by L. J. Stock
It worked while I was fucking her, but the moment I came, I felt that surge of craving clawing at me from the inside out. It was such agony, I leaned against the wall to catch my breath.
"E? You okay?"
"I think I have bruised ribs," I lied, planting a kiss on her cheek and smiling. "Nothing to worry about, but I should get out of here and wrap them just in case."
"Okay." She smiled, completely ignorant to my outright lie. That was the thing about sleeping with strangers. They didn't know you well enough to question you. They couldn't see the little hints that always gave me away in the past, especially with the people who knew me well. I told her something feasible and she accepted it. That was that.
Dressing, conscious of playing up the rib thing, I gave her a lingering kiss on the lips before heading to the door, laughing at the impatient glares of the other fighters who were obviously waiting for their things. I made a beeline for the exit as fast as I could, trying to avoid people who wanted to chat, only to freeze in the middle of the room.
I thought it was a hallucination from the withdrawals when my eyes scanned the crowd. I wiped the sweat from my forehead and looked again, squinting as the white hot pain ran over me in surging waves, but there he was, even after I blinked several more times.
The look of disgust would have more than cowed me on any other occasion. I may have hated him, but you don't reprogram nineteen years worth of habits in the couple of months I'd been gone. The wad of cash in Dad's hands negated any opinion he had of me. I made to step forward and stumbled over the bag I hadn't realised I'd dropped. It was only when I looked up again did I realize how broken things were, because all I saw was his retreating back, his hands pushed deep in his pockets, his head down.
Feeling sick, angry and confused, I picked up my bag and left the building, sprinting all the way to the house I was staying in. The sooner I got the drugs in me, the better I would be. I could force myself to forget, ease the pain and just fade out of my reality for another day or two, without having to worry about my share of the bills.
For two months, I fought once a week at the warehouse. It was my one sober day, the craving always making me fight harder and with more determination. Albert would always try to bring in new people to defeat me and give the spectators something to bet on. The harder he tried, the more bruises and injuries I ended up with - injuries that I could ease with prescription meds that would send me into a different kind of numbness. It was more insulated and I didn't have to think so much.
Scott and Dean weren't as enthusiastic about the whole thing as my roommates were. Dean spent most of our time hanging out trying to convince me to stop the drugs and the fighting. I knew he was worried about me. I also knew he was trying to save me when it was the last thing I wanted at that point.
I'd have loved to have said that the acid trip was the first and last time he saw me high, but he always managed to catch me on a binge, showing up at the house and following me around, not leaving until I'd passed out. It wasn’t intentional but it's how it worked out. He stayed because he was worried, but there was no way he could have known that his appearance just made the guilt surge, and the need to forget take control.
It wasn’t his fault; it was mine, and the guilt just sent me into a downward spiral until there was no hope of me resurfacing.
As it turned out, once a year, Albert joined with another illegal fighting ring to give a higher payout to his punters. It was a full two days worth of fighting, on and off. Huge glass boards surrounded the rings. The fighters weren’t even worth names; we had numbers, because let’s face it, to the bookies, that’s all we were. The offices that were normally locked up tight were opened up to let the fighters rest. There were some with canvas camping beds, others with makeshift training suites to work out any kinks, and then there were small food tables set up in others. It was chaotic. For me, every minute of the hectic crowds and shouting bookies was worth it. The purse would mean I wouldn't have to fight for a year at least.
I'd hoped that the anticipation alone would save me from the pain of the withdrawals. I still hadn’t broken my rule about fighting sober, and I sure as shit wasn’t planning on fucking it up when the ante was as big as it was. I couldn't afford to lose these fights.
I'd taken to saving my money in my locker at the gym. Ridiculously, it was the safest place for it. After a month of fighting, I’d saved up quite a bit. Hiding the shit under my mattress seemed like the best thing to do. I had the money to hand when I needed it, and it was hidden enough. Or so I thought. I’d been at one of the fights when one of the lad’s guests decided my room was fair game. I don’t know how they found the cash or why they thought to look under my mattress, but they helped themselves to a grand of my money. So the house wasn’t a safe place, and putting the money in the bank would only raise questions I didn't have answers to, so my locker was the last resort. The lads there knew me well enough to leave it alone.
The first day of fighting was intense. I dislocated the knuckle I fucked up when Mum died, and I had to fight with it like that. There was no stopping to put shit back in place. These fights just didn’t work like that. I thought it would be my last fight, but I persevered. The pain was more intense and sobering than anything I’d felt in a long time. Each time I threw a punch, my stomach rolled with intensity until I finally had the opening to knock the fucker out. He was from the other club and reminded me of the proverbial brick wall people were always talking about - went down like one, too. He was my last fight of the night, and I was glad. I was exhausted. He managed to get me to my knees, but I never stayed down for long if I could help it. The faster you were up, the more you had the advantage.
I finally won with a lucky uppercut. He stepped forward, his swollen eyes taking out his depth perception. I side-stepped his swing and took him out. He fell face first, the crashing sound sending a wave of silence over the crowd, while I stood there panting, my lungs burning and ribs aching with every breath I drew in. Planting my hands on my hips and pacing to try and open my lungs, I panted like a dog, looking out at the people who stood with their mouths open.
You could have heard a pin drop.
It only took one person to start the chaos that followed. It was just hands, clapping loud and slow as I blinked the sweat from my eyes and shook the droplets from my hair. It wasn’t long before a cheer joined in with the applause, which was followed by an impromptu rise of laughter and chatter. I didn't care about the accolades. It wasn’t why I did any of that shit. I was there for one reason and one reason alone, and that was for the money.
Donna managed to pop the knuckle back in for me with no drugs. I had a bottle of cheap brandy that I guzzled before holding my hand out to her and nodding. I had to walk her through every step, from feeling along the bone, to the trick of doing it when I least expected it. She counted to four instead of two, and I was in the process of growling at her when she jerked the bone back into place. Of course that meant I was stuck with her for the night. She somehow managed to convince Albert that we should bunk together. From what I understood, she was his niece, which made me feel weird about fucking her after every fight night.
The following day was more brutal. The first fight did some major damage to my right eye, and it was swollen shut for every fight following it. Albert drained it a couple of times, but it filled up with every hit I took because it was seen as a weak spot.
I was getting more battered and bruised with every round, and it took longer to recover between each one. I hadn’t even been sure I would make it to the end, yet there I was, stood under the only lights in the room for the title fight, staring at my last opponent and wondering if I was going to survive it.
He wasn't looking much better than I was. He was just as swollen and bruised. There was a knot the size of a golf ball residing on his jaw, and he had an eye almost as bad as mine was looking. The only difference, however, was the look of serenity in his good eye. He thrived off of this. He lived off the pain and adre
naline rush it gave him - that natural high I couldn't seem to find.
I was fucked and I knew it.
"Last one, boys," Albert said, standing between us. "You're both the best of the best. I would ask for a clean fight, but it’s just pointless at this stage. You both look like shit, so this should give you both a run for your money."
Albert gave me a lingering look, the twinkle in his eye telling me I was the first of his ring to get this far in a long time and not to let him down. I wasn’t giving guarantees. I couldn’t. My opponent may have had a hunger for the fight, but money was my motivator and drugs were my mistress. This fight could set me up nicely for months. As Albert slipped out of the ring, the noise became a roar around us, voices spurring us on from the darkness. Everyone out there was yelling advice and insults as the beast and I stared one another down, just waiting for the clang of the bell.
The moment it sounded, I felt the first punch and saw stars. My good eye was filled with flashes of white light and the dancing of the beast as he circled me, waiting for an opening. My bad eye was just noise that had a direct line to my pain receptors. How I stayed on my feet I will never know, but I stumbled out of his reach and put up my hands to protect myself, shaking away the last of the ringing in my head as he came at me swinging. It must have been ten minutes in when I finally got my epiphany. I was sweaty and tired, my body singing for its chemical release with such intensity, I was worried I wasn't going to get through the fight. The reprieve it offered was almost too tempting to ignore, but I was in the middle of hell, and stopping was going to get me killed.
The beast was just as tired as I was. His punches, though full of power, were slow and lethargic, his panted breaths making the skin around his ribs heave with effort. It was about that time it occurred to me that my feet were working perfectly fine. My face, ribs, shoulders and hands hurt like hell, but my feet were undamaged. I started dancing around him after that, ducking under his punches as my breaths came hard and fast, like a steam engine full of pull. We pulsed around one another - in and out, circle and spin, jabs and spikes, duck, dodge, repeat. I was only going to evade so much before he caught me, and when he did, I felt and heard the pop of my shoulder only seconds before the pain washed over me.
I don't know if it was the pain or the withdrawals that gave me that last ounce of energy, but as my arm went limp, the other swung around and smashed right against the bastard’s jaw. I legitimately thought he was going to shake it off. He moved to take a step toward me, stumbled, and fell face forward into the ring. I was still moving from foot to foot, my breaths now wheezes as I looked down at him, stunned, waiting for him to get his arse up, but he didn’t.
Once again, silence filled the warehouse like a death knell. If it hadn't been for my panted and grunted exhales, I was pretty sure you could have heard an ant fart in the place. It was only for two seconds, but you could feel the collective inhale. Not one of them had expected me to win… Neither had I.
Albert was the one who broke the silence when he started laughing. He only got past the second breath when the place exhaled, bringing with it the deafening noise of the crowd. I'd done my part. I wasn’t their focus anymore. Now it was up to the bookies to dish out the cash. I just wanted to get home, get high, and stay that way for at least a week, waiting for the pain to wear off.
Stumbling to the edge of the ring, I gripped the post with my good arm, the pain from the other almost blinding the more I moved. The joint was on fire to the point where I was forgetting the process of breathing. I felt like a lame horse after a race.
"Need some help with that?"
I looked up to see a mean faced motherfucker grinning at me, a cigarette hanging from his mouth, the smoke billowing from his nose. For a fleeting second, I thought about the contradiction before another wave of nausea washed over me. It suddenly seemed like the best idea I’d ever heard. He looked like he’d probably popped a few joints back in his day… After popping them out in the first place. I wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth, though I was certain it would end up costing me at some point.
"That would be great. Thanks."
"You realise you're thanking me for offering to skull fuck you with pain?" He chuckled, nodding for me to brace myself.
"Ain't got much choice really, do I?" I grumbled, wrapping my good arm around the post and tucking my chin against my chest, ignoring the way my hair fell in my face.
"Hold on tight."
He told me he was going to count to five, but on three, I heard the pop and gritted my teeth as the raging pain worked its way through me and set fire to the blood in my veins. I let go of the post and stomped around, grunting out more swear words than even I was aware I knew, until the white hot flames of pain finally started to settle.
"You took that remarkably well, lad. What's your name?"
"Ethan," I growled, not thinking about anything but the pain and needing to collect my fifty grand and get the hell out of there.
"The name’s Tommy." He grinned again and bowed his head. "You got heart, kid. Heart and balls, and that's just what my boss is looking for. How about you and I go meet him?"
"Your boss is here?" I grunted out, attempting to roll the joint and grabbing the ropes with my good hand when the pain flared to life again.
"Of course he's here, lad. He owns the other fighting ring. Most call him Daggs."
"Never heard of him," I admitted, brushing my hair back and looking over at Tommy, who already had another cigarette between his teeth.
He smirked and flipped the top of his silver lighter. "’Bout time you did then, innit?"
Daggs turned out to be an interesting character, but not a man I would particularly like to cross. He wasn't that much older than me, but he was an industrious son of a bitch. From what Tommy had told me, Daggs had tried a little bit of everything. It just so happened that drugs were the most lucrative of his endeavors. The fighting thing was just a side project because he'd grown up with boxing. I didn't interact with Daggs directly. I’d have to have been stupid to fuck with him. He took what he wanted whether it was offered to him or not. That being said, that first night I met him, he offered me an opportunity I would have been an idiot to turn down.
It was easy money. All I had to do was escort his distributor to the independent dealers who took the product - drugs, mainly heroin -to the street. Being the middlemen, I had to make sure the distributor, aka the courier, wasn’t ripped off by Daggs' competitors, who weren't happy with his need to monopolize the thriving drugs trade. For every accompaniment I did, I got a grand. It was easy enough work for that much cash, and it wasn't as hard on my body either.
I took to it much like a duck to water. Most of my orders came from Tommy rather than Daggs, and that was fine with me. I'd get a text and off I'd trot like the good boy I was. I also didn't have to be sober for it, which was most definitely a bonus in my book. Those boys were inclined to do these drugs as much as they were to sell them. Not good business sense, but it wasn't like I was going to turn down an opportunity to get high for free.
The first week went great. I would hang around with my roommates, resting my shoulder, Tommy would text me where and when, and I would grab the crappy little escort I'd bought for a thousand pounds and head out. It was pick up the distributor, look after them through the drop and exchange, and take them back to Tommy to deposit the money. It was easy for the most part. I only had one arsehole try to jump the guy I was watching, and he was a skinny kid with a box cutter who would probably be walking with a limp for the following month at the very least.
The second week, however, went tits up when the distributor I picked up had his girlfriend tagging along. It wouldn't have been so bad normally. I was essentially a glorified cab driver, but the girlfriend of the prick turned out to be none other than Jessica Gregory. Just what I needed.
Eddie was a mousy little guy who had done an abundnace of his own product, which was heroin. He was a paranoid son of a bitch, too, his head swive
ling like an owl’s, his too big glasses sliding down his nose only adding to the effect. Jessica was all over him when I pulled up. She was sat in his lap, her tongue down his throat and her arse hanging out of her ridiculous excuse for a skirt. Sad thing was, even not knowing who she was, she repelled me.
I almost climbed back in the car and drove away when she pulled back and looked over her shoulder to see me approaching. Her pupils were the size of pins as she took me in, her smile lazy and growing by the second, as I pushed my hands in my pockets and ignored the dull throbbing in my shoulder and the annoying little slag in front of me. I just knew this wasn't going to go well. Where Jessica went, trouble inevitably followed.
"Ethan Walker."
"Jessica Gregory," I responded sardonically, my mental eye roll loud and clear.
"You're the escort?"
I didn't dignify the question with a response. It was more than obvious why I'd shown up there. If this was what heroin did to you, I wasn't sure I was interested. Then again, Jess had never been anywhere near smart. She'd used her body and prowess to get what she had. She'd probably never paid for a drug in her life.
"You ready, Eddie?"
The guy looked up at me, his smile vacant. Tommy had warned me about him before I left. This wasn't new. This state of near unconsciousness had already cost Daggs five large in product, because this asshole hadn't put up a fight when he'd been jumped. From what I gathered, he was running out of chances fast, and as my eyes shifted to Jessica, his last one was on his lap.