Destroyed(12)

My hands twitched to clamp over my ears. I never thought such a sedate crowd, all sequestered in the dark, could conjure such mayhem.

The moment the ref finished introductions, Fox launched himself at Everest. No hesitation. No pause.

The fight began with vengeance.

Fox pummelled a fist to his opponent’s temple. Everest reeled away, thumping with large hands, trying to strike Fox’s head. But he dodged every one, raining punches on Everest’s jaw and chest.

The pure precision and cold calculation made me hate the spiral my life had become. I valued strict rules and prided myself on planning—I recognised the same discipline in the man in black.

My body grew hot with anger, absorbing the fight—letting it energize me. I didn’t know what came over me, but the man who owned this place, the man now putting his life in jeopardy just for some masculine power play, had everything I never would. I hated him for being reckless. For causing bodily harm when he had wealth to help find a cure for disease. He could be a saviour; instead he flaunted and abused. Instead he hurt others. For what? A show of ownership or pride?

I hated him.

I hated that he invoked such strange feelings inside me.

I hated that he had so much while my daughter would never live to see her teens.

I hated him for no reason at all. He was purely the vessel to funnel my hatred into. It didn’t make sense—it wasn’t rational, but my fists curled as I finally acknowledged the deep sense of helplessness I suffered. For three weeks, I’d hidden from it, pretended I could cope, but it took an illegal fight to show me just how twisted my emotions were—just how broken Clara’s diagnosis had made me.

If I had less sense, I would’ve charged into the ring and hit him myself. I wanted to hit him. I wanted to bite and lunge and inflict as much pain as I felt.

I wanted to go to war and battle and come out a victor, so I could save Clara.

Everest snapped and charged. Tackling Fox, they wrestled, yelling obscenities into each other’s ear.

Fox swung and connected with Everest’s abdomen.

Everest stopped, gritting his teeth before swinging and aiming with a sucker punch.

Ducking, Fox wheeled around and thumped a fist into his liver. My eyes never left Fox’s face. He winced in pain as his fist made contact, but then smiled, growing bolder, angrier as the fight went on.

He was completely in his element and fear threaded through me for Everest. He may be larger, but Fox had something he didn’t.

No remorse.

No respect for life.

The crowd booed as Everest landed a fist to Fox’s head.

Instead of dancing away and preparing another strike, Fox laughed. His voice rang around the club, weaving with base notes from the music, sounding almost psychotic.

Everest shouted, “You’re a f*cking crazy son of a bitch.”

Fox didn’t reply. Moving within hitting distance, he delivered four punches in quick succession. Instead of going down, Everest sprawled forward, forcing Fox to back up as his large fists connected with his sides and cheek.

Everest went for the cheek.

The scar.

The one place I’d never be brave enough to touch. It seemed almost sacrilegious.

Then Fox stopped. Dead still, he dropped his arms, leaving his body unprotected. His lips moved, and Everest froze.

My feet moved forward on their own accord, needing to be closer, needing to hear. I’d never been so wrapped up in a fight before. Even though I deplored it—hated the waste of pain and stupid need for domination—I couldn’t look away.

“You want to knock me out? Be my guest and f*cking try it.” Fox’s voice sounded rough and angry. Accented. He swallowed certain words and accented others in a way that made me shiver.

Everest exploded forward, waving his fists like clubs. One struck Fox’s cheekbone, the other his gut. But instead of curling over in pain and backing away, Fox did the opposite.

He stood taller. Squeezing his eyes, he seemed to drink the pain, feed off it.

One moment he seemed utterly content, the next he tackled Everest, and they fell in a tangle of body parts to the ground. Legs wrapped with legs; arms twisted with arms.

In one sharp kick, he shattered Everest’s kneecap.

Everest bellowed and bucked, squirming like a child instead of a mountain of a man. “Get off me, you bastard!” Genuine terror laced his tone.

In a blink, Fox slammed Everest’s face against the floor, breaking his nose before kicking him again and wrapping an arm around his neck. Tightening his grip, he slowly throttled him.

All thoughts of fighting disappeared from Everest. I knew the switch from fighting to surviving. I’d been victim of it myself numerous times.

Kicking with one useful leg and one broken, he scrabbled. He tried to dislodge Fox’s arm, but he fought an already lost battle. Fox used his momentum to jerk Everest’s left arm behind his back.

The crowd chanted as Fox leaned back, taking the limb with him.

My heart pounded, sick to my stomach.

“Crush him.”

“Gut him.”

Fox didn’t pay attention, only choked his opponent harder, all the while jerking his arm further and further backward.

Everest gave a small groan as his shoulder dislocated, and he fell unconscious—a limp body on the floor.

The moment he passed out, Fox climbed to his feet and acknowledged the crowd with a nod. Wiping the blood trickling from his nose, he frowned at a tear in his shirt.