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“Guess I’ll have to find a way to convince him then.”
“Shit,” Kye murmured.
“No way, no fucking way.” Zane pinned me with a hard look. “You can’t be fucking serious.”
“I make him a lot of money.”
“Yeah, and risk getting thrown off the team… or worse.”
“Let me worry about Bryson,” I said as I searched him out. He was busy in the ring, refereeing two guys sparring. Although from the state of them and the bloodstained wraps on their hands, they’d obviously been going at it hard.
“You could always just ask him,” Kye suggested. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
Asking wouldn’t get me anywhere. Guys like Bryson worked in favors. And the only favor he’d want from me would be me stepping into the ring on fight night pummeling some guy’s face.
But I’d do it.
For B I’d do anything.
“I’m going to put it out there and say this is a bad fucking idea.” Zane’s expression hardened. Trust him to say what we were all thinking but what I didn’t need to hear.
“Yeah, well, I don’t have a choice.”
“There’s always a choice, Nix.” His lips thinned.
If only it was that easy.
But this was The Row. I couldn’t run back to mommy and daddy and ask them to fix my problems, throw money at them and make them disappear. And I sure as shit couldn’t go to the authorities.
I clenched my fist, dropping my head and inhaling a shallow breath. Everything was out of my control. But there were some things I could do to retain a tiny sliver of it.
“I need to hit the bag,” I said to no one in particular.
Flexing my hand, a zip of anticipation went through me. The punch bag wouldn’t hit me back, so I’d have to go at it hard.
And make it hurt.
