Slammed Page 3

  Like always.

  It hits me with tremendous force, completely knocking the wind from my lungs. I look down at the man and inch towards him. To help? I think so. He lies on the floor, choking on his own blood and my chest tightens—my entire body tightens. I’m going to faint…I lean forward slightly, clenching my stomach. What the fuck did I do that for? His girlfriend rolls him onto his side and cries out for help. The man, the stranger, groans and clenches his thigh.

  Fuck.

  Behind me, Amelia giggles and it sends bile up my throat. How can she enjoy seeing such a scene? She wraps her arm around mine and pulls me away from the man I’ve seriously injured. My hands tremble and the drops of blood that stain them seem to burn like acid on my skin.

  “I thought you wanted to play darts…” I mumble, dazed as she escorts me from the low-end bar.

  “Ugh,” she scoffs. “I hate darts, you know that.”

  My blood runs cold—so cold I’m certain it freezes in my veins. The icy tendrils send chills down my spine and I snap away from her, as if her very touch is turning me to ice.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” I demand, not caring who overhears.

  “This again? Jesus, Jackson, will you grow pair already?”

  “No!” I shout, making her jump.

  It’s not fear that has her watching me closely, it’s excitement. She has to be the only person in the world who gets off on the anguish of others. As her dark irises flick over me, I watch her. Her porcelain skin, red hair, and beautiful dark eyes mesmerize me for a second. How’d she get this way? What did she suffer to make her so cold? So heartless?

  Why’d she choose me? I was young…I still am young. Am I that impressionable? She’s the first girl I’ve ever been involved with sexually, and it’s enough to completely control me? How? How do I get away from her? I could walk away and never look back…but I have nothing else. I left my mom and dad almost a year ago to the day to be with Amelia, and Seth is busy with his own family problems. I have no one else. I pushed them all away to be with her.

  She is all I have.

  “What are you thinking, Jackie?” she asks, stepping closer.

  A devilish twitch pulls at the corner of her lips, but she manages to contain her smile. How sick.

  “You’re all I have,” I whisper, not sure if I’m telling her or convincing myself it’s real.

  Amelia allows herself to fully smile, but even so, it’s wrapped and wicked. Still, it sends my heart slamming into my ribcage and causes my blood to warm and pool in places I know she wants to touch. The worst part of all this is the fact I’m unable to hold her accountable for her manipulation…no. The worst part is, she doesn’t force me. I choose to do these things for her, to make her happy—to impress her. As her lips press against mine and her tongue slides into my mouth, I feel my heart blacken and freeze just that little bit more.

  ***

  “Jackson,” Seth says, nudging me. “Did you hear me?”

  I shake my head and blink a few times. I don’t ever want to go back there. It’s taken me a long time to get over the tightening feeling in my chest whenever I think about fighting—about my hands relentlessly connecting with someone else’s flesh. I won’t let it come back now.

  “I asked you if it’s something you really want to do to yourself? You know how fighting affects you.”

  Seth has been present for only one of my panic attacks…when Amelia left me and I went back to my old gym for a sparring session. With a shudder, I fight the memories that try to resurface. I don’t want to think back to that day right now. I never want to think back to that day, period.

  “I have to give it a shot, Seth. I can’t be stagnant for the rest of my life. I don’t have a gym or a wife—or a child—to keep me busy. I can’t rely on you and your gym to pay my bills anymore. I want something for myself…and I want to continue my life like Amelia never destroyed it in the first place.” I rake my teeth over my bottom lip. “Don’t you miss it? The fighting?”

  He ponders my question, his dark brows pulling together. “Yeah, I miss it.”

  “Then help me.”

  A look of total shock flickers over his features before he shakes his head. “You know I can’t. My court terms state I can’t compete as a fighter—or train or coach an aspiring MMA fighter who’s in their system. The MMAC has closed all chances of me ever entering the sport again for breaching their contract.”

  “Maybe I’m not talking about official MMA business. Maybe I want to do something a little more low key…”

  Shock dominates his facial features. “Underground? Are you out of your fucking mind? There’s no career in underground fighting and you’ll die before you turn thirty.”

  I shrug. I still have a couple of years before I turn thirty. “Thanks for your vote of confidence, asshole. The underground rounds are my only option. I’ll freak out if I’m surrounded by too many people. I want to get my toes wet, start off small and then maybe look at my options.”

  I watch him and take note of the way his stare is downcast to the lush grass. He isn’t going to help me and he’s trying to find the right words to say it.

  “Are you going to help me or not, Seth?”

  His deep, chocolate irises flick to me and, immediately, I see the look of regret in them. “No.”

  I nod. Fair enough. I didn’t expect him to want to help, anyway. He already spends enough time away from home and he probably doesn’t want to extend it. Or maybe, he’s hoping I’ll pull out if he says no.

  I won’t.

  Seth and I aren’t attached at the hip, and I’m a big boy now. There are some things I should do on my own now, I guess.

  “Seth!”

  We both turn around as Olivia calls from the back door.

  “Your mom called. She wants to see Chloe before you go to work.”

  Seth nods. “All right, give me a minute.”

  He turns back to face me as Olivia disappears inside the house. “You need to think about this a little more, Jackson. The underground fights aren’t like the tournaments I was in. You’ve seen it. They’re not like the ones we did underneath clubs in Vegas or Seattle. These are brutal, and I’m not sure it’s a good place for you to dip your toes in.”

  With a slap on the shoulder, he saunters away from me. I stand for a little while, taking in what he said. Maybe he’s right and maybe he isn’t, but he’s out of his mind if he thinks I’m going to stand on the sidelines and wait for someone to hand me something I want. If I want to put Amelia behind me and focus on my dream—the dream of becoming a world class fighter—then this is something I have to do. This is something I need to do. To prove to myself I’m stronger on my own. To prove to myself that I’m stronger than she ever made me feel by corrupting me with her wicked ways. I’ve been locked up for too damn long…and this decision is a stepping stone towards my freedom.

  Chapter Three

  Jackson

  I hear a loud thud above me and dust rains down from the cracks in the ceiling before resting on my black hand wraps. The energy upstairs can be felt through the pathetic concrete and it tears through me, forcing my hairs to stand on their ends. There’s an electricity in my body—a powerful electricity—and it vibrates in every one of my cells. Fighting against its potent surge is my fear. It’s not light and spine tingling like the electricity…it’s heavy and cold. It doesn’t promise excitement or vitality. It promises self-doubt and panic.

  I rest my elbows against my thighs and lower my head into my hands. Slowly, I breathe in and out, doing whatever I can to stop the fear from spreading. This is not one of Amelia’s games. The people upstairs want to be punched. They’re not innocent pawns in a never-ending game of torturous chess.

  You are the king on this board and the queen is of no threat.

  With a heavy exhale, I sit back on my feeble wooden chair and tap my bare feet on the dirty floor beneath me. Right now, I really hate Seth for not being here with me, but I can’t hold it against
him. He has a family now—responsibilities. Still, I wish I had someone here with me. I tried calling Selena, but she ignored my calls…again. It’s not unwarranted. She’s head over heels in love with me and I’m…well, I’m me. I’ve been an asshole to her since Amelia started texting me again—back before Seth asked Olivia to marry him. I haven’t told Seth she’s sent more since then. He smashed my phone last time and I’m fond of my new one. Since Amelia got back into contact with me, I’ve been stuck in a massive vortex of stress just waiting for her to randomly show up and completely fuck my life all over again. I like to think this time I’m stronger…but she’s had plenty of time to work on her game, too.

  I’m pulled from my thoughts as the metal door flies open and slams against the concrete, sending white dust everywhere. Two tall, wide men drop a bloodied, unconscious sack of flesh, I’m certain it once looked like a man, on the floor.

  “Quinn. You’re up.”

  I nod and they leave me alone with the broken fighter. I stare at him, wondering what he looked like before he had his face smashed in. I can see his chest rise and fall, and when he comes to, I’m sure he’ll be grateful to be alive. Tomorrow, however, when he wakes up, I bet he’ll wish his opponent killed him.

  As strange and as sick as it sounds, watching the man lying there all busted and defeated, it inspires me. It inspires me to win. I refuse to be the body they drag from the cage fifteen minutes from now.

  ***

  I shake my arms and bounce on the balls of my feet. Leaning against the dirty concrete wall, I shut my eyes and work on controlling my breathing. I’ve barely walked the sixty yards to the arena and I’m already covered in a clammy sweat. My head spins and my lungs decrease in size. Over and over I tell myself this isn’t a big deal, but my heart knows better. This is a big deal. This is a massive deal. This is me reclaiming a part of the old me…I can’t move forward without it.

  I push off the wall and force myself forward. As I walk, I become hyper aware of dirt sticking to my bare feet and my black shorts that brush over my kneecaps. The excited whisper from the crowd as I approach them from behind crawls over the surface of my skin, like ants. Goosebumps spring up, too, and vibrate, adding to the chaos already letting loose inside of me.

  “Crusher’s next opponent tonight, ladies and gentlemen—Jackson Quinn!”

  I roll my eyes. I never understood the allure of a ‘ring name.’ What’s the point in it? As the referee announces my approach, the crowd peers over their shoulders, almost in unison, and when they see me, they erupt like a volcano, shaking the very ground below my feet.

  In here it smells like blood, rusted metal, piss, and a million other things. I try not to dwell on it. This is the underground, after all. It could be worse.

  As I push myself through the small crowd of two hundred people, they slap my back with moist hands and spill their drinks all over me. Most of them are off their heads, barely able to stand without assistance, but as long as they’re forking out the prize money by betting on my fight, they’re fine with me. Because of them, I’ll have an extra five grand in my pocket if I win tonight.

  Keeping my head down, I make it all the way to the cage and step inside. The canvas is covered in blood—new and old. You can smell it as it soaks into the fibers and I fucking pray I don’t get cut tonight. Having to wait in line at the hospital for a tetanus shot or contracting HIV isn’t worth the five grand. I eye the rusting cage before finally looking at my opponent. ‘Crusher’ is what they call him and I can see why. He’s tall—much taller than me—and I come in at six foot two. He’s wide from his shoulders right down to his calves and I bet his fucking hands could wrap around a basketball, no problem. Upon his head lies a soft tuft of blond curls that branch off towards the front of his face and rest against his forehead. As my stare finally locks with his, he shifts his weight and glares at me with his bright baby blues. I should be scared of him. He’s bigger than me in every way, but for some reason the fear doesn’t show. Instead, a new excitement bubbles in the pit of my stomach and I don’t understand it.

  Even as the bell tolls and he launches forward, panic refuses to register. I watch him, completely frozen as he rapidly closes the distance between us. Late, my heart begins to climb in tempo—until it’s slamming against my chest and threatening to exit my body. By the time I feel it, it’s too late. Crusher swings hard and his iron-like fist connects with the side of my face, tossing me hard against the cage before I crumble to the floor. I groan as my brain spins in my skull. What the fuck? I blink rapidly until my vision begins to clear. The punch was enough to knock the excitement right out of me and finally, my fear decides to dig in deep and hold on tightly. A warm sticky liquid runs down the side of my face from my brow, but I don’t cradle it. I barely have time to register my position before a large foot blocks the blurry view of the spotlight above my head.

  “Fuck!”

  I roll out of the way as his foot comes crashing down hard, shaking the entire canvas. I scurry on my hands and knees until I have enough space to push myself back to my feet. Crusher whips around and charges at me again. He’s fucking tall—much too tall for me to swing at his chin. So I dip low and slam my fists into his ribs. He recoils, barely, before grabbing my shoulders and pulling me hard against his body. His sweat mixes with the blood pouring out of my cut as he squeezes my head against his torso. I thrash in his grip, but he refuses to let go. Gritting my teeth, I work his sides, over and over until he begins to grunt and groan with every strike, growing sluggish. When his arms lighten up on their squeeze, I shove him as hard as I can, and he releases me before stumbling backwards. A familiar heat spreads under my skin and red begins to tint my vision. With a growl, I launch forward and he back steps a few, but I’m much quicker than he is. I draw my knee to my chest and let my foot fly into his stomach. Air is forced from his lungs and he grabs my foot. He hunches over my legs as he forces me back. I hop backwards to avoid falling on my ass, but instead of letting him drive me into the rusty cage, I lean forward and grab his head. Freeing one hand at a time, I drive my fists into the sides of his face, relentlessly, until his legs begin to tremble under the weight of his own body. A few strikes in, he releases my leg and the second my foot joins the other on the canvas, I surge forward. Crusher knows it. I see it in his eyes as I pull back my arm. I’m coming at him with the full force of a tsunami and this motherfucker is going to wash away like nothing. He attempts to lift his hands to shield his face, but doesn’t make it in time to stop my bare knuckles, as hard as concrete, from smashing into his face, hitting him right in the nose. Blood spurts immediately, spraying my hand, arm and legs. Crusher’s eyes close, his hands fall to his sides, and his entire body stiffens before he sways like a tree and crashes to the canvas. I pause and wait, but he doesn’t get up…that’s when the crowd goes crazy and rushes forward to shake the cage. They cheer and scream and swear. They shake the cage and kick the canvas. They throw their cans and bottles and scurry up the rusty metal cage, stopping before they reach the barbed wire on top. All I can do is stand still, with my hands on my hips, trying to control my heaving breaths. I won.

  I fucking won!

  A smile cracks over my features and I swipe my arm over my forehead, wincing when my sweaty flesh slides against the cut on my brow. Maybe this fighting thing isn’t so bad after all.

  “That’s gonna need stitches, kid,” the announcer mutters before screaming my win into his mic.

  With a wide grin, he slaps five thousand dollars into my palm and tells me to fuck off.

  I do. I leave feeling higher than I’ve ever been. Seth will be glad to know I didn’t die, and maybe he’ll be impressed enough to tag along next time—or even join.

  ***

  Blood still runs from the slight cut on my brow and trickles down my cheek. With a sigh, I bunch my polo shirt up in my fist and press it to my brow to stem the flow. The roads are quiet—not unusual for this time of night in Portland. A flash of lightning catches my eye in the
rear-view mirror. The unmistakable sound of rain hitting metal is distant at first, then too close. I flick on my wipers and lean closer to the wheel. The rain is torrential, bucketing down like nothing I’ve ever seen before. I wonder if it’s a sign…maybe, for my own good, I should turn around. I tap my finger against the wheel. When do I ever do things with my own well-being in mind? There’s no point starting now.

  I live in a nice apartment by the gym, but here I am driving around the ‘high end’ side of town, in the pouring rain, in the direction of Selena’s house. I moved out of Seth’s other house—the one with the chocolate and white bricks. Living with his mom was getting weird, and whenever Maddi came around and they threw family dinners, it made me uncomfortable. I’m not one to dwell on mistakes, mostly because I’ve never made one as big as Amelia, but sleeping with Maddi before she moved to Vegas to be with Kye is one I’m man enough to admit. Seth still doesn’t know about it—or Selena. He doesn’t know I’ve fucked his sister a million and one times since she turned eighteen, and I hope he never finds out. When Selena and I were fighting in Vegas and she kicked me out…I did it with Maddi again—I did it three times. I did it with lots of different girls in the small window that Selena refused to talk to me. It was all because I was trying to fill a fucking hole in my chest—a hole that only feels semi-full whenever I’m with Selena. Seth claims it to be love, but I think it’s just…comfortable. She makes me comfortable.

  Before I know it, I’m driving up Selena’s long, elegant driveway and parking my car at the bottom of the wide stairs. I don’t give my thoughts time to settle. Instead, I force myself from the car and into the sharp, icy rain. I walk towards the door, keeping my shirt pressed firmly to the cut on my eye. The fabric is drenched, too filled with rainwater to soak up the blood, and soon I taste it on my lips. It’s not extreme, but enough to know I’m still bleeding. As I approach the tall door and step out of the rain, I lift my hand to knock. Then I stop. It’s late—or early—depending how you look at it. What if I wake her? What if she doesn’t want to see me? Turning around, I slump against the door. I shouldn’t be here… how many times have I showed up only to leave before I had the balls to knock on the door?