23. Basher
BASHER
Thirteen Years Ago
The roar of the crowd was deafening. All around him, people cursed and cheered. Some words were audible; others were swallowed up by the surrounding chaos.
Burning.
Something was burning his eye.
Was it sweat? Blood? A mixture of some other unknown substance floating around this godforsaken place?
Basher didn’t know. But still, he swiped at his eye, hoping to wipe away whatever it was that was currently causing him pain.
“One more round. That’s all you gotta do.”
The words barely registered as Basher tried to see ahead of him.
Money.
He was broke.
He needed the cash.
Just one more round. He could do it.
Basher glanced up at the other barely standing man.
The man was Brazilian. Another young pup in his early twenties, trying to score some quick and easy cash, just like him.
The man was leaning against the ropes, struggling to hold himself up as he shot water from his water bottle into his mouth, then dumped a bunch over his head.
“Just one more fuckin’ round,” the man standing behind him shouted. “The guy’s barely standing. Just a few more solid blows, then all that money will be yours.”
Tito was right. He had lasted this long. What were a few more minutes in the grand scheme of things? He wasn’t about to let this punk-ass beat him and take the money he had worked so hard to get.
“You got this,” Tito shouted again, shoving Basher to his feet and pushing him toward his opponent.
Basher had met Tito two weeks ago in a shady bar just off the Las Vegas Strip. The man had just finished watching Basher beat the snot out of a group of jocks out celebrating one of the idiot’s bachelor parties.
When Basher was through with him, he was pretty sure that his fiancée would insist on having the lights off while she rode him on their wedding night.
Mr. Cocky Jock was not so cocky once Basher got through with him.
Tito, a man with dark, graying hair and an affinity for jazz, suggested that Basher enter one of Vegas’s underground street-fighting matches. Depending on the night, the winner could take home anywhere from a thousand to eight thousand dollars.
It wasn’t pay-per-view fighting, but hey, in Vegas, you could make money off anything.
So Basher agreed, choosing to make money the only way he knew how—with his fists.
With his vision beginning to blur, Basher put up his fists and waited for the ref to ring the damn bell.
Finally, it came. The high-pitched ding that told the killers in the ring they were finally allowed off their leashes.
Basher lunged in for the attack. He was not a patient man. He didn’t believe in standing around, waiting for his opponent to make the first move. He liked to jump right into the fight and use all his power to crush any man who dared challenge him.
He was an alpha and fucking fought like one.
Just as Tito had predicted, it didn’t take him long to crush his opponent. The man fought with everything he had, but once Basher got him on the floor, he just couldn’t take the savage beating that Basher unleashed.
The bell rang once again, telling Basher that he was back on his leash and that the laws of man applied once more. Basher slowly slid off his opponent and extended his arm, offering the barely breathing man a helpful hand up.
That was the least he could do after completely crushing the guy’s confidence and manhood.
He took it, giving him a slight nod as Basher helped him to his feet.
Turning around, Basher raised his arms and listened to the crowd roar once more. He had won this round. He’d made enough to cover his rent and possibly a few bills. He could take a break from fighting and wait another week or two before having to jump back into the ring to make a few more bucks.
And then it happened.
A brief flicker of light caught Basher's eye.
He glanced out into the crowd, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.
There, standing among the spectators, was a man with his hat pulled low, obscuring the upper half of his face. Slowly, the stranger reached into his jacket and began drawing out a knife.
Was he…?
Before Basher even had a chance to think, his body was already moving. He vaulted over the ropes of the ring and hurled himself into the crowd, tackling the knife-wielding stranger before the man could react.
With every last ounce of strength he had, Basher unleashed a furious barrage of blows, beating the man again and again until he finally dropped the knife.
Around them, the crowd erupted in shouts and chaos, and screams echoed as people began panicking.
Next to him, four other men jumped in, grabbing the attacker and dragging him out of the underground club.
Someone behind Basher grabbed him by the arm.
Basher turned to swing, but he was met with startled eyes and hands raised.
The man was not a threat.
“Come with me,” the man said, grabbing Basher by the arm and dragging him outside to join the others.
When they stepped into the alley, Basher found three of the men pinning the would-be attacker against a brick wall.
They were shouting and cursing at him with a level of fury that suggested this wasn't their first encounter.
Judging by the venom in their voices, there was clearly a long history of bad blood between them and whoever the bastard was.
“That was some quick thinking in there,” the man said, releasing Basher’s arm. “If you hadn’t done what you did, I’d probably be dead right now.”
Basher just glared at the man, his expression hard and unreadable. He hadn’t done it for them. He’d seen a man with a knife and reacted on instinct—because someone was going to get hurt if he didn’t.
He would’ve done the same for anyone.
“My name is Bradly. Me and my crew here want to thank you.”
The other men were already dragging the attacker around the side of the building.
Basher watched them go, his jaw tight. He wondered what was about to happen next. Another beating, maybe. Or something worse—something final, like a bullet between the eyes.
He hoped he had made the right choice and saved the right man in that club.
“Don’t worry, my men aren’t going to kill him. Just rough him up some more to send a message back to his crew.”
Basher glanced back at the man standing next to him.
“How about I take you out for a drink? As a thank-you.”
The man seemed reasonable enough. Basher nodded as the man he had saved wrapped his arm around his shoulder and led him off toward the main Strip.
That was the first time Basher met Bradly. Little did he know he had just saved the life of the leader of the Death Cruisers Motorcycle Club.
And just like that, everything changed.
What started as instinct—an impulsive act to stop a man with a knife—had just pulled Basher into a world he never intended to step into.
That was the day he met his new brothers.