Chapter 9 #2
When she wasn’t looking at me, I could deny many things.
Things that, from the moment I saw her at the opening night of Grey Petal, had swarmed through my subconscious.
Thoughts that reminded me of exactly who she was - who she’d always been and how she lived in my marrow, inciting a hunger too deep to name.
“You better or I’ll bite,” she said playfully, and I sent an immediate directive to my cock to ignore the images my mind was flashing forth.
“You make it difficult when you smell fucking edible all the time,” I said, eyes downcast as I exhaled on a groan.
“Stop making those noises,” she admonished. “Especially when you still aren’t wearing a shirt.”
“Why? Can’t resist?” I teased, pulling her hands towards my skin, only she jolted backwards.
“I’m happy to help you,” she said, staring directly into my eyes. “But I’m not one of your toys, Coop, so please don’t play with me.”
Any hope I’d been feeling dissipated like mist in the air, and I deflated.
She looked at me the same way everyone else did. And I had no one to blame but myself because it was a reputation I’d created and fostered.
But it stung more than I could have anticipated and with the air sucked from my lungs, I couldn’t muster a response. Any will to defend myself and tell her I would never, could never hurt her like that, gone. Instead, I nodded, slowly swivelling towards the desk and re-opening my laptop.
“We’ll leave at seven tomorrow morning. I like to get in before everyone else,” I said, my voice void of any of the humour from only moments ago.
“Okayyyy,” she elongated, clearly unsure of the sudden dip in my mood.
Affixing her headphones back over her ears, she retreated as quietly as she arrived without so much as a backwards glance, leaving me to wallow in the disappointment that she too thought I was a fool who cared for no one other than himself.
It was close to 10:00 pm when my phone buzzed with an offer from Marcus.
I’d been moody all afternoon, keeping a wide berth from Eva and doing everything I could to stay busy. I was used to people doubting me, thinking less of me. I grew up in a house without love where indifference was the wallpaper. And usually, I couldn’t have cared less.
I was happy to play the part: the easy-going joker who didn’t give a damn what people thought.
The guy who did whatever he wanted with little remorse.
I lived a life of solitude because it meant I could come and go as I pleased.
I didn’t date because I didn’t need anyone tying me down.
I engaged in the occasional fight because it gave me somewhere to unload the negativity that wrapped itself around me like a second skin and I answered to nobody other than myself.
My days were filled with work, stretching late into the evening, only to wake and do it all over again.
A never-ending cycle, broken only by the occasional night out with the boys, a trip to the ring, or a training session with Sebastian.
A life of solitude I’d built on purpose and protected by a carefully constructed mask of happy-go-lucky bullshit.
Only now, it didn’t feel so clever. Not when one of the few people I cared about looked at me and believed this mask was real.
The sincerity in her voice when she reminded me, she wasn’t a toy sent my pride and heart spiralling into the depths of the ocean.
Evangeline saw me as a fucking rich-boy who played with his food before he ate it.
MARCUS
Big name just pulled out.
One round, easy money
11:00pm?
I’d ignored the last three messages, all sent over the past couple of weeks. I blamed the work piling up but really it was because I had a sharp-tongued little mathematician to focus on.
But not tonight.
Tonight, my self-esteem was low, and the offer landed at the wrong time – or the right, depending on who you asked.
COOPER
See you soon.
Snatching my keys, I allowed the dejection I’d been suppressing to swirl in my stomach, giving it permission to lick at my skin until my single focused goal was to prove to myself, and anyone watching, that I wasn’t the loser they all thought.
And there was always one place where pity, disappointment and uncertainty were left at the door.
The Cellar wasn’t a place for the faint of heart.
By day, it smelled of protein shakes and chalk dust, the loud rumblings of a pop classic blasting through the speakers as gym goers took to the machines to power through a midday workout.
By night, it reeked of desperation and bruised pride, an invisible fog of masochistic violence clinging to the walls like smoke.
The gym’s clean-cut exterior masked the chaos that took over once the sun dipped behind the skyline and it was with a strange comfort that I entered the doors with the access card few were granted.
There were more people here than normal, expectation simmering in the air as I locked eyes with a couple of the regulars.
I never spoke to any of the punters, my presence and attention solely on the ring.
Bypassing the spectators, I kept my head down until I was enclosed in the sanctity of the office where I’d change before a brief warm up.
Everyone back here was fighting for something - whether it be respect, revenge or a damn reason to hit back - and my job was to make sure I fought harder.
I wasn’t here to make friends or talk shit, I came with a purpose and a carousel of emotion I wanted to erase and that meant nurturing my focus until all I could see was my opponent.
Anything else was dangerous and while I’d been called reckless and a little unhinged, I wasn’t a savage.
Sure, I fought to win, but I was also disciplined and clean.
There was a difference between those here for a quick dollar and those here because they found solace in the square battleground.
A place where it didn’t matter who you were or where you came from.
Marcus had been good to me over the years.
He’d seen something in me when I was younger - whether it was drive or an unrestrained fire which he knew if tempered, could be used to his advantage - and there was no denying that was something he did.
I’d be a fool to think his interest was an act of altruism.
I’d garnered a healthy reputation at The Cellar and that meant Marcus’ wallet reaped the benefits.
A win for me was an even bigger win for him and it was why he kept me close.
Well as close as I allowed, which was fucking far in the grand scheme of things.
But what he lacked in morals, he made up for in business smarts and I owed him for what he’d taught me over the years.
And for the helping hand he’d given me in terms of a hefty financial buy in.
Golden Spades was all my own creation, but I’d borrowed money from Marcus when I opened the doors and despite paying him back years ago, the gesture remained.
He’d helped me when my parents found the idea preposterous.
He’d been the one to present the insider knowledge to starting a venture like this and his help kept it afloat for the first twelve months.
But like everything, that came with a price tag of its own. One I was still repaying every time I entered the brutal fighting ground. It was as comforting as it was tiring and lately, I was finding the recovery a little harder with each bout.
“Coops, my man.” Marcus’ deep timbre came from behind as I finished my final set of rapid skipping drills. I was warm, my sweat encased body indicating I was ready for the call, the adrenaline rumbling beneath my skin as I heard the raucous crowd.
I nodded my greeting, knowing talking would only hinder my focus.
He knew I hated it here, but he was equally aware of why I kept returning and how little control I had when I stepped inside the trembling ropes.
It was why, despite my unreliability, he invested so much energy into keeping me around.
Sometimes I went weeks without so much as acknowledging his messages.
Other times, I was here every second night for a month, my sick way of managing when things felt out of control.
My anger had always been my downfall and consequently, his ticket to success.
“His name is Rayk,” he started, skipping pleasantries he knew I wouldn’t want to hear.
“Currently six and oh. He’s a little lazy on his left but watch that as he’ll overcompensate.
Boys think he’s the next Cooper Dane.” I didn’t need to look at him to know he was smirking or to hear the mendacious provocation in his tone.
Marcus would say anything to get under my skin because he knew it was how he got the best out of me.
Only I didn’t need an incentive tonight.
I didn’t need him to compare this Rayk bloke and I to rile me up, nor did I need any kind of taunting from the crowd.
Because I was already boiling. Itching for the relief which came with exerting my emotions into my fists.
I’m not one of your toys, Coop, so please don’t play with me.
I welcomed the rejection and shame of her words, pausing as they flooded my system until everything was tainted with a dark haze - and the only solution - a learned coping mechanism which was as unhealthy as it was consistent.
Tried and proven.
“Thanks for the heads up,” I mumbled, more out of respect than gratitude.
It didn’t matter what he fed me anyway, because when I entered that space, I lost any rationality or pre-planning and became a furnace of raw humanity.
There were plenty of times I couldn’t quite remember the spoils or specifics of the match, driven by a frenzy which clung to me like a splinter I couldn’t quite extricate.
Sometimes, hours after my opponent hit the canvas and I was in bed, I’d wonder how I even got home.
As if the previous few hours were but a fevered dream.
The loss of all self was why I’d never brought Sebastian here, even when he begged - or threatened to follow me.
This wasn’t a space where I could maintain control and the thought of someone I cared about being here and seeing me like that, was never going to happen.
Not to mention the absolute vultures who frequented these nights - they weren’t people I wanted mixing with my world.
I counted, ‘Five, two, two, two, five. Five, two, two, two, five. Five, two, two, two, five.’ Internally reciting my pre-match mantra before I heard my cue indicating it was my time.
Dim light pooled over the ring like a spotlight on a crime scene and the spectators parted as if they could sense my no-nonsense aura.
Somewhere beyond the jeers and bellowing, money changed hands, grudges were born and people made assumptions I always proved wrong.
Rayk was six and oh, but I was thirty-three and oh and I was confident I’d exit the ring for the final time before I ever lost.
Some would refer to it as arrogance, but I knew better.
I knew it was a tried and tested self-assuredness born from the seeds of hard work and a lethal, innate need to expel all forms of negative energy before they took control.
It was a strategy I’d formed as a kid, tired of the malicious berating my father served when he was around.
Although even now he didn’t know I came here to silence my anger through vicious blows against another.
If I was ever left with visible marks, I blamed a random street scuffle or whatever other bullshit I could concoct on the fly.
He would never suspect his good friend Marcus of such betrayal, nor would his ego allow him to even consider I’d betray him in such a way.
Physical fighting was beneath Preston Dane - especially as it came with a chance of injury.
Belittlement was more aligned with his style of savagery, and it was why I formed habits where I resorted to having my fists speak the language of my release.
Anything to oppose his beliefs or piss him off - regardless of whether he knew.
Shelving thoughts of my father into the dusty corners of my mind, I ducked between the steel cables enclosing the ring before glancing over at my opponent.
Even from across the mat I could see he was about my height, but our similarities ended there.
Where I was trim, with arms and a torso which evidenced the regularity of my passion for boxing, he was carrying more weight.
His fists were strapped, but regardless, they were huge and already bloodied.
The unhinged gleam to his eyes told me two things - one, he was here to cause pain, and two, while I used violence as therapy, he used it to wound.
Both not great assessments in an opponent who had a visible weight advantage.
I nodded as the referee read us the rules, my eyes fixed straight ahead.
His smile was broad, his brows moving rapidly to taunt and rattle me, and like always, I gave nothing in return.
No smile, no wink, no frustrated scowl, because I wasn’t here for bullshit games, I was here to purge - and avoid a concussion - while hopefully leaving my feelings of inadequacy behind.
“No interference. No eye-gouging or biting. No weapons. Fight until knock out or surrender - whichever comes first, and the winner takes all. Understood?” The referee asked, watching Rayk and I fist bump our agreement.
I avoided Marcus’ gaze from behind the ropes, ignored the murmurs of the crowd watching, most holding a beer or a joint they’d brought along.
Instead, I honed in on the movements of my competition.
The slight tremor of his hands hinting at the nerves he was feeling.
The way his left arm was slightly slower as he thrust some air punches out in front while he awaited the match to start.
Both observations renewed my tenacity to win.
I was confident for a reason. And when rage hijacked my body, I allowed it to take the wheel, using it to drive me and my movements. Tonight, the rage was a dull ember, but the paucity of coherent thoughts was a strong indicator that the reason behind my being here mattered more than other times.
It was thoughts of judgement and disappointment in those knowing brown eyes which refocused my thoughts to the man across from me.
The possibilities I could never indulge - not because I didn’t want them - but because I didn’t deserve them, taunting me every time I heard that laugh or touched that skin.
When the referee blew the whistle, I allowed a final flash to the one person who could see behind my mask and it was with that last coherent thought, I allowed the fury to paint my mind in red until nothing else remained.