There’s a crisp feel to the air tonight, but with the number of people pouring in, it won’t last long. Sticky heat will soon suffocate us all. I do what I can to push all of my feelings aside. Tonight is a night of truths. I can only hope I’m ready for them.
Music begins to thump throughout the warehouse. I can’t hear shit unless I’m right on the person. So, eavesdropping is going to be an issue.
Keeping my distance from the majority of spectators, I try to look inconspicuous. My hair is tied up and hidden under the hood of my hoodie. My mask covers most of my face except my eyes. The volume of the music drops until the hard beat has ceased. Everyone in the place goes completely quiet as a guy in a black sports jacket, who looks like all the other big betters here, steps into the cage. He taps the cordless mic. The loud knocking rocks through the surrounding speakers.
“Let’s get our first fight started, shall we?” He looks over to his left. A brooding man with arms crossed over his chest nodsat the announcer. The announcer says, “Looks like we’re ready to start.”
That’s code for all bets have been made.
My gaze travels from one masked figure to the next, searching for one specific person. Even with a mask, Edge would be easy to recognize. At least, that’s what I tell myself. The Venom boys have distinct body types for MMA fighters. In likeness, they have very defined muscles on every inch of their body. The difference they possess is their muscle mass, and they’re several inches taller. It also helps that I’ve memorized Edge’s form, ripped to perfection with an intimidating posture. He won’t be able to hide from me behind his mask.
The first lightweight fighter steps into the cage. The announcer drones on about the fighter’s stats and experience. His opponent is next. Although curious to see their skills, I stay focused on my task of scanning the room.
I don’t see anyone I recognize before the first fight ends. There should be a Venom mask somewhere in the crowd.Where the hell are they?They’re the reason I’m here.
The second lightweight fight is very similar to the first. Although I don’t pay much attention, I can guess the defender is trying to work his way up the ranks. The newcomer thought he could easily remove his opponent but royally underestimated the standing champion.
The middleweight fight is the same as the first two. After the announcer calls the winner, the crowd begins to chant, not for the winners of the lower-class fights but for the one coming up. It’s the real moneymaker. A shit ton of money is on the line. And there’s a chance the winner will move up in the ranks and receive a higher payout. Popularity equals a fatter wallet. To some fighters, it doesn’t matter if they don’t get any credit in the real world. To them, thisisthe real world. They get to do what they love, and they get paid to do it. Win-win.
Unease races up my spine. I stand near the back of the crowd, avoiding whatever attention I can while continuing to look for Edge or any of the other guys. Just as the announcer calls the first fighter of the heavyweights to enter the cage, I see Venom. Five of them huddle on the other side of the octagon. By the looks of their physiques, I determine that they are Gunner, Levi, and Kade. The man in the suit may be a manager or an investor. But from where I’m standing, I can’t be sure. He shakes hands with one of the organizers, who’s wearing a jacket with a snake logo on the pocket.
I don’t see Edge standing with them. My imagination jumps to places I don’t want it to go. I hug my arms around my stomach. The leftover mashed potatoes I ate before coming here threaten to make an appearance of their own.
The announcer stands in the center of the octagon. “Are we ready for the big boys? First, we have our champion, PYTHON!”
The room explodes. Their fists pump in the air as they scream and chant for the murderer himself. Bile rises in my throat. I cover my mouth and force myself to swallow it down.
“Hey, what are you doing back here? You won’t be able to see the fight.” Some guy in a Joker mask grabs my attention.
“I’m fine.”
“Why don’t you come over and hang with me and my friends?” he insists.
Even as badly as I want to see the fight, I’m not going with this guy. “I said I’m fine.”
Not taking no for an answer, he tries to grab my arm. “We’re just right over here.”
His heaving breath smells like stale beer. I refrain from gagging. “Get the fuck off me,” I growl, tearing my arm away from his grip. Trying to avoid a scene, I take off in the opposite direction. I can’t take the chance of Edge or Venom seeing me.
“Bitch,” he calls out as he walks back to his friends.
God, what is it with that guy? And how did he know I’m a girl? Asshole! They come to these fights, and as soon as they cross the threshold, they think they’re instant MMA fighters and invincible, that they can do whatever the fuck they want and to whom.
Piled against the back wall are empty pallets. Since the octagon is in the center of the room, I should be able to see the fight from there. I use an abandoned chair to climb onto the pallets. Once on top of them, I balance to avoid crashing to the ground and creating a huge scene.
I’m so focused on the fighter who killed my dad that I tune out what the announcer says. Python’s snake tattoo slithers down his side as a sick and crippling reminder of what he’s capable of. His oversized gold champion belt rests on his shoulder like a badge of honor. Bile rises in the back of my throat. The killer opens his arms open wide, absorbing all the energy and testosterone the assholes around me exude.
Behind Python, in the shadows, the other fighter shakes his arms to loosen his muscles. He bounces lightly from foot to foot as he rolls his neck. My heart threatens to jump out of my chest. Afraid for the opponent, I wonder if he knows what he signed up for. I bite the tip of my thumbnail and tamp my hand over my bouncing leg.
Someone is going to die tonight. And I can’t bear witness again to the looming horror.
I climb down the pallets when the other fighter comes out of the shadows. The moment he steps into the spotlight, I don’t need the announcer to introduce him to know who it is.
Edge.
I freeze my descent, barely able to hang on to the pile of wood. A tsunami of dread rips through my entire being. I’m trapped between confusion and unadulterated shock as the onslaught of unwanted emotions shreds me into a millionpieces. My right leg hovers without finding purchase. I’m unable to breathe freely with the mask, and my quickening, heated breaths are stifling—suffocating me. My grip tightens around the wood. Splinters pierce my palm. The pallets teeter beneath my weight. None of that matters. All of my resolve to leave is instantly forgotten.
In that sliver of time, everything stops as I pick up the shattered pieces of a distorted and fucked-up puzzle and try to put them into place.Viper.Mask or no mask, I know that Viper and Edge are the same person. It isn’t Edge’s ripped body, the corded muscular arms, the same arms that have held me more times than I can count, that gives him away. Hell, I’ve only ever once seen him without a shirt once, and bitch Brielle was draped across his chest, covering most of it. It isn’t his rigid posture as he crosses his arms over his chest.
