Grayson
. . .
TEN
I slump onto the locker room bench, my muscles protesting painfully.
I worked for hours after Maisie left—not that I would let her know that.
I worked as long as possible to keep my mind occupied until it was time to head to the Underground.
I’m still bruised and battered from last night, though that didn’t stop them from summoning me tonight. If they call, I come.
I finish taping up my busted knuckles when one of their runner boys comes to collect me. I don’t bother to learn their faces or names. It’s always someone new each time. We are expendable, and they want us to know it.
I follow the boy, no more than fourteen, up the rotting stairs. The rowdy crowd's cheers start to bleed into the quiet surrounding us. They scream so loud, it’s impossible to decipher anything.
You wouldn't catch me dead at one of these events if I wasn’t forced to attend. Or better yet, be tonight's entertainment. I’m their puppet. As long as I do as they say, my family stays safe.
It’s only when I approach the roped off fighting ring that I understand what they’re chanting. “Mustang! Mustang! Mustang!” They are yelling for me. I’ve become quite the commodity here. The undefeated wild cowboy from Texas. Mustang.
I’m not here to play nice. I know what’s on the line.
I show up, get the job done by any means necessary, and go back home to my family.
I don’t care if I have to bend my morals if it means my family remains unscathed.
I’d let them tear my sanity to ashes as long as Nova and Laine remain holy in all of this.
When Matteo approached me with an offer I couldn't resist all those months ago, I decided I would rather sell my soul to the devil than bury my baby sister. Did I know what I was fully signing up for at the time? That I was selling my body to the mafia? Absolutely not. But I would do it all over again to see the light back in Laine’s eyes.
I fight to line their pockets with more illegal blood money, to entertain them.
I win my fights, and they pay me out…or they did.
They covered all of Laine’s medical bills for me upfront and told me I could ‘work them off’.
Apparently, that meant being their little bitch in their illegal fight club.
I didn’t think it would last this long. 56 fights later, and they’ve only seemed to dig their claws in deeper.
I’ve won my debt back, but I keep winning for them, even if it means bartering off a piece of my soul each time.
I told Laine an anonymous donor heard about her story and donated the money to cover her case.
I didn’t want her worrying more than she already was.
She cried all night with joy. I sat by her side, holding her hand until exhaustion summoned her.
The next morning, I used the money to pay for the surgery she needed, and now, she’s cancer-free.
I let the chants fuel me as I slip between the ropes and into the ring.
It’s weathered and bloodstained from the previous fight.
There’s probably still blood lingering from last night's fight when I broke a man's jaw.
I can still see his lifeless eyes holding mine when he fell to the floor and never got back up.
Win 56. Mustang, the undefeated cowboy they chanted as I was internally crumbling at the seams.
The boy offers me a bottle of water that I take happily, squirting some in my mouth. I’m in just a pair of black shorts and tennis shoes. Gloves aren’t allowed, so I tape my knuckles for some padding.
I look over to the timer on the wall, the red LED lights counting down from one minute and thirty seconds to go.
I wonder what Maisie’s up to as I look over the little bleacher stands caging us in like experimental rats.
The fans are all dressed in fancy suits and dresses, rich as all hell, here to bet money on us.
I’m sure they are all loosely related to the mafia.
I was shocked to find out the mafia had infiltrated rural Montana.
I guess it's the last place the feds would look, so it makes the perfect hiding place.
I slide my gaze through the growing crowd. They snag on a familiar, sinister pair. Matteo holds my gaze. One simple nod of his head, and it’s warning enough.
I better win this fight for him.
He taps his neck subtly. A snapped neck tonight. He doesn't always give me commands. It’s something I can’t refuse, or he threatens my family. Bile rises in my throat. I nod in understanding. I’m here to make him money. Morals have no place in an arrangement like this.
The only rule we have to follow is continuing fighting until one person can’t get back up.
It doesn’t matter if we knock them out or kill them.
As long as there’s only one conscious fighter left, it stops.
I’m not sure what they do with the bodies.
Sell their organs on the dark market, if I had to guess.
I’m hoping I never have to find out for myself.
I kiss the golden chain around my neck, letting my fingers rub over the L and N hanging from it.
My opponent enters, and the crowd erupts as he saunters in.
He’s tall, taller than me, and packed with tattooed muscle from head to toe.
Even his eyelids have ink. He looks scrappy, unlike the inexperienced man from last night.
I’m not sure where they find all these fighters. From the cocky grin on his face, I would bet he’s here of his own free will. Maybe to make some money.
It won't be an easy fight, but that doesn't matter. Losing isn’t an option. I look him over for any weaknesses while his team wraps his knuckles and lubes his face up with ointment.
I bounce on the balls of my feet when I feel a faint tap behind me. When I turn around, the same young boy beckons me over. He motions for me to lean down to his level.
“Matteo told me to give you this,” he whispers. I don’t have time to question what he means when I feel the sting of a needle plunged into my upper thigh. I jerk, but he empties the liquid into me and withdraws the needle.
“What was that?” I hiss, waiting for something to happen. I feel it immediately.
The boy shoots me apologetic eyes. “He wanted to ensure you win.”
“What was it?” I grit out, anger and something else taking hold of me. Rage? Adrenaline. My heart beats wildly in my chest, my breaths labored. I could run a marathon right now. My palms are slick with sweat, my tape slipping around.
“Epinephrine. A dose of adrenaline. It should give you an edge against your…” He looks over at my giant of an opponent. “Him,” he says with a gulp. He runs back to Matteo like a good little boy.
I grind my teeth. I’m anxious as hell right now; my head spins with each step. I feel revved up like a caged beast, exactly how they want me to be.
An animal.
Their monster.
For Laine. For Nova. I can do this.
The ref stands in the center ring when the clock strikes twenty seconds to go.
My opponent squeezes between the ropes, hopping in with murder in his eyes.
I crack my knuckles and step to the center, the ref separating us—if you could even call him that.
He’s not here to stop any dirty moves. He’s another goon on the mafia's payroll.
Jumbled words are yelled in my ear, and then a whistle sounds.
I don’t see or hear anything except the man standing in front of me.
The crowd's screams fade to the background. My heightened senses track this man like he’s my prey.
And, in a sense, he is. He’s an order given.
He probably pissed off the wrong person, and I’m the hitman hired under the guise of a ‘fight’.
I don’t really care. It’s him or me. I’ll always choose myself.
The adrenaline has me vibrating as we circle each other a few times, neither wanting to make the first move. He grunts and lunges at me, swiping his leg out. I dodge, but he lands a jab to my shoulder while I’m distracted. The pain doesn't even register. I feel invincible and smile at him.
My opponent's face screws up in shock. Like the gentleman I am, I let him sit with that for a few seconds before I pounce, unleashing powerful blow after blow to his face. It’s messy and carnal, but I let my frustration of being under the mafia’s thumb fuel me. I can fall apart later.
Swing. A broken nose. Swing. A busted eye, the word lover tattooed on his eyelid splitting in two in the most ironic way. Swing. His jaw hangs unnaturally to the side. He’s a bloody, unrecognizable mess.
He retreats a step with each blow until his back is pressed against the ropes. I have a thirst for blood like I’ve never felt before. I can’t stop the adrenaline flowing through my fists. I need to win.
“Mustang! Mustang! Mustang!”
I look over to the chanting crowd, feeling like a caged beast losing control. I’m terrifyingly reminded we aren’t alone. My eyes catch on Matteo's. It’s so subtle, but I watch him push his palm towards the floor, telling me to slow down. He wants a show.
I shake my fist out before my next jab. It gives my opponent just enough time to land a blow of his own.
It catches me right above my eye. Blood pours down from the wound and into my eyes, obstructing my view.
It throbs, but no pain registers. I let him land another blow to my gut, grunting when he knocks me back a step. I think that won me a bruised rib.
I let him think he controls the fight, deflecting most of his blows but still letting him land a few that will cost me the least amount of damage. Each jab, I let him gain an inch of ground.
We exchange blows for five more minutes before I’ve had enough. I can feel the crash coming, side effects of the adrenaline, and know I need to finish this. The crowd is eating us up, but they are ready for a winner. A killing blow. They want their money.
One quick look at Matteo, and a following nod has me taking my foot off the brakes. There’s blood everywhere. I can taste the adrenaline tearing me apart. My opponent's eyes blow wide when he feels the shift in me, how my punches come down harder, more accurately now.
Death blows.
It’s an odd feeling, watching a person acknowledge death's door. I see it reflected in his eyes. They dull. They beg and plead, but all I see in his gaze is Laine cancer-free. Nova keeping a parent in her life. I see his life ending and mine continuing.
I may be going to hell, but I’ll be damn sure I save my angels in the process.
One last blow to his stomach has him folding over. I pounce, straddling his large chest to wrap my hands around his neck and squeeze.
One. Two. Three. And then, I twist.
Crack!
It’s over.
I wait long enough for the ref to raise my hand in victory before I rush out of the ring to the locker room.
I enter the first stall and heave once before puking my guts up in the moldy toilet.
I puke three more times before I’m able to collect myself.
The blood, the death, the adrenaline—it's all too much.
There’s a communal shower, and I stumble into it.
I can’t stand to have his blood on me for one second longer.
My body shakes, the crash hitting me harder than expected.
The adrenaline wore off just as fast as it hit, but it still left its mark.
My vision blurs while I scrub my skin raw of his blood, my hands trembling the whole time.
I will not break today, I chant in my head.
Nausea rises in my throat, and I swallow it down.
My head spins, and I slump to the floor, letting the water run down my face.
I just need a minute before my anxiety seizes my body.
I finally collect myself enough to dry off. Just as I’m sliding on my shoe, I get a text in our ranch hands group chat. It’s a photo of Jake, the class clown of the bunch, with two beers above his head as he attempts to pour them in his mouth, making a mess of his shirt.
That’s not what catches my eye, though. It’s the honey-eyed angel in the background with another man's hand on her, a look of discomfort on her face.
I’m not sure I can blame the adrenaline shot for the red haze seeping into my vision. My shakes and nausea leave me, and rage replaces them. I wasn’t planning on going out tonight, but plans change. I’m driving before I even give it a second thought.
Outlaw, the only dive bar in town, is a fifteen minute drive from here.
I’ll be there in five.