Page 17 of Jensen

“I’ll do what I do best.”

The bartender appears again. “You want the first fight, Jensen?”

I shake out my arms. “Yeah, why not?”

Jack slides a shot over the bar,and I empty it, flipping it on the counter and leaving the bar. The crowd is thick, already gathered around the partitioned off area laid with plywood boards. There’s a fighter warming up—my opponent, I presume. He’s maybe a decade youngerbut about my weight class. Stepping over the tape, I glance him up and down as we shake hands. This shouldn’t be too hard.

When I worked for Brothers, the rich fucks used to host illegal fighting rings in Red River Gorge. That’s where I learned to fight for cash. Back then, I didn’t need the pay out, but I did when I first got here, before I started construction. For the first five years, I lived off that money.

Now, it’s just for fun.

To feel something.

The crowd is tensing up. The man who referees most nights climbs over the tape. My opponent is shaking his arms, pacing. He’s got a smaller wingspan than I do, which can be bad or good, but I know how to play it to make it work in my favor. I circle, matching him, loosening my muscles up.

The crowd fades out. Excitement rises.

Finally, I feel something. It’s a small challenge, but it’s real, tangible. Despite all my years here, there’s a big part of me that went numb after what happened in Kentucky. Now, there’s always this strange feeling I’m watching someone else live their life, like I’m too self-aware, too careful. I can’t live in the moment. It’s like I’m a little action figure, moving myself around my life.

But being in the ring puts me firmly back into my own body.

The whistle goes off. Right away, my opponent swings, which I didn’t expect. I duck, battering him back. He’s got strength, coiled up in his shorter arms. But he doesn’t have the reach to go on the defense the way I can, and he’s tiring himself out fast.

This is my specialty—letting them wear themselves down. Then wham, bam, thank you ma’am, and they’re down in a couple punches.

This guy is walking right into it. We spar back and forth across the ring. I’m enjoying myself, getting a little blood on my hands when he catches me below the eye and when I get him in the nose. It adds an edge to the energy in the room, and we’re both here to put on a show.

I let it go on, watching him get more frustrated. My betting box has a lot of cash on it; I see it from the corner of my vision. It might be time to clean this up and move on—the next fight might be with someone who challenges me a little more.

He comes inswinging. I dip back and catch him with a right hook that sends him flat on his back.Bam—he hits the ground like a sack of bricks. He doesn’t get up. Hejust lies there twitching. The referee squats, says something to him, then raises a hand. The fight is over.

I could go for another.

“We got the next round booked,” the referee says as he walks past.

“I’ll take the next open slot.”

“That’s fourth.”

I shake his hand. “Good for me.Thanks.”

Leaving the ring, I’m feeling good, loose,with just enough adrenaline to make me forget. At the bar, somebody hands me my shirt,and I pull it on. The bartender gives me a rag and a bottle of water. I have some,then dumptherest on my head and towel off. My drinks will be on the house tonight, so I order another shot of whiskey.

“Do you feel something yet?” Jack appears like a specterover my shoulder.

“Fuck off,” I say.

His lids flicker, eyes focusing past me. “You’re being watched.”

There’s something in his voice that has a chill going up my spine.

“What?”

He leans on the counter, jerking his head. I follow his gaze, and my eyes fall on a slender figure through the crowd. I open my mouth, then shut it. She’s looking at me sideways through thick lashes. There’s a little smile on her face, acome-on-over-here-and-find-out smile, one that tells me she knows how pretty she is, standing there surrounded by the chaos of the stockyards.

I can’t move.

Hell, I can’t speak.