Uppercut Princess (The Heights Crew #1)
E. M. Moore
Prologue
The atmosphere in the old, abandoned warehouse pricks my skin. The giant, industrial room is alive with electricity. Like it has its own heartbeat for the damaged, raucous crowd. I stand at the edge, aware every single person in this room thinks I’ll get my ass kicked tonight.
A smile flickers across my face, but I hold it back. Cockiness isn’t part of the plan…yet. Instead, for those who even glance my way, I feign an air of scared-out-of-my-ever-loving mind, even though I’m comfortable in places like this. Places with an undercurrent of weed and BO. The sweet scent of sweat a haze over it all. The people here thrive off of fights, and so do I.
They just don’t know it yet.
Brawler approaches me, and I pretend I don’t have a lady hard-on for him. I also pretend I’m nervous as shit. “Is it…is it soon?” I ask.
He tips his head toward the fight currently going on in the makeshift ring. The bigger dude has a huge gash over his brow. Blood leaks into his eyes, but his opponent doesn’t go easy on him. Instead, he tries to open the cut up further with two quick blows, but the bigger dude blocks each one and retaliates, the sight of his own blood making his attacks almost feral. Once he’s seen it, he can’t contain his madness. He delivers blow after punishing blow to the bridge of his opponent’s nose until blood splatters everywhere.
Brawler smiles at the carnage, an evil glint in his eyes. “As soon as Rascal takes care of that guy, you’re up.”
I move my head from side-to-side, cracking my neck before staring down at the stained floor. Dried, crimson circles mar the floor at my feet. Like most other underground fighting venues, they’re not ones for cleanliness. It doesn’t bother me. It only adds to the animalistic nature of it all.
Brawler claps me on the back with a devilish grin. That same look is common in places like this. If you’re not the predator, you’re the prey—and everyone fancies themself a predator. “Chin up, Kyla. I have a feeling it won’t last too long.”
He walks away, his demeaning laughter coating me in his wake. I don’t know why his amusement at my upcoming demise thrills me, but it does. I can’t wait to prove him wrong. I can’t wait to prove everyone wrong. I stare after his retreating, muscled form, my mouth watering for him.
That’s not a part of the plan though. Definitely not part of the plan. I can’t get mixed up with any of the Heights Crew.
Not when I plan on ruining them all.
I slip into the shadows where no one can see and start warming up. Through the gaps in the crowd, I spot my opponent Cherry, so named because Rocket was her first. Or at least that’s what I hear. Anyone and everyone in the Heights has a nickname with a story. Why hers is attached to Rocket taking her virginity, I don’t know.
Cozied up in the corner, a hand turns her chin. Her lips part, staring at someone in the shadows. I can’t see his face. I squint, trying to place him without even really seeing him, but I only make out the color of his shirt, partial chest, and a leg of his jeans.
I know who I want it to be though.
I shake my head, focusing on the present. I have a fight to prepare for. Lunges, squats, and tuck jumps are my friend as I limber up. I windmill my arms around, loosening my shoulders, and then crack the knuckles on every one of my fingers and shake them out. The background is just that: background. I tune out the sounds of the current fight and the crowd to mentally prepare myself for what’s about to go down.
I’ll have to take a few punches. I already know this. It’s the only way to make it convincing at first, but then I’m going to switch the tables on Cherry. I’m going to be the worst nightmare she won’t ever see coming. Because in that ring, it won’t be me and Cherry, it’ll be twelve-year old Kyla wanting vengeance on everyone and everything that has to deal with Big Daddy K.
Fuck that murderer.
I let the rage seep deep into my marrow. I let it fill me, my hands already clenched to fists. My body turning to steel like iron-clad armor.
“Kyla,” Brawler roars.
I turn, purposefully loosening my fists and looking at him like a deer in the headlights. He shakes his head like he might even feel bad for me, but in the next second, all that vanishes when his predatory smile comes out to play again. He crooks a finger at me, and I step toward him in my oversized shirt and joggers. “You’re up.”
I make a show of letting my gaze wander, stopping to stare at the unruly crowd perched on wooden crates. The square slats of wood stacked on top of one another like poor men’s bleachers.
Brawler sighs as he takes me in. He lowers his lips to my ear, whispering, “Just turtle up when she comes at you.” He gives me a wary once-over, like he’s afraid I might get seriously hurt.
“But—”
He cuts me off. His momentary lapse in better judgment now gone. “It’s your funeral, New Girl.”
I bite my lip, but in my head, all the taunts, all the petty bitches and dicks from Rawley Heights flit through my head, and I know I’m about to get my revenge on them. After tonight, I won’t be the object of their utter humiliation and bullying, I’ll be their goddamned Princess for real.
The sick satisfaction fills me, and when Brawler pushes me toward the empty circle in the middle of the room, I stumble forward. I must look like a blithering mess and that part wasn’t even faked. I really did trip over my own feet. That fucker has big hands and more power than he knows.