2. Jack #2
Frank traces a finger down the page before leaning closer. His voice drops, and the strong smell of rum rolls off his breath.
“Guy’s a fucking freak in the ring, Jack. Be careful, I’ve got a bad feeling about this one.”
I draw in a slow breath. Frank’s words worry me; he isn’t one to scare easily. So, when he gives me a genuine warning, I make sure I listen. I rub my arms as a chill suddenly runs down my spine, raising goosebumps along my skin.
Mum used to talk about that feeling when I was a kid. She called it a sign that someone had just walked over your grave.
I glance at Frank, worry etched on my face.
“If things go sideways or get out of hand, my boys will pull you out, Pup,” he says quietly.
He gives my shoulder a firm squeeze before straightening, his attention already returning to the fight below.
His words stick with me as I turn toward the back rooms Frank keeps for the fighters.
It’s a makeshift area where we can warm up, tape our hands, and get our heads into the right place before stepping into the ring.
Spectators and hangers-on drift through constantly, looking for a fighter to flirt with, a phone number to collect, or someone willing to disappear into one of the darker corners for a while.
Whatever floats their boat.
Someone tried it with me once. He had shot his shot, and when I turned him down, he laughed it off.
“You do you, boo,” I’d told him before turning back to my stretches.
He disappeared with some blonde socialite and came strolling back ten minutes later, looking perfectly happy with himself.
Julian Moreau.
A fucking freak, and Frank has a bad feeling about it.
Great.
* * *
I stand in the middle of the ring, the tape wrapped tightly around my hands, forcing the deafening screams of the crowd out of my head.
The thick stench of expensive cologne and heavy perfume mixes with the raw copper of blood and sweat, and the damp dirt beneath my bare feet fills my nostrils as I pull air into my lungs.
I look across at Julian and remember him. The whistle hasn’t gone yet, so I take a second, standing still, mentally replaying the footage of him I’ve catalogued: hard right hand, solid left leg, swings like a truck, loves to use his elbows.
I run through my own movement—my footwork, my hips, every fundamental drilled into me by Finn’s father, David, and our trainers.
I suck in a deep breath. Then another. Then a third.
Shaking out my arms and rolling my shoulders, I snap my eyes open.
I’m ready.
The whistle blows. Julian and I circle each other slowly, hands raised high, our fingers brushing occasionally as we test the distance.
Suddenly, he lunges, exploding forward with a heavy overhead right. I duck and step to the right, bouncing up on my toes, but he transitions instantly, snapping a vicious knee straight into my thigh.
The fiery sting of impact shoots instantly up into my hip.
I try to backpedal, but he’s already on top of me, unloading a relentless two-hook combination—a left, then a right, straight at my head.
Fuck, he’s quick.
The second punch connects with far more force than I anticipated, snapping my head sideways, and I spit blood out onto the dirt. Before he can reset, I dive inside his guard, firing off a series of hooks and kicks of my own.
We trade blow for blow, locked in a brutal war. My muscles scream with fatigue, though I can see by the heavy rise and fall of Julian’s chest that he’s feeling it too.
Then he catches me in my blind spot.
A sharp, snapping knee drives straight into my ribs, and the sickening crack echoes in my ears before the pain even registers.
I stumble backward, instantly paralyzed, gasping frantically for air that won’t come.
The agony of the damaged rib flares like white-hot fire through my torso as my lungs desperately try to expand.
No, not tonight. I can’t lose tonight. A small spark of panic rises in my stomach, but I push it down, seeing that Julian smells blood in the water.
He stalks forward, driving me back into the ropes as another blinding wave of agony radiates across my chest.
I try to pull air into my lungs, but his fists and elbows prevent me from drawing the breath I so desperately need.
Before I can recover enough to stand properly, the wall of screaming spectators surges forward, pressing against the ropes, howling like animals before a kill.
They are so close their breath brushes my skin. Sharp nails claw at my shoulders, and rough hands yank at my hair, pushing me back toward Julian.
Julian feeds on their energy, his eyes locking onto mine with a lethal fire. He closes the distance before I can raise a defensive guard.
A devastating combination of bare-knuckled hooks smashes into my jaw, dropping me hard, face-first into the dirt. I try to roll, reaching blindly for a desperate leg takedown, but Julian just steps right over me. My blood pools beneath me. Is this it? Am I dying here?
A sudden, sharp wave of regret hits me.
Am I ever going to see Silas again? Hale? God, I hope so.
I try to push myself up, but my battered body refuses to obey. Julian steps over my torso, dropping his full weight down to straddle me. His fists hammer down like pile drivers against my skin. One brutal blow lands directly over my damaged rib, and with a sickening pop, it fractures.
Air evacuates my chest in a bloody gasp. My body begins to shut down, leaving me utterly helpless.
Realising I’m completely broken, Julian leans down, his face inches from mine.
Hot tears of pure agony slip down my cheeks as he grinds a heavy hand into my chest, sending a fresh spike of white-hot torture ripping through my lungs. I let out a choked scream, and he leans in closer, our noses nearly touching so he can cut through the deafening roar of the crowd.
“Next time, don’t come from behind,” he whispers, his voice dripping with venom.
Without waiting, he hooks his arms around my body and wrenches me upward into a chokehold. It’s the same hold I used to put him to sleep in Nanaimo.
Then he squeezes, and I realise I’ve fucked up — he’s going to kill me.
My fingers claw frantically at his forearms, trying desperately to pry open a gap to draw breath as my windpipe is crushed. The edges of my vision blur, graying out before plunging into absolute black.
The last thing I feel is the cold, blood-soaked dirt beneath me, and the deafening roar of a crowd baying for my death.