Always For You (Books 1-3) (35 page)

Grace

I looked over towards Chase and Don as
the fight went on, the both of them living every punch and kick
through their faces. Don's girlfriend though, she wasn't having half
as much fun. My heart was pumping the entire time, adrenaline rushing
through my body at the sight of these brutes smashing each other to
smithereens. It was nothing like the fight I'd seen Cain have, where
he dispatched the guy in minutes. No, this was brutal, both of the
fighters well matched in their styles and ability.

It was the third fight of the evening,
and the longest so far. The first wasn't exactly what the organizer
had wanted. Sure, this night was built on underground gambling, but
the crowd were also begging for a show. Money and entertainment,
those were the buzz words.

The second fight had been intense, one
fighter refusing to give in before getting his upper left arm
snapped. Anyone who had the stomach to look on would have seen the
bone tear through his flesh. I was one of them.

Between each fight they'd been a delay,
a chance for people to bet on their favorite fighters. It seemed that
some of them had fought here many times before given the reception
they got from the crowd. It was an underground, illegal gambling den,
where violence and brutality were tools to entertain the rich and
powerful. I had no idea such a place existed in the underbelly of
this town.

The third fight ended with a bang as
one of the fighters had his forehead smashed against the concrete
wall. He slumped to the floor before being dragged out of the pit
leaving a trail of blood spewing from his head. I had no idea whether
he was alive or dead. In fact, no one seemed to care.

After another short break the announcer
stood to the front again, shouting forth two more ludicrous names for
the next two fighters. My eyes opened wide as I saw the second
fighter emerge from the steel door in the side of the pit. I was
about to watch my brother fight once more.

Cain

A man opened the door to my dressing
room and gave me the five minute warning. It was a lot more official
that what I ever got down at the club.

“You've got this mate, you've got
this,” Brad continued to say, doing his best to spur me on, give me
confidence. Trouble was, I had no fucking idea who I'd be fighting so
it was pretty hard to know how I'd do.

Brad
opened the door ahead of me and I saw another fighter being dragged
on through past the door. He was bleeding from his head, leaving a
red trail behind him as they carried him into the next room.
Fuck that was callous. Shouldn't he be on a stretcher or something?
It wasn't the best thing for me
to see when I was about to step out into the cauldron.

I walked through past the door,
stepping over the blood already drying on the concrete floor. My
heart began to beat, getting faster and faster as I approached the
door, hearing the announcer cry out my stage name in the background,
the nickname they gave to me -
Spartan
. I thought it sounded
pretty fucking badass.

I could hear Brad shouting his words of
encouragement as the door opened and the noise of the crowd grew
louder. Then, for the first time, I saw my opponent across the other
side of the pit, emerging through a door.

He looked to be smaller than me,
slimmer, and Oriental, perhaps Chinese or Thai, I couldn't be sure.
He threw his hands about fast, jabbing like lighting to warm up, a
play for the crowd. They cheered as he did a couple of backflips,
clearly someone who'd been down here a few times.

Then I heard the announcer call again,
“knock outs and submissions,” as my opponent faced me across the
pit, staring now directly at me. I felt strangely calm all of a
sudden, the noisy crowd suddenly quiet in my ears, my whole mind and
body focusing on what was in front of me, on this man who must be
defeated. I wanted that money. I needed that money. I'd do anything
to get that money.

He stepped in, teasing me, toying with
me, his hands so quick, jabbing at my face. He spun and kicked, his
legs flying this way and that, trying to catch me out, trying to give
the crowd a show. He knew it was my first time there, he knew he was
favorite for the fight, the crowd cheering his every move. But I
didn't care. I was waiting for my chance, and then I'd strike.

For all his fancy moves, he wasn't
getting through my defences. My stance was solid, my legs strong and
my arms up, protecting my face, fending off his attacks. The crowd
were getting impatient, wanting me to engage, to make my move. No,
not yet, not yet.

He kept coming at me, kicking and
punching, catching me with glancing blows. I was strong, tough, the
blows having no impact on me. He was getting frustrated, losing his
cool, coming at me more, knocking harder and harder at the door.

Then, suddenly, I struck out, seeing an
opportunity to take his leg as he came in for a swinging kick. I
grabbed him by the thigh, just as Uri had taught me, and twisted him
to the floor. He hit the concrete and kicked out with his free leg,
trying to send me off him, but I was on his back, bending his leg in
a wholly unnatural direction. He cried out as he squirmed, but he was
too small, too light, too weak, to shove me off. I was bigger,
stronger, tougher, my grip unbreakable.

I could feel his knee giving way, the
cap about to pop from its socket when he tapped furiously on the
concrete, slapping it hard with his hand, screaming out in pain. I
held my grip as I looked up to the announcer who glanced around at
the crowd, the man I'd met the week before at the club. He held his
hand out like a Roman Emperor, his palm facing down, his thumb
sticking out.

I continued to watch as he gently
turned his hand, his thumb turning upwards, and I knew what that
meant. I released my grip, letting my opponent free, and stood up as
the crowd roared.
Ten grand. Ten grand for that. What a fucking
feeling.

September 13
^th
2014

Cain

After the fight that night the man, the
one who had introduced me to the entire thing, came into my changing
room. He congratulated me on my performance and handed me an
envelope. I was used to that after a fight, but never one that thick.
The weight of it in my hand, the look of the stacked notes inside,
the smell of the paper, it was intoxicating. I wanted more, and he
offered it to me.

He told me he wanted me back there,
that he wanted to see how I'd do against others, that my style, cool
and calm, was just what he was looking for. He started building a
character around me, this Spartan, and started making things more
theatrical. He had this obsession about ancient Rome, about the
Coliseum and gladiators, about seeing two men, or more, fight for
their very right to live in front of the baying masses.

So, he had me wear an outfit, a
lightweight helmet as the ancient Spartans did, flowing red and black
colors. Nothing too heavy, nothing like a cape or thick
armor
,
just lightweight materials for show. Most people would have been
appalled at the whole thing, fighting for money in a pit, dressed up
like an ancient warrior, but not me, my mind was shrouded by the
promise of money, the type of money I could never hope to achieve
through any other means.

I fought the following week and won
again, seeing another ten grand come my way. Then, again I fought,
once more winning. The stakes got higher, and so did the money, my
opponents becoming more fierce, more brutal. Yet I still kept
winning, my world turning to gold. In that first month I had four
fights, winning them all, and made over fifty thousand dollars. It
was too much to turn away from. Even if I knew what was to come,
where these fights were leading, I'd still have continued. The roar
of the crowd, the feel of the money in my hand, it made it all
worthwhile.

I went to see Emily. I hadn't realized
at first, but we'd broken up that day, a couple of months ago, when
we argued over me fighting. She couldn't accept it. It wasn't only
the fact that I was fighting, it was that I'd chosen to do so over
her, chosen to keep putting my life on the line instead of being with
her, instead of loving her.

I wanted both, but she was making me
choose.
Why was she fucking doing that, why couldn't she trust me?
I knew why really. I knew she didn't want to see me hurt, that
being with me knowing I was fighting would be too hard, always
worrying, always wondering if I was OK.

I'd do this for her. I'd fight for her
and win for her. I'd make enough money so that I could step away, buy
a bar with Brad, own a proper business, become a proper person. The
way things were going, it wouldn't take long. I'd soon have enough to
step away from the game, get Emily back.

I told her this when I saw her, but it
only made her more worried.

“If you're getting that much it must
be dangerous. What is this place?” she asked.

“It's no worse than before,” I
said. I actually believed that at the time. How wrong would I turn
out to be.

“So why so much money then?”

“It's just a different crowd Em. It's
private, exclusive, for a bunch of rich twats. The fighters are
better, but I can handle it, I'm good Em, really good. You don't have
to worry.”

I stopped and took her hand. “I want
you back Emily. I'm getting a new place, somewhere much nicer, and I
want you with me.” The words came out without me even thinking.

She thought for a moment, battling with
herself. “I can't Cain, I have to stand by what I believe in. As
long as you're fighting, I can't be with you. Please, please just
stop.”

I shook my head. “I can't, not yet.
Soon Em, soon I will. Will you wait for me?”

“I don't know.” There were tears in
her eyes. “I can't tell you what you want to hear.”

I left, keeping the conversation short.
I didn't want to get further into anything, didn't want to deal with
that. I was on a mission - win, earn, quit. It was a simple plan, one
that gave me tunnel vision. I spend all my days in the gym, most
nights too. I didn't drink, I didn't go out and party. I ate
healthier than I ever had, getting professional nutrition advice from
a guy who'd worked with boxers.

My life was that pit - I lived it and
dreamt it. There was nothing else.

I was lined up again that night to
fight. Fifteen grand on the line this time. It was so much money it
made my head spin. A couple of fights like that a year was about the
same as what I'd earn working all year behind the bar. For all the
potential dangers, it was a no-fucking-brainer, and I didn't give a
shit what anyone said.

I won again. I managed to get my
opponent into a submission hold again, his arm locked in place,
pulling, turning, until he gave in. I held on once more as I looked
up to that hand, that thumb, wondering which way it would turn. The
crowd were restless, looking for more, wanting more, so he demanded
it from me.

He turned his thumb down, and I acted
upon the command. It didn't think as I turned and pulled further,
hearing my opponents arm crack, the bone tearing clean through the
muscle and skin. His roar of pain was like nothing I'd ever heard,
and it pierced my very soul.
What had I become - a hired monster
breaking bones for money?
I was like a mercenary, entertaining
the crowd, bowing to their every want, their every desire. I could
see him up there, watching down on me, a smile of approval on his
face, nodding slowly and clapping gently. “Well done,” I could
see him mouth, “well done.”

He came into my dressing room once more
after, the announcer. He never gave his name, and I never asked. He
was pleased with me, pleased at what I was willing to do to seek the
crowds approval, what I would do for money. As much as I didn't want
to, he was right. I'd do just about anything for that sort of money,
even if it tore at my soul to do it.

“I wonder, Cain, how do you feel
about taking things a step further?”

I didn't quite know what he meant, so
asked him as such.

“Well, in our final fight of the
night, we like to raise the stakes. I don't suppose you know this,
since by then you're always back here, or out of the building.”

I waited for him to continue.

“The money is excellent, Cain, far
more than what you're earning now.”

“What's at stake then?” I asked.

“Everything,” he said, “it's all
at stake.”

I had no idea what he was talking
about, but if the money was so good, did I really care?

“What sort of money are we talking?”
I asked.

“Well, it's very much all or nothing.
If you lose, you get nothing. But believe me, you wouldn't need it
anyway. If you win, well, you'll be looking at about fifty grand. Is
that something that interests you?”

My eyes went wide at the sound of the
money.
Fifty fucking grand.
I could do a few of those fights
and that'd be enough, I could buy a bar, set up shop.

“Hell yeah,” I said, without
thinking.

His lips curled into a smile. “Perfect.
The crowd will be delighted to see the Spartan do what he was born to
do.” I didn't have the chance to think before he walked out the
door, telling me he'd sign me up for two weeks time. It wasn't until
after he left that my mind truly got around what I'd signed up for.

The loser takes nothing. Won't need
it anyway
.

It was to the death, a fight to the
death.

My breath went short at the thought. I
can't kill someone in front of people. I can't do that to someone I
don't know. Breaking bones was one thing - that was to be expected in
these kinds of fights - but killing. No, no way could I do that.

But the money Cain, the money is so
good. Imagine what you could do with that. Buy a flat, get a bar,
start a life.
That money, it would get Emily back, I'd be able to
quit and return to the real world, not this seedy underground world
I'd become a part of.