tattoos cover every slender line of his frame. I have an easy sixty pounds of muscle on him; his mistake is his assumption that my size makes me sluggish.
The loud cheer of the derelicts surrounding the makeshift ring thumps lowly, a drum of expectation in their vulture-like eyes.
The snap of my jaw cracks through the space, head whipping to the side in a jar so powerful my head pounds.
Control. A perception.
To the outside world, I look as though I’m powerless. That I’m beaten. I’m yet to have landed a single punch.
The man opposite me smiles with premature victory swarming in his eyes.
Idiot.
See, this fuckwit, he’s lost his control. All because of his inflated ego. He’s underestimated me. I let him land a few right hooks and now his confidence is greater than it should be.
Control. A power of influence. Over another person, a situation, one’s self. It’s all perception.
I control this motherfucker. He walked right into my game. I’m about to dominate this situation. Readying myself to make a split-second decision as to whether he lives or dies.
I’m always in control of me. I gave in to the pain I needed as punishment for failing, again. Now I’ve had enough. I wanna go home.
My opponent lands one last violent jab to my eye socket and I feel the skin split over my eyebrow the moment his knuckles connect. The warm trickle of blood slides down my face like a waterfall.
I grin.
It gives him pause. I watch understanding dawn upon him like a ray of sunshine. It pumps my blood harder through my veins. It makes my dick hard.
Power.
With a simple look, this asshole knows he’s about to be fucked.
No lube, motherfucker.
My knuckles connect with a resounding crack, the sound loud enough to quiet the crowd and echo through the dank space. I don’t let him fall, landing a forceful jab to his ribs before slicing across his face again.
The feel of bones breaking beneath my fist quells the tsunami crashing inside of me. It offers me a sliver of peace with every grunt of pain I inflict. Lost to the mayhem in my mind, my fists hammer over and over again, only pausing to let the power of my kick to take over.
“It’s done, Shay,” a voice bellows in my ears, arms hooked under shoulders to drag me off.
I could take this asshole too, but I don’t, it’d be too easy. Shaking him off, I smile down at my handiwork. The guy’s face is unrecognizable; swollen facial tissue, split skin and pools of fresh and congealed blood covering every visible slice of flesh.
Spitting a mouthful of blood to the ground, I jump from the ring, walking away without another word.
I don’t bother showering; sweat, blood, and grime coating my skin like a filthy moisturizer. I yank my shirt over my head with little finesse, my body groaning in protest. I relish in the pain, taking comfort in my own discomfort.
I collect my cash at the door, pissed off glances aimed my way as I stuff the bills into my pants without counting it. I don’t fight for the money, I’d do it for free, hell, I’d pay for the fucking privilege. But I’m not gonna lie, watching the hate spike in the eyes of these slimy fuckers... it’s an added bonus. Winking at the asshole who handed me my winnings, I smirk, knowing damn well he bet against me.
Dickhead.
“Gonna get yourself killed one day, Shay.”
“Like to see ‘em try.” I sling my duffle over my shoulder, walking through the door and into the cold night air.
“Face needs stitches,” he yells after me.
He’s not wrong. The split on my eyebrow won’t stop bleeding. The warmth of my idiotic need to feel pain scoring along my skin quicker than I can mop it up.
“Fuck, Roc,” Parker grates as I walk through the door, my shirt balled in my fist to soak up my blood.
“It’s fine,” I lie. “Just a little cut. Nothing a bit of tape won’t fix.”
His girl stands a few feet behind him, a grimace on her pretty face. “Doesn’t look fine.”
“Why are you here anyway?”
Parker shrugs, unperturbed by the sting in my tone.
He steps into my space, grabbing at my shirt to pull it from my eyebrow. “Codi’s sister told us to make ourselves scarce for a few hours,” he answers distractedly, worry lining his face. “Apparently we screw too loud.”
I smile, the gesture forcing more blood to spill from the open wound. “It’s true,” I grunt.