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He shakes his head. “You never said a word.” The disappointment lacing his voice unnerves me.
I don’t have an excuse. I purposefully didn’t tell him, but no way in hell am I admitting to that. “What? Do you want me to say sorry for not getting my ass kicked?”
“You can’tjustfight, Princess,” he spits, still using the name I fucking hate. “You beat Cherry. She’s not the best, no, but Johnny only puts her up against people he knows she can beat.”
“I guess everyone should stop judging people they don’t really know,” I tell him, motioning toward my baggy shirt. It’s evidence of their prejudice. Just because I don’t look like them doesn’t mean I’m not like them. I’m as angry as they are. I’m as lost as they are. And I’m as stuck as they are. Except, I’m stuck in a mind prison I can’t escape from. One that shows me my dead parents every day.
He throws my shirt on the floor, knuckles turning white. When he glances up, he studies my best features. At least, what I think my best features are: my muscles. They show me I’m strong. They show me I can handle myself. When I feel like I can’t, like everything’s getting too big, I go work out. When I feel like I’m just an imposter, I look in a mirror. The muscles, the bruises that usually highlight my light skin from training, all tell me I can do this.
I glance down. Splattered blood paints my skin as I breathe in deep. Like war paint, it fills me with the thrill of victory and a power I never knew I carried before fighting.
Like Johnny just did, Brawler reaches for my hands. Instead of squeezing them like Rocket, though, he brings them to his face, inspecting them. “I’m fine,” I say, trying to pull away.
He tightens his grip. He’s looking for evidence of how much I fight. If I was just a novice, I probably would’ve broken a knuckle or two, but I’m not and I didn’t. I spend a lot of time in gyms, and I can’t fucking wait to get back into it now that I don’t have to hide.
“I see that,” he says, finally dropping my hand.
I bend down to pick up my shirt and use it to wipe Cherry’s blood off me.
Brawler snickers. “That’s not going to be good enough. Johnny wants you back with him, which means you’re going to have to take a shower and pretty yourself up.”
“Pretty myself up?”
“Didn’t you hear him?” he sneers. “You’rehisnow.”
“I’m no one’s.”
“Hate to break it to you, but you don’t have a choice.”
I lick my lips. I loathe to admit it, but he’s right. Rocket’s made a public declaration. To go against it, is to go against him and the Heights Crew.
I can’t afford to do that.
Brawler swallows, taking one last look at me and then spins to walk away, jaw tight. A minute later, a shower kicks on somewhere in the back of the locker room.
This isn’t the way I wanted to buddy up to the Heights Crew, but I won’t turn it down. I can’t. In fact, this could give me easier access to Johnny’s dad, and that’s all I want.
I can practically feel my fingers on the trigger now.
8
Iscrub my skin until it's raw. Not because I want to make sure I look good for Johnny Rocket, but because I’m procrastinating getting out of the shower. Once I get out, I have to play the game. I have to pretend I’m all about the guy who shares DNA with the fucker I hate most in this world. Just because I know I have to do this doesn’t mean I want to. I grip the side of the shower while my stomach heaves. There’s nothing in it. I can’t eat before a fight. I learned that the hard way after puking all over the clothes I was due to wear in my first match a couple of years ago. Now, though, I grit my teeth, waiting for the feeling to pass.
“Princess, I didn’t take you for someone who spends hours in the shower.”
I close my eyes and swallow. “I didn’t take you for someone who stands outside creeping on a girl while she’s in the shower.”
Brawler’s silent for a few moments. He’s not that guy. Not at all. He’s just doing as he’s told. He stepped out of the room while I undressed, and for the majority of the time I’ve been in here, he’s been outside, but I must be taking too long. Rocket’s probably getting antsy.
I reach down to shut the water off. While I squeeze the excess water out of my hair, Brawler says, “There're clothes out here for you. Rocket sent them.”
I snap the curtain open so just my head peeks out. “Are you serious?”
Brawler immediately averts his gaze. “He thought you’d look good in them.” He takes a deep breath, his muscles taut like he’s ready to spring. He motions with his hand to a stool that’s been placed by the shower. “There’s a towel for you there, too. I’ll wait for you outside.”
He slips through the door, leaving me by myself. Every time I’m around Brawler, he surprises me. Averting his gaze like I’m a virgin maiden. Helping me ready myself for Rocket, when he certainly could’ve—and should’ve—ordered someone else to do it, so he could focus on the fights happening out there. That’s not to mention the conflicting emotions in his gaze or the way he held me protectively for a brief second the instant after Rocket claimed me. Like he didn’t want to give me up to him.
Then again, I could’ve been on a fight high and misinterpreted everything.