by Lucy Smoke
"I'm going to a fight," he says.
"That doesn't sound illegal," I say. "Boxing?" I guess. "MMA?"
"An underground fight," he replies. "No rules. No ties. Bets are placed."
"In other words,” I say, “very illegal.” He examines my features as if trying to read me. I wish him luck, truly hoping he figures out what makes me tick. Maybe then, he could lend me the manual because even I don't know myself.
"Still want to go?" he asks.
"Yes." I don't hesitate and somehow that startles him because his eyebrows raise slightly before drawing down again, and his lips pinch.
"You're not actually considering...?" Cross asks from behind him.
Tax shakes his head but continues looking at me. I know he's not saying no and I know that even if he does say no, I'll just get in my car and follow him. Why? Once again, I don't know. I don't know about anything when it concerns him. Curiosity, I suppose, is a good enough reason. Who cares if curiosity killed millions of cats? I'm more of a dog person.
"Fine," he says. "She's coming."
Cross makes a sound of disgruntled protest and, when I pass him on our way out the front doors of the apartment complex, narrows his gaze on me. Blake doesn't look at me and still doesn't say a word as we clamber into Tax's Jeep. Cross takes the front passenger seat and Blake and I sit in the back as Tax climbs into the driver's seat. He starts up the car. I don't know if the others notice the small tremble in his limbs. As if he's excited or fucking terrified. I don't comment. Instead, I file away the observation as we travel through the streets of Charlotte. We leave the university area with the residential neighborhoods and shopping strip malls. We pass into a decidedly seedier side of town, of which I'm not surprised. There wouldn't be an illegal fight ring held in the basement of Macy’s now, would there?
Every so often, I catch Cross using the rear-view mirrors to watch me. Blake, too, keeps glancing at me out of the corners of his eyes. I wish I could tell them what's going on in my head, but even I'm at a loss. We pull up to a rundown building, an abandoned warehouse by the looks of it, and I know I shouldn't be here. Nonetheless, I step out of the car and wait for the rest of them.
In silence, we enter the building through a side entrance with a busted out light overhead. I have the distinct feeling that it's not because of lack of maintenance. Tax glances back at me as I follow behind him and the others. He leans to the side and says something quietly to Blake. Cross looks between them and glances back at me. That's not the only clue that they're talking about me because when Tax stands taller and strides down the hall, Blake falls back further until he's right behind me and Cross and Tax are directly in front of me, as if they're boxing me in between the three of them.
I can hear the roar before I can see the people. At the end of the long hallway, there are twin, red metal doors that lead into a stadium-like room. There are so many people packed inside that I can feel the heat like a wave of air from hell. My back starts to sweat, perspiration trickling between my shoulder blades. Eyes watch me – male, female, it doesn't matter. They take in the ink on my back, from my shoulder to the middle of my arm. They watch me curiously and filled with hunger. I decide that moving away from Tax and his friends would be a bad idea.
"Just remember what you're here for," Cross says as we come to a stop in the middle of the crowd. With both of their backs to me, it just feels like we've come to a standstill in the middle of a sweaty mosh pit.
"What are we here for?" I ask. “Other than for you to fight, of course.”
Tax looks back at me, his eyes bright – shockingly electric. I shiver under the weight of his stare. He turns fully, his eyes moving past me into the crowd. His frown deepens at whatever he finds behind me. I take the moment to watch him, especially when he reaches over his shoulder with one hand, grabbing a fist full of his shirt and drags it over his head, leaving his chest bare. My mouth dries.
I know, instinctively, women want to find the most powerful male to mate with. The female of the species is drawn to providers and often times, the providers are men who are well built. It's not that he's well-built that makes Tax so attractive. Objectively speaking, of course. The way his eyes don't meet mine right now – like he doesn't care what I think of this place even though this place obviously does something to him – makes me want to watch him all the more. The confidence with which he drops his shirt into my hands keeps my eyes glued to his chest. His defined ab muscles, the smooth, tanned skin stretched tight over his pecs and biceps. He’s got scars here and there, but I don’t get a chance to examine them more closely. I don't even realize his shirt is in my hands until he finally looks at me, capturing my gaze once more with those piercing, dangerous eyes of his.
He bends down and puts both of his hands on my shoulders. I never realized how tall he is until his chest is so close to my face. He puts his lips near my ear. It's so loud in the room, I couldn't have heard him otherwise. "Don't move away from Cross or Blake, do you understand?"
He pulls away once again to look into my eyes, and I nod, holding his shirt to my chest. His expression never changes as he takes my hand, his fingers warm against my cold ones. He pulls me toward Cross, who rolls his eyes. Blake steps up along my other side. Tax sticks my fingers into one of Blake's belt loops and gives me another meaningful look before turning and walking away.
Once he's gone, I realize we're not in the middle of the crowd. We're in the middle of the room and that means we're right in front of a giant cage made out of metal fencing. My eyes span up. I don't know how I missed it before. Maybe I had been too overwhelmed by the amount of people. Maybe it was because everyone else seemed so much taller and had blocked out the linked wall that separated us from the inside of the cage. But it’s there and now it sucks up a lot of my attention. That is, until my gaze drifts back toward Tax.
He walks along the side of the cage until he comes to a door where another man is waiting. The other man is older, with a poorly done comb over. He grins up at Tax as Tax approaches, appearing dark and larger than life. I don't like where this is going. The noise, the violence in the air, the electricity zinging under my skin from Tax's gaze. All of it is colliding within me. I feel like I'm the one about to be caged in, not Tax. Though no one has told me a damn thing about what this place is, I'm not stupid. Tax is going to fight, and it’ll be bloody. Why else would he take off his shirt? I know the moment he walks into that cage, I won't be able to leave. I'll be stuck here, glued to the floor. I'll have to watch him. I'll have to know. I need to go before he does it. I need to get away while I can. I shouldn’t have come.
My fingers slip from Blake's belt loops. He looks at me. I take a step back. I'm still holding Tax's shirt, I realize. I need to give it to one of them. He’ll need it after – the cage door closes behind Tax and it's too late. My breath evaporates. My heart rate stutters and picks up. I watch, spellbound, as Tax's back muscles shift under his golden skin and I'm reminded of a different back – a different time. I shake my head, trying to dispel the memory, but it won't be denied. My eyes widen, and I'm thrown back in time...
19 years old
"Come on, Love." Danny's heated breath rushes over my neck as he gropes my breasts, squeezing until they hurt. I tilt my head down to the side, and allow him access. My vision blurs in front of me. I reach for the bottle of vodka on the kitchen counter, but Danny tugs it away from me. "No more," he says. "Any more and you'll be too drunk to enjoy it."
I don't want to enjoy it. Doesn't he understand that? I don't enjoy it. I don’t want this – any of it. I close my eyes and sag back. "Let go of the fucking bottle, Danny, or I'm not doing it." He releases the handle of vodka as I reach for it and it drops to the ground, shattering at both of our feet. I don't even have the energy to curse or jump away. My hollowness is a graveyard of past emotions that I once understood – that I once could feel. But I can’t anymore. I just let the clear liquid rush over my toes, stinging the small cuts already made by the broken pieces of the bo
ttle.
"Danny," I say as he steps away, his feet free and clear in his steel toed boots.
"I let go of your bottle, Love." His big hands reach out and grab the hem of my shirt from the back, jerking it up over my head. My arms come up all on their own and the fabric leaves my skin. I shiver and my nipples pebble. I don't want to fucking do this. I don't care enough not to do it. I wish I had at least gotten another shot in beforehand. Danny's friend comes in from the other room, swaggering across the linoleum tiles.
"This your girl?" he asks.
"Yeah," Danny replies, turning me so that his friend can see my tits. Danny cups them, molding them in his hand. Each caress is a slice against the inside of my chest. More glass cuts my feet. The friend notices. He also notices my lack of flinching or crying. It doesn't hurt nearly as bad as what's inside does.
I close my eyes as he approaches. Instead of going immediately for my tits or the zipper of my jeans like I expect he will, the friend bends down and lifts my legs, his hands around my thighs. He keeps my feet off the ground and pushes me between himself and Danny, until my breasts hurt and my back aches. Numbness washes over me as he looks into my eyes. His are dark and dangerous. Hurting. Cold. Frozen. Like mine.
When he looks at me, I feel every inch the ice queen Danny has accused me of being. That doesn't stop him from fucking me. It doesn't stop him from bringing his friends over to fuck me. I've noticed the way Danny talks to them first before he comes to me. He's haggling a price. He doesn't realize that I know what he's doing, but I do. And somehow it doesn't affect me. I don't care that he's getting paid to let his friends fuck me. I wonder if they're even his friends. If he even knows them. This one – though – this one is different from the others. Because when this one looks at me, I feel different. I feel. It's strange and I don't much care for it.
"Are you okay with this?" he asks.
I blink at him, my hips squeezing around his waist. My hands anchor on his shoulders. "I don't care," I reply.
"I know," he says. "But are you okay with this?"
Danny grunts an irritated noise and looks up from licking, biting, and kissing my neck. "Do you want to fuck her or talk to her?" he asks.
The man doesn't look at Danny. He keeps staring at me. "Yeah," I finally say, "I'm okay with this." I'm okay with this because I don't have anywhere else to go. I don’t want it, but I deserve to be used like this. No one enjoys what they do to survive.
When he kisses me, I keep my eyes open. It's to remind myself of what I'm doing, of who I am. In the window behind him, I watch as he takes his shirt off with one hand and tosses it to the side, somewhere beneath their feet in the vodka and broken glass. His muscles move, entrancing, as they shift over me. As he unzips his jeans and rips my own, dropping my legs long enough to strip them from me. I don't even blink as more glass cuts into my feet. In his shoes, he's just as safe as Danny. I'm always the only one that ends up bleeding.
The stranger picks me up again – is someone like him really one of Danny's friends? He slams into me, plunging deep into my pussy, pumping. He kisses me again – breaking my concentration. His tongue sinks into my mouth and I twine mine around his as Danny holds me tightly against his chest. Danny’s rough fingers on my nipples hurt. He squeezes them too roughly, pinching down hard and then releasing. When the blood rushes back to them, they ache. The ‘friend’ pulls back, putting his head on my shoulder as he thrusts faster.
I watch as if I'm detached from my own body as his back moves, the muscles clenching as he pushes in and out, until he’s pulsing in me. First him, then Danny, and then both of them together. I flinch when Danny slides in my ass. He never uses enough lube. I close my eyes, blocking out their faces and sink deep down inside, blocking out the sensation of their hands as well.
Blake's hand on my arm drags me back to the present. I'm not with Danny anymore, but the memory causes my stomach to lurch. I'm not standing in his dirty kitchen with the moldy tiles or the broken glass, I remind myself. I'm in a warehouse, and there's a cage and people, and Tax is bleeding. Tax is bleeding. I gasp as another man comes, seemingly out of nowhere, forward and slams his fist into Tax's face.
"Are you okay?!" Blake shouts above the crowd, his hand on my arm. I'm still rooted to the same spot. Even Cross is looking back at me like I'm fucking crazy.
"I'm fine," I hear myself say.
Cross looks at me a moment longer, but either he really doesn't give a shit, or he believes me, because he turns around and focuses on the scene in front of him. Blake, however, continues looking at me, his gaze serious, concerned. I step up to the cage, trapped now, as if the moment the gate closed behind Tax there was some sort of string tying me to this place – tying me to him.
I'm on edge, shaky, as I approach the cage's exterior again. Where has my structure gone? I'm not used to this. I shouldn’t be here, I think to myself again.
The quiet in my mind is broken by the screams and shouts of the crowd. I jerk around, looking for something. Then I realize they’re all yelling at Tax and his opponent. "They’re just getting started,” Blake says in my ear. “It’ll get worse than this, just wait.” He has to yell it even though he's standing right next to me. I nod my head, hoping he’s talking about the people surrounding us and not Tax. If I try, my voice will get lost in the crowd and it might never come back.
My eyes catch on Tax and hold there. His skin is sinewy, his stance ready and experienced. I can tell he's done this several times before because he doesn’t hesitate. There's the striking difference in his expression that I'm not used to. All he's shown so far is the sarcastic and stubborn asshole. In the cage, he's deeper into himself. I can tell. There's a calm about his features, a serenity that I didn't even realize he was missing before. I wonder if he feels the draw to this like an ache deep beneath his skin, an ache he cures with a fight that might leave him bleeding and broken for days. I wonder if this is his purge.
The man with the comb over stands on the other side of the cage, watching intently. I take a moment to let my eyes wander to the opponent and they widen. The other man is large. Possibly even larger than Tax and his eyes are bulging. In fact, almost every part of the man is bulging. His neck muscles, his veins, his biceps. He's huge. Probably from steroid use, I decide as I watch his eyes twitch over the people in the crowd and then back to Tax. He's zeroing in on his prey, practically vibrating with the need to cause damage. Make Tax bleed again. My stomach churns at the thought. I don't know why.
The man with the comb over is yelling as he talks to the men on either side of him. Are they taking bets? On the other side of the cage, I see one man squatting in front of the metal fence material, his hands hooked into the holes. Is that allowed? I think. If it is or not, no one seems to care. All eyes are focused on Tax and the steroid man, even mine. The cage door is shut, a big giant pin locking it closed – Are they supposed to lock it?
I inhale, smelling cold metal and sweat. Tax's expression is dark, twisted into something that draws forth my curiosity. It's this face of his that intrigues me, not the one before, not the easy-going, sweet, sarcastic Tax. It's this dangerous, stalking Tax that my eyes can't help but watch. The other one drew me in a different way. This one draws me in the dark, painful way.
The metal fencing around the makeshift cage rattles as more people get close enough to put their fingers in the open holes. They aren't supposed to do that, I know. I don't know how I know, but it makes sense. What if one of the guys gets slammed up against the metal and accidentally breaks a spectator's fingers? I want to – so badly – press my hands against the metal, press my face against the cage to...what? Get close to Tax while he's possessed like he is? I’ll admit, I think that may be the reason.
I don't know what it is that makes me want to get as close as possible, but I ignore the urge. I squash it down and wrap my hands around myself. I squeeze so tightly that I know I must seem small and scared. I'm not scared, though. I'm electrified. Adrenaline shoots through my bloodstream, rip
pling into my mind, pushing my breaths to come faster and faster. I yearn for something. I don't know what it is, but when Tax's fist meets his competitor’s face, the molecules of my body leap. They shudder and tremble in excitement. They circle each other, two dark lions caged and angry...hungry. Tax's opponent is large, practically salivating with the need to barrel into his enemy. He might be smarter than he looks because he doesn't immediately attack again. They round each other again and again, eyes watching, chests heaving. Or at least, the opponent's chest heaves. Tax barely looks affected, if he is at all.
In fact, his face is a calm mask, void of emotion. His eyes swirl like thunderstorms though, and I can almost hear lightning strike nearby as he circles once more. He's as far from where I am as he can get, but he glances up, and our gazes meet. It's a split second, perhaps less, but it's like I've sunk myself into a pool of water with live wires dipped alongside me.
"Love?" Blake's voice filters through the crowd as he moves closer to me. The moment he's at my side, though, Tax makes a move.
My eyes widen as he spins. His right foot comes up. He leans back, and his leg lashes out, his foot slamming into the other man's chin. In another one of those split seconds, he's back on both feet, leisurely watching his opponent. Steroid guy stumbles into the side of the cage and swears low before roaring his defiance.
I guess whatever plan he was trying to come up with doesn't matter anymore, because he barrels straight for Tax and I gasp, flinching when I think Tax is about to be slammed into the cage or the ground or whatever surface steroid guy ends up on, but in the next moment steroid guy is on the ground with Tax standing over him wearing the same expressionless mask. Tax is practically vibrating. His whole form is smooth and relaxed, but I can see the undercurrent of readiness, the intensity about him that I don't think anyone else notices.