Reign of Brayshaw (Brayshaw High #3)(43)

Bishop should be focused on one thing and one thing only, keeping his eyes glued to Raven.

I take another shot, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “Fight of the night, change it. I want in.”

My head snaps to Mac when he doesn’t say anything.

He eyes me a second but nods and walks off.

Every few minutes, more and more people file through the gates and soon the place is packed, security locked down and the music is cranked up. The alcohol has kicked in and my blood is running warm.

The crowd begins to gather in the back as the first few fights start, so I kick off the bumper and pull my shirt over my head. My hand subconsciously rubs across my tattoo, but the second I realize it I rip it away.

Fuck.

I run my hand down my face. I’m fucked up, and it’s having the opposite effect I want.

I need a blank fucking mind, I want my head and the organ in my chest to numb like my body. How is it I feel no physical pain, but on the inside it’s like someone’s taking a razor to me, slowly, methodically slicing across every fucking inch, leaving not a centimeter untouched, unmarked, unfucking punished.

That’s what this is, the sting in my gut.

My bitter and cruel reward.

Give away all you got, die with a beating heart.

Keep it, live with a heavy one.

I gave her away, and now I’m a walking fucking zombie.

Mac comes back, ready to tape my knuckles, but I shake him off, take one last shot for fuck-its sake, and move for the edge of the largest ring.

I stand there, swaying on my feet a bit, not moving from the front post as the fight ends with a quick knock out, and the next begins.

The smaller cards around us are over now, too, so the crowd here grows, wider and wider, deeper. Louder.

And me, I grow drunker, my body heavier, but I feel light as a fucking feather.

Dante, our crowd feeder, puts his megaphone at his side, and steps over to me. He slaps me on the back, his eyes on the two in the center, dancing around each other.

“What’s good, Brayshaw?”

I shake my head. “Shit,” I slur. “Ready to get in there.”

He nods. “Guy wants to know if he’s got a pass tonight or what you need from him?”

“I’ll never come in here looking for a fucking ego boost, D. Don’t need one. Tell him to go hard.” I look to him. “Tell him not to stop.”

Dante’s head pulls back slightly, but he nods, hits my back again, then swivels around the circle again, yelling into his megaphone for the two in the center to stop playing footsy or take it to the church.

Not sure how long their fight takes, or when I stepped to the center of the ring, but shouts echo in my ears and then a fist in my face.

I stumble back, a smile finding my lips and I right myself.

I throw my hands out, taunting the guy with my fingers.

Closer, bitch.

Another hit to my head, but I manage to shuffle my feet to stay steady. I give a hard blink, and the gorilla motherfucker comes into view, so I swing, hitting him in the ribs, only to catch a knee to mine.

I laugh, spitting what must be blood from my mouth and go in again, but suddenly I’m staring at the fucking sky, flat on my back and weight drops on top of me.

My body jolts with each hit, but I keep grinning.

When I laugh, the dude’s head comes down on mine.

In the same second, his body is gone and mine is being drug across the dirt.

I yank from the hands, and push to my feet, using the rope to guide me outside of it.

I stumble against the crowd, each body serving as leverage until I’m in the clearing, but before I fall onto my ass, a shoulder hits my side, taking my weight while another finds the other.

“When did he get here?”

“I can fucking hear you, you punk bitch.”

Bishop scoffs, shoving me into the open trunk of my SUV.

Suddenly the seats fold and my body falls flat against them.

“Fuck you here for anyway, you should be—”

“Where you should be?” he throws back. “And I was, but Captain is there, Royce, too. Think she’s fine for at least an hour.”

There goes my fucking chest again.

I lift and slam my head back. It’s pointless, there’s no pain.

“I need to go make sure everyone gets paid,” Mac says before footsteps crunch against the ground.

I peel my eyes open, finding what looks a lot like a three-headed Bass fucking Bishop.

“I can barely fucking handle one of you, asshole,” I slur, my eyes closing again.

He scoffs, then a water bottle hits me in the shoulder.

I don’t reach for it. I’ll take the fucking hangover tomorrow. Wish for it.

“She’s lookin’ thinner, paler. I’ve tried to track when she’s eating, which is close to never when she’s in sight, but maybe she is behind closed doors.”

Behind closed doors with my brother.

“I didn’t ask for a report.”

“Nah, but you need one. You’re acting like a little bitch,” he says.

I jolt up, but the Macallan in me won’t allow it and my muscles give out.

Bishop sighs, then my legs are being pushed aside and a door slams.

After a few minutes my car starts rolling, and a few minutes after that, alcohol wins out.

I stay this way, fucked up, and delirious for the rest of Spring Break.