“Yeah. Exactly.”
“It’s okay. I know what that feels like, too. Come on. Let’s get your sister comfortable and we can talk about where we go from here.”
Chapter Two
ZETH
Violence isn’t a choice. It’s a state of being. It’s simply your nature. There’s no running from it. No fucking hiding. And even if there was a way to shake the coding of your DNA and hide from your truth, what would be the point? Being violent feels good. Roaring as you smash your fists over and over into some weak piece of shit’s torso feels good. Watching the blood spray from people’s noses and mouths as your knuckles connect with their faces? Guess what? That feels good, too.
Only a certain few people in this world understand how liberating it feels to pound on someone’s head until they lose consciousness. Likewise, it’s just as liberating to have your head pounded on. At least you know you’re alive. At least you know you’re experiencing everything you can, ‘cause you can feel it no matter what. And that’s what life is, right? Experiencing? Feeling? Bleeding?
My phone’s ringing on the other side of the gym, but I can’t answer it right now. It’s probably Michael, checking in to see if I need him for anything today. I’m midway through handing a Brazilian dude’s ass to him, so the call is gonna have to wait.
Blood hits the canvas. Could be mine. Could be his. Who fucking cares? We are both savages, and we’re both giving in to our most primal urges to dominate. The only difference between me and the guy I’m matched against right now is that I won’t quit. I won’t give in. It’ll be a chilly day in the underworld before that happens. I don’t give a fuck who he is, how big he is, how bad the odds are. I’ll die before I submit.
The Brazilian guy I’ve just tossed against the metal links of the cage I’ve had constructed in the gym spits on the boards and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He jerks his head toward my phone, frowning, sweat running down his face.
“Important? You need to get that?” he gasps.
Why can’t people go three full rounds without trying to come up with an excuse to call a time out? There’s always something: my wraps are coming loose. My eyes are stinging. I can’t remember if I left the oven on at home. These motherfuckers all know what they’re getting into when they step into the cage with me. They’ve all stood by and laughed as I’ve knocked people out cold, broken noses and stripped countless guys of their dignity. But no, they’re convinced they’re going to be the one to put me down. Has to happen sometime, after all, I hear them whispering to each other. Pretty difficult to hear them whispering later, when they’re faces are swollen and bloody like freshly ground meat and their jaws are wired shut. Still, they come back and train. Still, they’re on the doorstep every morning, wanting to spar, to receive more punishment, because they’re intrigued.
I don’t pause to get my phone. My opponent throws up his hands and defends himself at the last second, as if he’s hoping I’ll change my mind and turn my back on the fight after all. I rain down a succession of jabs on him that probably don’t hurt all that much but are hard enough to daze him. He can’t know which way is up. When I pause, bringing my own clenched fist back up into a guard position, my opponent straightens, relieved the assault is over from the look on his face, only to drop like a sack of shit to the floor when I power my right knee up and drive it into his side.
Suck on that, asshole.
He makes a gasping, sucking noise, wheezing helplessly on the ground as I stalk around him, considering my options. He probably has at least two broken ribs right now. Do I give him chance to tap out on the fight, or should I be merciless? I could get down and grapple with him, easily getting him in a chokehold while he’s vulnerable. It would be lights out for Mr. Brazil in less than eight seconds if he doesn’t do something beside flop around like a fish out of water.
My phone is still ringing.
If I don’t choke him out, I could always get him in an arm bar. Break that shit, too. I pace around him like a lion, looking for other possibilities.
My phone begs for attention.
I could get him in mount. Lean on his chest. Make him gasp some more. I could straddle the fucker and have done with him once and for all. Nothing like some ground and pound to finish a fight quickly. The guy rolls onto his good side, curling his knees into his chest, his eyes rolling, the whites visible. He must be in a shitload of pain.