Page 95 of Dance of Defiance

The irony of my memory loss is that the real horrors in my life cameafterthat. The shitty early childhood and the absent parents? Yeah, I’ve forgotten all that and them. But there’s no escaping the hell that came later, at night in foster care.

Amnesia hit too early for that.

I absently let my hand drift over the chaotic ink on my left arm before I flinch and pull away. I dry off in the now-empty locker room and get dressed. Then I glance at my phone. Completely unsurprisingly, there’s not a single fucking reply from Roman.

I contemplate sending that dick pic, but then decide Roman doesn’t deserve to be rewarded for his radio silence leave-me-on-read bullshit, so I don’t.

I’m the last one here as I walk through the empty theater to the back door. It’s dark when I step outside and turn to make sure the door locks behind me.

That’s when I get hit from behind and my face gets slammed into the door.

I grunt, wincing, but this isn’t my first time getting jumped, and it’sfarfrom my first fight.

Picked the wrong guy, motherfucker.

I grin savagely and drive my elbow back, hitting soft flesh and eliciting a snarl of pain. I do it again and then whirl, tackling the fucker and knocking him on his ass.

What the fuck.

I stare in shock as Roman picks himself up off the ground, his face furious as he squares off with me, his eyes narrowed dangerously.

“Dude, what the fuck are?—”

I grunt again when he slams into my midsection, doubling me over and tackling me to the ground.

Oh, it’s fuckingonnow, bitch.

Roman yells when I slam my forearm into his face, andbarelymiss his balls—shame as it would be to damage those—with my knee. I roll us over, punching him again before we scramble away from each other and face off again.

“You,” he snarls, glaring death as he curls his big, tattooed hands to fists. “You’re fuckingdead.”

I have no idea what the fuck is going on. But it feels like abitmuch as a response to me calling him a “good little cocksucker”.

I mean, it was a goddamncompliment.

I’ve checked out the underground fights he likes to attend a couple of times and watched Roman in action. He’s a good boxer. But that's the point: he’s aboxer, not a down-and-dirtystreetfighter.

There’s a difference.

In a ring match with a referee, Roman’s a fucking terror. He’s big, fearless, knows how to move and handle his body, and hits like a goddamn freight train.

Me, I'm an “okay” boxer, but I’m a fuckingbeastof a fighter. In street fights, there’s no ring, no ref, andno oneplays by any rules. The only unfair fight is the one you fucking lose. That wasbeaten into me in my foster years when the other kids would come to kick my ass—for being the new kid, dancing, or being queer.

So, if we were in a ring right now, I’d be screwed. But surprise alley fight?

It’s fuckin’on, baby.

Roman charges me. I dodge left, evading his monster of a punch before I slam my elbow down on the back of his shoulder as he passes. He grunts, then chokes out an even louder cry of pain when I ram my knee up into his kidney area. I slam my elbow into the middle of his back, making him snarl again before I shove past him and dance away.

He whirls, pure rage on his face. He glances down at his side and winces, then looks up at me incredulously. I swear—I fuckingswear—he’s about to complain that I’m not playing by the rules.

But instead, he charges me again.

This time, I do catch a glancing blow to the jaw. It makes me see stars and also pisses me the fuck off. So I have zero problem jamming my fist into his face, kicking him hard in the shin, and then spinning us both, pinning his arm behind his back and slamming him into the brick wall beside us.

“Fuckingenough!” I roar, gritting my teeth and keeping him immobile as Roman twists in my grip.

“You fucking?—!”