Kellan (4 page)

Thom sat forward,
a brow raised. “Lots of muscles, huh?”

It was my turn to
roll my eyes. “Give it up, Thom. He’s straight. Besides, aren’t you engaged?” I
nodded to the simple band on his finger.

“That doesn’t stop
me from looking,” Thom replied with a grin. “But yeah, could be your guy is
part of some glorified Fight Club, especially if he’s looking to make a buck.
Those pay out pretty good. Or they do, if you have the right manager. A lot of
the guys in charge skim a hefty fee off the top, whether their fighters know it
or not. It’s a corrupt business—happens, when you don’t have any regulations to
worry about.”

“They fleece their
fighters? Isn’t that dangerous?”

Thom shrugged.
“Only if they get caught. Besides, most of these guys are desperate. They’re
one accident or act of God away from living on the streets. And if they’ve come
out of the military, they’re used to following orders. When you’ve got someone
in charge telling you that you need them, who is seemingly taking a chance on
you, doing what no one else would, that tends to breed loyalty, however
inappropriate.”

I wondered if that
was the situation Kellan was in. He didn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d let
anybody get one over on him, but if he didn’t know it was happening…

“How many of them
are veterans, do you think?” I asked Thom.

He considered for
a moment. “Probably more than few,” he came up with at last. “So, your angle is
that Senator MacFarlane’s failure to support this bill has doomed these
veterans to putting their lives on the line again?”

I nodded
emphatically. “That’s
exactly
it. And if I can get this guy to talk, I
can put a real face to the problem.”
A real handsome face,
I added
inwardly, though I was betting Thom had picked up on that already.

“This could be
good for both of us,” he mused. Then he grinned. “All right, Parker. I’m in. As
long as you understand I’m getting a slice of the pie, too. From a sports
angle, anyway.”

“Not my
department, not my problem,” I said, holding out my hand for us to shake on it.

Thom clasped my
palm tightly, then stood up and grabbed his blazer from the back of his chair.
“I’ll tell Melanie we’re taking off early,” he told me. “We’ll need to gather
some intel before we can find your guy.” He eyed me. “You might want to change.
If we’re headed into the belly of the beast, you’ll be much safer if you don’t
stand out.”

Thom was right. In
my work attire, I would look suspicious as hell. But what was I supposed to
wear? It wasn’t as if my closet was teeming with halter tops and leather pants.

Something
low-cut,
I thought as Thom walked down the hall to
Melanie’s office.
Kellan likes that kind of thing. I think.

There was only one
way to know for sure. And in just a few hours, I was going to find out.

~
FIVE ~

Kellan

“You got this, Killer. Make it
happen. I don’t have to tell you there’s a lot at stake.”

I glanced at Vic
as I finished taping up my hands. They’d taken a real beating lately, and I
probably shouldn’t have agreed to another fight so soon after my last bout, but
I had a lot on my mind lately, and planting my fist in some sucker’s face was a
great way to forget about it all.

Ever since I’d met
that woman at The Sly Fox, I hadn’t been able to get her out of my head. Parker
Jones, the goody-two-shoes with her pretty blonde hair and soft, full lips. The
sweetness of her breath haunted my dreams, and every time I closed my eyes, I
saw those perfect tits of hers gleaming in the dim light of the bar. Fuck, my
cock ached just thinking about it. I ground my teeth. I didn’t need to get
hard—not now.

It was no use.
Thinking of Parker got me hard every single time. Vic must’ve noticed, because
he chuckled and shook his bald head at me. “Get your head in the game, Killer.
You can get your dick wet after you’ve won.”

I grunted and
adjusted myself on the bench. He was right, obviously, but that was easier said
than done. I hadn’t so much as jerked off since I heard I’d be going up against
Herman “The Herminator” Gomez. It was a stupid-ass name, but the guy was a
beast. He’d been undefeated in his weight class so far, but then again, he’d
never come up against me.

Still, it was bad
luck to fuck before a fight. So I’d kept my hands to myself. And if everything
went the way I planned, I’d see Jasmine or some other ring chick in the
winner’s room tonight. I could quench my thirst then.

It wouldn’t be as
good as banging Parker, but I could use my imagination.

Fuck, what was
wrong with me? I’d known that girl hardly two minutes, and I was obsessing over
her. We were no good for each other—I was
definitely
no good for her.
Maybe that last fucker I’d KO’d had hit me harder than I thought. Maybe I
should’ve seen a doctor.

Vic sat down next
to me. “What’s goin’ on with you, huh? You got girl trouble?”

“Not exactly,” I
muttered. Vic was an all right guy. He’d practically saved me from the streets
after my last bouncer gig fell through, and he’d never asked for much in
return. But I wasn’t the confiding type, and talking to anyone, even him, was
hard. “It’s not important.”

“It is if it makes
you lose,” Vic replied, but I shook my head at him.

“I’m good, Vic.
Promise.” I stood up, planting my fist into my palm. “I just need to get in a
good hit or two, and I’ll forget all about it. Trust me, you’ve got nothing to
worry about.”

“That’s my boy,”
Vic said, standing up beside me and clapping me on the back. He only came up to
my chin and I winced as the blow jarred one of my kidneys. I’d taken more than
a few shots to my flanks during my last fight, and I was still recovering. “You
get out there and show this dumbass ‘Herminator’ he’s not the big-shot he
thinks he is, huh?”

“Will do,” I said,
once again adjusting my shorts. I couldn’t walk out there with a semi. At least
thinking of that dick bag’s face was enough to cool the blood rushing downtown.
“Hear there’s a nice purse on this one.”

“It’s damn good
money, Killer. Damn good,” Vic affirmed as he walked me to the door. “And hey,
I hear Jasmine’s back in the ring tonight. You must’ve done a number on her.
She picked up this shift just for you. Lucky bastard.”

Yeah. Lucky. I
could have whatever girl I wanted—or at least, whichever one had signed up for
this kind of party tonight. Any girl except Parker Jones, the one who got my
dick hard like nobody else. I ignored the smarting in my balls and took a deep
breath as I let Vic drape my hood and robe over me.

The crowd was
thick tonight. That was no surprise. The Herminator was an underground
celebrity, and I was coming into my own right along with him. We were both
undefeated, but Herman had been at this a lot longer than me. My guess was that
the smart money was on him, which meant I was going to disappoint a lot of
people tonight, because I had no intention of breaking my winning streak.

I’d been doing
this for months, and still the short walk out to the ring made my insides
twist. Hearing my name and Herman’s chanted among a cacophony of whistles and
unintelligible shouts made my pulse pound in my ears. It was all so deafening,
and not at all unlike the chaos of a battlefield.

I swallowed
thickly and tried not to let my nerves get to me. I was a weapon. A machine.
This was what I was born and bred for. What I was meant to do.

I stepped into the
makeshift ring and tossed my robe aside in Vic’s general direction. I flexed,
refusing to wince as my bruised ribs protested the movement. I was still
sporting my last fight’s injuries whereas Herman, across from me, looked like
he hadn’t seen a fight in weeks. I wasn’t sure who had the advantage there:
him, obviously well-rested, or me, more freshly experienced.

“Good luck,”
Jasmine said. She was on my left, leaning over the ropes of the raised ring.
She blew me a kiss. She had way too much eye makeup on tonight. “See you in the
winner’s room, Killer.”

I gave her a
noncommittal shrug in return, and that seemed to only make her panties wetter.
I shook my head. I’d never understand chicks like that. Not ever.

There wasn’t a
whole lot of fanfare in underground fighting, not like you see on pay-per-view
boxing matches or in legit MMA. There’s no announcer to get the crowd going, no
pomp and circumstance, no profiles of each of the fighters. That shit all gets
hashed out while people are still placing their bets, and since this shit is
illegal, time is usually of the essence. No sense wasting precious minutes
blabbing when the crowd could be getting what they came for, not to mention we
were less likely to get busted if we didn’t hang around all goddamn night
drawing attention to ourselves.

So now that I was
on the mat, robe off, fists clenched, the fight was about to begin. The
Herminator stood up and we both came to the center to quickly bump fists, the
ref reminding us of a few ground rules.

“No eye gouges. No
kicks to the balls. And what I say goes. Got it?”

The Herminator and
I both nodded. Easy enough to remember. We’d only heard it about a thousand
times.

The Herminator was
a big damn guy up close. I couldn’t believe this fucker and I were in the same
weight class. He was taller, with shoulders the size of my head, and a mean
look in those black eyes of his, something that seemed not even human. He had a
reputation for ruthlessness, even more than I did. I guessed my advantage would
be agility. I couldn’t let him get in a hit, otherwise this was gonna be a
disaster.

We backed up a
respectable distance and I put my hands up.
Don’t let ‘em drop,
I
reminded myself—elementary shit that was easy to forget when you got tired or
were in the moment. You had to protect yourself at all times, ‘cause nobody
else would, and you didn’t wanna miss an opportunity for a knockout because
you’d let your guard down.

I heard the bell
and let Herman come for me, first, dancing around him on the balls of my feet
as we sized each other up. He feinted a right hook and I dodged, which earned
me some jeers from the crowd. Fuck those guys. I bet none of them ever took a
hit to the jaw like I had. It fucking sucked.

The Herminator
kept his eyes on me, seemingly an endless font of endurance. He was sharp, too,
studying my every move, adjusting his tactics and position based on my
reactions. I was going to have to stay light on my feet and switch it up if I
wanted to make it out of this one with the purse. I kept my breathing even and
tried to move a little less. This guy was giving me one hell of a calisthenics
workout.

Herman swung high
and I ducked, putting me at the perfect level to shove my fist into his ribs.
The crowd roared as I knocked the wind out of his lungs—a damn lucky hit—and
came in a second time on the other side while he was stunned. He stumbled back
and I kicked his knee hard, dropping him to the mat. A chorus of shrieks met my
ears as I dove to pin him, but Herman swung a leg over me and rolled, forcing
me onto my back.

Shit.
Shit, shit, shit!

I raised my arms
up over my face and let him whale on me a while. They weren’t easy hits to
take, even on my bulky forearms. I still took a few to the head, though they
were glancing blows. When Herman reared up for a much harder strike, I flinched
out of the way and let his fist hit the mat, throwing him off balance enough
for me to bring in a hit to his kidneys.

Herman hissed and
I scrambled out from beneath him, rolling to my feet. I put my hands up again
and was glad I did, because this fucker was fast. I just barely blocked a right
cross that would’ve dropped me for sure, and if he got me on the ground again,
I wasn’t sure I’d be able to get up. He was heavy and a goddamn powerhouse. And
he didn’t look like he would tire out anytime soon.

Just
keep moving,
I told myself, dodging another
swing. I heard the force of it whistle past my ear.
Make him work for it.
Don’t let him pin you down.

Herman got in a
couple more body blows during the first round. They hurt like hell, especially
on my injured ribs, and I was desperately trying not to favor my right side and
show him any weakness. The pain was distracting, though, and I knew I was
losing steam. Herman, on the other hand, was cool, calm, and collected as ever.
He was a machine.

But goddammit, I
was an animal. I could do this. I had to do this. Killer Kellan wasn’t gonna
lose to some dipshit with a name as stupid as the Herminator. So when round one
ended, I sat down on the stool in the corner of the ring and took a breather,
ignoring Vic’s pep talk and focusing instead on what I had to do.

Focus.
Focus. Focus…

I was staring so
intently at my target that I barely even heard the bell. I let myself fall into
that trance I used to get into during weapons training. When you fired a gun,
you had to let your target consume you. All that existed at that moment was you
and them—your weapon was just an extension of your willingness to maim, to
kill.

I let my fists be
that desire now, and when I leapt full-force at Herman fucking Gomez, that
monster’s blank slate of a face actually looked surprised.

I wasn’t fucking
around anymore. I had to drop this bastard, and soon, or I was going to get
dropped. I came at his face, at his belly, at his legs, never striking at the
same place twice. Herman was off his guard and trying to keep up with my
lightning-quick precision, and the crowd was loving it. They were screaming
their fucking heads off. I went in for the kill.

Putting everything
I had behind it, I slammed my knuckles straight into the underside of The
Herminator’s jaw. His knees buckled and he went down hard, head bouncing off
the mat. I surged down to pin him.

I straddled his
hips so tight there was no way he was getting his legs over me and started the
ground-and-pound, giving him no quarter. A few blows connected and blood
sprayed over my mouth. I tasted it and felt that rush of joy, like I used to
feel back in the days of my drug binges. I was alive. I was fulfilling my
purpose. I was downright
murderous.

Herman Gomez was
lolling. His defenses were getting weaker and weaker. He dropped his arms and I
pulled back to smash his face as the crowd around me roared, like they weren’t
even people anymore, but some dark creature undulating and slithering out past
the edge of the mat. I lifted my head for just a second to look at them, like a
gladiator asking permission to deliver the final blow. I was met with shrill
cheers and the sound of my name—not my real one, but the one that they called
me, the name they
gave
me like I was the bogeyman that haunted their
dreams.

Killer!
Killer! Killer! Killer! Killer! Killer…!

I prepared to
bring my fist down right into the center of Herman’s face.

But then I saw
her, and all reason left me. There, in the crowd, was Parker Jones, clinging to
some guy’s arm as she watched me with wide, unblinking eyes. I’d know those
baby blues anywhere. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t seen her before. She didn’t
fit in here; it was like watching an angel from on high wallow in filth.

And suddenly, that
name wasn’t encouragement anymore. It was an accusation; a portrait of who and
what I was. It was an insult, spat from the mouths of every person I’d ever
hurt, ever shot out there in the desert. I saw their faces now, shadows lurking
at the edges of Parker’s radiant glow.

Killer!
Killer! Killer! Killer!

My stomach turned.
I put my fist down.

And Herman,
seizing the opportunity, shot up and head-butted me so hard he broke my fucking
nose.

Light burst in
front of my eyes as I reeled backward, landing hard on my side. He’d split my
lip too, the bastard. There was blood everywhere; my eyes were tearing, turning
the world blurry, and the frenzy of movement that followed was too indistinct
for me to mount a proper defense.