The big man outside the cage slams the side of the metal cage, making me jump.
“Move it boys.”
Making the first move, I jump forward and strike him in the face. His head jerks back, blood pouring from his nose. Putting my hands up to block myself I wait for him to return the hit, but he just circles me.
Maybe he’s trying to wear me out.
I lay a combo into him. Punching him in the stomach before giving him an upper cut to the chin. He falls back on his ass, his face swollen from my hits.
He said he’s trained for a year, but he acts like he’s trained only a week.
Climbing on top of him I pull his head to my chest, wrapping my legs around his back.
“You said you’ve been fighting for a year?”
I right hook him in the ribs, and finally he returns a hit to my head. My ears ring, and my head throbs. I let him go, and strike him in the face over and over, he tries to block himself, but I find an opening every time.
The crowd starts to boo, and my heart strikes with fear. Why are they booing? Usually they only boo if nothing is happening.
Letting go of him, I jump to my feet and he slowly climbs to his own huffing and puffing.
Eyeing me with an unreadable look he digs in his shorts and pulls out a serrated knife. My back breaks out into a nervous sweat as I wait for them to call the fight, but nobody does anything. The announcer is quiet, and the crowd is wild. I finger the cage, eyeing the man outside by the door.
“This is MMA, not the streets!”
The guy laughs, crossing his arms.
“This isn’t Kansas anymore Dorothy, I don’t open the door until they call the fight.”
Like lightening, Bret jumps at me with the knife.
I freeze, I can’t move. I might die here tonight, all over a lousy check and contract.
This is not what I signed up for.
This is not okay.
Not paying attention, pain slices through my abdomen.
Glancing down blood caresses my jersey shorts.
“You fucking cut me!” I look up at Bret, he looks like a savage with the way he’s looking at me. His legs are spread wide, his body swaying back and forth as he grips the knife with a death grip.
“You don’t have to do this,” I state softly, my hands out to caution him.
“The fuck if I don’t. I need that money, I need that contract, I won’t make it in the UFC any other way.”
He takes a stab at me, the serrated knife grabbing my shoulder and slicing it open. Roaring with pain, I sidestep him. The crowd is ecstatic, eating up every bit of my pain.
Thomas never showed me how to dismantle a knife from someone in a ring, but if I’m going to get out of this alive. I’ll have to figure it out.
“I don’t want to hurt you. Please just set the knife down Bret!” With every rush of pain pulsing through my body, my patience is wearing thin.
“Oh but I do, you’re going to die here tonight, and then I’m going to be rich.” He pushes the words through clenched teeth. Turning around I get behind him and grab him by the head, throwing him on his back.
Straddling him for control he jabs the knife into my thigh, the searing pain aching down to the bone. Reaching for the knife, he jerks it out and goes for my throat.
Before I can think of my next move, I grab him by the head and twist till I hear a crack.
His body goes limp, the knife dropping to the floor along with his hand. My chest heaves as I look upon his lifeless body, my hand turns palm up and trembling. How did I do that? It was so easy, like a second nature. Instinct even.
“We got a tap out!” The announcer affirms the win, declaring Bret’s lifeless hand hitting the mat a tap out.
I just killed him.
I just killed someone.
Chapter Twenty-One
Tate
“Oh my god Tate, you can’t wear that.” Chloe’s eyes bug out of her head as she looks me up and down. I’m wearing jeans and a black racer back tank top. I mean it’s not a dress, but it’s not what I wear to clean the house either. She’s such a diva sometimes. I have no idea how we click like we do, we’re so different.
“Where did he say he was taking you again?”
Huffing I strip down to my bra and panties. Frustrated with what to wear.
“He didn’t say. Which is more torture than surprising because now I’m stuck with do I dress up or not.”
“Hmmm.” Chloe ruffles through my bags of clothes, tossing exercise clothes left and right as if they’re trash themselves. “Just as I thought, you’re going to need my wardrobe.” She stands up, holding the bag I had my clothes in. She went through all my clothes and none of them are to her liking. I owned two dresses that Chloe would have probably approved of, and they sit in the closet in my dorm room with tags on them.
“I’m not wearing your clothes. A date is nerve wracking enough, why add to the stress of a constricting dress that squeezes the life out of you,” I explain further.