Uppercut Princess (The Heights Crew #1)(17)

I turn my music on and start warming up. I have a lot riding on this fight, and I can’t leave anything to chance.





7





The Heights Crew’s underground fighting warehouse reeks of desperation and excitement. It sits smack dab in the middle of the city, which happens to be the most rundown, forgotten, dilapidated area. Broken windows and graffiti would ward me off the place if it weren’t for Brawler accompanying me, but inside, all that washes away. The buzz sets my skin afire with recognition. Sure, I’ve never fought here before, but places like this are the same. The energy, the mystery, the darker side of life thrive here. It’s thrilling and scary. The feelings pounding in the walls have their own alluring heartbeats that bring me back time and time again.

Since Brawler and I showed up, I’ve stayed in the background, avoiding everyone. A lot of familiar faces from school stride in, hanging out in groups. To the side, there’s a makeshift bar, mostly serving up bottles of beer, but there are shots, too. Brawler sits on the very last stool, staring out at everyone clamoring inside for a place to sit. Every once in a while, our gazes meet. He’s the only one who knows I’m back here. He probably thinks I’m hiding. I kind of am, but I also want to warm up in peace.

People approach him while he sits, leaning over to whisper in his ear and greet him with knuckles or bro hugs. As soon as we got here, it became apparent Brawler ran the fights. Not that I hadn’t already known that, but he’d left that conveniently out of the conversation earlier when we spoke. Like me, he thrives in arenas like this. He becomes his nickname, dominating the space in his makeshift black tank top with ripped out arm holes. He’s the person everyone wants to see. The guy everyone flocks around.

Not that I’m noticing when I should definitely be concentrating on my fight. Right? Right.

I glance that way again, but find his seat occupied by a girl in a black bikini top, a blinging necklace hanging in her cleavage. Scanning the area, I search for him, telling myself it has nothing to do with the fact that I think he’s hot as fuck and everything to do with the fact that I need to know where Brawler—the guy who runs the fights—is at all times.

He appears to my left, and I almost jump. He casually strides toward me, giving me ample time to watch him approach. The shirt he chose displays his tattoos just as appropriately as a significant artifact in a museum display. I want to ask him about the black, twisting ink. I want to know what they’re about because guys like Brawler don’t just wake up one day and get a tattoo. They have meaning, like a story to his soul.

He stops a foot away, 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, twisting my hands. He must think I’m pathetic, which pains the pride in me. In another life, Brawler would well know by now how much I want to jump his bones.

He tips his head toward the fight currently going on in the ring. The bigger dude has a huge gash over his eyebrow. Blood leaks into his eyes, but his opponent isn’t going easy on him. Instead, the sight of blood makes him almost feral in his attacks. He keeps delivering blow after punishing blow. “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. The dried crimson circles at my feet tell me exactly what kind of place this is, and it thrills me more than it should. I’m having a hard time keeping my excitement to myself. Adrenaline shoots through me, making me want to bounce on my toes.

I hate having to be this other person. This person who acts like she’s scared of everything. I’m hardly scared of anything. The worst possible thing has already happened to me, so what’s there to be scared about? The Heights Crew? Please. The worst thing they could do to me is kill me, and who would care?

Nobody. Least of all me. I haven’t had a life since they took it away from me.

Brawler claps me on the back with a devilish grin, but a hint of concern stretches underneath it all. “Chin up, Kyla. I have a feeling it won’t last too long.”

The spot where he touches me burns. His hand lingers there, our gazes connecting once again like two magnets that keep getting pulled together without thought. He walks away, leaving demeaning laughter in his wake. That should be my signal that he’s dangerous. He should be automatically moved to my “don’t fuck with” list, but I can’t sweep the warnings he gave me away. In his way, he’s tried to help. Though, admittedly, that was earlier. Something else entirely has come over him since stepping foot in here. He’s Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Outside of this place, he wanted to help. Now that we’re here, he’s ready to throw me to the wolves to see how I fare.

I slip even farther into the shadows and start warming up like I should have been all along. Through the gaps in the crowd, I spot Cherry. We haven’t been introduced, but Brawler goes to her next, leaning over to whisper in her ear. My hackles raise, jealousy burning through me, but when Brawler straightens, he greets a guy standing in the shadows much like me. The guy’s hand moves around her possessively, and she easily melts into his side.

Thanks to the drunken girl who walked past with her friend only a few minutes ago, I found out Cherry’s the nickname Rocket gave her the night he popped her cherry. If some guy is going to nickname her that after sex, I imagine he’d be the one with his arm around her right now.