Uppercut Princess (The Heights Crew #1)(18)

My temple throbs with my own pulse. I had not planned on meeting Rocket the way I did. He’d caught me off guard, and dammit if ever since then I can’t stop thinking about that rather than him being the spawn of the evil that’s been lurking in the background of my life since I was twelve. Since then, it’s hard not to wonder if we’re caught in this tangled web together, both of us victims of our own circumstance.

I shake my head, focusing on the present. I have a fight to prepare for—a fight to win. Lunges, squats, and tuck jumps are my friend as I stretch my limbs. I windmill my arms, 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 other fight and the crowd and mentally prepare 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 her 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 me 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.

“Kyla,” Brawler calls out.

I turn, purposefully loosening my fists and looking at him like a deer in the headlights. He shakes his head like the Brawler who was inside my apartment earlier might show up, but in the next second, 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, sweat already rimming the collar. “You’re up.”

I make a show of staring at the crowd perched on wooden crates. They’re stacked on top of one another like poor men’s bleachers. They’re oblivious about the fight that’s about to happen. They’re still talking about the last one while downing their drinks or sharing a joint.

Brawler sighs as he takes me in. “Just turtle up when she comes at you.” He gives me a wary once-over, like he’s afraid I might get seriously hurt. The old Brawler’s back, making me even more curious about what goes through his head. He told me I remind him of someone. That someone had to have been so important to him. Ridiculously, I’m attracted to both his sides, whether they’re complete opposites of one another or not.

That doesn’t matter right now, though. And not ever. I have one fucking thing to do while I’m in the Heights, and it’s not to bang Brawler. “But—” I start to protest.

He cuts me off. His momentary lapse in better judgment now gone. “It’s your funeral, New Girl. Remember what I said. You only have two options, and you won’t survive the other.”

I bite my lip to keep from smiling. All the taunts, all the petty bitches and dicks from Rawley Heights, like Nevaeh and the douche who coined me Princess, are about to see a side of me they never saw coming. I wish I could record what’s about to go down, cameras focused on their reactions. I haven’t seen Nevaeh, but I have no doubt she’s here. Oscar, too. I doubt he’d miss this, whether I’m fighting the girl he wants me to beat up or not.

Brawler pushes me toward the empty circle in the middle of the room, and I stumble. I must look like a blithering mess, but before I get pissed, I remember that’s exactly what I want to look like.

The crowd crows. Blistering heat warms my cheeks. the embarrassment eating me up from the inside out. They start to chant, “Princess. Princess.”

Seriously, did Brawler tell them how much I fucking hated that?

Anywhere else, Princess might be a compliment, but to them, it’s far from it. It denotes a life of privilege they never had. They hate me. All of them.

Cherry enters through the crowd like the queen bee of Rawley Heights. The crowd roars. She’s a favorite of theirs. It’s not difficult to figure that out. A cherry red robe drapes over her shoulders like she’s an actual boxer. A guy from her corner slips the silk material from her shoulders revealing a skimpy sports bra. It traps the majority of her breasts away, but ample cleavage still pours out. The crowd’s cheering intensifies. My guess is it’s mostly man sluts hoping she’ll slip a tit in the fight. They’re probably looking over at me and thinking that’s the only excitement they’ll get out of tonight.

Now that we’re facing each other, it’s getting more real. Who would’ve thought two days in and I’d get my chance to show the Heights Crew’s leaders what I’m about? Fighting is my only chance in. If I had to wait to endear myself to them in some other way, it could take years and years for them to trust me. Call me self-serving, but Big Daddy K has already taken six years of my life. He doesn’t need more than that.

I stop myself from jumping up and down, the way I usually get rid of pre-fight jitters. Instead, I toe the ground and do some basic stretching. The kind they taught us in Kindergarten, so I look like a dumbass newbie.

Cherry sneers at me. “This is what you get for coming to the Heights, Bitch.”

I’ve had to tone down my snarky ass for days. I can’t wait until this fucking fight is over, so I can verbally eliminate all these fucking wannabe fighters. Instead of tearing her down, I flinch.

“Aww, do you need to go hide back to Mommy?”

My blood boils. This bitch’s mom is probably doped up on crack right now. Or spreading her legs downtown. She probably never had a Mommy to console her, but I did. She’s just fucking dead because of people like her.