Wicked Restless (Harper Boys #2)(60)
Three months rent. Paid.
Shit, maybe with the money I make from coloring with kindergarteners in the mornings, I can take Lindsey out for a real date, like dinner and a movie or something.
Or…not take Lindsey on a date.
Not take Lindsey anywhere, and just disappear because I can’t take Emma somewhere. I don’t want to take Emma anywhere, but I also can’t let go now that I’ve found her. Fuck! I’ve managed to go the entire day without thinking about my problem—I’m stringing along a really nice girl I have absolutely no interest in. Of course, it all comes racing into my head now—minutes before I’m about to intentionally thrust myself into mayhem.
A good time for a distraction.
I pull my phone out and click it to check the time, but am greeted by nothing but a blank screen. Still dead. No music, nothing to read—only my f*cked-up thoughts left to keep me company while I stand in a yellow-painted brick room that’s big enough to house a training table and a locker, but nothing else. The room starts to feel smaller with every minute that passes, and my heart begins to race more, sweat threatening to drip from my brow as my eyes dart from corner to corner, my ears perked and waiting for the knock to come. I need out. This room—it looks like Lake Crest.
I need out. I need out now!
I lie back and hold a towel over my eyes, the weight of my arm closing over one ear and blocking out any other light.
“You like getting hit, boy?” he says. “You like the way it feels? I’ll hit you again. I’ll hit you so hard you’ll f*ckin’ cry yourself to sleep for a month, wishing you had a mommy and a daddy who gave a shit and didn’t send you to a place like this with a guy like me. I’ll set you straight. I bet you’ll never try shit like that with me again! When I give you a job, you do it!”
The voice in my head feels real, and I fling the towel away from my eyes and sit up swiftly, looking around at the bare walls. It’s only a memory, but the fact that it was real once—that a man who was supposed to protect me did exactly the opposite—is enough to bring it back to life as I sit here waiting in this tiny yellow room.
The pound on the door comes seconds later, and I race to my feet, welcoming the escape.
“You ready?” Bill asks. His expression is worried, which isn’t one he usually makes at me. I respect it, but I also can’t let it get in my head, so I hold my gloves out for him to pound and then push them into my temples and chest a few times to prime myself for Pitch’s worst.
I wait behind the crowd, behind Bill, while a blonde woman reads the cards in the center of the ring, announcing Pitch to a deafening sound of screams and the thunder of feet pounding bleachers. I tell myself the louder they are, the more money they’ll drop, and I breathe deeply as she announces me, Pitch’s opponent.
“And fighting in his sixteenth match, the Irish blood running restless through his veins, Andrew Wicked Boy Harper!” She lets the echo of my last name drag on loudly through the mike, and I focus on her lips and the noise they make rather than the heavy boos and threats from the crowd around me. Wicked Boy Harper was Harley’s idea—he gave me that name the first time I fought for him. He said the word came to him the first time he saw me spar in the ring. I just kept getting up, asking for more.
Wicked. Poisoned. Empty.
My eyes meet Pitch’s as I step into the ring, and his lip ticks up with the only hint of recognition I’m going to get for the night.
That’s right. It’s me. Go easy, but get us paid.
I move to the corner and let Bill shout things at me that won’t matter. He makes me drink water, checks my tape and gloves, then stands with me and squeezes my head in his hands, bringing his head against mine, the foul smell of his breath only mildly better than the view of the nicotine-stained toothpick dangling from his cracked lips as he mutters a prayer.
Too late, Bill—I’m beyond salvation, and Pitch is the only one who can control how much pain I get tonight.
The bell sounds, and I turn to face my penance, to earn my stay and forget my life. Pitch swings hard, and I dodge. He swings again, and I dodge. And then we dance.
I spend most of the first round moving with him, faking and stepping at all the right times, working from my memory of our sparring last week. I catch the smirk on his lip more than a few times, and I also note the nodding approval from Harley in the crowd when I let a few jabs land in my side near the end of the round.
His punches come full force. There’s nothing pretend about them, even if he’s going easy. The announcer says he’s toying with me—I’m the mouse. That’s fine, as long as this mouse gets to eat some cheese later tonight with all of his teeth in his mouth.
We spend the second round doing much of the same, but this time his fists find new spots on my body, and when the first hook lands squarely on my right cheekbone—my body is instantly flooded with the chemistry I’m constantly seeking. The sting is immediate; the bruising deep, and the pain is so good. I smirk as my head slings to the side, my mouth guard slipping from my lips. I suck it back in place, spitting blood out on the mat before grinning back at my opponent.
“Come on, Pitch! Yeah, baby. Yeah!” I shout, my gloves pounding my chest then hitting together.
My feet feel lighter, yet my head feels heavier. Everything is turning on itself around me, but Pitch is still locked in. I swing at him a few times, landing blows to his right ribs, where I know he can take it.