Regretting You (Blackthorn Elite #4) - J.L. Beck Page 0,6

pick some random prick off the street and beat the shit out of him.”

Talon shrugs. “I guess. You know they have classes to deal with this shit, right?”

“What shit?” I pretend as if I have no idea what he’s talking about.

Talon doesn’t know me. He thinks he does because we fuck the same girls and have drinks together, but he doesn’t really know me. He doesn’t know the feelings I harbor, my past, the loss I’ve endured. He thinks I have an anger problem, and he’s not wrong. I do.

But if he knew why I’m angry, if he knew what happened, then he would understand better. Problem is, I don’t give a fuck about making him understand better.

“Why you always play stupid?” He grins at me.

Arching a brow, I reply, “Why you always ask stupid questions?”

Talon doesn’t respond and just shakes his head at me. It’s for the best, I tell myself. I’m not here for friends. In fact, I wouldn’t be here at all if my mother hadn’t guilted me into it.

Every Saturday night just outside of Blackthorn, at an abandoned warehouse, there is a fight. It’s called the pits and for good reason, because two fuckers enter the “pit” and clobber the shit out of each other. At the end, there is only one winner. Most of the time, it’s me, sometimes, it’s some other fucker. I don’t really care who wins, because at the end of the day I get my aggression out either way.

I guess you could say it’s my personal version of anger management. Tonight there’s only a small crowd. I look over to Franco, the guy who puts these things on, while I continue stretching, cracking each knuckle on my hand, as well as my neck.

The smell of sweat and smoke clings to the air. My muscles tighten at the mere thought of pulverizing one of these assholes’ faces.

“You know the rules, fuckers. Tap out or knock out. Winner takes all the cash. We got a small crowd, but you better make it worth it for them tonight,” Franco scolds as if we’re elementary students who can’t listen or comprehend basic rules.

Blocking him out, I scan the crowd, the girls are licking their lips, and batting their eyes as they look me and the other fighters up and down. We aren’t seen as regular frat boys here. We’re seen as sexed-up warriors, and these ladies want to take a bite out of us.

“Into the pit, you two,” Franco orders, and I hop down into the makeshift ring, landing on the balls of my feet. I’ve ditched my shirt and am wearing a pair of low hanging shorts and tennis shoes. Sweat dribbles down my back and chest, my muscles tingle, and I lift my gaze, making eye contact with the guy across from me.

I’m going to fuck up his face tonight.

Grinning like a shark, I wait for the bell to ring. As soon as the sound pierces my ears, I take a step forward. The fucker in front of me does the same, but instead of sizing me up, he makes the first move, his fist flying through the air, and in the direction of my head.

Naturally, I duck and kick my leg out, taking him out at the feet. The sound of skin hitting skin is all I can hear, and it feeds into the adrenaline coursing through my veins. I feel high as I lurch forward and pummel the guy with my closed fists.

My knuckles make contact with his nose, and a sickening crunch meets my ears a moment before blood pours out. Even with blood coating my chest and hands, I don’t stop. I can’t. Each punch makes my muscles burn, and my heart thunder in my chest. Fuck, there is nothing better than beating the shit out of someone.

Focused on the fight, I don’t realize two of Franco’s men are pulling me off of him. He gets back up, and they release me. He’s watching me, his eyes bleed into mine as he wipes away the blood from his lip. The crowd roars as Franco speaks into the microphone. Clenching my jaw, my molars grind together. The anger rippling through me is now at a low simmer, but it’s still there, and I want it gone. I want her gone.

My lips curl at the thought of her, and I take a step toward the nameless guy. He follows, and soon we’re slugging each other. I let him get in a