull and crossbones tattooed on his stomach.
The tattoo is lame.
But he’s huge, and I can’t suppress the gnawing feeling that I’ve made a big mistake coming here tonight.
The room quiets down as a man walks to the center of the floor and announces, “Tonight! We shall welcome a new member into the HellCats.”
The audience cheers and whistles, several of them stomping their feet. “There will be three fights total. The winners of the first two will face off in the third match. The victor earns a spot in the HellCats.
I scan the audience, looking at the sea of black leather. I’m pretty sure every guy here is a member of the HellCats, and they all exude the same thing.
Power.
Something hardens inside me—the fear and self-doubt vanish, and all that remains is hunger.
This is what I want.
I want people to step aside and nod with respect when I walk into a room. To have that kind of impact on people—it’s gotta feel electric. I want to stand alongside the most revered gang in the Northeast and feel proud for a change.
I’m done being the poor, bruised piece of shit with a constant chip on his shoulder.
I want to feel the power in my bones.
As I scan the crowd, looking at the men who I hope to impress, my breath hitches.
Because who do I see sitting in the stands?
Gabe.
What the fuck?
His eyes are glued to me, wide and filled with horror.
Torren Kay sits beside him; I met him once or twice with Gabe on the train tracks before I left Belmont with Mom.
My gut clenches the moment he puts his arm around Gabe and leans in to say something.
But Gabe doesn’t react. His sight is set on me. Torren bumps into him, trying to get his attention, and Gabe reluctantly looks his way.
As Torren speaks, Gabe’s face softens. The fear in his expression vanishes, and a smile emerges.
Torren laughs about something, and Gabe covers his mouth, suppressing his own laugh.
He never speaks, but the expression on his face while he listens to Torren makes me seethe with jealousy.
Torren tousles Gabe’s hair—all cute and endearing—and continues talking.
Everything else in the room fades away as my gaze zeroes in on Gabe, looking the happiest I’ve seen him since coming back home.
Torren treats Gabe like he’s a little brother, and Gabe stares at him with stars in his eyes.
My fists clench.
Look away, Jason.
I need to focus, but my eyes keep traveling to Gabe.
The bell finally rings, and the crowd stands, cheering and swallowing Gabe in the hubbub.
Focus. You have to focus.
The first two fighters enter the ring, one of them being the big fucker whose biceps look as thick as his opponent’s torso.
The ref walks into the middle of the ring, holding up his arm. When he drops it, the bell rings twice, and the match begins.
The smaller one darts around the ring, attempting to use speed to his advantage.
But the big guy?
He doesn’t even follow the other dudes’ movements.
He just waits in the center of the ring with his arms flexed and his chest puffed out.
Small-fry rushes toward him and throws a right hook, but it doesn’t even make big-fuck flinch. All it does is give him the opportunity to grab shrimpy by the neck and chokeslam him.
The crowd goes insane as the giant just unleashes on this dude.
Blood spatters the floor.
It’s not even worth watching.
I look at who is going to be my opponent in the next fight, and his face is a ghostly shade of white and his neck bobs as he swallows.
Yup, that’s pretty much how I feel, too.
The ref rushes into the ring when it becomes clear that the match is well past over.
He pulls the big dude off and holds his arm up. The bell rings, and the victor pumps his fists as he takes his seat.
I’m up next.
I glance at where Gabe was sitting and see he’s gone.
My heart sinks.
He left?
He didn’t think I could do it—didn’t want to watch what he assumed would be my annihilation if I needed to fight that big fucker.
Well, fuck him.
I’ll show him—I’ll show this whole place how tough I am.
The bell rings, signaling the next match, and I strut to the center ring.
As the lights above wash over me, my mind goes quiet.
Everything I felt before—jealousy, fear, anger—all meld together to form one big supernova of determination that buzzes through my veins like an electric current.
The guy before me has a mask of intimidation that makes me chuckle. He does a few practice punches, showing off his speed, and I literally laugh out loud.
Which he does not like.
Not one bit.
But I can’t stop. The buzz has kicked in, and I’m fucking euphoric and ready to hear my fist crack against his face.
The sound of the crowd morphs into a long stretch of white noise, and my pounding heart sends vibrations throughout my body.
The ref enters, raises his arm, and the bell rings.
This is my space now.
My opponent lunges forward and connects with my face, sending me stumbling back.
This is my move.
Make it seem like I’m shell-shocked—like I wasn’t expecting the hit and now I’m rattled.
He grins and jets forward, but I leap, my right knee rising and connecting with his nose.
Crunch.
The white noise disappears, and the roar of the crowd consumes me.
Nobody was expecting that.
Especially not this poor fucker, whose blood gushes from his nose like a stream.
He stumbles about, not protecting his torso as he tries to catch his bearings, so I swoop in and connect a right hook to his ribs, feeling the crack against my fist.
He falls to his knees, his hands landing on his injured ribs, so I hit him with a left hook to the head, and he hits the ground.
The bell rings—he’s out fucking cold.
Poor fucker.
The dude only got one swing in, and I let it happen.
I pump my fists in the air, basking in the glory, until I remember there’s another match.