The brute slams straight into the graffiti-tagged concrete wall that encloses the sunken fighting pit. His agonised bellow is like a shot of liquid dopamine straight into my heart muscle.
“Argh!” he roars.
Moving in, I run fast at his wide, scarred back. My bare feet springboard off the ground, sending me flying through the air until I latch onto him like a violent spider monkey.
With my bootie short clad thighs wrapped around his midsection, I scissor his neck with my arms. I’m slimmer than him but strong and muscled enough to choke the bastard out given a chance.
He spins around and slams backwards, crashing me against the concrete he just headbutted. Intense agony sprints along my spine from the impact, forcing the air from my lungs.
“Fuck!” I wheeze.
His response is a garbled tangle of Portuguese I can’t comprehend, but he sounds smug. I cling on when he moves again, arms wringing. Muscles straining. Chest heaving. I ridethe asshole’s back like my life depends on it—because it fucking does.
I’ve lost enough fights to fear the consequences. The punishments were so severe, I’d rather die in the ring than lose again. After the first loss, Gael whipped me until I couldn’t move for a week. But my worst defeat left me out of action for months with a life-changing injury.
Each slam into the solid wall feels like it’s going to shatter my skeleton, causing every single part of me to rattle. I can already feel the vivid black clouds that will soon mark my skin.
“Die, fucking bitch!” he bellows.
Now that I understood.
“Never!” I holler back.
His power is reducing. Each backwards hit carries less weight. The more he tires, the louder the baying crowd looking down on the enclosed pit screams their heads off.
All they want is a show. I’ve built a fearsome reputation for providing exactly that. Some hurl beers while others slam their fists against the chain-links high above.
“768! 768! 768!”
That’s who I am now.
Three motherfucking numbers.
The next collision hits a weak spot in my back, the strained muscle still healing from a recent fight. A young, travelling American who I fought wanted to make a quick buck by kicking the shit out of me.
My tight cinch around my opponent’s neck falters, causing my bodyweight to lurch dangerously. I fall sideways, tumbling off his back and smashing hard into the ground.
His massive bulk is on top of me before I can suck in a stunned breath. The first punch hits my stomach, opening up a canyon of sizzling agony that rips through my organs.
Spittle and saliva smack me in the face each time he swings his fist, finding a new, unobstructed part of me to pummel. My tight sports bra leaves him a myriad of visible targets.
Smack.
Smack.
Smack.
Desperately searching around me, I spot a chunk of dislodged concrete that’s escaped. The piece is slim and jagged, but I bet I can jam it somewhere.
When his fist slams into my jaw, my teeth click together so hard, I worry that my molars will split wide open. Tears involuntarily pour from my eyes.
He smirks, enjoying the sight.“Tá fodido.”
I spit blood that’s pooled on my tongue. “I don’t speak asshole.”
“You… fucked,” he enunciates.
“Not quite.”
