Part 57 (2/2)
We don't even say anything. We just lie together on the sofa for so long... I don't even know how long.
”I hate you,” I eventually say.
”No you don't,” he tells me.
I wriggle out from under him, rush to the bathroom to clean up.
And then I leave without saying goodbye, leave him naked on the sofa, somehow feeling even worse than before.
Chapter Thirty.
She's not here!
It's midway through the fight, and I'm bleeding from a cut above my brow. There's a doctor on site, and he dabs away at it.
”I can see your bone,” he says. ”I need to close this cut.”
”Fine. No shots.” My voice is hoa.r.s.e. I took an upper cut that missed my jaw, but got me in the throat. My vocal chords feel bruised.
”You hung over, Pierce?”
I stare at the doctor. ”No.”
”You sure? You coming down? You pop some pills last night?”
”No. I don't do f.u.c.king pills.”
”If you have, I'm going to have to disqualify you. Fallon and that Russian gave me specific instructions. I can't let the fight go on if it's not a fair fight. If you're not all there-”
”I'm all there,” I tell him frostily.
”You're lucky they're letting me patch you up. You wouldn't be able to see otherwise.”
I glare at the doc and bark, ”Close the f.u.c.king cut!”
Breath comes rus.h.i.+ng out of my mouth, a frustrated exhale. She didn't come!
I look around the stands again, scan the faces. I recognize a lot of people, but I can't find Penny anywhere. I honestly thought she'd come to this fight. I honestly believed she'd f.u.c.king come.
The crowd is silent, a far cry from the usual atmosphere of one of my fights. They're silent because I'm getting beat. They've never seen Pierce motherf.u.c.king Fletcher bleed like this before.
And I can't even feel the pain in my head, nor do I even notice the worried or even disappointed looks of the people who came here to see me win.
All I can think about is whether or not Penny will turn up.
G.o.d f.u.c.king d.a.m.n it, she's shaken me.
”You're not doing too well tonight, Pierce.”
”I'll be fine.”
”Then why am I looking at a cut that will need eight st.i.tches, a half-dozen bad bruises, and a busted lip?”
”Just off my game.”
”Off your game? I've watched you fight two dozen times, mate. Off is an understatement.”
”Great,” I say. ”A f.u.c.king fan.”
”Never seen you like this. Talk to me, son. What's up?”
I glare into the forty-something man's eyes. Son. That's when I notice his body; wiry-thin. That's when I notice his hair; all-white. That's when I notice his nose; he looks like a f.u.c.king toucan.
”What are you?” I spit. ”My f.u.c.king therapist?”
”You're getting your a.r.s.e kicked out there, buddy, and you don't even realize it.”
”I realize it.”
”So if you don't want to talk to me about it, then you better d.a.m.n well sort it the f.u.c.k out. If you agreed to this fight, then you better belt up and f.u.c.king fight!”
”Save your s.h.i.+tty speech,” I tell him. ”And do your f.u.c.king job.”
He sighs, lifts up the surgical suture needle, and presses it against my skin. ”This will hurt. Are you sure you don't want a shot? Listen, I can't stick this closed. I have to sew it.”
”Just hurry the f.u.c.k up,” I growl at him.
He pushes it through my skin. It's like I feel it, but I don't. The skin tightens, each p.r.i.c.k pulls. But it's not painful. It's the adrenaline... it's... my distraction.
The pain is delayed, comes when he's nearly finished. But my body kick-starts its own internal process to numb the pain. Soon it no longer stings. Soon, it's just a dull ache that throbs to my heartbeat.
”All done.”
”Good,” I say, getting up off the stool. ”Don't f.u.c.king call me 'son'.”
I step into the cage. The crowd grows tense, electric. They're not used to seeing me struggle. They are not used to seeing blood on my face.
But I'm going to win this f.u.c.king fight. Sure, I took a punch, a knee, and a kick, but I'm still standing, still ready to fight, still ready to dance until this motherf.u.c.king Russian beast goes down.
Anton Vasilev has been walking around the steel cage while I got st.i.tched up. The f.u.c.king beefcake of a man trod in my blood, smeared it all over the mat. Now he watches with a grin as two men run in quickly and wipe the floor down. Red turns to pink, and then all my blood is gone, staining white, fluffy towels instead.
A bell dings, we tap taped fists, and then I'm dancing around him, bouncing forward and backward. The f.u.c.ker's got thighs like thunder, he wants to leg lock me, get me down onto the mat. He's going to kick, try to get me retreating, off-balance. He knows I'll dodge it; the kick is a feint. I antic.i.p.ate he'll spin into me, try to lock my arm, get on my back.
The kick comes, aimed at my ribs. I side-step out of its path, slapping his leg away. I see his spin before he starts. He spins on his heel, brings his arms out to catch my still-outstretched hand. For such a huge man, he's deceptively fast.