Brawl

by Kylie Hillman

  Fuck no, cunt. You do not get to pass the fuck out.

  Bearing down on him, I almost close the distance his stumbling footsteps have put between us before I launch into a spear tackle. My knees and ankles are strong as they act like a springboard; my shoulder braced to hit him in the solar plexus; and my gaze is zeroed in on Kryptonite’s weak chin. I hit him, dead on target, and he folds like a cheap suit. I hear the air rushing from his lungs and the thud his body makes when it hits the cushioned floor of the cage. His head lolls and I could spit from frustration when his eyes roll back in his head.

  Fuck. He’s out.

  For the first time since the fight began, the noise of the crowd registers with me. It’s deafening, even more than usual. The spectators are stamping their feet as they clamor for a better view. Taking a second to look around me, I see mouths hanging open and fingers pointing. Looking down at the prone body beneath me, my brutality is driven home when I take in the bleeding, swollen mass that used to be Kryptonite’s face.

  After what feels like an eternity, although it’s barely seconds in reality, the ref jumps into action and knocks me off my opponent, calling time on the bout. I roll onto my back, panting and filled with gut-churning frustration. Kryptonite looks like he’s gone ten rounds with Mohammed Ali, yet I feel like he got off lightly for his comment.

  I might be a hard-cunt. I might cross lines that normal people wouldn’t dream of. Fuck me dead, I fight for fun—because I enjoy hurting people—yet I wouldn’t dream of bringing my opponent’s dead wife and kid into the ring. Every fiber of my being wants to kick him in the ribs and lay into him again. Cockhead deserves that...and more.

  Lost in my thoughts of retribution, it takes me a minute to notice the ruckus that’s broken out in the basement. Deep, male voices are baying for my blood. Yelling that the fight was a set-up. Demanding a refund of the money they put on the unconscious fucker still lying on the floor of the octagon.

  Laughing humorlessly to myself, I pull my knees to my chest, lay my palms flat on the ground either side of my head and kick my legs out, arching my back as I go. Landing on my feet, my immediate thought is Nate and his posse. Every piece of shit here knows that he’s my nephew. And he’s down there alone while I’m trapped in this cage.

  Turning in the direction I saw him last, I find that a group of fuckers old enough to know better have circled him, Jep, and the sexy chick they have with them. Security is battling their way toward them. They’re not going to make it in time, that much is clear to me. My nephew is red in the face, his fists balled, and he’s about to start throwing punches. Jep’s standing with his back to Nate and they’ve trapped the girl between them to keep her out of harm as much as they can. What they don’t see is the big red-headed asshole who’s bearing down on them, his focus on the her, and her alone.

  Heart pounding in my chest, I make for the exit. It’s blocked by the stretcher that’s making its way to Kryptonite, so I take a running leap toward the chain fence that surrounds the octagon. Grabbing the top with both hands, I swing my legs over the top and then lower myself down the other side. Balancing on the edge of the elevated platform that forms the base of the cage, I pause to gauge the best plan of attack.

  Nate and Jep can take care of themselves normally—both train at my gym daily—however, this isn’t normal. This is a room full of boozed-up, testosterone-filled idiots who all think they’re the next Connor McGregor. I might love fighting, but I have fuck-all respect for the everyday fan. Which is why I’ve made it clear to my nephew that he’s only allowed to bring three friends to my fights...pity, I didn’t explicitly mention that the friends shouldn’t have a pussy because the girl they’ve brought tonight is in for a very unpleasant introduction to the fight world if I don’t get to her right fucking now.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Gabbi

  This is about to go to hell in a handbasket.

  When Hooligan makes Kryptonite’s head snap back with a perfectly-timed uppercut, I know that the tension in the room is going to explode. Mutterings about a fixed fight can be heard loud and clear, making Nate fidget next to me, and Jep shoot him a nervous look over my head that I’m not supposed to see.

  Kryptonite was supposed to end Hooligan’s winning streak, according to the bookies odds tonight. That’s not going to happen. He looks like he wants to break his opponent in two. And, his opponent is no match what-so-ever for the desire to kill that’s written on Hooligan’s chiseled face.

  Pulling out from under Jep’s arm, I sit up straight and brace myself for the upcoming brawl. Kryptonite isn’t going to last; his wobbly gait and glazed eyes a definite sign of his impending loss. When the referee calls time on the fight, I look around us and see that a group of men are closing in on the three of us.

  Shit. This isn’t good.

  A million regrets—starting with my stupid decision to listen to Amy—fill me but I push them aside. My focus needs to be on getting out of here without getting hurt. I’m under zero illusions that my Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu skills are going to protect me against a wild gathering of much larger men. Most of them look like steroid freaks, which means they’re going to have hair-trigger tempers and aren’t going to give a shit that I’m a girl.

  “Stay still,” Nate demands. I look up at him and see that he’s picked up on the looming problem. He pushes me behind him, leaving me looking at his back. Jep squeezes me into Nate with his back. They’ve created a wall of hard male flesh on either side of me.

  Gratefulness grows within me; usually I’m left to fend for myself so this is a development that surprises me in a good way. Only issue is that I can’t defend myself if I need to, trapped as I am between them.

  Nate’s fists ball at his sides and I know that it’s on. A big guy swings at him. He’s obviously the leader of the group because the rest of them follow his lead and start laying into Nate and Jep as well. Nate had a third friend with him earlier but I can’t see him. It’s just us three versus a group of at least ten.

  The odds are not in our favor; any way you approach the challenge.

  Out the corner of my eye, I see a gigantic red-headed man pushing toward me. His feral gaze lights up when our eyes meet, making my pulse race faster than it already was. Understanding dawns, my stomach flip-flopping at the realization. Fucking hell, he’s not here to fight.

  He wants a piece of me.

  Lifting my elbow, I jab it in Jep’s kidneys. He stumbles forward at my action and catches a fist to his chin. I send him a mental apology, but I needed the space. Hiking my tight skirt up around my hips, I ensure that I have a full range of motion with my legs. They’re the strongest part of my body and, therefore, my greatest chance of getting out of this in one piece. I don’t give a shit if my panties are displayed, I’m just thanking my lucky stars for the second time tonight that I actually have some on for once.

  Gigantor—as I’ve named the big red-headed guy in my head—stops in front of me and reaches out a big paw to grab a handful of my hair. I don’t give him the opportunity to get hold of me. I chop him in the larynx and then lift my knee to hit him in the face when he bends in half from my attack on his throat. It hurts him but not enough to deter him. The stench of alcohol overwhelms me when he forces his way close enough to wrap his arms around my waist and lift me off the ground. My arms are free so I rain down blows on his head, hitting him as hard as I can. The gigantic douche absorbs them like they’re raindrops and he’s a thirsty desert plant.

  He must be on something because my strikes should be affecting him, at least a little bit. I’m not a weak girl; I regularly spar with fully-grown men and they’re all suitably impressed.

  Time for the big guns.

  I poke him in the eye, first the right then the left. He bellows with pain and I follow my attack with another jab to his throat. His vice grip loosens immediately and I slide down the front of him. Taking a step to the side, I balance on my left leg and then aim a vicious kick at his face with my right. His chin snaps to
the side from the impact and Gigantor drops to his knees before face-planting.

  There’s no time to celebrate because I’m seized from behind, this time with my arms pinned at my side. Struggling wildly, I kick my legs as much as I can, aiming for whatever vulnerable part I can reach, and then throw my head back into my attackers face. He lets me go, in order to grab his nose and I fall to the floor.

  Smashing my elbow on the concrete when I land, I cry out in pain. Booted feet are moving all around me in a brutal dance of frenetic chaos. Fear of getting trampled grips me and I try to get to my feet, only to get knocked back down to the ground. Panic makes it way up my throat, choking me, and making my body shake as my fight or flight response takes control. Grabbing hold of the closest leg, I attempt to pull myself upright. I’ve made it to a crouching position when I take an elbow to the eye and get pushed back to the ground.

  Rolling into a ball, I tuck my head between my knees and my belly, praying for mercy from the wild mob surrounding me. A few feet make contact with me; one particularly nasty blow hitting me in the back of the head. Seeing stars from that blow, the air is knocked from my lungs when I receive a boot straight to the kidney.

  Water starts to stream down, drenching me. Security must’ve turned on the fire alarm and activated the sprinklers in the roof. The gathering of feet around me thins quickly, the noise in the basement dying down as people run to escape the deluge, and a pair of muscled arms reach down and pick me up. Hooligan sets me on my feet in hurried but efficient movements before taking a step back from me.

  Looking up at him as much as I can because I’m finding it hard to stand from the pain in my head and back, I open my mouth to say thank you. The hardness in his eyes stops me. He glares at me, a frown wrinkling his forehead, then he reaches for me. I take a step back, flinching away from his hand, only coming to a stop when he grabs one of the lengths of leather that crisscrosses my upper body and pulls it back into place, covering my exposed, see-through bra covered breast. The warmth of his hand when he touches me makes goosebumps break out and my nipples harden. Longing settles in the pit of my stomach, my pain all but forgotten, and the desire to curl up in his arms and let him take care of me assaults my senses. Hooligan looks down at me, curiosity shining in his eyes. I watch him read the emotions covering my face and my heart skips a beat. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I wait to see what he has to say. Instead of words, his face falls blank and he jerks his hand back.

  My face heats, embarrassment settling into my marrow, and I stare at the floor, praying that it’ll open up and swallow me. When a scuffle breaks out, Hooligan sprints off and leaves me by myself. Searching for a friendly face, I look around while I pull my skirt and the rest of my top back into place. The room is trashed; chairs upended, broken plastic glasses littering the floor, and splatters of blood in various places all over the concrete floor. It looks like a murder scene.

  I spy Nate dragging two men toward one of the exits while the bouncer who let us into the basement takes care of a few more. At least, the troublemakers seem to be either gone or getting dealt with. The danger appears to be over.

  Strong arms wrap around me, spinning me around within their embrace, and my first instinct is to take a swing. I fall still when I realize that it’s Jep. He growls as he looks at my face. I can imagine what it looks like; the throbbing of my eye is almost unbearable. Not to mention the pain in my back from the kick I took when I was trapped on the floor.

  “Fucking hell. I saw you go down, but fucked if I could get to ya.” He runs a thumb softly over the welt under my eye. I flinch and the anger in his expression ramps up.

  “It was insane.”

  “You’ve got that right.” Jep answers before he pivots toward another scuffle that breaks out behind us. We stand, watching Hooligan take down four stragglers on his own. He literally shoves the final one through the exit with his foot to the small of the idiots back.

  Looking at him stirs up my earlier embarrassment. I like to fuck and I love the feeling of a man’s body against mine, moving in a carnal dance as they bury their cock inside me. Sex for me is sensual; never emotional. Which is why my visceral response to Hooligan’s slight touch is so awkward. Taking a deep breath, I try to center myself and take back control of my emotions. I’m making something out of nothing. I’m simply overwrought and tired from everything that’s happened.

  Hooligan marches in our direction, his displeasure showing on his face. Green eyes firmly planted on his nephew, he strides past me and Jep. I pretend to myself that my gaze doesn’t track the way the muscles in his abdomen and legs ripple with each step he takes, and I refuse to acknowledge the way my pulse picks up when I run my eyes over his rugged, slightly battered features.

  Pointing a finger, he gets in Nate’s face. “What the fuck were you thinking bringing her here?”

  Grabbing Nate by the back of the neck, he drags him over to us and makes him look at me. Moving Nate’s head close to mine, venom-filled words erupt from him. “See her face? That’s on you. How many fucking times have I told you? Only three friends at my fights. Stray pussy doesn’t count as a friend, you bloody imbecile. She could’ve been seriously hurt because she let you sweet-talk your way into her pants.”

  I can’t believe my ears. What a dick. Stray pussy, indeed.

  “Hey, asshole. I haven’t slept with Nate and I have no intentions of it.” My words leave my mouth before I can stop them. Red hot rage travels through me, and I take a step closer to Hooligan. He’s taken one look at me tonight and decided that I’m some type of good-time girl and unworthy of his time. I might be, but that’s not his call to make. The bloody man doesn’t even know me. “I’m here because Nate’s my new boss and he thought I’d like watching you fight because you’re supposed to be some sort of legend. Why he thought that? I haven’t a clue. I don’t see a superstar in front of me, all I see is a fucking angry old man who thinks he’s God.”

  With my tirade hanging in the air, I shrug Jep off and stomp my way over to the exit.

  This is the last time I listen to Amy. Ever! If I’d stuck with my original plan for the night instead of falling for her well-meaning intentions, I’d be on my way home sated from a hard fuck courtesy of whoever I picked up at the club. Not more pissed off than I was at the start of the night, with my anger licking at the edge of my control, looking for somewhere to explode.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Hooligan

  “She’s working with you? You should’ve said.”

  Averting my eyes from her tight, round ass swaying under her tiny skirt as she makes her way out of the basement in her strop, I ignore the need to go after her that grips me. When I’d picked her up from the floor, sparks had ignited at my fingertips, making me almost drop her. I’d pushed on and set her on her feet, only to be greeted by one of her more than ample tits hanging from that ridiculous contraption she called a top. Touching her was a stupid idea, I knew that, but I couldn’t stop myself. Watching her nipple pebble through her sheer bra and then her pale skin breaking out in goosebumps was it for me. Knowing that she’s as affected by me as I am by her, set my guilt at forgetting Mari into overdrive, making me want to drive my fist through the closest hard object.

  The people who know me don’t say that my heart’s black and frozen for no reason. The angry man who’s spent his time beating anyone who faces him in the ring to a pulp is unrecognizable as the family man I was previous life.

  Why this girl—because there’s no way I can say she’s a woman—affects me when dozens of others haven’t, in spite of their best efforts, is a conundrum I don’t have the energy to investigate. It’s a betrayal to Mari to even think about fucking another woman.

  Nate strains against my hold on his neck, ripping me out of my dire thoughts, and I let go of him.

  “Yeah, she’s my new second-in-charge. Dickhead,” he mutters as loudly as he dares. Nate’s twenty-two and a grown man, but he’s still sufficiently in awe of me that his respect hasn’t been
dampened by my actions. Unlike the majority of our extended family. “Not that tonight’s gonna make things uncomfortable at work or anything.”

  I pretend that I can’t hear the sarcasm that’s dripping from his words.

  “What’s her name?”

  Nate lifts his head and regards me through narrowed eyes. Suspicion and enough jealousy to sink the Titanic shoots from his gaze straight at me. Looks like someone has the hots for his co-worker. “Why do you care?”

  “I don’t.” Shaking my head, I drop his scowl and fiddle with the waistband of my shorts. What do I say? I wanna have a name to call out when I reach the release I’m going to need so I can actually fucking sleep tonight. “I’m just curious to know who she is. She took down two men before she ended up on the floor. That’s not something you see every day.”

  The suspicions in his eyes reduces, although it doesn’t die entirely. “Her name’s Gabbi. Gabriella Mitchell. She’s working nights with me at Steve’s gym. And she can look after herself because she’s a BJJ purple belt.”

  Running both hands through his hair, he lets out a noisy exhale. “She’s fucking hot, feisty, and she’s got some fucked up home situation that means she has to bring her little brother to work with her. Steve hasn’t filled me in on the full details. Just said, I need to let her do what she needs to do and not ask any questions.”

  Steve’s my old training buddy. He’s had his gym almost as long as I’ve had mine—although he caters for a more sophisticated clientele than my rough and tough fight club. He targets the Lorna Jane draped moms and the “Forever Mirin” types that reckon a workout doesn’t count if you don’t chronicle it on Facebook, complete with ten different selfies of you and your deadlift of the day. My gym, well, I cater for the hardcore MMA crowd. The testosterone-filled, pre-workout loving gym junkies like myself. My boys are either balls-to-the-wall committed or they find themselves run out of the place pretty quick. I make no apologies and I accept no excuses—it’s the way I run my gym because that’s how I like it.