Chapter 34 #2
Two steps in and I’m already questioning this, but then I see Jax. He’s actually participating, he needs this more than me, so I push through.
A makeshift arena opens up in the center of what used to be a warehouse floor. It’s caged by a chain-link fencing and surrounded by stacked crates turned into VIP booths and old oil drums repurposed as tables. Fresh blood stains the ring’s center.
The girls move around in ripped fishnets and leather tops, every inch of skin inked or glistening.
Every tray brimming with cash, cigarettes, and drinks.
On the far wall, a projector beams tonight’s stats: Names.
Weights. Odds. And a countdown that reads: 3:46 until the next fight.
Everyone is yelling, betting and bleeding.
“So… what exactly are you delivering, Lola?”
I look around slowly, taking it all in. I lift my chin and point toward a man in the back, sitting surrounded by muscle and money, a cigar glowing between two fingers, blood still drying on the cuff of his shirt.
“A message,” I say.
Jax follows my line of sight. “To him?” He scoffs. “You’re not getting a fucking inch close to him, Lola. Not a chance.”
I turn to him, a smile spreading across my face. I reach up and cup his jaw, my thumb stroking the rough stubble. “Aww,” I coo. “You’re cute when you’re jealous.” I give his cheek a light, condescending squeeze before letting go.
He curses and I quickly realize I’m not dressed appropriately at all. “Give me a minute.” I slip off into the bathroom, shoving past a girl touching up her eyeliner in the mirror.
“Twenty bucks for the top,” I say.
She stares. “Fifty.”
Sisk would flip her off. But Lola, well Lola, has a message to deliver, I remind myself. I peel three bills from my boot and place them into her hand. “The eyeliner too.”
A few minutes later, I emerge in her corset and a perfectly messy smoky eye.
Jax sees me and just—
“Fuck,” he breathes.
I smile. “I’m gonna need a drink.”
Before I can move, Jax’s hand shoots out, snatching a passing tray jockey by the arm. She turns, “What can I get you, pretty boy?”
His eyes just scan her tray, dismissing her completely. “Two of those,” he says, nodding to the glasses already sweating in their rims. Her voice turns to a low purr. “Sure you don’t want something… extra?”
I slide in beside him before he can speak and press the edge of a folded bill into her bra without breaking eye contact. “I don’t fucking share.” She makes a face—somewhere between amused and annoyed—but snatches the bill and turns around without another word.
Jax lifts a glass and hands it to me. “Territorial much?” he asks, but there’s a dark satisfaction in his voice, a predator pleased by his mate’s display.
“Don’t test me, Riot,” I say, clinking mine against his. “We’re not even halfway through the night.”
I bring the glass to my lips, tasting the ashbrew. The city’s unofficial fuel. Viscous, dark as coal, brewed in steel drums in the outer sectors. Just enough Ash in the mix to stain your tongue and make your skin buzz. They say it’s safe. They say it’s diluted. They say a lot of things in Tar City.
I watch as Jax gulps his. I take a sip and let it sit on my tongue.
Of course, I have had it plenty of times.
This stuff is the city’s water, really. But I still don’t trust it.
“You know this still gets people hooked, right?” The words are out before I can stop them, Sisk bleeding through Lola, a nervous tic I can’t afford right now.
“Even micro dosed,” I add, my voice remaining casual, trying to shove Sisk back into her cage.
“All it takes is one night too many. Then it’s not just the brew.
It’s the pop, then the drop. Then the needle. ”
He watches me, his head tilted slightly. “Since when do you give a fuck about that?”
“Since Mil—,” I start, then clamp my mouth shut. “You must have not noticed,” I tell him, but it sounds weak even to me. “I usually stick to vodka.”
“Oh, I notice. But I’ve also noticed you on more than one occasion drinking a barrel of this.”
He’s not wrong. It’s just… why am I so nervous?
I take another long sip and turn as a new fight starts. The crowd moves, everyone drawn toward the low metal ring at the center of the warehouse.
Two fighters square off. One’s all muscle and fury—a walking slab of violence with tattooed knuckles, teeth filed to points, and a fist that looks like it’s been broken more than once.
The other? Leaner and much younger. He’s already bleeding from a split above his eye.
Eyes that show not fear, not even desperation, only pure, unadulterated don’t-fucking-quit.
I know the look. When you grow up where I did, you see it in the mirror every morning.
Someone throws a crushed can toward the ring. Jax leans on the railing beside me.
“He’s gonna kill him,” I blurt, not expecting an answer, my eyes locked on the kid.
The first punch lands. It’s a sickening, wet thud that echoes even over the roar of the crowd.
The younger fighter’s head snaps back, a spray of sweat and blood arcing through the air.
He stumbles back a step, his legs wobbling, but his feet stay planted.
He shakes his head, a quick motion to clear it, and raises his fists again.
The brute laughs. He follows up, not giving the kid a second to recover. A hook to the ribs, then another. I can hear the impact from here, the dull crack of bone against bone. The kid’s breath hitches but his eyes still burn with that stubborn refusal to quit.
Jax shifts beside me and I glance at him. His gaze is fixed on the fight, but there’s no excitement in his eyes. No bloodlust.
“He’s fast,” Jax says. “But he’s fighting angry. Fighting like a dog with a stick up its ass. He’s wasting energy. He needs to stop trying to win and start trying to survive.”