Wicked Restless (Harper Boys #2)(61)

The bell rings, and I move over to Bill in the corner. He holds something from a stick against my right cheek and eyebrow, slowing down the blood that wants to spill.

Let it spill! Let me bleed!

“Come on, hurry up! Get me back out there!” I shout at him. He shakes his head, ignoring me. I push at him to get out of my way, but he leans into me with all his weight, which is twice mine.

“You’re a crazy little punk, and I get that you need this, but just do me a favor and let me save you from getting killed, huh?” he speaks through gritted teeth.

“Whatever,” I say, looking past him to Pitch, who smiles at me. He wants more too. He’s having fun with this, and I’m forgetting everything. It’s exactly what I need.

The bell rings, and I brush Bill away and rush back to the center where I find Pitch waiting, his fist opening up the wounds Bill just spent seconds trying to secure. I laugh as I stumble back on my feet, losing my balance enough to catch a glimpse of Harley, whose lip is between his teeth under his angry eyes.

I gotcha, Harley. I know this is only three. I’ll stay on my feet. I just want to feel it a little more. Let me go, let me spar.

I come at Pitch with everything I’ve got. My swings are sloppy; he blocks most of them, but I’m wild and aggressive. A few shots land on his chin and head with enough power that he stumbles back a step or two. The crowd actually turns for a second, cheering for me. My breath, as stuttered as it comes, is mixed with a rush of adrenaline and fear and pride.

I’m too lost in this feeling of glory to see his next swing, and soon I’m caught in the ropes, his fists taking turns moving from my right side to my left, my skin red from punches and my bones begging to break.

But I’m still breathing.

I’m still feeling.

The bell sounds, and I falter back to the stool, where Bill goes to work quickly, my view of him skewed now from the swelling happening around my eye.

“You’ve never been hit like this,” he says. He won’t make eye contact with me, and it pisses me off.

“I’m fine!” I shout, spitting in the bucket he is holding under my chin.

“Yeah…” he says, pulling my chin up with his monster hand, the roughness of his calluses scraping my face so I’m forced to look him in the eye. “You’re fine, huh? Then go out there and you end this. This is it. No more rounds for you, no matter how f*cked up you are and how much you think you can take, you got it?”

Four rounds. I knew the gig. I got it. I stare at him without answering, though, because he’s pissing me off. He growls at me, pushing my face from his view with disgust.

The bell rings, and I find Pitch once again ready for me in the center, his feet still nimble, his arms still up at his sides, everything about him fresh. I’m a bloody mess, and it makes me start to laugh.

“You’re a crazy motherf*cker, you know that?” Pitch pushes back a step, bouncing, as he stares at me.

“Oh, I’m crazy. And I can take anything you’ve got. Bring it, big man,” I slur, my smile big as his fist elevates then rushes forward, landing squarely on my nose.

Oh f*ck! Oh yes!

His swings don’t stop. The pain keeps coming. I feel every single shot, as if time slows down just so I can take in the sensation of the leather of his glove pushing deep inside my gut, my chest, my face. Nothing else matters. Nothing else exists. I bleed. I land. The ref counts, and Bill drags my torn and broken body to the corner amidst the roar of the crowd around me; they’re celebrating my fall, my failure.

They love me for it, and I’m drunk on my self-loathing.

“I’ll do my best, kid, but I think you’re gonna need to make a trip to the emergency room for some of this,” Bill says, his face somber. Bill’s disappointed too.

“I’m fine,” I growl.

He laughs once, but his face remains serious.

“I said I’m fine!” I repeat, my face square with his. His eyes stay on mine, and we both breathe while they announce Pitch as the winner and people rush the ring to congratulate him, to touch him. I’m lost in the corner with Bill and my pain and nothing else.

“Okay, kid. But I don’t like putting you back together. If this were my call, this wouldn’t have been you tonight,” he says, pressing a wet towel on my face. I grab it from him and stand.

“Well it’s not your call. It’s mine. And Harley’s. And we say I’m fine,” I say, spitting once more at his feet as I climb through the ropes and out to the back rooms where Harley is waiting for me.

The envelope exchange is fast, and unlike Bill, Harley hardly spends time looking at my face. The bruising and blood disgusts him, and I think I scare him a little. It’s fine; I scare myself.

I don’t count the money until I get outside and to my car, but before the rest of the crowd starts to spill into the streets, I pull the envelope from my backpack and leaf through the hundred dollar bills, counting twice and getting eighty-four each time. My lips can’t fight against smiling no matter how badly it hurts my face to do so. The laughter comes when I hit the highway, pressing the pedal down with ease, crawling the car up to ninety-five as I weave into the flow of traffic, passing anything in my way.

The rush will carry me home.

And when I come down, I’ll be at my next destination. I’ll be at her house, and she can bring the pain back all over again.