Part 58 (1/2)

But I know what he's going to do, maybe even before he does. I grab his leading arm, and punch his elbow. It doesn't dislocate, but his body jolts, and he retreats a little, shaking his hand. I've probably numbed it.

The noise-level rises. Girls begin chanting my name. Everybody who has money on me suddenly looks a little less worried. They start seeing dollar signs.

I grin at Anton, sucking on my mouth guard. ”Come on,” I say, beckoning him with my fingers. ”Use your f.u.c.king fists.”

He doesn't take the bait; but I don't expect him to, either. I want him to think I'm a talker. I've been nattering at him all night. People usually talk when they're scared. I want him to think I'm scared, to think that I don't believe I can win this fight.

The worst thing that can happen to a fighter a to any athlete a is to lose confidence. The second worst thing? To get overconfident.

”Come on,” I say, spreading my arms, taunting him as he misses another kick. ”You afraid to get a little closer?”

Sweat-diluted blood drips down into my eyes. The bright white lights turn pink for a moment. I blink it out, feel the sting of salt.

”Let's go, motherf.u.c.ker,” I say. He bends down, sweeps a leg toward me, but I hop over it easily enough.

I shake my head, tut at him. ”Don't worry, Anton, I won't f.u.c.king kiss you.”

His face goes red, and he makes his move, a righty-feint, a low kick to my s.h.i.+n, followed by a lightning-fast lefty-hook. I ignore the feint, skip the kick, bend backward for the hook, ready to throw my weight forward into a counter.

But not quick enough.

The hook grazes my chin. My mouth is all crimson metal. d.a.m.n it. I really am slow tonight.

My turn!

I jab with my right; he dodges left, but I know he will. I lean forward, try to grab his neck and spin him into a hold, but he catches me off balance on one leg. He grabs my arm, pulls it into his, closes the distance between us, ready to hold me. But I spin at the last moment, pivot around so my back is to him, and land an elbow right between his second and third ribs.

He lets go of me and backs up, wincing and winded, rubbing his side.

I fake a kick, hop forward twice on my left leg, kick him with my heel right on the front of his thigh. He clutches at it; I swear I see his knee wobble. His quadriceps must be numb. I can already see the dark bruise forming.

My heel tingles with pain.

Sweat pours from my body.

The crowd chants my name. Over and over again.

I'm feeling it now. This s.h.i.+theel is going down.

I take three quick skips toward him, spin around him like I'm holding a football. I expect him to turn and follow me, but he doesn't. He pivots the other way, and throws a kick right into my side. I don't block it in time, and I fall backward, wheezing.

I didn't expect that.

I climb to my feet, hand on my side, and grin at him. Then my eyes focus on something familiar, just above his right shoulder. It's the face of a beautiful girl, a face I recognize, a face that makes my heart surge.

Penny looks p.i.s.sed.

I laugh. I've never been happier to see anyone in my life.

A new energy thrills through me, ignites me. I take two quick steps toward him, wait for his kick. It comes, I sidestep it, grab his leg mid-kick, twist him around, and throw him down. He lands face first, palms out. The sweaty wet slap is so loud it echoes. I turn him over again, grip his leg in between my thighs, and hold onto his ankle, and twist.

He's in a leg lock, and each time he throws a punch toward my leg I twist his body so he misses, so his. .h.i.ts lose strength.

I stare into his eyes. Penny's watching, and this f.u.c.ker isn't going to beat me.

I pull the leg, twist the leg, and I feel the stress in his knee. It's going to pop at any moment. I'm going to tear his anterior cruciate ligament, his medial cruciate ligament.

I'm going to dislocate his f.u.c.king knee cap.

Tap out, I think to myself. The ref is circling us, waiting for that moment.

But Anton's got a reserve of strength. The f.u.c.king bear of a man screams, sits up, and lands a hit square on my thigh, sending it immediately limp and numb. Dull, blunted pins and needles shoot through it. He wriggles his leg out from me, gets up, but I get up faster.

I hit him hard in the jaw. He stumbles backward.

I jump toward him, hit him again, and again, and again. Each crack seems to echo. I'm sure I've broken a knuckle. He falls backward, failing to block every hit.

I hit him again in the temple, again in the neck, again in the jaw. My fist hurts to h.e.l.l, but I have to keep hitting.

He's still standing, but he won't be soon. This f.u.c.ker is tough, but soon it'll be lights-out, the body's automatic reaction to head trauma.

Just one more hit. I feint, he moves to block, and I wind up an upper-cut.

Time slows. The crowd is now exploding. The sound is now deafening. I'm going to win. He's mistimed his block; I'll get him in the gap between his two closing, protective forearms.

I glance up at the last moment, go to meet Penny's eyes. I'm going to f.u.c.king win, and she's going to see me do it.

But she's not there.

I don't hit Anton. My fist stops inches from his jaw. I back up, scanning the crowd. I look toward the exits, see a fire-escape door shutting.

Anton charges for me, but I duck him, run for the door to the cage and kick it open. The metal hook-latch breaks easily.

”Where you going?” Anton bellows behind me, arms spread. I ignore him, and head straight for the fire door.

”Pierce!” Fallon calls to me as I pa.s.s him. ”You can't leave. You haven't won.”

”f.u.c.k you,” I shout back.

I'm going to get my girl.

Chapter Thirty One.

”Wait!”