mav·er·ick
/ˈmav(ə)rik/
Noun - An unorthodox or independent-minded person.
Adjective – Unorthodox.
People pressed in on the ropes, cheering wildly.
Two women stood in the ring. Red and Black.
The fighters.
Red swung right, clipped Black’s jaw. Black forced the pain away and ducked as Red lunged, then spun and approached from behind while Red stumbled. Black locked her arm around Red’s neck and pulled it back with her right hand, cutting off her opponent’s oxygen. Red fell to her knees and Black fell with her. Red’s nails clawed at Black’s neck, tugged at her hair, but her attempts to be freed were weak, just as she was growing weak.
A minute passed. A minute and a half, and she was out.
Black didn’t allow her arm to linger; she knew that what was doing was illegal enough as it was, a murder charge wasn’t needed for her to realize that.
A man skidded under the ropes and onto the mat. Black didn’t recognize him. Every time it was a new man, a new face. A new idiot who wanted to move up the ranks in crime.
“Winner! Black is the winner!” he shouted in victory. He held her hand up as high as he could, and he forced her to turn in a circle while the crowd raged on.
The black X that was painted on her stomach was smeared with sweat, and she disregarded both it and the man gripping her hand.
She raised her fist, pumped it once and pulled her hand away from the announcer with enough force to tell him that she was done.
He shot her a dirty look that she wasn’t supposed to catch, and she paused to glare at him. He paled and looked away, and she nodded in quiet triumph.
She ducked under the ropes. As soon as she did, screaming and sweaty men and women pressed up against her, screaming in her ear over the noise.
She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. These people knew that; they’d seen her more than enough times to realize this.
She just didn't care.
She walked away from the mat and the people began to thin out.
In the warehouse, a dozen rings were set up. In each raised ring stood two people, and that’s what the people wanted to see.
She walked through the crowds that huddled around each, through unoccupied space between each mat.
People screamed in adrenaline rushes, shouted with glee or roared with anger or triumph. Bets were placed, drinks were sold and women teetered on high heels as their men leered at them.
She ignored it.
In the beginning, this atmosphere had excited her. It was like being on a race track, being part of the action; in the dirty heart of it. But fight after fight had worn in on her, and she was disillusioned.
This was no glamorous race. This was no allusion to Muhammad Ali. This was nothing but sore bodies and dodging the law.
That thought ran through her mind as she wound around the strategically placed rings in the warehouse, which was also placed strategically in the middle of nowhere.
“Excuse me?” a man interrupted her thoughts.
“Yes?” she replied.
He was tall, taller than her own five feet and eleven inches. Black hair that you so rarely saw outside of a bottle fell shaggily down to his shoulders, and startling blue eyes stared at her intently from their place over sharp cheekbones.
“You’re … ?” he trailed off.
“Maverick,” she said coolly.
His eyebrows rose.
“Maverick, eh? Is that your real name?” he asked curiously.
“It is when I’m here,” she said.
He nodded, and looked away as if preoccupied. It gave her a moment to study him.
He dressed nicely, like most of the men there. Slacks of a dark material and a blue shirt under a black jacket. The lights in the warehouse weren’t great, it added to the atmosphere, but she could plainly see they were of a good quality.
“So are you someone who can take me to Variable?” he asked nonchalantly.
Her blood ran cold in her veins. Her heart stuttered and immediately she smoothed her face into a blank mask before it could show her fear, her dread.
“You want Variable?” she asked.
He nodded seriously.
She changed the direction of her gaze to near one of the other mats. Two tall, bulky men stood with their arms crossed over their chests. At the moment, they were both looking at her.
She knew them both, and the taller one raised an eyebrow.
She nodded.
Immediately, the two of them stepped forward, and reached them within seconds.
“Any trouble here?” they asked gruffly.
“The stranger here wants to meet Variable,” she said.
The taller of the two, Oxford, gave her an odd look, and she shrugged in return.
“What do you want with Variable?” he demanded.
The stranger gave him a long look.
“I’m out of here,” she grumbled.
“No, you’re not.” The stranger spoke without looking at her.
Her skin prickled.
“Yes, I am. I don’t want in on your bullshit,” she said plainly.
She stepped away, and the stranger put his hand on her arm.
She went utterly still, and Oxford made a move towards the stranger. She shook her head sharply.
“What’s your name, stranger?” she asked quietly.
“You can call me William,” he said in a friendly way.
She nodded, and feigned turning away.
When she hit him, he never saw it coming. One second he was standing and perfectly okay, and the next he was on the ground while blood gushed from his nose out of his fingers.
She knelt on one knee next to him, and the concrete floors felt cool against her bare skin.
“William, let me give you a piece of advice. You don’t ever touch me. You don’t ever have the right to. You even think about touching me again, and I’ll shove your head so much further up your ass that the doctors will always remember that sorry son of a bitch that choked on his own bullshit,” her voice was cold, unaffected and unnatural. That’s the way it needed to be; that’s the only way she would survive.
William said nothing; he didn’t have the time to. She straightened and nodded to Oxford.
“Speak to Variable about him. I’m out of here,” she mumbled.
Oxford nodded at her and she turned and left while William’s blood dried on her knuckles.
