She shrugs, smiles, tired but victorious. “And here I am, still standing.”
“I gotta kick people out of the club.”
“And I have to go home. I’m not sure my feet have ever hurt this much.”
I look down—she’s wearing Converse All-Stars with little designs on them. “Cute shoes,” I remark. “Shit for being on your feet all day, though.”
“Oh? What would you recommend?”
I shrug. “Combat boots. Expensive ones.”
“They’re not really my style,” she says.
I shrug again. “Ugly-ass nonslip kitchen shoes. Something with cushion and arch support.”
Her eyes search my face. “I think this is the nicest you’ve been to me, so far.”
“Yet you keep coming back for more.”
“Never claimed to be smart.” Her hand lifts, and her fingers ghost over my fat, split lip. “Why’d you fight, Rev?” Her voice is soft, tender; hits me in the gut, and twists there like a knife.
I show her the stack of money. “This.”
Her brow furrows. “Money?”
I nod, pocket the stack. “Plus, we had that fight planned for months. Other guy got sick. Someone had to fill in or the club would lose a shit-ton of money. People paid to be in that room for a fight, so they got a fight.”
“I thought you could go into Fisticuffs for free, once you were in the club?”
“Usually, yeah,” I say. “Planned, promoted, paid fight, you gotta pay a cover.”
“Why is there no ref? And you don’t wear gloves, or a mouthguard.”
I turn away, head for the stairs to our quarters; she follows, and I let her. “It’s underground fighting, Myka. It’s not a boxing match, it’s a cage fight. It’s not MMA, it’s not UFC. It ain’t exactly legal, either.”
“This place isn’t exactly invisible, so how do you get away with it?”
“Well, it’s way the hell out here and hard to find. And unless you know it’s here, you’d never know about it. Word of mouth only. So do officials know about it? Sure. No one ever dies, sues, or makes trouble for the club, so they leave us alone. There’re other reasons they leave us be, too. Lots of ‘em, if you know what I mean. Long as we don’t get loud about it, they let us run our shit our way.”
“That doesn’t explain why there’s no ref or gloves or anything.”
“Because it’s not boxing. It’s fighting. Bare-knuckle fighting, old-school. Two guys go into the cage of their own free will and beat the shit out of each other until one of ‘em gives up. No gloves because gloves are to protect the hands, not the face. You can tape your hands if you want. I don’t. No ref because again, it ain’t an official thing. No rules.”
“There are no rules at all?”
I shrug. “Nah. Gentleman code, maybe. Like, no nut shots, no eye gouging. But those aren’t rules.”
“What would happen if someone did one of those things in a match?” she asks.
We’re at my room. I open the door and she follows me in—fine by me.
I drop my shorts, facing her. Her eyes widen, fix on my cock, and then she turns around hurriedly. I can’t help a laugh. I tug on my black BDU pants, club-logo shirt, socks, and boots. Speed-lace the boots.
Dressed, I answer her question. “If some dumbfuck tried that shit with me, they’d leave the cage on a stretcher.”
“Oh,” she whispers.
“Yeah, princess. Oh.” She’s still turned around, and I grab her shoulders and spin her in place. Pinch her tender, soft little chin in my finger and thumb. “Go home, Myka. Get a different job. Stay away from me.”
