by A. R. Breck
Looking around, I see hundreds of all different kinds of people. They all look amped up, and it makes adrenaline start flowing through me at a rapid pace. My heart starts racing with a need to see what happens between these walls.
There is a bar in the way back of the warehouse, filled with people yelling or slamming their palms on the counter in an attempt to catch the attention of the two women bartenders who are wearing scraps of barely-there fabric. Across their chests is big, bold letters that say Pit.
The music is that thump, thump rhythm that rumbles through the speakers with a heavy bass. I can feel each boom in the pit of my stomach.
I look at what the other people are wearing, and breathe a sigh of relief when I see there was no strict dress code that I was supposed to follow. There are some people who are here wearing dresses, others are wearing street clothes, and even some are wearing what looks to be like sweats.
Seriously, these people would get ran out of town with a pitch fork – or no – their Porsche if they walked like that in Woodbury.
The lights begin to dim, and Cara grabs onto my hand, giving it a squeeze. "Ready? This shit is about to get wild." Her voice has a little shake to it, and her eyes are glowing with excitement.
Chills break out through my spine, and I watch raptly as some guys start walking through the hallway behind the ring. One is in the middle, draped with a robe and his face is down. Once he reaches the ring, the few guys he's with surround him. One puts his hands on the fighter's shoulders and starts giving him what looks to be like encouraging words. Another guy grabs his wrists and checks the tape that is wrapped firmly around his hands. Once his hands looked taped correctly, the man takes the fighter's robe off, revealing a man with a shaved head and harsh cheek bones. He looks angry, and positively frightening.
People cheer, and it only amps up my energy and I start yelling along with them.
Suddenly, the lights dim even further until it's almost pitch black - save for the red lights that light up along the stone walls of the warehouse.
The hair on the back of my neck stands at attention, and I automatically bring my hand up rub there.
What in the hell?
Another group comes out behind the ring, and this time the cheers escalate to an almost deafening scream.
Four men walk out, and two of them I immediately recognize as the two assholes from the parking lot earlier today, Jackson and Logan. I'm guessing the one behind the robe is their leader or whatever they call him.
Easton.
I silently roll his name off my tongue, trying out the syllables for the first time.
There is another guy there too, but he looks too old to be a high school student. His trainer, maybe?
I squint my eyes, trying as best as I can to catch a glimpse of the man underneath the hood. As they reach the ring, the yells and cheering get to unbearable levels, and I wince. I know my ears will be ringing something fierce later. Ugh.
Once they reach the ring, they begin the same process as the other guy did. The older man checks Easton's bandages while the other two seem to be whispering to him about something. As he disrobes, the screaming once again picks up, mostly this time from the ladies.
I'm not sure how anyone is screaming right now. Because me? My tongue seems to be lodged into my throat from the sight in front of me.
A full eight pack of rock-hard muscle. His arms give away the hard work he puts in at the gym and all the training he must have been doing this past week.
His hair is a messy, wavy dark pile on his head and shaved short on the sides. It's damp, and I'm not sure whether it is from sweat or if he recently took a shower.
What surprises me more than anything is the tattoo on his body. How does someone get a tattoo when you're still in high school? Most of the kids at my old school are pallets of blank skin. His marred, tattooed and even scarred skin gives him an almost untouchable appeal. My eyes want to travel the road map that he created. His body is something that I would never tire of exploring.
His tattoo consists of one large figure that takes up his entire back. It looks to be a demon or… the devil? Oh, it's the Reaper The scythe that the Reaper holds hangs off of the Reaper's boney hands with a touch of red blood dripping off the tip. Everything else about the tattoo is black and white, except for the blood dripping into the abyss.
The Reaper on his back has a hood on just the same as Easton did as he walked town the hallway. The detailing and shadows makes it look almost like a picture instead of a drawing. Either way, it's oddly beautiful but also unnerving at the same time. It's massive, starting at the bottom of his neck and ending near his waistline. How can he possibly get this massive work of art at his age?
But, I guess if his dad is a murderer he obviously figured something out...
Sweet mother Jesus.
Feeling sweat start pooling at my temples, I quickly wipe it away and send up a little prayer that I decided to wear this lace tank top instead of something heavier. I know it's Minnesota in the middle of the year, but it's about as hot as a sauna in here.
Both of the fighters enter the ring from their sides and a third guy hops in out of no where with a microphone.
"Welcome, welcome." People start cheering again, and this guy laughs along with them until they calm down. He looks to be in his late twenties, with a mop of brown hair and a smile that makes his teeth look like razors. Although I would put him in the good-looking category in my mind, there is a demeanor about him that gives me some creepy ass vibes.
As I glance around, I see most of the guys here are good looking - girls too. What the fuck is it that they put in the water around here? The less zeros on your name, the better you are in the looks department. Is that how it works on this side of town?
I snap myself out of my judgmental rant - no need to be a bitch to these people. I tune back in to the guy speaking in the ring. "-tonight. Now, let me introduce to you to these two crazy assholes who will be fighting tonight! First up, we have Josh the "Assassin" Jones!" People go crazy for him, although now I notice it is not filled with as much excitement as it is when Easton walked up to the ring. "Known as the Assassin for completely obliterating anyone in one hit, the Assassin has a nearly undefeated record and is hoping to add another win to his belt tonight!"
The Assassin is now completely disrobed himself, and he is absolutely ripped. His muscles and veins are pulsing with every breath he takes. It's mesmerizing, watching these beasts of men stand up there and let us feast on their bodies from afar.
This is definitely porn material, that’s for sure.
"And now, let me introduce you all to the most undefeated fighter in all of Minnesota – Easton the "Reaper" Malone!"
Ahh, okay. The Reaper. I get it now.
We all scream at him, but Easton does nothing besides stand there, looking both bored and menacing all at the same time. "Known from the obvious Grim Reaper, otherwise known as the God of Death. The Reaper is completely undefeated and has said he has yet to find another fighter who actually challenges him." People gasp at this and I snap my eyes over to the Assassin, watching as he clenches his fists and his body becomes coiled tight.
Wow, way to piss of the Assassin.
"And so, with that parting remark, let's see who wins this shit!" He pumps his hands in the air and music starts playing once again, this time some EDM shit that I don't really listen to, but it does pump up the excitement in the place. Once the music starts, the announcer leaves the ring and a bell goes off.
Let the games begin.
◆◆◆
The fight starts quickly and with no remorse. the Assassin rushes Easton, attempting to get in some quick but lethal swings. Easton dodges most of them, save for a couple that look like he is almost letting him get in a few free swings. With each punch, the Assassin grows more and more angry, probably because he is used to having his opponents down by now.
As the minutes go on, the tension rises in the room. I'm hopping from foot to foot, hol
ding hands with Cara as tightly as possible. She is squeezing my hand too, and I think both of us have lost circulation in our fingers by now.
Good, more distraction from my nerves.
I'm not sure how long passes, but soon enough, the Assassin looks winded and his face is beet red. I'm sure he's livid, but Easton uses this moment and like death himself, goes in for the kill. He swiftly moves into the Assassin's personal space without his knowledge. It is almost like Easton is some sort of God, untouchable and something that you can not take your eyes away from.
I notice the moment the Assassin realizes what's happening, but it is too late.
Easton lands an uppercut to the Assassin, rattling his teeth enough to make my own cry out in horror. My eyes nearly pop out of their sockets at how fast Easton is moving.
My eyes can barely keep up.
After Easton lays the uppercut, he swings his feet out at the Assassin, making him collapse on his back with a loud and thunderous boom. Easton leans over him with his teeth bared and snarls at his opponent, looking lethal and very, very frightening.
I look down at the Assassin, seeing the anger in his eyes at being knocked down, but also seeing that touch of fear. There is definitely fear in his eyes.
As the Assassin attempts to stand and keep fighting, it seems that Easton has had enough of this brawl. He seems to wind up his arm to impossible lengths and lands a blow to his left eye, knocking him out in one go.
The crowd cheers.
The rowdy announcer comes and lifts one of Easton's arms up in the air while announcing him as the winner.
The Assassin's lackeys come up in the ring and rouse him from his KO, shuffling him off the stage in a disoriented stumble.
I'm not cheering, though.
I'm not doing much of anything.
Because looking up at Easton, I see his eyes locked right on mine. Locked tightly, and the key has been smashed, melted, and thrown in the middle of the ocean.
I couldn't even attempt to pry my eyes away from his. He has captured my gaze in a vice, one that I'm unsure I even want to escape.
Everyone is around me cheering. Easton's own lackeys have even waltzed up in the ring to congratulate him and walk him out, but it looks like Easton is in the same hypnotic trance as I am.
His buddy grabs him by the shoulder and shakes him a bit, snapping him out of our trance. His gaze sharpens as he looks at me, his brows furrowing and becoming angry. He sneers at me a moment before he looks away, looking over at his friends and talking with them.
And our spell is broken.
I gasp in a breath of air, not even knowing I was holding my breath in the first place.
"Rose, what in the holy fuck was that?" Cara says, holding onto my bicep in a strong grip.
"What was what?" I ask, confused, and honestly, a little disoriented.
"Easton looked like he either wanted to kill you or fuck you. Do you know him or something?"
"No, no I don't." I shiver, unsure how to take this whole experience.
I am so far out of my element being here, then combined with what just happened, I feel like I am in an alternate universe.
"Hmm, well that won't be the case for long."
I snap my gaze to hers, wide-eyed. "Why do you say that?" I nearly shriek.
She laughs. "Because he goes to our school? You will bump into him eventually. Our school isn't a massive, prestigious school like the one you're from."
"Oh." I don't have much else to say to that comment.
"Sorry, didn't mean to upset you. Let's go get a drink, 'kay?" She grabs me by the arm and pulls me through the crowd of people over to the far end of the room where the small bar sits.
She's scrappy, I'm noticing. She shoves her way through the piles of people with no remorse, shoving with her hands or knocking them out of the way with her shoulder. I'm not sure how to take this, since I grew up in more of a lifestyle that you are supposed to say excuse me or pardon me.
Cara doesn't say either of those things.
I like her, but I apparently have a lot to learn if I am going to survive at this school and around these people.
When we get up to the bar and find a seat at the far end, Cara leans over the bar, exposing so much cleavage I'm sure her tits are about to fall out of her shirt. She waves down the bartender and then looks over at me. "What'll you have?"
"Um, something fruity?"
Cara scoffs and rolls her eyes, shouting some off her order to the bartender.
I've drank before. Hell, I've gotten drunk and partied even. Just nothing like this. At the parties that I went to back home, it was mostly just wine or some expensive bottles of whiskey. Nothing like this – nothing like these kegs, beers, rum and vodka.
I am so out of my element.
Cara hands me something that thankfully looks and smells at least drinkable. Taking a sip, I am pleasantly surprised at the fruitiness of it with only a hint of liquor. This – this I can drink.
"What is this?" I ask, taking another sip.
"Strawberry lemonade vodka. You like?" She asks, sipping from her identical looking drink.
"It's delicious." I take another sip, this one much larger.
"Whoa there. Slow down. You don't want to get too hammered." She reaches up and pushes the top of my glass down a bit.
I giggle. "Okay." Shit, maybe I do need to slow down. "Hey... how did you score these drinks, anyway?" I whisper.
She gives me a look. "Uh, fake ID? Don't you have one?"
"No, I didn't realize that was even a thing. That's seriously a thing? Where people have fake ID's and stuff?" I've only really heard about that stuff in movies and televisions shows and stuff.
"Um, yeah. Everyone has one. God, what kind of a world were you living in?"
We chat for a while about school and how everything is so much different in Woodbury. She balks at me as I give her a visual of my million-dollar home, and how I'm now living in a home that feels like the size of a shoebox compared to the one I grew up in.
"You should see where I live. You live in an actual decent part of town. I live in the mobile homes down the road." She says with her eyebrow lifted, taking the last swig of her drink.
"What's it like? Living in a house on wheels…" I don't want to offend her, but a trailer home is something that I can't even imagine having to live in.
She shrugs. "It is what it is. It's all I've ever known. A lot of kids from school actually live in that same park."
She turns around to order another drink, and it's at this moment that I get a wave of chills and the cold, eerie feeling of being watched takes residence inside my body. I look around, hoping to find the source of the uneasy feeling inside of me.
Immediately, I lock eyes with Easton. He is surrounded by his two friends from school, and also a gaggle of girls that are being the definition of slutty, trying way too hard to get his attention.
He doesn't give them the satisfaction of acknowledging their presence.
His heated, molten stare is locked on mine. He looks untouchable lounging in his chair, slouched down with his legs slightly spread. He gives off the aurora of power. Everyone around him walks around him like he is the holy grail of men.
He has changed out of his fighting shorts and now wears a pair of joggers and a plain tee. The fabric stretches across his chest, enhancing his muscles and biceps that strain against the sleeves.
Is this guy really in high school? Shit.
Once again, I am entrapped in his gaze. He looks angry but there is also a touch of hunger in his gaze. I readjust my grip on my barstool, the shakiness and sweat from my palms making my grip start to slide.
He really does look like the Reaper. His mean black eyes and the dark feeling that surrounds him? That has Reaper written all over it. I tear my gaze away from Easton, unable to handle the heaviness from his gaze any longer.
His eyes are like a vortex, and I'm not sure if it's one I particularly want to be sucked into.
CHAPTER FOUR
Easton
Sometimes the things in our heads are far worse than anything they could put in books or on film. – C.K. Webb
She catches my eye the moment I see her, and I can barely look away.
Who is she?
I can tell she's not from around here. Not only do I know every bitch left and right in this town, this girl's clothes are a dead giveaway that she comes from wealth, not dirt.
Who is she?
I first noticed her when I demolished this pathetic excuse of a fighter, Josh. He was a ball of beef with nothing to fight with except his meaty hands. Yeah, he might be able to throw down. But not with me, never with me.
When I locked my gaze with this hot piece of whatever the fuck she is, all I saw were her doe eyes that had a mixture of fear and awe as they stared back at me. She was trembling from head to toe, and I have to admit.
That shit turned me on.
When my boys Logan and Jackson pulled me away from her, I was almost tempted to tell them to fuck off and go find her. Bang her. Own her. But I knew I couldn't do that. And I shouldn't.
She's not worth my time. The way she held herself dripped money - from her dolled-up hair, to her rich clothes and even how she was standing. Not with an ounce of battle in her, as most women do when they walk into the Pit. No, she was naïve and didn't for a second think she was in danger in a place like this.
She is so fucking wrong.
Down here, in the dirty parts of Saint Paul where we gather to fight, men and women alike will take you, rape you, and take the clothes and even the skin off your back if it means getting what they want.
And people want.
I watch her now, as the men leer on her like she is a filet mignon just hot off the grill. My fists tighten on the hips of some bitch that I wish would get off me. She takes it as a meaning that I like it, grinding her curvy ass into my dick even harder.