Violent Things

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Violent Things Page 9

by Callie Hart


  “Five hundred?” I glance over at Ben, ready to pop him in the shoulder for lying to me. Ben’s already holding up his hands, that look that he gets already forming on his face.

  “Whoa, whoa, slow your roll, C. Mason’s an initiate. It’s one hundred for initiates, right?”

  Carlos squints, running his tongue over his teeth. “Two fifty for initiates. Buy in went up.”

  “When?”

  “Just now,” Carlos says, frowning up at the both of us from under drawn brows. He doesn’t look like the kind of guy who particularly enjoys being questioned.

  “That’s bullshit,” Ben argues.

  “Maybe. He don’t like it, he don’t have to fight, though. Them’s the breaks.”

  Ben sighs, shrugs, then casts me a questioning glance. You got two fifty? I shake my head. I was breaking a sweat over the potential of stumping up a hundred and losing it all. More than double that? I just don’t have it. Ben nods, puts his hand into his pocket, and pays Carlos before I can stop him.

  “What the fuck, man? No!” I hiss. “If I lose, I can’t pay you back.”

  Carlos tuts as he puts the money into his back pocket and writes something down into a small, ratty book.

  “S’okay, man. Just don’t fucking lose,” Ben advises, like it’s the most obvius thing ever. “No pressure.”

  “Name?” Carlos clips out. “Hey, asshole. What. Is. Your. Name?”

  “Mason Reeves.”

  That goes into his book. “Lose the shirt,” he says. I take off my hoody and my shirt and stand there bare-chested as Carlos takes a fat red marker pen and scrawls something onto my left shoulder blade. “And you, dipshit.” He prods his pen in Ben’s direction.

  Ben loses his t-shirt and Carlos draws a fat eighty-eight onto his shoulder, and then vanishes into the swell of the crowd, presumably to find more people to verbally abuse and draw on.

  Ben whoops, slapping the top of my arm. “Turn around, man. Let me see what ranking he gave you. Oh shit!” he laughs. “Twelve? Damn!”

  “Twelve? What the fuck does twelve mean?”

  “Twelve percent chance of winning.” Apparently this is the funniest shit ever, according to my so called best friend. Undoubtedly he only thinks it’s so funny because Carlos gave him an eighty eight percent chance of winning, which means a shit ton more money from the house if he does. “Don’t worry, man,” he says, pulling me through the sea of bodies. “They always rank new guys low. He hasn’t seen you fight yet. C’mon.”

  On the other side of the packed out market place, a ring has been set up and the first match of the night is already underway. The two guys in the ring are lean and quick, jabbing and striking at each other faster than lightning, barely grazing each other before darting out of reach. The crowd get bored of that pretty quickly. They want brutality. They want blood. They want the sound of bone cracking on bone. These violent things make the blood run hot in their veins.

  Four minutes after we arrive, the two guys have been booed out of the ring, neither one of them having landed a proper punch, and two new fighters are climbing into the cage. Their fight is adrenalin fuelled from the moment the bell rings. One broken nose. A couple of potential broken ribs. One K.O. Two minutes and the whole thing is over. The people squeezing in around the cage are screaming at the tops of their lungs. I need a fight like that. I need something violent and bloody that will have them remembering my name until next weekend, where I’ll have to prove myself all over again.

  There are three more fights before I’m called up. At least two hundred people go silent as I shove my way past them and up through the opening into the cage. My heart is fucking hammering in my chest. This is such a bad fucking idea.

  It gets worse when Carlos, motherfucker that he is, calls out the name of the guy I’m going to be fighting: Hail Mary Harris. Ben. Fucking Ben. It dawns on me all of a sudden—he’s the other eighty eight percent to my twelve. How did I not immediate realize as soon as I found out my ranking. I mean, the maths were staring us right there in the face. Ben vaults up into the cage, shaking his head, his eyebrows drawn tight together.

  “Fuck, Carlos. What the hell? It’s his first night. I shouldn’t be fighting initiates. And he shouldn’t be fighting intermediaries, either. What gives?”

  “We’re short on fights tonight. Just the way it is, friend. You don’t wanna fight, you can always concede.” Carlos grins. He doesn’t give a shit about the fact that he’s making friends fight, and on top of that one friend who massively outranks the other.

  Ben’s still scowling when he faces me. The crowd can tell something’s not right; they start chanting, pounding their feet against the floor, rattling the wire of the cage. “Fight, fight, fight, fight, fight!”

  “You wanna back out, man?” Ben asks me.

  “Hell no.” The fighter who backs out sacrifices the money he paid in order to fight in the first place. I couldn’t afford to lose the hundred I’d originally planned on spending, let alone the extra one fifty I now owe Ben. He nods.

  “Okay. Well, I guess we’re fighting then.” He scratching his jaw, suddenly grinning like a mad man. “And I win either way, since I bought you in. Ironic, huh?”

  “Yeah. Awesome.” He looks way too pleased with himself right now.

  “Are you ladies done gossiping or can we get this show on the road?” Carlos snipes.

  Ben lifts his right fist, already gloved, and holds it out to me. “I’ll go easy on you, I swear.”

  “Don’t do me any favors, asshole.” I touch my glove to his, the bell rings and that’s it. No more time to talk. No more time to think. No more time to worry about what will happen if I lose this fight. My friend is circling me, a dark, predatory look in his eyes, and my head is not in the game. It gets there pretty quickly.

  Ben comes for me, slamming his fist home straight between my guard, the same way Zeth did repeatedly the first time I fought him. My ears are ringing, my vision blurred when I step forward, trying to shake off the buzzing in my head. Ben’s grinning, shrugging his shoulders, the light over out heads swinging crazily, casting evil shadows all over his face. I can see in his eyes that he thinks this is going to be ridiculously easy. And maybe it is. But I’ve never fought or even spared with Ben before, and Zeth did manage to give me a few invaluable pointers that cost me a number of nasty bruises. He doesn’t know what I’ve got up my sleeve.

  I let him land a hit on me again, this time to my side where Zee nearly broke some of my ribs. I wince, sucking oxygen into my lungs as best I can through the pain. Jesus fucking Christ.

  I counter, landing a mean upper cut to Ben’s jaw. The smile has vanished from his face when he cracks his neck, loosening out his shoulders.

  “Ahhh, like that is it?” he says, laughing. Ben’s a boxer. Has been for as long as I’ve known him. I’m willing to bet he hasn’t spent nearly enough time practicing any other martial arts forms since he started fighting down here, knocking people out left, right and center.

  We parry back and forth for thirty seconds, each landing blows where we can. I keep my fucking guard up, and I don’t break eye contact with the guy. The crowd are baying for blood by the time I decide to test my theory. Ben comes in to land a left hook, but I’m ready for him. I duck, strike up, and then I slam into him, taking him down.

  He makes a deep, surprised uffff sound as the air leaves his lungs. While he’s trying to recover, I’m already moving, already planning my next move. Spinning him over, I twist his arm around into a lock and pull upward, looking for that sweetspot between what will mean absolute agony for him or a broken bone. I find that point when his body goes tense beneath me, rigid as a board.

  “Motherfucker,” he laughs. “Where the hell did that come from?”

  Now’s not the time to be cocky. I concentrate on what I’m doing, locking him down, making it impossible for him to move without extreme pain firing through his whole body. Maybe I’m concentrating too hard.

  I’m ready for him when
he tries to jerk me off him, using his hips to push backward. When he realizes I’m not going to let him off that easy, he rips his body around, growling against the discomfort of his arm nearly popping out of joint.

  The next three seconds happen quickly. I’m on top of Ben in mount position, legs either side of him one second, and the next I’m on my back and Ben’s hammering his fists into my face.

  They call it ground and pound for a reason. I have to get out of this position. Right. Fucking. Now. Ben’s too busy pummeling my face to guard any other area of his body. As his fists rain down, I somehow have the common sense to react. To move. To jab him as hard as I can. I am for his ribs, and pure determination takes over. I know I’m spraying blood everywhere from my mouth and my nose every time I gasp for breath, and I know Ben’s doing his fair share of bleeding onto the canvas too, but neither one of us stop.

  Eventually, Ben’s winded enough that he pauses—just enough of an opening for me to get out from under him. It goes on like this for another three minutes, one of us bettering the other, the other taking a beating, and then the roles reversing over and over again. I’m so exhausted I can barely lift my arm anymore when the final bell rings.

  The crowd starts hollering and screaming at the injustice of the fight being called to an end. Ben and I lay on our backs, chests heaving, blood all over our skin, in our hair, in our eyes, blood everywhere, and all I can focus on is the light swinging over my head, burning into my retinas, and the insanity of my heartbeat.

  Carlos stands us up, clearly unhappy that Ben didn’t just wipe the fucking floor with me. He holds Ben’s arm in the air and the crowd cheers like crazy. Surprisingly, when he holds my arm in the air, the reaction is the same. A draw.

  Well fuck me.

  An hour passes where more people fight and me and Ben slump against the back wall, trying to get our shit together. Eventually Carlos comes and pays up the money he owes us, half each. Nine hundred dollars for me and nine hundred for Ben.

  “Not bad for two black eyes and a mild concussion, huh?” Ben laughs. “Fuck, you punch like a heavy weight.”

  “Sorry, man,” I sigh. Am I really sorry, though? Hell no. I hand over the one fifty he spotted me, feeling kind of amazing as I pocket what’s left over. Seven hundred and fifty bucks. I wouldn’t earn that working for Mac every day for two weeks. A couple of black eyes and a mild concussion were worth it all right.

  Chapter Twelve

  Zeth

  A pineapple sits on the kitchen counter. A pineapple. It’s just not something you see everyday. It wasn’t there when I went to bed last night, that’s for sure. I’m all for eating fruit—you don’t get a body like mine by shoving Twinkies down your throat twenty-four-seven—but this thing looks like it requires preparation. It’s fucking spiky. I stand in the kitchen, staring at it for a while, contemplating how to proceed, and then I figure, fuck it, I’ll wing it and go on a mission to find a knife.

  Sloane got sent home from work yesterday, and is still asleep upstairs in our bed. Our bed. I never thought I’d be thinking those words. It gives me insane pleasure to run a playback of what took place in that bed yesterday in minute detail as I carve up the fruit for my girl’s breakfast. There was a lot of spanking involved. And a tiny clamp that I hooked up to Sloane’s clit, firing electrical charges into her sweet pussy that had her clawing at my skin and screaming out my name. I fucking love when she does that.

  The memory of our heated sex is almost enough to put Agent Lowell and her damn skivvies out of my head. Michael’s on the case. He’s going to figure out what the hell she’s doing back here, and then the two of us are going to figure out how we make her disappear again. As if he knows I’m thinking of his last owner, Ernie lifts his head from his paws where he’s been sleeping by the back door and growls. Funny little bastard. I don’t want to think about Lowell at all today, so I take a deep breath and exhale the stone cold bitch right out of my head. Ernie sighs like he’s doing the same.

  It’s one of those rare cold but extremely sunny mornings in Seattle. Like a damn finger of fate pointing straight down from Heaven, a pillar of light is shining straight through the glass doors at the front of the house, landing directly on the drawer where I stowed a small, velvet-covered box not so long ago. A gift for Sloane. A gift I’m not ready to give her yet. Seems as though every time I walk past that goddamn drawer, I can feel the box inside humming like a freaking signalling beacon. I really need to move it. Take it down to the gym or something. Leave it in my locker there. She’d never find it amongst all my sweat-soaked workout clothes, hand wraps and boxing gloves. But then, no. That just seems fucking wrong.

  I carry the sliced pineapple upstairs on a plate, along with the eggs I’ve made and some fresh orange juice. Very fucking domesticated. I would never have done this for anyone else. The stars would have collided and the universe collapsed in on itself before I bowed and scraped to any other woman. I don’t see taking care of my girl as bowing and scraping now, though. I see it as making sure she’s fed. Making sure she’s content. Making sure she’s safe. Making sure she’s fit and healthy enough for me to fuck her the way I like, and for her to demand more.

  She’s still asleep when I enter the bedroom. Her dark hair is spilled across her pillow in loose waves around her head, her almost-black eyelashes like charcoal smudges against her pale cheeks. She looks like she’s been drawn or something. Created out of thin air. I find myself thinking that a lot—that someone has crafted her, this mythical creature who’s turned my life upside down—because how else can she be real? It makes no sense. The universe just isn’t this kind to anyone, especially guys like me.

  Placing the food down on the bedside table, I move up the bed, pulling the covers back from her body as I climb. She’s naked underneath—so fucking perfect. Her breasts lay heavy, crushed between her arms as she lies on her side. I can already feel my cock stirring in my shorts. Nothing new there. Poor Sloane’s eggs are going to be cold by the time she gets around to eating them. I haven’t even made any food for myself. I knew she was all I was going to want to eat. Placing my hand on her hip, I gently turn her body so that she’s on her back. Unlike my cock, her perfect nipples aren’t erect yet, but I have plans on changing that. Slowly, carefully, I lower my mouth to her skin and I lick across her collarbone, moving down until I trace my tongue across the swell of her tits. So. Fucking. Amazing.

  Sloane groans, body writhing a little as she surfaces into consciousness. Waking her up this way is the best goddamn part of my day. I know she’s aware of what I’m doing when I feel her legs press together underneath me. She’s been so good recently whenever we fuck, doing as I tell her when I tell her to without hesitation or question, that now I feel like being bad for her. She’s earned it. I bite down on the now hard, tight bud of her nipple, sending a jolt of pain through her, waking her up properly. She reacts quickly, sucking in a sharp breath, her body tightening underneath me.

  “Morning, angry girl. Dreaming about me?” I whisper.

  Her fingers wind into my hair, which is longer than it’s ever been. Not hipster long. Just long enough that she can get a good fucking handful of it and pull when she wants to. She moans, which is a good sign. There aren’t many women you could wake up after a twelve-hour hospital shift with a bite to the nipple and have them appreciate it. This is why we’re fucking perfect together.

  “You planning on backing that up?” she mumbles, her voice still a little hoarse.

  “What? This?” I bite her again, this time on the other nipple. Her eyelids fly open wide, her back arching off the bed. “Stay still, angry girl. Don’t you dare fucking move unless I tell you to. If you’re good, I’ll make you come. Would you like that? Would that make you feel better?”

  “Yes,” she says breathlessly. “I think it would.”

  I hold myself over her, lowering myself a little more so that I can speak directly into her ear. “Okay. Spread your legs for me, Sloane,” I growl. She shivers in that way
she does. The way that lets me know she likes the sound of my voice, rough and right up close in her ear like that. She likes feeling my breath on her skin. Like the good fucking girl she is, she widens her legs for me, and I change positions, moving so I’m inside her legs now. My dick is so hard I’m pretty sure you could break rocks with it. I catch sight of her pussy and my balls begin to ache like they haven’t been emptied in months, instead of yesterday morning.

  Fuck.

  “You’re so fucking perfect,” I groan. “God. Your pussy is beautiful. So pink. So sweet.” I can smell her, that peculiar yet addicting scent that drives me absolutely crazy. I just want to bury my face between her legs and go to town. Not yet, though. “You want me to make you wet, angry girl?” I ask.

  Sloane looks up at me with those big brown eyes of hers and nods. “I’m already wet,” she whispers. She used to sound ashamed of the fact when she admitted that to me, but not anymore. She knows how much it turns me on to see her dripping wet and ready for me. As if to prove the point, she rocks her hips upward, giving me a better view.

  “You’re breaking the rules,” I inform her. “I didn’t say you could move.” Palming her right breast, I squeeze hard, tightrope walking that boundary between enjoyable pain and real discomfort. I’m going easy on her, though. She’s still not feeling one hundred percent, after all. Sloane’s hips press back down into the mattress in an instant, her eyes closing as she breathes through what I’m doing to her. “That’s better. Yeah. Good girl…” I let my other hand trail down the side of her body, my fingers slowly working toward the apex of her thighs. I don’t go straight for her clit, though. I run my fingers up the insides of the legs, over her hips, up her stomach, breasts, neck, over her high cheekbones and over her lips.

  “Suck,” I tell her.

  She obeys, opening her mouth, allowing me to slide my fingers inside. Her mouth is hot and wet, and has my cock throbbing so hard. She’s so good at blowing me now. She had no clue what she was doing the very first time back in that darkened hotel room, but her inexperience and her tight mouth had almost been enough to make me come on the spot. Now that she knows what she’s doing with that tongue of hers, she has the power to rob me of all fucking common sense.

 

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