Right Hook (Gaslight series) COMPLETE

61| Whiskey, lies and bare-knuckle boxing

Max ♕
________________

The fight is in the basement of a rundown gym called Club One. It's risky as hell – not to mention illegal – but turning down Khalil's latest offer to make money was a luxury I couldn't afford. What he didn't count on, I'm sure, was me getting wasted beforehand.

I sit at the bar, staring blankly at the amber liquid swirling in my glass. The air is thick with the scent of alcohol, mixed with the musk of cologne and sweat, but I'm fighting to drown it out. Tonight, I'm drowning a lot of things, including my sorrows.

Maybe it's unhealthy, and maybe the killer hangover in the morning will make me regret it, but right now, it's hard to give a shit. Distractions haven't worked, and neither has focusing my efforts on training. Maybe alcohol will.

I can feel the weight of my phone in my pocket, the constant temptation to check for a message or a missed call from Alyssa. But I resist, knowing that it will only make things worse. Instead, I focus on the details around me, taking in the sports memorabilia and framed photographs on the wall, desperate to forget. But I can't.

She's all I think about.

I put down my glass and – for the millionth time – think back to last week and the hatred in her eyes as she tried her best to hurt me. The real pain, though, never came from her punches. It came from her telling me I did her a favor.

I'd known it, obviously – it's the reason I'd left in the first place – but part of me held onto the thought that maybe I was wrong. Maybe a lifetime of misery had clouded my vision, and I wasn't so terrible. Clearly, I was wrong.

The bartender pours me another drink, his eyes avoiding mine. I wonder if he's seen this before, if he can tell I'm drowning my sorrows. I wonder if he thinks I'm pathetic. I sure as hell do.

With a heavy sigh, I shift in my barstool to swiftly scan the room. Somewhere in this godforsaken club, Khalil is trying and failing to get a date, which marginally lifts my spirits. It's his fault I'm here, though if I'm being honest with myself, it didn't take much convincing.

It never has.

I'm ashamed to say the underground circuit is not something I'm unfamiliar with. The days after Dad bailed, I'd been looking for trouble, and I found it in bare-knuckle boxing. The brutality, the lack of rules – it was as if the cage set free this monster I'd been trying to suppress, and instead of being horrified, people cheered, which was why I loved every second.

Nowadays, the thought of returning to that place is scary as hell, but it's not like I have much choice. The hours I'm putting into training means there's little time to fit in deliveries, and I'm already strapped for cash. If I win this fight, it's quick, tax-free money that goes straight into my pocket. Easy – I hope.

As Khalil strolls up to another group of women, I feel my jaw clench, suddenly reminded of the night Alyssa first watched me fight. I'd picked her out of the crowd with ease, could feel her dark eyes as they watched me in the ring, and even though she'd caught my attention, there was no way in hell I could have predicted what would happen. What, one day, I'd lose. Everything, by the way. It feels like I've lost everything.

Before I can drown even further in my sorrows, Khalil slips onto the barstool beside me and takes in the line of empty shot glasses. "Oh, Jesus. You said you were only ordering two. Are you sure drinking before the fight is a good idea?"

"I'll be fine."

His eyes darken, and he gives me that look as if I'm made of glass. The pity look. Running a hand along his jaw, he says, "Look, maybe I was wrong to spring this on you. If you've changed your mind–"