Slammed

by Skyla Madi

  A sudden surge in the crowd pulls my attention from Selena and to the back of the room. I can see the top of my opponent’s head as he makes his way through the crowd. His caramel colored hair is light and fluffy—not at all what I expect from someone who claims to be undefeated here. Then again, I can’t talk. I’ve been called a pretty boy countless times, regardless of my tattoos. I guess the saying ‘don’t judge a book by its cover’ is true.

  My new opponent—Jarod, I think the announcer called him—breaks through the edge of the crowd and finally steps into view. I analyze him immediately, trying to pinpoint an obvious weakness. He’s tall, a whole foot taller than me, meaning he has reach. He’s lanky, too—lean like a beanstalk—and I bet his light weight does wonders for his speed. That’s the shitty thing about underground fighting. There are no categories. Bantamweights can fight heavyweights and lightweights can fight middleweights. It doesn’t matter. My weight and size makes me a middleweight. I’m assuming Jarod is a lightweight—or a welterweight. Nothing heavier than that.

  With his hands on his hips, he watches me with amusement—I can see it on his cat-like face. He’s not intimidated by me, even less so when his bright, wide eyes zero in on my semi-healed cut. It’s fucking irritating—he’s fucking irritating. On closer inspection, he reminds me of the weasel Olivia used to date—what’s his name? Glade? Dade? Wade? It doesn’t matter. He wasn’t important and neither is this guy. He might have reach and he might be faster, but I bet I could rock him with a few precise punches to his pointy chin.

  Riding on the cheers of the crowd, Jarod bounds up the dirty stairs and into the cage. As soon as the canvas bounces with his weight, my hairs stand on their ends and the urge to win raises its beautiful head. He doesn’t take his eyes off of me, nor I him, as we both begin moving around the cage. Each step I take is particular. One leg is slightly behind me for support if he launches, and gives me a good strength advantage if I decide to launch first.

  The announcer wraps up his ‘no rules and no surrendering’ speech and a second later, the deep ring of an old bell reverberates around the room.

  Chapter Nine

  Selena

  I chew my nails. Jackson’s opponent makes me nervous. He’s not a scary looking guy, the complete opposite actually, but he has sharp, pointy features and a wickedly determined glint in his eye. He reminds me of a cat. A sneaky, sly cat.

  I look at Jackson and he has his own determined look, but it’s more predatory, more lethal, like a threatened lion ready to defend his turf.

  I hear my breath in my ears and it muffles the pulse of my rapidly beating heart. In the back of my skull, the sound of the rusty bell still rings and I can’t stop it.

  Not wanting to ruin my manicure, I lower my hand from my mouth and hug myself instead. A cold air clings to the surface of my skin, like I’m the only one in the room. All of my attention is on Jackson. I hear no one else and I see no one else. Only him.

  Jackson makes the first move. He surges forward, keeping one arm up to protect his brow while he dips low and slams the other into Jarod’s stomach. My heart beats louder. I can hear every thump drumming in my head with a painful, brain-shaking rhythm.

  Jarod absorbs Jackson’s hits as best he can. I’ve seen the technique before. Seth would use it sometimes. Jarod is undoubtedly gauging Jackson’s strength. He fights hunching in pain every time Jackson’s fists connect and I’ll bet all of the money tucked away in my bra that he wishes he didn’t. I can hear the air being forced from Jarod’s lungs, and as disgusting as it sounds, it’s music to my ears. With every unblocked hit Jackson lands, the apprehension is knocked from my chest and my excitement grows.

  Taking time to catch his breath, Jackson backs off, bouncing on the tips of his toes. Suddenly free, Jarod doesn’t waste a second to flip the tables and goes hard at Jackson, swinging desperately for his brow. Jackson manages to protect his brow by sacrificing one of his arms as constant defense, leaving his body open for direct hits.

  “The body shots he can’t avoid,” Darryl shouts into my ear. “Not unless he wants to expose the brow.”

  I nod, swallowing hard.

  The boys exchange punches to the head and body for a few more shot eternities. Seth tells me they’re trying to gauge each other’s technique and that it’s only ‘child’s play’ until one of them finds a weakness, but it doesn’t make me feel any better. Jarod keeps throwing shots at Jackson’s eyebrow, so it’s obvious he’s found his.

  As the thoughts pass, Jarod takes a heavy swing for Jackson’s brow and, by jutting backwards, Jackson barely manages to dodge his hard, bony knuckles. Jarod pulls his arm back and I barely have time to blink before Jackson shoots forward and hooks his fist right into Jarod’s face. The crowd roars and I jump. Their excitement forces tingles to sear down my spine and into my shoes. The sensations continue to dance over the base of my feet and back up my legs as Jarod and Jackson grapple before crashing to the canvas. There’s a flurry of fists and legs before Jarod gets the upper hand and ends up on top of Jackson. One after the other, he drops his elbow onto Jackson’s face—onto his brow. Jackson’s hands are trapped and when the third elbow crashes against his skull, it comes back up coated in blood. My heart stutters and my stomach turns. I see a small smile on Jarod’s lips as he goes for a fourth elbow and for the first time ever, I look away from a fight. Anger coils in my chest. If I watch it any longer, I’m going to scale the cage and kick Jarod’s ass myself.

  I feel a smooth arm slide against mine as I keep my stare on my shoes. My black flats look rather plain in comparison to the tall, red heels that step into view beside me. I look at them, pouting. I should have worn my heels. Maybe that’s why I don’t feel like myself tonight…

  I drag my gaze up slim, firm legs to a tight, black dress. It clings to the woman’s killer curves and I notice that even the murky lights above us reflect in the small gold belt she has around her slim waist to separate the black.

  “Don’t worry,” she states, her lips curling wickedly when my stare reaches them. “Our boy knows what he’s doing.”

  I frown, finally lifting my eyes to hers. Our boy? Her insanely dark irises flash with amusement and I can’t pinpoint it, but there’s something about her I don’t like. While she watches the fight, I watch her. Her hair is a beautiful red—fake, but beautiful—and her makeup is applied with absolute perfection, from her crimson lip liner to the way she’s filled in her brows. It’s not often I feel jealous of another woman’s appearance, but this woman is striking and I hate that she referred to Jackson as ‘our boy.’

  Deciding to ignore her, I turn my attention back to the cage and, surprisingly, they’re on their feet again. Blood coats half of Jackson’s face in a thick, red hue, and I can’t take my eyes off of it. If this were a real fight, in a place with rules, he’d have already lost.

  “How long have you two been together?” the woman asks, not allowing her gaze to fall from the cage.

  I peer sideways, confused. How’d she come up with that assumption? I haven’t touched Jackson since we left the holding room and we’ve barely made eye contact. She wants to know how long we’ve been together, but I can’t give her a time period because I don’t have one and I’m not about to tell her he isn’t mine.

  “It’s a little more complicated than that,” I tell her, unsure why I’m even divulging the information.

  “So he’s not yours?” she asks, her lips pulling up on one side.

  The way she moves and talks—the very air about her—annoys me and I don’t know why. Plenty of women have wanted Jackson in the time we’ve been ‘seeing’ each other. Some we’ve shared, and some he’s had on his own. Once upon a time, I didn’t have a problem with it, and I was up for the fun of a three-way, or just watching—but now I want the whole lot to myself. I’m done sharing.

  “Oh, make no mistake,” I say in my friendliest tone. She looks at me and her eyes thin slightly. “He’s mine. It’s just complicated.”

  Y
ou don’t have to be an expert on women to know when one feels threatened, and she certainly does. Her perfect, red lips part, ready to expel her retort, but before she gets the chance, Seth chimes in.

  “What the fuck?”

  I’m knocked by his broad shoulder as he pushes past Darryl and slightly tugs me behind his body, as if he’s protecting me from the strange woman. I feel my brows pull in. Why am I not surprised Seth knows her?

  “Of course you know her,” I scoff. “How shocking.”

  He offers me a roll of his eyes over his shoulder.

  “Nice to see you, Seth.” The way she says his name, her tongue slipping between her lips at the end, would have Olivia seething in her shoes. And the way her dark eyes devour him inch by inch, is creepy.

  “Who are you?” I demand, trying to squeeze myself around Seth’s ridiculously large body and getting nowhere.

  Her black licorice eyes glisten dangerously. “You don’t know?” she asks, her smugness pouring from her features. “I’m A—”

  The crowd surges forward, pushing us along with them. They’re excited, they’re mad, they’re fucking crazy. I look at the cage and see Jackson’s narrow eyes focused on the woman. He seems dazed, almost unsteady, and when Jarod throws another power hit to Jackson’s mouth, his eyes close and he crashes to the canvas.

  My violently beating heart stills.

  Holy shit.

  I remain frozen in my spot, but Seth moves quickly, shoving people out of the way with Darryl in tow. What just happened? Jackson lost? But…how? The woman is gone and I’m pushed from shoulder to shoulder as drunken spectators dance and cheer while others curse and throw their drinks. Drops of warm alcohol hit my skin, but I don’t care. I just watch, silently, as Seth and Darryl pull Jackson from the cage.

  ***

  It all sinks in once we’re away from the crowd and in the hall. Seth and Darryl work on waking Jackson up by tapping his face as I trail behind them, destroying my manicure with my nervous teeth. I watch Jackson’s dirty, bare feet as they drag lifelessly behind him. Tears well in my eyes and occasionally drip onto my cheeks. I didn’t think it would be this hard, having to watch someone you care about go through so much pain. On TV it’s different. When you have no connection to the fighter, it has less impact. Normally, I cheer when I see a knock out—it excites me. But tonight, seeing Jackson on the receiving end of it, it makes me sick. I feel for him. When he wakes up…he’s not going to take it well.

  In the holding room, they rest Jackson against the far wall, away from the other two fighters who seem to be just as unconscious as Jackson. I stand a few feet away and do nothing but stare as Darryl rushes to the dodgy sink and wets his hands. Lifting his arms over his head, he reaches for the collar of his orange shirt and tugs it off, exposing his wide back. I feel hopeless as he soaks his shirt in the running water and rushes it back to Jackson. Holding Jackson’s head back by the scruff of his hair, Darryl wipes his shirt over Jackson’s face, collecting the blood, before pressing it firmly against his brow to stem the flow. I didn’t see the cut, there was too much blood, but I assume it’s reopened and a hell of a lot bigger than the last one.

  “We need to get him to the ER. This wound won’t close on its own. It’s three times the size of the previous one,” Darryl tells Seth.

  “I’m not going to the ER,” Jackson mutters, lifting a tired, lazy hand to swipe at his face. “Fuck that.”

  I’ve never been so happy to hear his voice or see his green irises. I clench my hands into excited fists. He’s going to be okay.

  “Jackson—” Seth begins to protest, but Jackson shrugs away from him.

  “Get off me,” he snaps, pressing his hand to the shirt on his forehead and pushing Darryl away. I jump at his sudden aggression, covering my lips with the tips of my fingers.

  Reluctantly, Seth and Darryl give Jackson his space and he manages to push himself to his feet. When he straightens his posture, he sways gently. Seth reaches out for him, but Jackson swats him away. “I’m all right.”

  The three of us watch him as he saunters, unsteadily, to retrieve a black back pack from beside his stool. He avoids eye contact with the lot of us as he pulls the backpack onto his shoulder, wincing in pain, and begins to cross the room. At first, my heart flutters as he takes big, heavy steps in my direction, then it plummets when I realize I’m not the thing he’s walking towards.

  “Where are you going?” I ask and the look he gives me constricts my heart, squeezing painfully. His eyes are cloudy and tired. I see the sadness, disappointment, and anger deep inside them…and I hate that there’s nothing I can do.

  Without the fresh blood drowning his skin, I can see the cut on his lip, the swelling of his eye and brow, as well as the odd shape of his nose. I barely recognize him.

  Without a word, he steps past me and heads for the door. I whip around to Seth. “Are you just going to let him leave? He needs medical attention.”

  Seth shrugs his broad shoulders. “There’s nothing I can do, Selena. If he doesn’t want to go, he doesn’t want to go.”

  I glare at him. Seth’s bigger than Jackson. Granted, it’s not by much, but I’m sure if Seth pinned him under his weight, Jackson would have a hard time fighting him off. Defeated and on the verge of emotionally breaking down, I watch through blurry eyes as Jackson leaves the room.

  Silence falls and my hands begin to tremble.

  “Give him time to process what’s happened. He’s never lost a fight…” Seth says in an attempt to make me feel better, but I’m past that now as I recall the way Jackson was looking at us before Jarod hit him. The woman…and the shock, disgust, and anger in Jackson’s face, it has to be connected. She knew Jackson, she referred to him as ‘our boy,’ and when Seth intervened, she called him by his first name. I still, no longer humming with the energy of a hurricane. Instead, I embody the calm, quiet center. Are you fucking kidding me?

  “That woman,” I mutter, slowly piecing it together. “What’s her name?”

  Seth taps his fingers against the screen of his phone, sending a text. “What woman?”

  My irritation spikes. What woman?

  “You know what woman,” I snap, scowling. “The redhead.”

  His fingers freeze mid-text and he peers up at me. I’ve never studied Seth’s features, but I’ve seen him enough times to know his expression when he’s feeling uncomfortable. His hesitation alone is all the confirmation I need.

  “Amelia.”

  Chapter Ten

  Jackson

  My entire face fucking hurts. The muscles under my skin feel like they’re tripling in size by the second. And the unbearable facial ache that pulses in waves—fucking hell. I’m sure a sledgehammer to the face would feel better than this. Still, the pain has nothing on the crushing disappointment seizing my chest.

  I lost.

  By K.O.

  I prop my backpack on a random busted wooden crate on the side of the road. I don’t know where I’m going. I need a doctor, that I know for certain, but on foot, I have no idea which direction to head in.

  Keeping Darryl’s shirt pressed firmly to my forehead, I tug harshly on my bag’s zipper until it opens. Inside, I withdraw a black polo shirt, sling it over my shoulder, and re-zip the bag. I lower Darryl’s shirt and quickly pull my own polo over my head. Fresh, sticky blood seeps into my eye, and when my arms are through the sleeves, I wipe my face and press the orange fabric back to my brow. I reach for my bag, but stop when I see my bloodied, swollen knuckles in the murky street light.

  I’m in the same room as Amelia for ten seconds and my life falls to shit. Why am I not surprised? I knew there was a chance I’d see her tonight, but I didn’t think it’d be right at Selena’s side. The fucking nerve of her being so close to Selena—and Seth—like she has the right. What does she want? She’s come to Portland for a reason and it sure as hell isn’t me. She’s never given a damn about me before, why start now?

  Neglecting to zip the bag, I snatch it up a
nd slip it onto my shoulder. As I walk, small stones, from the gravel on the side of the road, press into my bare feet. In the distance, I hear the rumble of a car, and before long, a black SUV slows to a subtle roll beside me. There’s only one person dumb enough to find me when I’m in a mood like this and she’s the reason I’m in this mess in the first place.

  “Hello, Stranger,” she purrs.

  I hear the smirk on Amelia’s lips and it makes me sick. I expect nothing less from her, though. She’s always enjoyed my pain. I continue walking, keeping my head straight and pressure on my cut. Anger bubbles like lava in my stomach, threatening to explode and sear through my veins. I try my hardest to keep a lid on it, knowing it’s precisely what Amelia wants. Like me, she thrives off anger and hate. It turns her on and when she gets turned on, she knows exactly how to manipulate the situation to get what she wants…I don’t want to be in that situation. I can’t ever be in that situation with her again. I barely made it out last time. The thing about Amelia is, she can’t hurt you if you don’t let her into your head. It’s not an easy feat, by any means. You see, she has a system—a particular ‘order’ of mind fuckery. First, she works on your body, and when it caves, she goes to work on your mind. When your mind is destroyed, she moves on to your soul, molding you to the man she wants, and there’s no way out unless she decides it. Pure. Fucking. Torture.