Page 3

The sign may as well spell outfreedombecause I’m all over this place. First stop: the bar. Second stop: dick.
Fingers fucking crossed, anyway.
2
ThenewRing, as everyone has taken to calling the warehouse that hosts the fights, is so named because theoldRing got blown up in gang-related shit.
I don’t know the whole story because again—the sister of a defected ex-Crew member means you keep your head down and stay to yourself. Mom, Dad, and I were smart enough to know it was best to lay low to avoid becoming the means of retaliation against my brother. We didn’t even keep in contact with my cousin Jacob—another prominent Crew member—which sucked. We just continued as normal, as if Cole never left, while our house simmered in turmoil.
Thumping bass blasting from the aged brick building filters onto the street. The dark, arched windows don’t give anything away as to what’s inside. I never went to the original Ring, but I’ve heard the new location is a carbon copy aside from one aspect: the venue is now housed in a much bigger space to accommodate an increased number of spectators. Judging by the growing crowd gathering on the sidewalk, I’d say that’s probably accurate.
Jared meets us out front, leaning down to kiss Jaz on the cheek as we approach. He hands us each a ticket, his honey-blond bangs dangling over his forehead. I take the rectangular piece of paper from his fingers, reading the print to give the couple a semblance of privacy. Stamped front and center in bold lettering are two names announcing the main fight of the night. Other matchups are listed below the headliners, but I can’t say I recognize any of the fighters. The only history I have with MMA is when it’s on TV and my dad happens to be flipping through channels. Honestly, I’ve never paid much attention. Tonight is more of an excuse for me to get out—in something that Cole doesn’t have his hands in. Hopefully, no one will recognize me so I can go about my business.
“Ready?” Jaz asks, ribbing me with her elbow.
I turn back, genuine excitement thrumming through me. As we start down the sidewalk again, Jared talks about the different fighters with enthusiasm. I half listen, half watch the crowd. In the Heights, I’m used to seeing the same old faces of people I went to school with. No one new ever moves here for obvious reasons. However, so many bodies crowd toward the Ring’s entrance that it’s impossible for all of them to be Height’s natives. I spot the telltale sign of a Dragon tattoo on several guys, and I dismiss them completely from a possible hookup. I can’t get tangled with anyone under Cole’s purview, but all the drawn red flames billowing up necks makes me wonder how many gang members my brother brought here with him. From the looks of things, I’d say a shitton.
Despite the volume of off-limits tats, there are other guys who look good enough to get into trouble with. The overwhelming majority of bodies lining up to see the fights are buffed up dudes with muscles straining under their shirts. I’ve practically hit the holy mecca of hot guys. They must all be MMA fans, drawn here by the now completely above-board fights in the Heights.
I lower my lips to Jaz’s ear. “We’ve been missing out. Where have these guys been my whole life?”
She giggles, using her hand to shield it from Jared as he throws mock punches in the air, describing something that neither one of us is listening to. Thankfully, he’s drawn the attention of a beefcake walking next to us, and they start up a conversation about a fighter on the card tonight.
“Lots of Dragons though,” Jaz muses, as another tattooed guy gets in line in front of us. I make myself small so I’m not seen. Cole has been cagey about his family here, trying to keep us out of everything, but everyone our age who grew up here knows. Hopefully, none of them decide to show up and ruin my night.
I study the man in front of me who answers to my brother. He appears younger than me. He’s taller, though, putting his tattoo right in my line of sight. Every member of Cole’s gang has a matching dragon head on their right chest with roaring flames licking just beyond the collar of their shirts. They don’t keep their affiliation hidden. It’s there for everyone to see. Which, in this case, helps me know who to steer clear of.
Jared falls in line behind us as we get closer to the employee manning the door. I hand over my ticket, and he scans it without looking up. After getting it back, I walk through the narrow doorway with Jaz only a step behind. She grabs my elbow as the growing mob pushes us further into the Ring.
I blink. It’s by far the coolest building I’ve seen in the Heights. Sure, if you look close enough, it still has its warehouse roots, but they’ve made the aesthetic work for them by hanging neon signs and grunge decor like old street and building signs. Coupled with the somewhat shabby interior, the result is a clash in design that clearly meshes. I’m sure Jaz would have a cool name for it, like abandoned chic or trendy trash. As for me, I just think it’s pretty.
Jared places his arm around Jaz as we take a right, falling into the natural flow of the crowd. The building is set up like a stadium with open walkways that circle the perimeter. Vendors to our right sell fighter merch on folding tables. To our left are chairs ringed around an octagon-shaped cage that stands proudly in the middle.
“We’re up one flight,” I hear Jared shout to Jaz above the loud, thumping music that sounds like rage itself. Quite appropriate music for cage fighting, I assume.
Jaz’s boy toy points out a set of metal stairs in the corner that lead upward. They switchback until they hit the second floor, and we climb them to an almost entirely different atmosphere. If downstairs was all business with the actual cage and the vendors,thisis the party floor.
Rows of wood bar tops line the walkway, boasting multiple metal stools shoved underneath. Along all four exterior walls are several different alcoholic concession stands, which are currently keeping the attention of most of the clientele. I follow Jared and Jaz down an aisle toward the center of the room until we hit a huge square cut-out in the middle, ringed with black, iron spindles. Folding chairs skirt the first row, and when we’re close enough, a quick peek down tells me we can see the cage clearly from here. Our bird’s eye view paints a clear picture of what is currently an empty ring surrounded by men in cheap, official suits. The baby blue flooring of the cage is marred in some areas with reddish-brown stains, a direct juxtaposition to what appears to be a well-oiled machine surrounding it.
Butterflies erupt in my stomach the whole time I take in the scene. When Jaz nudges me to sit down in the seat behind me, I turn wide eyes to Jared. “Are these our seats? They’re awesome.”
“Nothing but the best for my girl,” he grins, kissing Jaz’s temple. “And her friend,” he adds, giving me a half smile. He takes the aisle seat, Jaz sits next to him, and I seat myself next to her, quickly taking in the room. It takes Jared all of two seconds to stand back up and ask if we want drinks.
I give him money from my stash and ask for an amaretto sour. While he’s gone, the place fills, brimming with bodies and electricity. The overhead music is a natural hype, pulsing a frenzied buzz through the crowd. If this is what it’s like pre-fight, the bouts themselves must raise the hairs on every single person in this room.
Jared returns minutes later, handing me my mixed drink. “I hope it’s right. Apparently, that’s called an Uppercut Princess here. They don’t even recognize the real name.”
I narrow my gaze at the plastic cup with the same green liquid I’ve always ordered. I take a sip and the same delicious sour kick I love coats the back of my throat. Shrugging, I continue to drink theUppercut Princess, whatever that means.
The lights dim after my fifth deep swallow, and I instinctively lean forward in my seat. It’s so loud in here with the chattering voices and heavy rock that it’s becoming increasingly difficult to hear anything else. Then again, Jaz is leaning toward Jared, so it’s not as if I’d have anyone to talk to anyway. The third wheel is awkward as fuck, but someone has to do it. I mentally toast to myself that by the end of the night—if everything goes smoothly—I won’t be in this position any longer. Though, if Cole has anything to say about it, he’d probably argue on the side of being a nun for the rest of my life.
The music suddenly cuts off, and a booming voice fills the air. Much more commotion begins near the octagonal cage as a man announces tonight’s fight card along with the drink specials.
I tap my cute, borrowed boots against the cement at my feet, glancing around the place as the commentary continues regarding the first matchup, including the athlete’s weights and reach. Things I’m definitely not interested in. My gaze moves all the way up to the steel beam tresses across the top of the room. Above this seating area stretches another level with the same square hole in the floor except those spectators are in bleacher seating that moves up and back. Even the furthest row is filled with people who can practically touch the industrial ceiling.
The chime of a bell brings my attention back to the cage. Two lanky fighters face off in the middle, a referee shuffling around the outside. I grip the top of the black iron bar in front of me, leaning forward as I watch the fighters trade blows. The matches on TV I caught glimpses of were nothing like this. The crackling energy increases the intensity tenfold, making this live, firsthand experience so much more exciting. The crowd feels every smashing blow and errant miss. Applause and catcalls percolate from even the highest chairs. As if invigorated by the audience, the fighters leave nothing on the table, swinging with everything they have until the very last second.
When the match finishes, I lean closer as Jared talks to Jaz. He thinks the guy in the white trunks won, and if I had to guess, he would be my choice too. After a few minutes of judge deliberation, the guy in the white trunk’s hand is raised, and the music starts up again with a drum solo crescendo.