Asher (14 page)

Chapter Fourteen

Asher

Marty isn’t at the fight club, but Carl is, as he told me he’d be. He eyes me suspiciously as I stand in front of his cluttered desk in the dark basement.

“So you’re Asher. Asher Devlin.”

I nod, my hands fisting at my sides.

“And you fought here once.”

“That’s right.”

Someone knocks on the door and it swings open. “Cooper wants to meet the new guy,” a voice says.

Carl gets up and I turn around.

A middle-aged guy walks inside, his iron-gray hair thick and curly, his arms bulging with muscles, although he’s a bit heavy around the middle.

An ex boxer. I know this guy. But from where?

“So this is Asher.” The guy’s bushy brows dip over his dark eyes. “Jake Devlin’s kid. I know your dad. I’m Johnny Cooper.”

He’s buddies with my old man.
Fuck.

Will he tell my dad I’m here? I somehow don’t think my dad will come round looking for me, but you never know.

“Your dad know you’re here?”

“I fought here before,” I say again, hoping that’s enough. Has to be. I have no other credentials.

“I bet Jake trained you well.” He nods. “But the time you fought here, kid... That was a friendly fight. A test. Before real opening times. This is the real thing. Big business. Rich guys from all over coming to let out some steam and place their money on bloody fights.”

“I can handle it.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

He looks at Carl, then back to me. Rubs his chin. “All right, boy. Let’s see what you got. Carl, take him to the cage.”

I let out a long breath. This is my chance. I’ll show them I have what it takes.

***

Johnny stands outside the rusty cage, arms folded over his massive chest. I’ve changed into shorts and taped my hands. After the warm-up, I enter the cage and spring up and down as I wait for my opponent, not to let the muscles cool.

I didn’t expect Carl to show up. He’s in shorts, his torso gleaming. The man’s built like a brick shithouse.

The cage door closes behind him and he grins at me. “Ready?”

“Yeah.”

“So your daddy taught you how to fight.” He sneers.

I roll my shoulders. “That’s right.”

“This isn’t formal boxing, boy. It’s ugly and it’s dirty, got it? All tricks allowed.”

I tense up and rotate my arms to unlock them. “Got it.”

Then he springs forward, forcing me back, and the fight is on. He tests me, jabbing at my head, distracting me with a kick to the side of my knee.

Shit. Dirty tricks. Gotcha.

My dad has trained me alright. They have no clue how thoroughly.

Forgetting the rules—like my dad had—I kick and elbow and punch Carl, countering his every move. I send a right hook to his head he barely manages to block and follow through with an uppercut.

He doesn’t hold back, either. He gets through my defenses, landing a punch to my solar plexus, winding me.

My vision blurs; I see my dad’s face. Springing forward, I throw another right hook, followed by a left cross. I throw a flurry of punches, breaking through Carl’s defenses. He falls back, raising his fists to protect his face.

I kick his shin, move closer, throw a right uppercut he blocks, then fall back a step when he breaks his defense to jab at my face.

Then I’m attacking him again, raining punches on him.
On my dad.
I kick the legs from under him and follow as he goes down. I throw myself on him, grappling with him, pinning him down with my body weight and my left hand, using my right to punch his jaw.

Hands grab me, pulling me back up, and I jerk like a fish on the line. Takes me a moment to realize it’s Johnny, dragging me away from Carl.

“Okay,” he says, turning me to face him. “Good enough. Calm down.”

I draw shuddering breaths, trying to ground myself in the here and now. The cage. The fight club.

Carl, bleeding from a cut under his eye, one side of his face darkening into a giant bruise.

Shit.

Johnny pulls me out the cage door, a massive arm around my aching shoulders. “Boy, were you planning to kill Carl?”

A shiver goes through me. “No.” I’d never kill anyone. But anger got the better of me. I have to get a grip on it.

“Good. I’ll put you on the roster tonight. Just remember not to kill anyone. Okay? The rich guys got a thirst for blood. They want their violence. But no one dies. That would complicate things.”

I nod, still trying to catch my breath. “How much?”

“Payment? Not much, kiddo. A hundred dollars tops, if the betting’s good. You’re a newbie. Payment goes up the more fights and victories you got under your belt.”

Not much, but I have nothing. It’s a start.

***

The club starts filling after nine. My opponent is one Shady Sam, a lean, grim guy with a huge tat covering his back. A winged skull.

I focus on stretching and warming up. We’re to open the evening, being the newbies—though Shady Sam doesn’t look like a newbie to me, at all. New to this scene, perhaps, but I know a seasoned fighter when I see one.

It comes with having been raised by one.

Shady doesn’t acknowledge me as he does his own warm up and his rituals. Every fighter has them, I know, and his are nothing short of a full pagan celebration. He bows and chants and grimaces. All that’s missing are black candles and incense.

I’m done with my warm-up long before he is. My only ritual is to think of Audrey—to regret being here, to long to be with her, then to remember what happened and let it fuel my anger—and then I’m ready.

The bell for the fight rings.

Show time.

Swallowing down nerves, adjusting my groin-pad, I follow Carl through the small crowd to the cage. They’re pressed against the bars—well-dressed men, their eyes shining in the low light, their teeth glinting white. Waiting to be entertained with blood.

I don’t hit people for fun, but everyone inside the cage is here willingly. They’re trained fighters. I have to remember this and not hold back.

You can do this.

I enter the cage and spin around to face my opponent. No more surprises. I’m ready for everything—the violence, the pain, the impact of the blows.

And a good thing, too, because another bell rings and Shady Sam comes at me like a hurricane, punching and kicking.

I fall back, protecting my head with my taped hands. Then I see an opening and descend on him, twisting my body as I throw my punches, putting everything into the movement.

Blood sprays; I’ve cut his lip. He growls and throws himself at me, dropping me to the ground. He punches my jaw and stars explode in my vision.

No.
I push him off and kick at him until he falls back.

He launches himself at me again and we roll on the floor, each one of us trying to get the upper hand. He punches me in the mouth, splitting my lip, too.

We’re even
, I have the time to think, before he punches me again, and I lose track for a second.

Raising my hands to protect my head, I brace.

Have to get up, push him off. I know that, and for a long moment I’m back at home, Dad looming over me, the stench of alcohol mixing with the smell of sweat and blood.

The crowd roars and that snaps me back.

I twist and manage to push him off me. Rolling, I get on all fours and shake my head, trying to clear it. The sweet metallic taste of blood floods my mouth.

The cage. The fight.

He’s back on his feet. I see him coming and I lurch upright, letting experience drive me, the instinctive knowledge of what I have to do.

Go on the offensive.

I move toward him, getting into his space, throwing a right hook followed by a left cross. They don’t connect, but they force him to retreat, to lift his taped hands to cover up his face. Not hesitating, I advance, throwing jab after jab, not leaving him time to mount his counterattack.

An opening, and I throw a powerful hook, my body rotating, feeding all my force into the punch.

It connects. I feel the impact in my hand, my wrist, traveling up my arm to my shoulder socket.

Shady Sam drops like a stone, more blood spraying on the floor.

The crowd goes wild, the roar rising like a tidal wave, drowning me. I stagger backward, my head swimming. A hand claps me on the back and I turn, ready to defend myself.

“Good work, kid,” says a bass voice, and the face with the sagging jowls finally registers.

Johnny.

I let him grab my hand and lift it, causing another wave of cheers and hands banging on the cage bars. Johnny turns me in a circle, so everyone can see me.

I’ve won the fight.

Holy shit.
It’s a heady feeling.

After what feels like a lifetime, Johnny finally leads me out of the cage and back to the dressing rooms, where he proceeds to push me into a chair and wave at somebody.

Carl arrives with a first-aid kit and pulls a chair beside me.

“That was a good fight,” Johnny says. “You’re a fine one, kid. Maybe you shouldn’t be here.”

That irritates me. “And where should I be?”

He shrugs. “Legal fighting. Boxing or whatever strikes your fancy. I’m sure your dad—”

“Leave my dad out of this,” I snap.

“He’d want you to be a professional.”

I’m too tired for this conversation. “He never cared about me one way or another, and I doubt he’ll start now.”

Carl gives me a pad of gauze to press to my bleeding lip and I take it, wiping the blood from my chin.

“Okay, whatever you say.” Johnny lifts his hands. “It’s your life on the line, boy. Be here tomorrow, same time.”

I nod as he walks away. The crowd is cheering again. The next fight has to be starting.

I get dressed, snatch my small wad of money and drag my sorry ass out into the cold.

Chapter Fifteen

Audrey

Mom stays until the next day. I hate to admit it, but I can’t wait for her to go, so I can drop by Zane’s and check on Ash.

He won’t answer the phone. I called until late at night, and then again in the morning—the apartment phone, then his cell phone.

Where is he? Is he avoiding me? Or did he go out last night and forgot his cell?

As soon as Mom leaves, with promises to call me later and visit next month, I run out of the apartment and head straight to Zane’s. It’s midday, so I stop by my favorite Japanese take-out place and get some food.

Now I have an excuse to visit him.

I ring the doorbell and wait, jumping from foot to foot. Wait some more. Ring again. The plastic bag with the food cuts into my palm.

He’s avoiding me. It’s official.

I knock on the door with my fist. “Ash! It’s me, Audrey. Are you there?”

Disappointment presses on my chest like a stone and I’m about to turn about and go, when I hear a sound.

Footsteps? And a crash.

God, what’s happening?

Then the door unlatches and opens, revealing Ash. A battered-looking Ash, his lip split, his chin and jaw bruised black, his eyes bloodshot.

“Ash?” My heart stutters. I’m horrified. “Was that...? Did you...?”

He blinks at me, looking confused. “Did I what?”

“Go back home. Did you dad do that?”

His eyes narrow, and he pulls back. “Nah. Wasn’t him.”

Realization dawns.
Oh crap.
“You’ve been fighting again?”

He shrugs.

Annoyed, I push past him and drop the bag with the food on the coffee table. “Who did you beat up?”

He closes the door and follows me into the living room, a corner of his mouth lifting in an amused smirk. “Worried about him?”

Is he dense? I’m worried about Ash, but I’m also upset. On top of my mother’s words against him and my defending of him, he’s gone and done what I said he wouldn’t: he’s been fighting. He’s gone back to his old ways.

“Why are you fighting again?” I ask.

“Because I like the pain,” he growls, and it’s
so
not funny.

“I brought food,” I say, so angry that I consider turning around and leaving.

“That why you came?” He eyes the bag on the table, then his gaze returns to me, sliding over me, hot like fire.

I need to go, I know that. If he refuses to stay out of bar fights, then there’s nothing for us to talk about. My last boyfriend was like that and I don’t need a repeat of that relationship.

But I hesitate. “I’m here because I thought you wanted to talk. My mom left. I didn’t know she was coming. Sorry about all that.”