Draw the Line

chapter thirty-two

Shoving a lung full of damp, smoke-drenched air into my lungs, I set my gaze on the ring and try to clear my head of honey eyes, strawberry kisses, and yellow paint-dappled fingers.

"You're late." Seth chucks the roll of black athletic tape to me.

"No shit, Sherlock. If you gave me more than thirty fucking minutes of warning, I'd get here faster." I wrap the black tape around my left wrist and up my hands to my knuckles, stretching out my fingers to make sure I have solid movement.

"This one wasn't my fault. The original fighter on the card tonight bailed when he saw it was Hayden Prince he was up against." Seth adjusts the toothpick between his teeth, shifting it to the other side of his mouth as he winks at one of the girls standing close by. He's got a shiny new watch on his wrist — a ten-thousand-dollar watch, to be exact. It's the same one Luke wears. Only this one looks second-hand. I shake my head at the realization that he probably bought it with his cut of my winnings.

What I'd give to be able to spend my money like that. To wear it on my wrist rather than watch it disappear into an endless pit of medical expenses and bills.

"You should know, Hayden Prince isn't a casual fighter down here. He's not a regular. My cousin told me he trains at RoundOne in Winter Hill under one of the best trainers in—"

"I know." I cut him off, slicing the tape with my teeth. I've heard of him. I watched one of his fights at a boxing event with my brothers over the summer. He wasn't a headliner at the time — mostly just there to keep the crowd entertained in one of the smaller fights on the card before the main event. But even then, I could tell he was talented. He was studied. A stylist, as my dad would say. Someone who doesn't just rely on just their strength to get the job done — although he could, with how fucking damaging his hits are. They have refined technique. A solid knowledge of their game and their opponents. Damn good ring generalship. And most of all, they're patient. A deadly combination in the ring.

He's exactly what my dad trained me to be. A mirror image of how I fight.

"I've watched a few of his fights online. He's a power-hitter but with some of the best technique I've ever seen. His hits land, man. And they're fucking brutal."

Wrapping my right wrist, the ache in my chest tightens as the small braided bracelet disappears beneath the black tape. There one second and gone the next, just like the girl who gave it to me.

His hits land, man. And they're fucking brutal.

"Good." My laugh is humorless, stark against the graveled contrast of my voice. I toss Seth the leftover roll of tape and turn to find Hayden Prince's cold eyes bearing into me from the center of the ring. I hold his stare as I duck under the ropes and step into the spotlight illuminating the ring. My voice is lost in the palaver of the makeshift arena as I admit, "I'm counting on that."

The focused silence that always surrounds me when I step into a ring has an undeniable sense of solace to it — a comfort, a familiarity. Though the ache in my chest is muted, it doesn't entirely disappear, and the realization makes me want to fucking scream. I've been desperate to numb this feeling, and no amount of liquor has helped to ease the discomfort. Being here right now — stepping into this ring and drowning in the adrenaline of it all — was my last hope of finding some sort of emotional procaine.

Offering my hand to Hayden, I nearly smile at the twinge in my arm as he shakes it, gripping my palm hard enough to feel my bones nearly shifting under the pressure.

"Heard a lot about you, Caustic. Why don't you take off that mask for me? Show me that pretty face." He flashes a casual smile — a perfect mask of indifference. Of pure, unadulterated composure.