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And I welcome the absolution. “Maybe then, we'll be even.” At least, I hope so.
He sighs. "I know you’re going to let him thrash you, but for the sake of entertainment, try to last more than one round.” He shakes his head. “That would be an improvement on the ones who went before you."
Fuck. I glance at his face to see if he’s joking, and Knox shakes his head. "It’s true."
Bloody fuck. Yes, I came here, ready to be beaten up. Doesn’t change the fact that I'm a fighter. I’ll have to curb my natural impulses to strike back.
Brody and Tyler scowl at me from the sidelines. Connor, who’s standing next to them, gives me the bird. I’m not popular with the Davenport brothers, a.k.a. my nephews. I can’t help but feel admiration for how they’ve rallied around their brother. They’ve grown into the kind of men I’d like to know better. But aside for Knox, who’s taken a shine to me, the rest might well be strangers. And whose fault is that? It was you who didn’t take the time to get to know them when they were growing up.
"I’m rooting for you, mate." Sinclair walks over to join us. "But then, I prefer to be on the side of the underdog."
He and the rest of the Seven started holding the fights on this parking lot when they were dissenting schoolboys. It became so popular, they opted to keep it running, with the caveat that any money raised goes to charity. Entrance to fight, as well as to be in the audience, is by invitation.
Sinclair pulls out his phone. His fingers fly over the screen, and Knox’s phone dings. Knox glances at the screen, and his lips curl. "At least you’re a good loser, you wanker. Get ready to lose more money."
"Did you place a bet on me?" I snap.
Sinclair looks sheepish. "Couldn’t pass up the opportunity of a fast buck. Just for shits and giggles, of course."
"Of course." I narrow my gaze on Knox. "And you’ve been collecting bets from your brothers, I assume?"
Knox’s grin widens. "And the assembled crowds. You’ll be glad to know the odds are one hundred to one against you."
"Thanks for the pep talk." I rise to my feet and brush past both of them, stalking in the direction of the ring. A series of boos greets me, but I keep going.
"I’ve asked Doc Weston to be on standby to treat you." Knox, who’s on my heels, nods to where the doc is watching me with a sympathetic look on his face.
"There’s an ambulance outside?—"
I raise my hand.
Knox, mercifully, shuts up when I say, "I won’t be needing it."
I don’t need that ambulance. I don't. Maybe if I repeat that often enough, I'll convince myself? I bounce on the balls of my feet, then duck and avoid a blow. What was I thinking, taking on a man younger than me? Ryot’s bloody good at this. And I’m a little rusty.
He bares his teeth, throws an uppercut which lands. The pain bursts across my jawline, but it's not enough to absolve me. I will never stop feeling guilty, even if I was only indirectly responsible for what happened to Ryot’s wife.
Another hit. This time he sinks that barbell-sized fist of his into my side. Pain sears up my spine. Sparks flash behind my eyes. I stumble back. Motherfucker. He definitely bruised a rib or two. I shake my head to clear it.
“Again” I yell at him. “Hit me again.”
Sweat pours down my forehead, stinging my eyes. He glares at me, eyes shooting darts of hate before he throws another punch.
This one smashes into the side of my head. Pain is a bullet that streaks down my spine. Fuck. I see stars. Feel myself sway, then manage to find my balance. Each breath I take sends a message of agony to my brain.
I shake my head to clear it, but that only sparks a fresh burst of torment in my bloodstream. Ryot glowers at me but makes no move to strike further.
“Do it! Throw another punch.”
When he hesitates, I throw an uppercut and make contact with his chin. It’s as if I’ve rammed into the side of a bunker as pain whizzes through my mind, but there’s not a grunt from him. Or a cry of pain. The man’s been silent. Grim. Not a single syllable escapes him.
He could be carved from granite, or from hurt. The kind of hurt that eats into you, slowly, surely, over the years, gnawing at you from the inside, eating up your flesh, settling in your bones, your teeth, until you taste it, smell it, see it in everything around you. Until it becomes you and you… become a shadow of your past, someone who sees a black hole in the future.
“Hit. Me. Arsehole,” I bite out through gritted teeth.
He doesn’t move. Fuck. Can’t he see I deserve every blow? Every bite of pain? “I’m responsible for the suffering you're going through, or have you forgotten?”
An ugly look comes into his eyes. A growl rumbles up his throat. I can hear it over the screaming of the crowds. He bares his teeth, throws up his fist.
