by Emilia Finn
“Motherfucker!”
Miles drops his bags and rushes Kyle back against the wall, but then he’s gone. Kyle is gone, and Will has him bent backwards over the balcony banister with a hand around his throat and absolutely nothing else stopping him from falling headfirst onto concrete.
“I warned you, Baker. I warned you a dozen times to stay the fuck away from my sister.”
“I didn’t touch her, man!”
“Daddy!” Lyss’ loud scream pierces through the cold, and brings other room lights on.
“Here, baby.” Miles scoops his daughter up and hugs her close against his chest. “It’s okay, baby. It’s fine.”
I leave Will holding Kyle dangerously over the edge, and instead grab our groceries up with fast swipes of my arms. I kick a can of tuna along the wooden balcony since my arms are full, but then that other fighter, Kyle’s brother, picks it up and places it on my pile.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “Go into your room with Iowa, and I’ll fix Kyle.”
“If you gang up on my brother,” I hiss, “if you help yours hurt mine, I’ll kill you.” I grit my teeth and stand as tall as I can manage. “I will slit your throat with the knife I carry in my boot, and I will end your miserable existence.”
“I won’t help Kyle do anything.” He rushes me along the balcony behind Miles and Lyss, and as soon as I’m far enough from Will and Kyle, he pivots on his feet and rushes back. “You need to stop!” He grabs Will’s arm and tries to snap it free of his brother’s throat. “Quinn! Fucking quit it.”
“She is a child,” Will grits out. “Both of them.”
I dump my groceries just outside my room door and glance along the balcony as more fighters step outside to watch the show. That tin of tuna rolls along a groove of timber until the guy in fourteen stops it with his foot. He nods.
I don’t know him, I haven’t socialized with him, but his nod seems almost sympathetic, so I take that as confirmation he’s got my back, then I race along the balcony and grab Will when he bends Kyle back so far that an unsafe, fifty-year-old banister is the only thing keeping Kyle up here and not splattered on the concrete.
“Will! Let him go.”
“Repeat after me!” Will snarls. “I’m a dirty fucking pervert, but I will control my urges.”
“Fuck you!” Kyle spits.
“My name is Kyle Baker,” Will growls, “And I’m a dirty fucking pedophile. Repeat it!”
Kyle screams when the banister creaks under his weight. “My name is Kyle Baker!” he rushes out. “And I’m a—”
“If you come near her again, I will end your miserable fucking life.” Will shoves Kyle back another foot so the entire banister warps, and Kyle’s voice comes out on an actual cry of terror.
“You’ve been warned, Baker. You’ve been given mercy, but unlike Iowa, I don’t give a fuck about Miss Kincaid’s rules. I govern myself. So if you so much as look at my sister again, I will take you out. I’m done with the warnings.”
“That’s enough.” Reid yanks Will’s hand from around Kyle’s neck and catches his brother before he falls. “Shit. Fuck, man.” He pulls his brother back to his feet just as screws pop from the banister with loud pings. They fly though the air, and settle a moment later on the concrete below. “Jesus, Quinn. You could have killed him.”
“That was the damn point,” Will snaps. “I’d be doing society a favor.” He grabs me so hard that it hurts, but I don’t cry out. I don’t argue. “Guys like this don’t change, Reid. They can’t be reformed. He’s your brother, which means you’re gonna have some choices to make. And soon.”
“I didn’t touch her!” Kyle rubs his aching neck. “It was only talk.”
“And you’re so fucking good at that. Now let me talk; stay away from her. Stay away from every single girl in this town, whether she’s legal or not. If I see you near any of them, I’ll tear your spine out through your throat.”
Fast as a viper, his fist shoots up and slams against Kyle’s throat until he drops to the ground and retches.
“Go back to where you come from, Baker. Your life depends on it.”
Jamie
And There It Is
“Come around to the left,” my dad coaches from his place on the canvas. He lays on his stomach, his head just inches from mine and Bry’s, as I swing my leg around in search of the triangle. “You’re losing it, Jamie.”
“I got it,” I grit out. My neck aches from tensing it. My jaw aches. My arms swell, and my legs search for the right angle. “Motherfucker, stop fighting me on this.” I slam a fist down over the side of my cousin’s head. “Stop it!”
He fights just as hard as I do. He works on remaining free, because if he doesn’t, he’ll go to sleep. But he still manages to laugh at the frustration in my voice.
“Sure thing. I’ll just stop fighting because you asked so nicely.” His fist comes up so fast, I don’t even know he’s moved until it slams into my kidney. “If you don’t have the lock already, then you’ve lost. Get off me before folks think we’re fucking.”
“You are cousins,” Daddy grunts with disgust. “Your smack talk is as weak as your fighting. Time.” He slaps the floor and yanks us apart. “Get back on your feet, start again, and stop trying to be lovers. It’s weird.”
I spin away from Bry’s strong hold and stop on my hands and knees while my lungs clamor for air. I’m a month older than my cousin, but he’s a good forty pounds heavier. Not fat. Muscle. He’s the son of a heavyweight champion, the baby of an almost six-foot-tall woman. He was genetically guaranteed to be larger.
It’s not that I have a lot to complain about. My daddy was a champion too, and my mom can kick anyone’s ass if they step up to her. But Bry soaked up all the heavyweight genes, which means I have to eat more and work harder to maintain weight and not turn scrawny.
It’s a delicate balance, considering the hours of cardio I put in on any given day.
“Get to your feet,” Daddy snaps. “Stand up, hands up. I want you to scramble your cousin’s brains, or you’re not welcome home anymore.”
Bry throws his head back on a laugh. “This is dysfunctional, right?” He looks around. “This can’t be how a normal family behaves.”
“This is how we create gladiators.” But then he grins. “Sorry, son.”
“If I lose, will you still love me?”
“No, but your mom has a soft spot for you. Ready?”
“Ugh.” I turn with a grunt and lift my hands. “Yeah, I’m ready.” I look into Bry’s eyes and grin. “Ready to cry like a little bitch?”
“Better smack talk than before, I suppose.” Daddy shakes his head and, when Bry lifts his hands, drops his to start the fight.
Fighters tend to fall into two categories: dancers, and, well, not dancers. Some will skip around an octagon, wave for their fans, look for the drama rather than the takedown.
I’m usually that fighter, because I want laughs instead of black eyes. But this time, I sprint forward and slam Bry to the canvas with a foundation-shaking thud. The back of his head raps against the floor – scrambled brains, check – and before he can recover, I slide over his chest and rain fists down over his jaw.
Instead of fighting me off, he can only cover up. Not that I would knock him out in training, but we’re taught to train how we fight. If we train soft, we’ll compete soft. So I show Bry who’s boss today, and he covers up like he knows if he doesn’t, he’s going to sleep.
“Good!” Daddy ends up on his stomach again. “Bridge, Bry. Lift your hips, knock him forward.”
Instead of doing as he’s told, Bry tries to escape with a fast swing of his hips. He gets out from beneath me, slithers around fast, and ends up with one leg hitched around my hip. He wraps his arm around my throat, digs his hooks around my thighs, and chuckles deep in his throat when he thinks he’s got me pinned. “Do you feel like a pussy?”
“Nope.” I throw myself backward and slam us both to the canvas so his arms and legs break free and I
can spin away. Twisting, I come back around and pop him on the jaw. One, two, three, until his lip splits, and blood hits the floor.
And because my dad is refereeing, and not Bry’s mom, we don’t stop.
“I made you bleed, bitch.” I push up to my knees, then swing one in and slam it up against Bry’s ribs until his breath comes out on a squeak.
“Lock something in, Jamie.” Dad’s voice barely penetrates my senses as I beat my cousin black and blue. “End the fight. Don’t play with him.”
“I’m no one’s fucking toy.” Bry bridges up and knocks me forward until I have to catch my weight on my hands, which means I can no longer hit him.
While I’m off balance, Bry slams a fist up under my ribs and skewers them into my lungs until I worry for a moment that he’ll break something, but then I roll to my right, flip up to my feet, and when he tries to scramble after me, I Tarzan holler and slam him back down like this is a WWE match and not something with a little more… finesse.
Bry can’t decide if he’s entertained or appalled, but since the gym is at half capacity today, since most folks are taking the day to rest before tonight’s tournament, I consider this session a free-for-all. I lift to my knees, bring my elbow up, and slam back down again like I think I’m The Rock… but, like, The Rock from the 90’s.
“You fucker,” Bry laughs and grunts in one. “Are we in a fuckin’ mud pit?”
“Say mercy, bitch, and I’ll stop.” I crawl back onto his hips and swing fists down over his face with such fervor that his mouthguard pops out and flings across the canvas, leaving a line of spit in its wake.
No longer coaching, my dad pushes to his ass and shakes his head. All these years of training, all these years of hard work, and we’re roleplaying WWE. “I’m embarrassed for you two.”
If I could pick Bry up by his ankles and swing him around like Bam-Bam in The Flintstones swings his club, I would. But since I can’t, I slide into place and lock his arm up so he chokes himself.
It takes his brain a moment to process. Then another to accept I bamboozled him.
“Tap, bitch.”
Veins bulge in his forehead. His face grows redder, his eyes wider, his arm thicker as he chokes himself out.
The ultimate humiliation.
“Tap!” I tighten the lock and smile when his legs kick out beneath us. “Give me the tap, man. My daddy already said he doesn’t love me. I need this.”
From choking to laughing, Bry slams his free hand down on my shoulder and indicates the end of our fight. Chest bouncing from laughter, heaving in search of oxygen, I drop back to the canvas so we lay side by side, and simply stare up at the ceiling. “You made that a thousand times harder than it needed to be.”
“I’m disgusted with you both,” Daddy grumbles. “My father trained his sons how to fight. I swear my brothers and I tried to train our sons, but here we are, and you’re both pussies.”
I lift my head and grin. “I’m still a minor. You shouldn’t be speaking to me that way.”
“If you’re still a minor, then I’m grounding you for being such a shitty fighter. I don’t care about school grades. I don’t even care if you’re a good human being or a drug dealer. I just wanted a good fighter. Is that so much to ask for?”
“You got Bean,” Bry suggests between panting breaths. “One out of two ain’t so bad, right?”
Daddy thinks on that for a moment. He chews on his bottom lip, nods, then smiles when our eyes meet. “You’re lucky I got your sister, punk. Otherwise I’d throw you out with the bathwater and try again.”
“You’re so mean!” I press a hand to my heart and drop back to the canvas with a laugh. “Cheese and rice, you’re lucky I’m not insecure.”
“I love you, bud.” Dad crawls across the canvas on his hands and knees and stops over me so we come eye to eye. “You’re annoying almost all of the time, but I love you.”
“Love you too. Also, I’m done for today.” I sit up with a groan as my abdominal muscles protest the movement, but then my eyes lock onto a pair of dirty denim, and my heart comes to a screeching halt.
Cam stands thirty feet away with wide eyes and pale cheeks. She wears jeans again, socks, but no shoes, and a white, three-quarter-sleeved top that reveals half an inch of belly.
She watches me watch her, wrings her hands together with uncertainty, and seems stuck in place. Frozen. Unable to move.
Daddy follows my gaze, and frowns when he sees what I see. He looks back to me, then to her. “This is…” He clicks his fingers in front of my eyes. “Interesting. It most surely is interesting.” He looks to Bry. “What’s going on here?”
“Cam?” I slowly push to my feet and hobble closer. “Are you… um… you okay?”
She says nothing. Not a single peep.
“Cameron?” I turn to exit the octagon, to scoop her up and take her somewhere private, but the second I hit the door, she turns on a dime and sprints out of the room. “Cam?” I call out. “Hey!”
“Jamie’s got the hots for the pretty dancer,” Bry sing-songs.
“He does?” Dad swings around to catch my eyes. “You do? How the hell did I miss that?”
“It’s not common knowledge.” Bry climbs to his feet with an exhausted grunt. “She can’t stand his guts. And he hasn’t actually had a full conversation with her yet, so at this point, it’s about coercion. There’s no agreement or permission just yet.”
“Well… I mean…” Daddy clears his throat. “Are we saying she hates his guts the way Tink hates Jon’s? Or is it the kind that will include police officers and restraining orders? Because the answer is kinda important to how I continue this discussion.”
“Hush.” I take the rubber guard from my mouth and tuck it into the waistband of my shorts. Bringing my hands up, I undo the Velcro on my grappling gloves. “I’m out.”
“Put a shirt on!” Daddy calls out. “Jamie. A shirt could be the difference between a restraining order or not right now.”
“Shit.”
I spin on the spot in search of a shirt, and snatching up the first one I find – Bry’s – I shrug into it and feel no remorse at the sweat that soaks through the fabric. I toss my gloves aside as I move, one, onto the rubber floor, then the other. I walk through the room in shorts and a shirt a size too big, and with sweat beading on my still-heaving chest, I move into the hall and step onto concrete that smarts my bare feet.
I check reception first, searching for the beautiful woman who has no business tempting me into her web, but the area is empty, and there doesn’t seem to be a draft from a recently opened and closed door. So I turn and head back into the hall.
I pass the room I was just training in, then another that hosts a group of younger kids working on takedown drills under my mom’s tutelage. I poke my head into the room for a fast study, but I didn’t really think I’d find Cam here, so I keep moving.
I pass the kitchen, another training room, and then the weights room. I poke my head into every communal space I think she could’ve escaped to. Despite the tournament tonight, Evie stands by the boxing ring with my uncle, our friend Sophia, and Ben. They talk business, so I keep moving, and it’s not until I stand in the hall between the men’s and women’s locker rooms that I notice Uncle Aiden’s office door is ajar.
I was almost ready to raid the women’s locker room, willing to follow my irrational obsession that insists I track Cam down, but the office door draws me forward until I push it open a few more inches and find Cam sitting on the floor with her back against the wall. She holds a ratty dog blanket in her lap.
Cam’s eyes remain down, despite the squeak to the door. Long hair hangs in her face, long legs stretch out ahead of her, and brown fur now clings to her crisp white top like confetti. “You’re a Kincaid?”
Stepping into the room and closing the door behind me, I slow my movements, consider how best to keep her in this room with me until she admits she feels something too, but then her words filter through my fight-addled brain an
d bring my brows closer. “What?”
“Jimmy Kincaid…”
I shake my head. “Um… no. Close, but I’m not Jimmy.”
“Jimmy is your dad?”
“He is.” Slowly moving across the office, I press my back to the wall and slide down until we sit hip to hip. “If you heard that bit about him not loving me anymore, don’t sweat it. He was kidding.”
“I thought you were the secretary.”
“I’m… well…” I peek at the blanket Cam clings to. “I’m a lot of things. We all are.”
“I thought you were a poor kid, like me. The unfortunate soul delegated to data entry and mopping blood from the floors.”
“I’ve yet to hear a lie in your words,” I tease. “I have to mop all the damn time. Poor me.”
Her breath comes out on a soft laugh. “You can fight too.”
“According to my dad, I suck at it.”
“You’re Jimmy effing Kincaid’s son…”
“I mean…” It’s strange how her mini panic brings a lump of nerves to my throat. “My mom probably deserves a shout-out, too. She was the one who shat me out.” I pause. “Allegedly. I can’t confirm. I don’t remember that day very well.”
“I thought you were a broke kid doing his best to hang with the famous folks. Just like what we’re doing here, ya know? Train somewhere prestigious. Make friends. Pretend life doesn’t suck so much.”
“I’m… uh…” I shrug. “I’m genuinely confused about this conversation. I don’t understand the significance. You just keep saying my name over and over again.”
“You’ve been hitting on me for days,” she rasps out. “Relentlessly. And hell, you’re sexy enough that while I was saying no out loud, in my mind, I was still smiling.”
“So does that mean we can kiss yet?”
She shakes her head and scoots an inch away. “I was saying no, because maybe you were poor, but you were in the door, ya know? And that’s cool for you. Well earned. You were seventeen, and you said you’d be fighting next year. And hell, the fact you’re in this building makes you a Roller.” Her eyes come to me. “You’re a Roller, and shit, that’s cool. Good for you.”