Untamed (186 page)

She’s not here!

It’s midway through the fight, and I’m bleeding from a cut above my brow. There’s a doctor on site, and he dabs away at it.

“I can see your bone,” he says. “I need to close this cut.”

“Fine. No shots.” My voice is hoarse. I took an upper cut that missed my jaw, but got me in the throat. My vocal chords feel bruised.

“You hung over, Pierce?”

I stare at the doctor. “No.”

“You sure? You coming down? You pop some pills last night?”

“No. I don’t do fucking pills.”

“If you have, I’m going to have to disqualify you. Fallon and that Russian gave me specific instructions. I can’t let the fight go on if it’s not a fair fight. If you’re not all there—”

“I’m all there,” I tell him frostily.

“You’re lucky they’re letting me patch you up. You wouldn’t be able to
see
otherwise.”

I glare at the doc and bark, “Close the fucking cut!”

Breath comes rushing out of my mouth, a frustrated exhale.
She didn’t come!

I look around the stands again, scan the faces. I recognize a lot of people, but I can’t find Penny anywhere. I honestly thought she’d come to this fight. I honestly believed she’d fucking come.

The crowd is silent, a far cry from the usual atmosphere of one of my fights. They’re silent because I’m getting beat. They’ve never seen Pierce motherfucking Fletcher bleed like this before.

And I can’t even feel the pain in my head, nor do I even notice the worried or even disappointed looks of the people who came here to see me win.

All I can think about is whether or not Penny will turn up.

God fucking damn it, she’s shaken me.

“You’re not doing too well tonight, Pierce.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Then why am I looking at a cut that will need eight stitches, a half-dozen bad bruises, and a busted lip?”

“Just off my game.”

“Off your game? I’ve watched you fight two dozen times, mate. Off is an understatement.”

“Great,” I say. “A fucking fan.”

“Never seen you like this. Talk to me, son. What’s up?”

I glare into the forty-something man’s eyes.
Son.
That’s when I notice his body; wiry-thin. That’s when I notice his hair; all-white. That’s when I notice his nose; he looks like a fucking toucan.

“What are you?” I spit. “My fucking therapist?”

“You’re getting your arse kicked out there, buddy, and you don’t even realize it.”

“I realize it.”

“So if you don’t want to talk to me about it, then you better damn well sort it the fuck out. If you agreed to this fight, then you better belt up and fucking
fight!
”

“Save your shitty speech,” I tell him. “And do your fucking job.”

He sighs, lifts up the surgical suture needle, and presses it against my skin. “This will hurt. Are you sure you don’t want a shot? Listen, I can’t stick this closed. I have to sew it.”

“Just hurry the fuck up,” I growl at him.

He pushes it through my skin. It’s like I feel it, but I don’t. The skin tightens, each prick pulls. But it’s not painful. It’s the adrenaline… it’s… my distraction.

The pain is delayed, comes when he’s nearly finished. But my body kick-starts its own internal process to numb the pain. Soon it no longer stings. Soon, it’s just a dull ache that throbs to my heartbeat.

“All done.”

“Good,” I say, getting up off the stool. “Don’t fucking call me ‘son’.”

I step into the cage. The crowd grows tense, electric. They’re not used to seeing me struggle. They are not used to seeing blood on my face.

But I’m going to win this fucking fight. Sure, I took a punch, a knee, and a kick, but I’m still standing, still ready to fight, still ready to dance until this motherfucking Russian beast goes down.

Anton Vasilev has been walking around the steel cage while I got stitched up. The fucking beefcake of a man trod in my blood, smeared it all over the mat. Now he watches with a grin as two men run in quickly and wipe the floor down. Red turns to pink, and then all my blood is gone, staining white, fluffy towels instead.

A bell dings, we tap taped fists, and then I’m dancing around him, bouncing forward and backward. The fucker’s got thighs like thunder, he wants to leg lock me, get me down onto the mat. He’s going to kick, try to get me retreating, off-balance. He knows I’ll dodge it; the kick is a feint. I anticipate he’ll spin into me, try to lock my arm, get on my back.

The kick comes, aimed at my ribs. I side-step out of its path, slapping his leg away. I see his spin before he starts. He spins on his heel, brings his arms out to catch my still-outstretched hand. For such a huge man, he’s deceptively fast.

But I know what he’s going to do, maybe even before he does. I grab his leading arm, and punch his elbow. It doesn’t dislocate, but his body jolts, and he retreats a little, shaking his hand. I’ve probably numbed it.

The noise-level rises. Girls begin chanting my name. Everybody who has money on me suddenly looks a little less worried. They start seeing dollar signs.

I grin at Anton, sucking on my mouth guard. “Come on,” I say, beckoning him with my fingers. “Use your fucking fists.”

He doesn’t take the bait; but I don’t expect him to, either. I want him to think I’m a talker. I’ve been nattering at him all night. People usually talk when they’re scared. I want him to think I’m scared, to think that
I
don’t believe I can win this fight.

The worst thing that can happen to a fighter – to any athlete – is to lose confidence. The second worst thing? To get overconfident.

“Come on,” I say, spreading my arms, taunting him as he misses another kick. “You afraid to get a little closer?”

Sweat-diluted blood drips down into my eyes. The bright white lights turn pink for a moment. I blink it out, feel the sting of salt.

“Let’s go, motherfucker,” I say. He bends down, sweeps a leg toward me, but I hop over it easily enough.

I shake my head, tut at him. “Don’t worry, Anton, I won’t fucking kiss you.”

His face goes red, and he makes his move, a righty-feint, a low kick to my shin, followed by a lightning-fast lefty-hook. I ignore the feint, skip the kick, bend backward for the hook, ready to throw my weight forward into a counter.

But not quick enough.

The hook grazes my chin. My mouth is all crimson metal.
Damn it
. I really am slow tonight.

My turn!

I jab with my right; he dodges left, but I know he will. I lean forward, try to grab his neck and spin him into a hold, but he catches me off balance on one leg. He grabs my arm, pulls it into his, closes the distance between us, ready to hold me. But I spin at the last moment, pivot around so my back is to him, and land an elbow right between his second and third ribs.

He lets go of me and backs up, wincing and winded, rubbing his side.

I fake a kick, hop forward twice on my left leg, kick him with my heel right on the front of his thigh. He clutches at it; I swear I see his knee wobble. His quadriceps must be numb. I can already see the dark bruise forming.

My heel tingles with pain.

Sweat pours from my body.

The crowd chants my name. Over and over again.

I’m feeling it now. This shitheel is going down.

I take three quick skips toward him, spin around him like I’m holding a football. I expect him to turn and follow me, but he doesn’t. He pivots the other way, and throws a kick right into my side. I don’t block it in time, and I fall backward, wheezing.

I didn’t expect that.

I climb to my feet, hand on my side, and grin at him. Then my eyes focus on something familiar, just above his right shoulder. It’s the face of a beautiful girl, a face I recognize, a face that makes my heart surge.

Penny looks
pissed
.

I laugh. I’ve never been happier to see anyone in my life.

A new energy thrills through me, ignites me. I take two quick steps toward him, wait for his kick. It comes, I sidestep it, grab his leg mid-kick, twist him around, and throw him down. He lands face first, palms out. The sweaty wet slap is so loud it echoes. I turn him over again, grip his leg in between my thighs, and hold onto his ankle, and twist.

He’s in a leg lock, and each time he throws a punch toward my leg I twist his body so he misses, so his hits lose strength.

I stare into his eyes. Penny’s watching, and this fucker isn’t going to beat me.

I pull the leg, twist the leg, and I feel the stress in his knee. It’s going to pop at any moment. I’m going to tear his anterior cruciate ligament, his medial cruciate ligament.

I’m going to dislocate his fucking knee cap.

Tap out
, I think to myself. The ref is circling us, waiting for that moment.

But Anton’s got a reserve of strength. The fucking bear of a man screams, sits up, and lands a hit square on my thigh, sending it immediately limp and numb. Dull, blunted pins and needles shoot through it. He wriggles his leg out from me, gets up, but I get up faster.

I hit him hard in the jaw. He stumbles backward.

I jump toward him, hit him again, and again, and again. Each crack seems to echo. I’m sure I’ve broken a knuckle. He falls backward, failing to block every hit.

I hit him again in the temple, again in the neck, again in the jaw. My fist hurts to hell, but I have to keep hitting.

He’s still standing, but he won’t be soon. This fucker is tough, but soon it’ll be lights-out, the body’s automatic reaction to head trauma.

Just one more hit. I feint, he moves to block, and I wind up an upper-cut.

Time slows. The crowd is now exploding. The sound is now deafening. I’m going to win. He’s mistimed his block; I’ll get him in the gap between his two closing, protective forearms.

I glance up at the last moment, go to meet Penny’s eyes. I’m going to fucking win, and she’s going to see me do it.

But she’s not there.

I don’t hit Anton. My fist stops inches from his jaw. I back up, scanning the crowd. I look toward the exits, see a fire-escape door shutting.

Anton charges for me, but I duck him, run for the door to the cage and kick it open. The metal hook-latch breaks easily.

“Where you going?” Anton bellows behind me, arms spread. I ignore him, and head straight for the fire door.

“Pierce!” Fallon calls to me as I pass him. “You can’t leave. You haven’t won.”

“Fuck you,” I shout back.

I’m going to get my girl.