by Raven, Jo
A cheer rises from the crowd as a huge man steps onto the ring. He’s bald and even from afar he looks handsome. A huge tattoo covers his chest. Flowers and a grinning skull.
“Clay the Bone Crusher,” a man yells into the mike
“Oh God,” I whisper, my blood turning to ice.
“No gods,” Ellen says. “Just a mortal. Clay Baran.”
Enormous muscles ripple on his back as he turns. More tattoos—blood and bones and more flowers and a castle. Huge biceps bulge in his arms when he lifts them.
The crowd claps and whistles.
Shit.
“And his opponent,” the announcer yells, loudspeaker multiplying his voice until it echoes around me and inside my bones, “Riot Callahan!”
I didn’t expect the crowd to go wild at the sound of Riot’s name, to roar so loud. They’re deafening.
“They love him,” Ellen whispers and I barely hear her over the din. “As they should.”
I wouldn’t know what to reply, but I don’t have to because at that moment Riot steps into the ring, and I clap a hand over my mouth to stifle a cry.
“He’s hurt,” I breathe. “Oh God. They beat him up again. He wasn’t limping this bad when he left me this morning.”
Ellen frowns. “What do you mean, again? They beat him up before?”
I nod. “A few days ago.”
She makes a strange noise in the back of her throat. “Bastards. They want to make sure he loses this fight.”
“To get their revenge.”
“Yes. But I doubt that’s their only motivation. I am sure they bet loads of cash on the Crusher.”
So it’s about money, too. Always is.
“I’d bet all my money on Riot. And I wish he knew it. Knew I have faith in him.”
“You will.” Ellen’s face has set into hard lines. “And he will, too.”
I blink. “What will you do, Ellen?”
She beckons to Natasha who sidles over to her. When she bends over to hear what Ellen whispers in her ear, I bet she flashes the whole of the club.
I’d laugh if I could, but there’s a lump the size of Illinois in my throat.
Natasha straightens, a wad of pale pink cloth with a symbol—a castle?—embroidered in golden thread in her hands. She steps off the platform, striding away, strangely steady on those narrow heels.
“Will you tell me what’s going on?” My attention is back on Riot. He’s leaning against the ropes of the ring as a young guy tapes his hands. In the other corner, the Crusher is ready and waiting, cracking his knuckles. “Ellen?”
“This fight is rigged. Beating Riot up, putting all their money on the Crusher. Well, we are betting on Riot. Stand up.”
“What?”
She takes my hand in a shockingly strong grip and pulls me up with her. I have no idea what is happening, but I see Natasha climb onto the ring and tie the cloth around Riot’s arm, then gesture toward us.
What in the world?
He straightens, looking up, and a spotlight swings to bathe us in blinding light. Ellen lifts our entwined hands, and the crowd goes wild.
But all my attention is on the ring. On Riot’s wide-eyed gaze, the smile pulling on his lips. On the Crusher, at the fury and disbelief written all over his face.
“You gave him a token,” I whisper. “What is this, a medieval tournament?”
“That’s what it is to him. To Crusher. An old game of power.”
“Jesus, Ellen, what have you done? The Crusher is pissed out of his mind. He’ll kill Riot!”
“No, he won’t. See,” she explains as the spotlight swings away, leaving us in darkness so sudden I think I’ve gone blind, “this is a game of focus. And now I’ve taken it away from him.”
“Riot didn’t want me here.”
“Riot doesn’t know what he needs,” Ellen mutters.
“Why is the Crusher so furious?” I ask as we sit back down. “Who are you anyway?”
“He didn’t expect me here. I’ve never come to any of his matches, even though he always invites me. Now I’ve come, and not for him. In one moment, he felt all the elation and all the disappointment in the world. See,” she goes on, her voice detached, clinical, “I’ve just crushed him, crushed his spirit. Crushed the Crusher.”
So not funny. “Why would you know how the Crusher’s mind works?”
“Because I know my son.”
Oh shit. “The Crusher’s your son.” Of course. “And you’ve been backing his opponent.” Something bitter spills in my mouth. “Paying him to pet his hair. Why?”
“I already told you. Riot is the son I would have wanted. Clay...The Crusher, he killed Markus to get my attention. He fights for my attention, whereas Riot has always fought to survive in a bad life. I loved Clay’s father. Sergei was a kind man. But he took Clay away from me because I had...problems.” She waves a hand. “With drugs. I was young, and beautiful, and wanted to have fun. He spoilt Clay, made him think he’s the center of the universe, introduced him to this violent, bloody sport and then died of a heart attack.”
God. “And now what?”
“Now the crowd knows Riot has my protection, making it more difficult for the bastards of the club to hurt him on purpose or be unfair again. They know my bet is on him. And we will watch as Riot teaches Clay a lesson normally learned on the mean streets where he grew up.”
“What sort of lesson?”
“A lesson in love and compassion.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Riot
Need to get my A-game on. Being here, facing the Crusher, is bad enough, and my concentration was shattered to bits when I was shoved into the wall in the lockers room, then punched off my feet and kicked around until I tasted blood.
Then a girl came in to the ring and tied a scarf around my biceps, pointed at a platform, and there were Pax and Ellen.
She’s here. Hell, they’re both here, the two women I care for.
Need to focus on the fight. Shut everything else out.
I don’t get the chance.
The Crusher barrels into me with a yell, throwing me down. What the fuck? The referee hasn’t announced the start of the match yet, the second whistle hasn’t sounded, the crowd hasn’t settled.
My back hits the floor with a thud, all the air leaving my lungs, and I look up, dazed, at his enraged face.
“You die tonight, Riot,” he snarls, and he’s so much like a bad caricature of a villain, with his crazed eyes and scarred cheek, that I’d laugh if I could draw breath. “I end you.”
I bend my knee, jam it into his crotch and twist, throwing him off. “Not if I end you,” I tell him, wheezing, clambering with some difficulty to my feet. The old injury in my thigh hurts like a bitch.
Fuck, the number they did on me in the locker room is slowing me down.
The referee is whistling now, and shouting something to the Crusher in Russian. His face darkens as he rolls to his feet, then he’s on me again, throwing a punch to my stomach that doubles me over.
Shit. I don’t remember him being so angry last time. He’d been controlled and lethal. Now he’s like a speeding train gone off the tracks.
The referee gets between us, blowing madly on his whistle, shoving the Crusher in the chest. The crowd boos—the referee for stopping us or the Crusher for attacking me before the official beginning of the match, that’s anyone’s guess.
“Stand back,” the referee is now shouting, a small, squirrely man in a bright yellow jacket. “No attacking before the whistle.”
The Crusher spreads his legs and lowers his head like a bull about to charge.
Jesus. Bad form, Crusher. Cold anger is welling inside me, too, remembering how he put me in hospital, how he killed Markus. Brutally. Unnecessarily.
But my anger is tempered with the warmth spreading in my chest from seeing Pax and Ellen. A calm spreads inside me.
I’m gonna do this.
I know Crusher’s moves. He’s strong, but predictable. A crusher, as
his nickname suggests. He likes to tackle his opponent to the floor, and goes for the windpipe.
Need to avoid that at any cost.
Need a counter-attack plan. It’s been on my mind all day—as I walked away from Pax like a thief, as I fed the boys, as I trained at the gym and as I watched the videos from the Crusher’s last couple of fights.
Last time I thought I could handle him like I did every other opponent. My strength is my speed and my punches. I have a great upper cut.
He knew it. He’s no fool. He studied me back then, more than I studied him.
But like I said: I’ve changed. He doesn’t know me anymore. I’m changing my strategy. Plus, he’s angry, vibrating with it like an over-tight chord.
So let’s play this tune, brother. Let’s dance this dance. You’re confused and angry, while I’m certain of what I want in my life.
I’m fucking ready.
***
My plan isn’t going so well. Fucking Crusher got me twice in the ribs and Jesus fuck, that hurt so bad I thought I’d cry like a baby. Breathing hurts. My leg burns. My head throbs.
Come on, Riot. Get your shit together.
He throws another punch. I block it, step back, and he keeps coming on. I limp to the side. Can’t let him get too close and tackle me.
He twists and delivers an upper cut to my jaw. I turn, catch a glancing blow to the side of my head that makes me see stars.
Thank fuck I remembered to take off my earrings, I think vaguely as I move out of his range.
Fuck. The plan. Stick to the plan.
Of course when I made the plan I didn’t think I’d be limping and that each breath would send fire through my ribs.
Doesn’t fucking matter. I deliver a flurry of blows to his face which he blocks with his raised fists, then kick at his shins, so he backpedals. A roundhouse kick from the other side catches him by surprise, but he recovers quickly, moving back into my space and kicking back.
I manage to avoid the hit, then return with a punch to the plexus before he straightens. It connects and he stumbles back, his brows rising to his hairline.
Yeah, didn’t expect that, did you? Bastard.
It’s my arms I’ve been strengthening for two years now, punching that bag at the gym, imagining it was you. Imagining this moment, never thinking it would come.
With a growl, he marches on me. He throws a punch to my chest, which I block and step back, then I’m stepping in again, delivering a punch to his face.
He blocks. “You’ve got nothing on me, boy.”
“Yeah? This is enough.” I show him my fist, but his gaze locks on the pale pink cloth tied to my arm and his face transforms into a mask of anger.
“Fuck you.” He hurls himself at me, and I sidestep him, easily delivering a kick to his shin and a punch to his side.
I continue pummeling him, turning as he turns until he’s forced to throw up his fists in defense and back away to regroup.
The plan, Riot.
He’s taller than me, but not by much. Bulkier, for sure, but how would his bulk serve him if he fell?
If I turned his strategy on himself?
I have to block his next attack, but I don’t dance away like I used to do, turning in circles, wearing my opponent out. Besides, I’m much too tired myself for that.
I don’t back down. Always forward. Eyes locked on the target. On my goal.
Pax. She’s my goal. My end destination.
She’s watching me. On a whim, I raise my fist and wave at her, the pink scarf tied on my arm fluttering.
The crowd goes wild.
The Crusher groans like an animal in pain. It hits me then. It’s attention he craves. All this bloody show is to get attention, and now I’m stealing it from him.
What’s Ellen Morris to him? I wonder briefly as I take a step back to avoid a kick, but that’s all the time I have before he’s throwing punch after punch at me, trying to force me back. To corner me, throw me down.
Instead I duck under his fists and elbow him in the ribs as I straighten up behind him, and follow up with a vicious series of punches to his kidneys and a kick to the back of his legs.
Like that, motherfucker?
The crowd cheers and claps as he stumbles forward, his knees starting to buckle. But of course they don’t. Would have been too easy.
He tries an uppercut, but I stop it, and then he grabs my arm.
What the fuck?
He pulls me toward him, and I punch him in the face. What is he doing? I’m so close, in his guard, that every punch I throw has no force behind it, but still it hits its target unerringly. Jabs to the ribs. To the jaw.
He finally staggers back two steps, shaking his head like a dog, his eyes a bit unfocused, as I shake out my cramped, aching fingers. Blood spatters my taped knuckles. Must have hit his teeth.
And then he’s coming at me again, again reaching for me—for my arm and the scarf wrapped around it.
That’s what he wants?
I punch him again, but he doesn’t retreat. He clamps his hand so tightly around my forearm I think the bone will break.
“She should have given it to me,” he hisses.
“Why?”
“I’m her son.”
In a shocked daze, I look into his eyes and I believe him. Ellen is his mother. But then why the fuck did she do that? Why did she pay money to spend time with me?
His next move is a blur as he punches me in the gut so hard I double over and crash to my knees. Acid rises in my throat and I struggle not to puke. Struggle to breathe.
“She shouldn’t have done that,” he’s saying, towering above me, in the hush spreading through the crowd. “Now I’ll kill you and she’ll watch.”
Fuck.
“And then I’ll have your girlfriend for dessert.” He grins down at me. “Did you know they promised her to me? Promised her to the winner.”
No. Fucking wrong thing to say. Nobody touches Pax. Least of all this asshole.
I lunge for his legs, and I feel the moment his balance wavers, then he’s falling. He drops like a huge tree, twisting as he does, so that he drops sideways.
Need to get him on his stomach. I launch myself at him, knock him back down before he manages to sit up, and throw a punch to his jaw that connects with a sickening crack. His head whips to the side and blood dribbles from his lips.
“I don’t fucking care who your mommy is,” I inform him, punching him again and rolling him onto his stomach. “I’m not doing this for her. I’m doing this for me, and for Markus.”
I throw myself on top of him, crushing him to the floor with my whole weight, and pull his arms to the back, twisting them.
“Give up,” I hiss, “or I break them both.”
“You could kill me,” he says, huffing. “Get up and crush my neck with your boot.”
“Like you did to Markus? Newsflash, asshole.” I lean closer to his ear, twisting his arms more until he groans. “I’m not you. Never will be. Be damn thankful for that. Now, do you give up?”
The referee approaches cautiously, his whistle at his lips.
“She’ll never adopt you, you know,” he mutters, gasps when I twist his arms a little more, the bones starting to crack. “You’ll never really be her son.”
“You really are a selfish prick.” I settle down, holding his arms at the breaking point, waiting for the referee to decide if to say something yet or not. “I’m not trying to fucking steal your mother, goddammit. You’re the one pushing her away. Just…” Shit, every breath is a struggle. “Just admit defeat. Last warning.”
Because I’m feeling kinda strange, like I’m not really there. Like the darkness teasing the edges of my consciousness might spread any moment and swallow me whole.
“Dammit, man.” I twist his right arm, and the crack of the bone breaking is too loud in my ears. He gives an agonized cry, and jerks.
“You win!” He whimpers. “You win.”
“Hear that?” I look up, nodding at the refer
ee. “Did you fucking hear that?”
“Yeah.”
He looks nervous, but he comes and gives me a hand up. I almost don’t take it, shaking with adrenaline and exhaustion, but then I find I don’t have the strength to get up on my own and accept it.
Even through the adrenaline haze, my ribs burn like fire, and my jaw feels two sizes too big for my face, swollen and bruised. When he grabs my hand and lifts it to announce my victory, it’s all I can do not to scream with the pain in my side.
“Hail the victor, Riot Callahan!”
“Hail!” the crowd yells.
Two huge bodyguards enter the ring to haul the Crusher off and I watch them pull him to his feet, feeling oddly detached from my body, as if I’m floating somewhere up at the ceiling.
I’ve made it, like I promised Pax. What’s more, I won. And now…
The noise recedes, the spotlights fade away, and I go down, content.
***
“Give him some breathing room,” a woman’s voice is saying. “Back off. Natasha, go tell James to bring the car.”
This makes no sense.
“Riot. Can you hear me?” Pax. This is Pax.
I try to move. My limbs are like rocks tied to my torso. My lids are so fucking heavy. One more try, and I blink to stabbing light.
Ow, fuck.
“Hey.” Pax is a watery, hazy silhouette leaning over me, dark hair framing her pale face. “There you are.”
“Drink some of this,” the first voice says, and Ellen Morris enters my vision field, holding a bottle of something blue. “Just Gatorade. It’ll help you feel better.”
Sitting up proves kinda hard, but then the referee is there, helping me. Pain stabs my ribs, and I keep a yelp behind my teeth with some difficulty. I wrap my arm protectively around them. My head is pounding, and my vision is a bit fuzzy.
Ellen offers me again the bottle and I swallow a few sips of the sweet drink. “The doctor is here,” she says, “just to take a look at you.”
Pax gives me a reassuring smile. She’s kneeling next to me—and that’s when I realize we’re not in the ring anymore but in the locker room.