Ethan Walker's Road To Wonderland (Road To Wonderland #3)

by L. J. Stock

  Hammering out a combo, I swiped the sweat off my forehead and pushed my hair back from my face. I couldn’t even afford a fucking haircut. Much longer and I would have to start tying it back. Blowing the air from my lungs and raising my arms again, I punched out in fury.

  "Hey, kid."

  My hands reached out to steady the bag as I stopped what I was doing. The man talking to me had enough wrinkles to create a road map on his face, but I could see the happiness he'd had through his life. Each line told a story and it made him more approachable than you’d expect. His blue eyes were bright and intelligent as he assessed me with a shrewdness that made my lips curl up in a smirk.

  "What can I do for you, mate?"

  "You've got talent with them bags, lad. You been in the ring before?"

  "Briefly," I explained, unwrapping the tape from my hands. "My old man took the fun out of it, using me as a cash cow."

  "Damn shame." He leaned against one of the weight benches and smiled, his wrinkles growing deeper. He peered around us for a minute before bringing his eyes back to me and studying my face with intensity. "I know a place you could put your talents to good use."

  "I don't box anymore.”

  He shrugged, putting one foot on a weight bench and crossing his arms over his knee. “Let me ask you something, kid. What are you doing now?”

  I looked down at the tape on my hands then back up at him, rolling my eyes at the trap I’d let myself fall into. Some people were far too literal. “This is working out, mate. Getting a sweat on.”

  “Call it what you like, kid. You’re using your fists against that bag and you look like you know what you’re doing. That, by definition, is boxing.”

  “Semantics,” I said, smiling and shrugging, wiping the sweat from my forehead on my arm and rubbing the hair from my face with my shoulder. “I still don’t box.”

  He laughed, the sound full of mirth as he rubbed his nose without thought. "It ain't boxing, kid. This is bare-knuckle fighting. The purse is a good one, too. All underground. Just man against man, fighting it out to the end."

  "End?"

  "Fuck. Not like that," he said with a chuckle. "I run a fighting ring, not some sleazy snuff club or some shit. Just a KO or conceding."

  “What about the entry fees?” I raised an eyebrow in question. With what little experience I had, I knew that you didn’t get something for nothing. The old man smiled as though he already knew I would be there, the questions doing nothing but filling in the doubts so I had nothing to convince myself against later, and he was right. Then again, I was confident I stank of desperation at that point.

  "Depends what circuit you do. Lowest tier is twenty-five pound to enter. Six fights. Payout is sixteen hundred quid."

  Even having suffered under my father’s gambling problem, my mind did the math. That money would pay the rent and then some. I could renew the gym membership, buy food and have enough to take care of the itch that was constantly crawling under my skin for that next high.

  The old man realised I needed those moments to think, because he never said a word. He just watched as I mulled it all over. As long as I wasn't up against some homicidal maniac, maybe there was a chance I could win. Maybe there was a real chance I could get through all of those tiers and get the payout. Bare-knuckle fighting was different to boxing but had the same premise: pounding the hell out of some poor unsuspecting twat until you knocked his arse out or he gave up and moved on.

  I looked down at the quiet tremble in my hands and sucked a breath in through my nose. I was sober right now and craving the high. It was the only reason there was so much fury in my actions. Well, that and I saw Dad’s face on the punching bag every time I swung at it.

  I could do this. I could get in a ring and fight. I could win.

  Was I willing to bet the last of my money on it?

  Apparently, I was.

  "Where? When?"

  The old man stood slowly, leaning on the bars as he got himself vertical. Pulling a card from his back pocket, he smiled as he handed it to me. "Date, time, and my number are all on here. That word in the bottom right corner? That’s the password to get you in there. Come find me.”

  Leaning forward, his hand slapped my shoulder in some paternal way. His weather-worn lips curled into another smile as though he knew he was the first adult in months to interact with me without looking at me like an insect. He started walking away, and I realised I didn't even know his name.

  "Hey, old man... What do I call you?"

  “Albert, lad. They'll know who you're talking about.” He waved over his shoulder, nodding at another guy in the place as he went.

  "Thanks. You can call me Walker."

  Turning around, he flashed me his wrinkly smile again. "Ain't doing it out of kindness, kid. We need new blood, people who know what the fuck they're doing."

  I laughed, knowing that I was probably going to get used again, but it didn't seem so bad when it was coming from a man I didn't know. He had his reasons; I had mine. It was a mutually beneficial partnership. It didn’t even occur to me that he was there to poach fighters from the gym at the time. When it did, hours later, I shrugged it off. He hadn’t forced me to ask those questions or take his card. He’d simply given me an opportunity.

  I gave him one last look before going back to the bag, my hands jabbing and spiking as I seriously considered Albert's proposition with my sober mind. If I decided to do this, I knew that sobriety would have to be with me at these fights. There was no way in hell I was ever going to quit the drugs, but I managed to convince myself that I could stay somewhat sober for a few rounds in the ring.

  I stayed at the gym for a lot longer that night, thinking - the very thing I had been avoiding when I went there. But this time I had something to think about, something other than the fact that I was an epic fuck up that was going nowhere. I at least had the reprieve of this new distraction to take away from the memories that had been haunting me.

  I didn't tell a soul where I was going the night of the first fight. I didn't want Derek and Paul to be pissed about me not having the rent, Scott would either want to be there or give me the money, and Dean would worry. The kid had already been concerned enough about me and my addiction, and I refused to make matters worse for him. The only way I could look out for him was to protect him from myself and the reality about our father.

  I changed my mind a dozen or so times before I showed up at that warehouse in the middle of town. The moment I walked inside, I knew I was in the right place. The lingering smell of sweat and the rustiness of blood, all covered with hints of bleach, hung in the air and stung my nose, bringing back a flood of memories I thought I’d long since forgotten. There weren't many people there, but there were enough to make me realise this wasn't just about the fights, but the wagers outside the ring, too. Had Dad ever been to something like this? Would this have been my final destination anyway if I hadn't quit on him all those years ago?

  The son in me, the one that remembered how our family was before Mum died, wanted to scream no, that he would never have done that to me. It was the new cynical side of me, however, that won. If Dad had thought he could win it, if he believed he could have made money out of it, he wouldn't have hesitated to bring us here. That was the reality of it - the crux of our relationship with him. It was glaringly obvious he'd only had two passions in his life: my mum and gambling.

  Come to think of it, his gambling was his mistress, not just a hobby on the side as Mum had called it. Dean and I were a means to an end that he wanted to use for his benefit. The thought of it made me spitting mad.

  "Walker, you came."

  I smiled at Albert as he approached me, the million wrinkles on his face all deep crevices that made him look ancient, and I accepted the proffered hand with my own, returning his greeting. He turned to stand next to me and looked out at the four rings that were methodically placed under the dropped lights hanging from a ceiling that stretched three floors above us. The fighters would
be highlighted, the spectators hidden in the shadows.

  "It ain't much, but it serves its purpose.” He chuckled, elbowing me as though he’d known me his whole life. "You ready for this, son?"

  No, I screamed in my head, everything in me shying away from my past and the future that was starting to unravel in front of me. I'd seen men that lived this life. I'd seen their deformed ears and toothless smiles. I wasn't exactly vain, but the thought of looking sixty at thirty wasn't appealing.

  "As I'll ever be, I guess."

  "Don't sound so enthusiastic."

  "I'm sorry..."

  He raised his hand and smiled. "Please, don't be sorry. I know most of these lads come to fight for the money. Desperate times call for desperate measures."

  Was it that obvious? I'd hoped that I hadn't looked like a charity case, even if I had been slightly desperate at the gym. I was, however, getting the distinct feeling that’s exactly what this was. Well, that and the fact that he needed new blood to keep things interesting and make some money for himself.

  "How did you know?"

  "I didn't really when I saw you in that gym, though I suspected when you asked," Albert said with a small smile. "It was your face when you walked in that did it." He slapped me on the shoulder, his smile growing. "That being said, you have the talent, kid. It'll be good to see these lazy bastards step up their game."

  "Thanks, I think." I grinned.

  "You'll do fine." He pointed to a small office and smiled. "You can check your things in there. They'll be safe."

  "Thanks, Albert."

  "I think I'll be the one to thank you, Walker. This may be a good night for the bookies, too."

  Trying not to cringe at the comment, I gave the old man a nod and headed toward the only office with an open door in the direction he'd pointed. I passed one of the other fighters on the way in and gave him a nod of respect.

  The office was empty of people when I stepped inside. Most of the space was taken up by rows of deep shelves that were already holding bags and shoes. There was a woman of around thirty sat behind the desk, filing her nails and chewing gum. She pushed a clipboard toward me and rambled out some instructions in a bored tone.

  Stripping off my shirt, shoes, and socks, I stuffed them into the bag before filling in the very simple paperwork, which was more for my stuff than my safety. Pushing the clipboard and the entry fee back toward her, I gave her a small smile she never saw because she was so focused on her nails.

  "Cheers, love."

  She snorted in derision and looked up, her eyes lingering on my abs before sliding up over my chest and finally landing on my smirk. Whatever she'd been about to say went out the window as she shuffled in her seat, her hands fluffing her red hair.

  "Well hello, handsome. Albert said he had scouted new blood, but damn. How old are you?"

  “I’m legal, sweetheart. That’s all you need to know." I grinned, putting my palms on the table and leaning forward, watching the blush crawl over her cheeks and the small spark light her eyes.

  "Right, well..." She looked down at the sign-in sheet, flustered. "E, is it? Best of luck to you."

  Giving her a wink, I pushed off the table and stepped back, my bare feet slapping on the concrete floor as I headed into the slowly filling warehouse. I took everything in as I made my way to the other fighters. The bookies with their little pads and pens were scribbling furiously. The space was filled with the loud chatter of the spectators as they eyed the fighters, sizing them up before deciding who to put their money on.

  Dad had only taken me with him to the horse track once, but I recognised the look. They were calculating odds as they did the mental math. For a brief moment, I wondered if this was how a cow felt before being picked for slaughter.

  "Okay, lads, pairings go as follows," Albert said, getting the attention of everyone within hearing distance.

  He paired everyone up for the first round of fights and pointed us in the right direction. Some had paid up for a later round. It was just us broke bastards that had to scrap our way to the next tier. I was matched up with a man that had tattoos littered over his flesh. Each one looked like part of a story he wore with pride, and he smirked at me as I took them all in. Not that it lasted long. In less than ten minutes, I had him on his arse and was advancing to the next level.

  It may sound arrogant, but the first four fights were like that for me. I can't say I wasn't nervous, because stood in front of every guy I was paired with, I had that moment of doubt that this was the guy that was going to put me on my arse. They didn't. I'm not sure if it was luck or skill, because this wasn't boxing. This was drag down, no holds barred, knuckle fighting. There were no rounds, and the rules were vague at best, if there were any at all. You fought until someone conceded or was knocked out.

  If I was being honest, it was the best natural high I'd had since Mum died. The pain from the hits I'd taken made the adrenaline flood my veins, and I felt the fire in my chest the more I progressed.

  The fifth fight proved a little more challenging. The guy I was opposing was much older, but the tattoos he wore told me all I needed to know. He'd been in the navy, and I'd have put my winnings up to this point on the fact that he'd boxed for them. Naval boxers were vicious, but they played by the rules. That was the one thing I had going for me. He had the skill, but I had the speed and the know-how. I read his body, knowing when he was leading or feigning. The few jabs I did take left my head ringing, but I shook them off, reminding myself that this guy and one other arsehole were all that stood between me and homelessness.

  It took a while, but I finally found an opening and took a chance. I would take a hit, but his wide right swing gave me space to smash one in his ribs with my left hand and uppercut with my right. My head was ringing so loudly, I barely noticed the cacophony of the crowd as the older gent’s knees hit the ground.

  Then there was just me and the last opponent.

  Fighter number six was fucking huge.

  I wasn't small by any means, but this guy was like the brick wall of brick walls, and he'd barely broken a sweat. With a slap on his chest, he cracked his neck from side to side as he looked at me like I was a meal rather than an opponent. It was at this point, I was starting to see what a bad idea it had been.

  "Hey, kid."

  I looked over to see Albert grinning at me. The redhead was sat next to him, her eyes fixed on me, too. Rolling my shoulders, I felt his grin finally affecting me enough to inject a little confidence in my own abilities. Whether it was his intention or not, he'd been telling me I could do it - to shake off the bullshit doubt that had slowly infected me and get the fuck on with it.

  I could do this. I had to do this. If I didn't, I was homeless.

  The moment the makeshift bell went off, I pushed forward, attacking rather than retreating, and it caught the mountain off guard. He stumbled back, his arms flagging to the side, giving me the opportunity to drive in as many forceful jabs as I could to his fleshy sides. I danced out of his reach and ducked and weaved, pushing my fists deep into his body as often as I could.

  I felt the old wound in my knuckle as it dislocated again, but I pushed through the pain, ignoring everything but getting this arsehole on his knees.

  It was just my pain and me in that ring in those moments. Nothing else around me seemed to register. Not the shouts of the people watching or the grunts of the beast I'd taken on. It was like being in the gym with the bag, my withdrawals pushing me hard and fast, fighting the craving and the need for a fix. Then I was tapped on the shoulder and pulled from the guy’s limp form on the canvas.

  There was shouting all around me as the chaos took off. Winners and losers were all yelling at bookies, the other fighters chirping around, all while I stood in the middle of the ring, frozen. The need for drugs had its claws in me so deep, the sweat was nothing to do with physical exertion. It was my body crawling under my skin as the adrenaline slowly filtered out, leaving that hollow, barren void to slowly spread inside me. It w
as eating the companionable pain I'd been holding onto since the craving had started.

  "Here you go, kid," said Albert, handing me a roll of cash. "It's all there. Now get out of here and let me handle this lot.”

  He stood staring at me as my lungs burned, drawing in air. I was trying my best to focus on what he was saying to me, or anything at all. I'd already balled my fists to stop the trembling, the roll of notes digging into my palm.

  "I'll get him sorted, Al.”

  The redhead stepped forward and took me by the arm, easily steering me toward the ropes. The warmth of her body gave me something to focus on other than the withdrawals that had encapsulated me in their grip.

  "I'm sure you will, Donna." Albert snorted, waving the two of us away as he headed toward my opponent, who was now sat up, shaking his head in confusion.

  Donna led me toward the office she'd been inhabiting when I arrived and pushed the door closed behind us. Unthinking, I stopped at the desk to wait for her to get my bag, but she was having none of it. With a tug on my hand, she pulled me into the maze of shelves, the light growing dimmer the further we ventured into it.

  Stopping by my bag, she opened the zipper at the end for me to drop my money into it. I did it without hesitation, the thought of sex better than another minute of craving drugs or the pain it was throwing at me.

  Her hands were warm on my chest as I fiddled with the zip, closing the bag and my money away, then ran from my shoulders down to my abs, her fingers exploring the expanse of skin until she had my undivided attention again.

  It didn’t take long, and I didn't waste time with foreplay. The moment our lips met, the need to get off took over. I pulled her skirt up roughly, shoving her underwear aside before slamming into her. Her moans fueled the fire inside of me, my hands fisting in her hair as I thrust my hips relentlessly against her. It wasn't about her or the sex. What drove me was the need to kill the withdrawals. It had only been a day and I was a mess. I'd been hoping the adrenaline from the sex would at least keep me going until I got to the house and managed to get some blow in me.