The hot brunette with the sad eyes was staring at me fully for the first time, and I didn't like it. I'd seen her around numerous times before, but she always seemed to be in a daze. I recognized the haunted look in her eyes, and it drew me to her like a moth to a flame.
Earlier, I’d seen her hunched over at the wall, and for a brief moment, I'd thought about checking on her, but then I came to my senses and stalked off. Women were not something I spent my time on anymore. Too many strings to get tangled in. And this one had complicated written all over her.
Finishing my sessions for the day, I retreated to gym #5 for some last minute training. I had a fight tomorrow night, and the one perk I had here, free access to my own private gym. It just meant I had to get through the day dealing with trophy wives and trust fund brats who had way too much time on their hands before I could hide here.
And now, she was here, invading my sacred space. Glaring at her, I hoped my asshole tendencies would send her packing all on their own. She seemed like a wisp of a woman who would jump at the slightest provocation. To my surprise, she leaned against the wall and glared at me with what I assumed was meant to be an intimidating stare. That's cute. She was like a kitten, but I didn't think she had any claws.
"This gym is off-limits to guests. Leave."
"I was told to find you actually, so I think you'll find I do have permission."
I hadn't expected her to respond when I confronted her, her reaction causing my breathing to pick up at her dismissal.
"Well, kitten," I sneered, "you were told wrong. Now, go."
Turning back toward my punching bag, I soon lost myself in the rhythm of the one, two, punch, one, two, kick sequence. Hitting a hundred, I wiped the sweat from my brow before grabbing the water bottle from the bench. My heartbeat was ringing in my ears as I drank down my water, spilling some as I greedily inhaled it.
The quiet surrounded me, and I dropped my shoulders as I finally relaxed. Gathering up my towel and bag, I headed toward the private locker room off to the side.
"I want you to teach me that."
Stopping in my tracks, I was surprised to hear her voice. I'd honestly forgotten about her once I started hitting the bag. Keeping my back to her, I sighed loudly before answering.
"Fine. I only have Tuesday and Thursday evenings open. If that doesn't work, not my problem. If you miss, you still pay. Got it, kitten?"
I didn't wait for her answer as I didn't care one way or the other if she showed up. In fact, I hope she didn't. Just another fucking upper-class princess to remind me of where I didn't belong.
No need for that. I already knew. Besides, that had been made abundantly clear a year ago. The door slamming was the only indication she'd heard me as I stepped all the way into the locker room.
* * *
Bangingon the outside door alerted me I had fifteen minutes until I was up. Wrapping my hands, I clipped off the tape as I flexed them, testing the flexibility. It was fight night, and my blood was pumping, ready to create some destruction. Fighting gave me an outlet that I needed desperately, in addition to the financial gains. It was the perfect win-win scenario.
Doing some quick punches and kicks in the air, I finished my last bit of stretching before exiting the utility closet I used as a dressing room. It was an underground fighting ring—not some fancy Vegas show. The location was always different and unknown to anyone until the day of the fight. It was how the organizers kept ahead of the police trying to shut them down.
Several things went on behind the scenes here that most weren't even privy to, much less even knew occurred. While this was a Mascro venture, the other families were allowed to mingle as long as they kept the peace—Chicago underground's version of a consulate. Immunity was freely given unless you crossed the line.
The other families could then bet on the fights, sell their drugs, put up their fighters, and pimp out their sex. It was encouraged even, but you didn't disrespect the Mascros, and you didn't murder anyone on site. It was considered rude, and frankly, in poor taste. Say what you will about the mafia families, but they all had their codes.
If you lived by the code, you were good, but break it, and all of the families would be after you. I should know. I'd crossed one of them once. Now, I spend my days trying to escape the mistakes of my past and get out from under the crushing debt I'd incurred. Which usually entailed being pissed off most of the day. At least, it worked well for fighting.
"Crash! You're up, man. Make it rain, dude! I got money on you."
I ignored the idiot trainer and walked up to the makeshift ring in the middle of the warehouse. The place was packed as usual with various types of people. Several littered around the ring, wanting a front-row view of the violence, while others used the top floor railing to conduct business and watch the fight.
While the locations might change, they always had the same layout. It reminded me of a traveling circus with how quickly they could set up and break down these places. Bar areas, dance floors, bleachers, and the ring were standard pieces they always used. The VIP section was the only area that tended to change depending on location. The number of deals that went down during these things had to be astronomical.
Glancing around, I saw a few familiar faces who always seemed to be at these things. Putting my mouth guard in, I climbed through the ropes into the ring and bounced on my feet. The thrill before a fight was the only time I truly felt alive now. Focusing on my opponent, I took in his build, gait, and arm width. He had more weight on him than me, but it wasn't all muscle. Inevitably, it would make his movements slower, though they would pack a solid punch. I'd need to be fast and hit him in places that would slow him down quickly.
"Tonight, we have Crash opposing Bounty. Last moment to place your bets, when the bell rings, all are final. Are... you... ready... !"
The bell rang, and my focus narrowed on my opponent. I cleared my head of all the noise so I could anticipate his movements. He leaned forward slightly on his right leg, giving away his attempt to make a left-handed punch. Ducking under his arm, I was able to punch him with two quick jabs in the ribs.
All the times during the day I'd held myself back flooded me and I used the forced down aggression to fuel my punches. Bounty stumbled back at the force, and I took it as an opportunity to kick and clip his chin. All the spoiled brats and flirty women I had to deal with became the opponent in front of me. I couldn't hit them, but I could hit him. Bounty was now disoriented and pissed. Everyone made mistakes when they were angry.
Charging me, he was no longer trying to be stealthy and forecasted his movements even louder. The calm taste of control began to settle on my tongue with each strike I landed. Dodging his right punch, I blocked his kick before bringing my knee to his ribs and punching him quickly in the head. He stepped back, off-kilter, and I was smug in knowing I'd just rung his bell.
I charged him this time using his distraction but changed direction at the last minute, initiating a kickflip and punching him in the same spot on his ribs with two jabs. The rhythm and movement of a fight was more sophisticated than people realized, and there had always been something about it that called to me. In the ring, I wasn't the screw-up. Instead, I was the master of this domain.