Chapter 4
I crack my neck, straighten my shoulders, and stare into the mirror. A small smirk spreads across my lips. My blue eyes pop in the bathroom’s bright light. The five o’clock shadow gives me that rugged bad-boy look, and I ain’t mad about it. I know who I am and what I look like.
After running my hands through my hair, I add a bit more product, knowing my bike helmet will crush it. I’ll have to do something with it when I get there, and by that I mean scrub my hand through it, giving it that just-fucked look I wear so well.
I spray myself with aftershave and step into the bedroom, picking out my ripped jeans, tight black long-sleeved T-shirt, and slipping the gaiter over my head.
After snatching my leather jacket off the rack, sliding my boots on, and grabbing my helmet and gloves, I glance around the flat one last time before I step out onto the back stairs, locking the door behind me.
It’s starting to get colder now, but I’ll always love the adrenaline of going out on the bike. It clears my head and makes me feel free.
I descend the stairs and trudge across the courtyard behind my shop.
It’s just big enough for my bike and my car.
I throw my leg over the bike, tug my helmet on, slip the key into the ignition, rev it a little, then sit back and pull on my gloves.
After flicking down the visor, I click the button on my key fob to open the gates, pulling into the alley.
Once I get on the street, I don’t have to worry about pissing my neighbours off, so all bets are off. I rip back the throttle and scream down the street. I take the long way around the town before slowing down as I enter the warehouse district.
The car park is filling up; the headlights illuminate the normally dark, dreary space.
And I ride straight to the front of the building.
There are a few spaces that are always coned off near the entrance, and I ride straight into one, weaving between the cones.
When I turn off my bike, one of the bouncers, Henry, wanders over to me, his stern face turning into a grin as I tug off my helmet, and he greets me with a fist bump.
“Didn’t know you were on the cards tonight, Killer.” I chuckle at the nickname I got stuck with; it could have been a whole lot worse. It’s also why I renamed the shop, a nod to how I was able to afford it all.
“Not tonight, Henry, I’m just spectating.”
“Any tips?” He waggles his eyebrows at me, and I laugh, climbing off the bike and stuffing my gloves into the helmet. I don’t need to lock it up; no one will dare go near my bike with these guys a few feet away.
“Surely that’s a conflict of interest? No?” I smirk. He grins at me as I hang my helmet on my bars. “My money’s on Beanpole.” I shake my head at his unfortunate naming.
“Seriously?” Henry frowns sceptically. Assessing whether I’m taking the piss or not.
“Deadly.” I wink as I walk past. “Go big or go home, am I right?” I head inside.
The dull groans and muffled chatter of the crowd ring around the vast ceiling.
Stale liquor, sweat, and desperation fill the air.
The cage is set up in the middle of the room, with benches lining the sides and spreading multiple rows deep.
With a makeshift bar at one end. I head over to grab my warm, overpriced beer before I find a seat.
“Hey, beautiful.” Patricia smiles at me, and I give her a flirty wink.
“Hey yourself, gorgeous. You’re looking damn good, sweetheart.
” I rest my elbows on the bar and lean in, placing a quick, chaste kiss on her cheek.
As I smile at her, she leans back, hitting me on the shoulder and sliding a can into my hand.
I pull out my wallet and place some cash on the bar, but she wafts at me, pftting that my money’s no good here.
I tap on the cash. “Get those grandbabies something nice, yeah!” I wink, and she blushes, scooping the cash off the bar and stuffing it in her bra.
“If only I were thirty years younger.” She bats her eyes dreamily at me.
“Then you’d be in nappies.” I wink again and turn, stalking through the crowd. I’ve been coming here for nearly twelve years. She’s a sweetheart and used to look after me if the fights didn’t go in my favour.
Growing up with a single mum, I needed to make extra cash, and I was good at fighting.
I used to clean the gym before and after school in exchange for free lessons, MMA, boxing, you name it.
I trained, and I trained hard. Fighting came easy after I learned how.
It’s how I was able to afford to buy the tattoo shop when David, my mentor and boss, decided to retire.
I don’t fight so much now. I don’t need the money so much anymore.
I do it for the buzz, the excitement of it all.
The notoriety. My tattoo business is very lucrative, and as lazy as Steven is, he rents a chair from me, so I have that monthly income whether he chooses to use it or not.
I can’t bring myself to give it up, though, still fighting now and then, but tattooing is my life.
If I fuck my hands up, I’m screwed, but I love the thrill, and the attention is definitely a bonus. It certainly keeps my dick wet.
I head over to the corner. The top brass are huddled around, discussing who goes where and when.
“Yo, Killer, want a space on the card? I can bump you in, you know the crowd goes wild when you show up.”
“Nah, not tonight. I’m just here to watch, see who’s up-and-coming.” I lean next to them on the railing. “Maybe win a little.” I give them my best smile.
“You sure we can’t talk you into it, dude? You know you’ll make bank.”
“I’m good, I’ll take a bet on Beanpole, though.”
“Seriously. He’s like a damp noodle. That kid’s scrawny as fuck.”
“Five hundred on him,” I say with a confidence that makes them all focus on me. “Eight to one, yeah?”
Barry frowns in my direction. “You fucking serious?”
“Deadly, Barry, write me up.” Barry, the bookie, nods and takes the roll of money from me.
“Don’t come crying to me when you lose.” He stuffs the wad in his pocket, writes in his notebook, and crosses his arms over his chest.
I smile. “Make sure you come crying to me when I win.” I chuckle and slap him on the shoulder. I flick the ring pull on my beer. I take a swig of my room-temperature beer and head to the dressing rooms.
I scan the signs as I walk down the corridor until I find “Beanpole” on the door. I lightly knock before cracking it open and shoving my head through.
His head whips around. “Killer. I can’t believe you came!” Beanpole’s eyes widen, and his face lights up.
Stepping into the dull room. “Got money riding on you, kid, don’t let me down, yeah.
” Beanpole bounces up and down, feral excitement spreading through him.
I’ve seen him at the gym; he’s got what it takes.
He’s easily underestimated because of his frame, but pound-for-pound, dang, that boy can throw a punch.
I toss him a wink. “You’ve got this, yeah.
Jenga’s on the bill with you. He’s got a dodgy right knee; keep bobbing that way and it’ll buckle.
Now I’ll fuck off, and you can make me some money.
” I give him a one-armed hug and toss him a cheeky smirk. He nods at me in return.
I take a step back through the door, not wanting to distract him anymore, but knowing a small interaction will boost his confidence and my bank balance no end. I make my way to the ringside and find a seat in the VIP area. I hate sitting, but it’s a better option than standing in the cramped crowd.
Jenga comes out to some skanky music with a half-dressed girl in front of him, roaring to the crowd. She steps towards the cage, climbing the few steps, then gyrating on the cage. I have nothing against strippers, but this isn’t the place. I shake my head, rolling my eyes.
I glance back to the corridor Beanpole will exit from, seeing his form in the shadows as his music starts up, and he steps into the warehouse.
His focused glare roams the space as he walks towards the cage.
His gaze meets mine, and I give him a nod.
He hits his gloves together. They’re not boxing gloves, more of a martial-arts glove—thinner, less padding, but help to stop bone-on-bone contact, helping the fights last a little longer.
He steps into the cage, turns to face Jerry, and opens his mouth. Jerry shoves his mouth guard in. Beanpole gives me an awkward grin. I lean in, resting my elbows on my knees, dangling the can between my fingertips as I watch intently.
They both step into the centre, and the ref says his piece, spitting out the rules while they give each other death glares.
The room goes silent for a split second, everyone waiting with bated breath as the ref drops his hand, and the bell finally goes.
They weave around each other. The crowd goes wild, and there’s a surge forward, some shoving against my back.
I try to ignore it, but I’m sitting in the last row.
There’s a punch thrown here, a kick there, and Jenga tries to grab at Beanpole, but the slippery motherfucker is too fast. I chuckle and take a swig of my drink, only to be knocked into again.
“Bastard,” I mutter as I slide the back of my hand over my chin and shake away the warm alcohol. There’s a roar in the crowd, and before I can turn, I’m slammed into again. My beer crashes to the floor, splashing up and covering my boots.
I stand abruptly and spin around; whichever cunt is behind me is about to find out why they fucking call me Killer for free.