West
“West, my man, what’s shakin’?”
Max struggled to catch my steps as I breezed into the café. He panted like one of those rat-looking dogs who couldn’t run from the kitchen to the dining table. He was a short, stout guy with a constellation of acne framing his jaw and coarse, ginger curls he insisted on trying to tame with hair products.
The combo made him unattractive to anyone with a pair of working eyes, which, sadly for him, was ninety-eight percent of campus population.
The idiot was best known for booking the fights at the Sheridan Plaza—and an eager collector of whatever leftovers East, Reign, and I didn’t want in the ladies department during fight nights. Max got a nice cut from orchestrating my Reservoir Dog warehouse gig. He did the legwork; I did the fist-work.
He brought all his frat friends from Pike, Beta Theta Pi, and Sig Ep to the arena each week and had them shell out money for the bets, tickets, and beer.
Worked for me, since I was the one cashing in big at the end of each night.
“Get to the point, Max. We aren’t shooting the shit here,” I snapped.
I was on my way to the cafeteria, about to meet East. My phone danced in my pocket, as it did so goddamn often. I ignored it. I didn’t need to look to see who it was—Mom—and what she wanted from me—more money.
Max clapped his hands together, practically skipping. He wore vintage Jordan Airs, a designer belt, and enough hair product to sculpt a fucking six-year-old. I got high from the fumes coming from his hair alone.
“Aight. Straight shooter, I’m digging it,” he crowed. I ambled into the cafeteria, him trailing behind me like a fart. “I got a new gig for you. Could be sick. Something exclusive that doesn’t come by every day. Lucrative as all hell, but super last-minute.”
“Are you gonna spit it out?” I scanned the place for East. My best friend made me sandwiches every morning, like a doting little mountain girl with stars in her eyes, and brought them with him. I suspected he worried I’d die of starvation if he didn’t take care of me. Maybe because he knew me well enough to know there was always going to be a small side of me that didn’t mind dying.
That would have welcomed the post-death nothingness. I certainly didn’t make an active attempt to stay alive, with my current habit.
“Tough crowd. Ever heard of Kade Appleton?” Max asked.
Appleton was a professional MMA fighter and a Sheridan native, who’d moved to Vegas about five years ago. He was known for getting suspended left and right for fighting dirty in the ring. The general consensus was he deserved to get punched in the face for a living. Every Sheridan resident who knew him growing up had a gory story about an animal he’d killed, a shotgun he’d pointed at someone, or a punch that made him send some poor bastard to the ER.
As far as hillbillies went, Kade Appleton was the poster child. I’d be surprised if he owned one pair of shoes.
“Turns out he’s in town, and he is willing to fight you tonight if you’re in. We still have the guy from Penn State lined up, but we can put him on the back burner for a while. Odds are against you if you pick the Appleton fight. I already made a spreadsheet.” Max produced his phone, shoving an excel table in my face. I stopped midstride, whistling low when I saw the numbers.
One of the main issues I’d been facing since I started knocking people unconscious for a living was I smoked everyone I fought. Even when I let them get a jab or two to keep the crowd interested, I was competitive enough to never lose on purpose, and had some integrity left in me. This made for pretty shitty odds, and the money was drying up, since everyone knew I was going to win.
Kade Appleton was a professionally trained fighter, with a few championships under his belt. It made him a golden opportunity to roll in the big bucks.
A banana ricocheted in the air, bumping Max’s chest and dropping at my feet. I looked up from Max’s phone to the direction it came from, noticing East and Reign from across the cafeteria, slouched over a table. They waved for me to come over.
I started in their direction.
“Well?” Max followed. “What says you?”
“Count me in.”
I slid onto the bench in front of East, who handed me a soggy-ass egg sandwich. I hoped his hookups were as wet as his omelets. He needed to lay off the oil.
“In?” East quirked an eyebrow. Reign was on the phone, his back to us. “In what? In love? Insane? Incapable of finishing a sentence?”
“He’s fighting Kade Appleton tonight,” Max volunteered, stars in his eyes.