Ben flexes his hand when I finish wrapping him, easing the material around his knuckles so he can still form a fist. “All I’m saying is Los Angeles is where we need to be if we want to start making any headway in this industry. You know it, and I know it. If we stay here, fighting for chump change every weekend of the year, we’re never gonna end up on cards in Vegas. Joe Rogan ain’t gonna be talking about us on his podcast. This will be it for us. Until Jameson Rayne finally gets knocked the fuck out and makes room for the rest of us, we’ll always be playing second fiddle.”
I don’t give a shit about playing second fiddle. I’m not trying to build a career for myself here. I wouldn’t be fighting at all if I didn’t have Millie to take care of. Ben doesn’t understand this, because he’s young and he has no fucking responsibilities. I may be the same age as him, but I’m fifteen years ahead of him in the dependent stakes, and there’s nothing I can do about that. Every decision I make, every single action, every last move—it’s all for her, and it will be until the day I die. “Whatever, man.” I wrap his other hand while he tries, yet again, to tell me how easy it would be to get a job in LA. How kids Millie’s age always make new friends easy. It’s only when he starts bullshitting about how the hospitals are so much better in Cali and Millie would get better treatment out there that I cut him off.
“Look, dude, I just can’t. I’m sorry. Not right now. Maybe in a year or two. I’m sorry.” Ben can tell from my tone of voice that this is the end of our conversation on the topic. He sighs, thumping his fist into his palm, disappointment rolling off him.
“All right, Mase. But fuck. A year or two’s a long time in the UFC. I don’t know if I can hang around that long.”
“You should go,” I tell him. “Fuck, go and make your name, man. I don’t wanna be the one keeping you here. You don’t owe me anything.”
Ben grumbles. “You’re such an asshole. If you said don’t go, wait for my ass to be ready, then I’d get mad at you and go. But when you say that shit instead, there’s no way I can leave.”
He’s fucking ridiculous. He makes no sense half the fucking time. I punch him in the gut, hard enough that he doubles over, groaning melodramatically. “If you want me to suck your dick, man, it ain’t gonna happen,” I tell him.
Ben howls with laughter. “I already told you, my dick’s chaffed right now. Maybe after I beat Rayne I’ll hit you up for some victory head, though.”
Chapter Seven
MASON
I win my fight, but not without getting my bell rung pretty hard. The guy I’m matched against is a seasoned vet, and I make the mistake of believing he’s flagging in the third round. I get cocky in the fourth, dropping my guard to showcase a little, trying to rile up the crowd some, and that’s when the bastard smashes his fist into the side of my head, right where my jaw bone connects with my skull. They call that the button. The off switch. Get hit hard enough right there and it’s lights out, motherfucker. Thankfully I manage to feint to the left a little, which lessens his blow, otherwise I’d be counting stars and my ass would be hitting the canvas. I stagger back, slamming into the chain link of the cage, and my head starts swimming.
I needed the reality check. I needed to feel the panic that comes with the realization that I might actually lose this fight. It spurs me on, fills me with the anger I need to come back swinging. I take the fucker out at the end of the round, sending him crashing to the ground like falling timber. Most of the time, practiced fighters are on the look out for pile-driver hooks and uppercuts from new guys like me, but they’re not as prepared for back kicks and roundhouses. The crowd screams in disbelief as I plant my foot, pivot and land a powerful kick to the side of his head, knocking him clean out, and that’s it. That’s all she wrote.
Predictably, Ben gets his ass handed to him in the first round. The crowd loves seeing him sail through the air, falling like a bundle of limp, wet rags onto the canvas as his lights go out. Rayne’s a decent sportsman, crouching down beside Ben and waiting until he regains consciousness before he gets up to celebrate, fist pumping and hollering at the masses of people packed around the cage, who chant his name and rattling the chain link, going wild.
I catch the flash of white-blonde hair by the entrance to the cage and I do my best to get the fuck out of there before the owner of the unmistakable pixie cut catches me, but I’m not quick enough. The crowds move out of the way as hurriedly as they can for me, bodies jostling against bodies, people standing on one another’s feet as I slip through them, but they magically part for Kaya Rayne like she’s the queen of fucking Sheba. Her hand is on my shoulder before I can get halfway to the exit.