Page 2 of Sons of Hellfire (Hellfire Society #1)

two

Ali

“Ali, you’re up in five.” Shane calls from the locker room door.

Jab. Cross. Uppercut. Pausing my combination, I look in his direction, giving him a nod that I heard him.

I watch as he gives my body a once-over before heading back out to the ring, making me roll my eyes.

Men are disgusting. Shane’s an alright guy and would be attractive to me if it wasn’t for his, sometimes, slimy personality.

But Shane is also the all-American boy-next-door type and complains when his shoes get dirty.

He’s basically a real-life Ken doll. No, I need a man who can get down and dirty and make me crazy.

Which is harder than I thought it would be.

I mean, I know a few guys who are good fucks, but not the long-term fuck buddy type.

Shane knows better than to go any further than looking at me. I’m one of his cash cows, after all.

I do a few more stretches, making sure I’m nice and loose for my next fight, remembering when I met Shane a few years ago at the gym his dad owns.

I was taking some self-defense classes, and he noticed I would continue to train even after class ended.

If I wasn’t at the club working, I was sleeping or at the gym.

Six years ago I promised myself that I would never be someone else’s punching bag.

I was also afraid that whoever tried to buy me might try to look for me still, but that feeling has lessened over the years.

One night, I was working out late and overheard Shane talking with a few of his gym rat buddies that he knew of some underground fight rings that were looking for new fighters.

I knew I wanted in the moment I heard him talk about the fights.

They were no hold, all-out brawls. What better way to practice my skills than fighting in real life?

At first, Shane thought I was joking. I was only nineteen at the time, and because of my short size, I was still very curvy.

Even with all the working out, I had some cushion for the pushing.

But I loved my body, even with all the little scars that marred it.

Those were easy enough to cover with tattoos.

When he and his friends laughed in my face, I called him out.

Telling him I could take down any one of them in minutes.

He must have seen my determination because he finally agreed to let me tag along, mumbling about how it was gonna be my funeral.

That night was my first fight. I lost, but I was hooked like an addict, and it only pushed me to be better.

Now it’s three years later, and I’ve been undefeated for the past few months.

I only fight once a week, but the number of grown-ass men who want to get in the ring to try to defeat little ole me is laughable.

A large portion respect me and my skill.

They are the ones that have helped me hone my skills over the last few years.

This underground fight club is like a twisted, bloodthirsty family to me.

I take a long, deep breath, ignoring the scent of old socks and sweaty balls.

Closing my eyes, I find my center. That part of me that perks up with excitement every time I walk into the gym, ready to throw hands and spill some blood.

It’s also the part of me that holds my past. It’s what sparks the little monster part of me.

Two knocks sound on the metal locker room door, and my eyes snap up.

Shane swings the door open and gives me a wink. “Go time,” he says.

I pull off my loose-fitting tank top and toss it on top of my gym bag, leaving me in my hot pink sports bra and matching booty shorts.

I learned early on that men will try to tangle you up in your baggy clothes.

My long, black and colorful pink hair is braided down my back to keep it out of my face.

With one last stretch of my neck, I’m heading towards the small cheering crowd gathered around a boxing ring.

I’m bouncing on my toes as we head there, the announcer riling up the onlookers for the next fight.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it’s that time of week where our reigning champ takes on her next victim.

” He lets out a fake cough. “I mean challenger.” The crowd laughs at his joke, but I stay focused on the ring.

I never know who I’ll be fighting until I’m actually in the fighting ring, so I never know if it will be an actual fight or a one-punch chump.

Shane lends me a hand up and into the ring as the announcer continues on.

“And here she is, folks, the queen of the underground, the Black Widow!” The crowd cheers, and it takes everything in me not to roll my eyes at the name.

I didn’t choose it. Honestly, I don’t know who did.

One day someone made a joke that I basically suck these men dry of their manhood because they couldn’t beat a tiny thing like me.

Then poof, I was being called the Black Widow.

I think it’s a stupid name, but whatever; I couldn’t care less what they call me.

I’m here to fight. That’s all that I want to do.

“Her challenger tonight comes from up north. Heard about our reigning queen and thought he could be the one to bring her down.” There’s a few boos and a few cheers as a large 6-foot-something man with arms the size of tree trucks climbs into the ring.

“Doom!” I snort at the name as “Doom” spins around the ring, holding his fists in the air as he flexes.

Compensating much? I mean, don’t men do that when they have small dicks?

I shrug to myself as I take in the rest of him.

Doom has dark hair and shit brown eyes that highlight his bushy caterpillar brows.

It’s obvious this guy skips leg days often because his arms are twice the size of his legs.

If I had to, I’d guess this guy has taken roids a time or two.

My perusal is interrupted by the announcer speaking again.

“Can Doom bring our champ to heel? Or will the Black Widow strike again? Make your bets now.” He looks between the two of us.

“Fighters at the ready.” We both step up to the center of the ring, Doom snarling like a rabid dog. Like that might intimidate me.

“Rules. There are no rules.” The announcer says. I should probably learn his name since he’s been here for a month now, but the places and “ringmasters” are always changing. It’s hard to keep up.

“All I ask is to stay away from my face. I’ve got work later.” I say, looking up at Doom, who just glares. “Do that and I’ll stay away from your junk.” The announcer guy flinches but doesn’t say a word, but neither does Doom. I shrug, turning away, but that’s when Doom the asshole speaks.

“It’s going to be hard to stay away from my junk when you’ll be riding my cock later.

” I freeze, and it’s like the entire room freezes as well.

Everyone is waiting with bated breath to see how I’ll react.

See, everyone here knows my face is off-limits.

I can hide any mark on my body for work, but not on my face.

So, most men agree to stay away from my face as long as I don’t take any purposeful cock shots.

Most men enjoy having a working dick when we’re done.

Turning slightly, I glance over my shoulder. “You’ve been warned. It will be your funeral.” Doom lets out a sinister chuckle at my words, but to be fair, I am warning him, so if he doesn’t listen, it won’t be my fault he can’t have demon spawn in the future.

Minutes later, the betting closes. “Fighters ready?” The announcer asks, now standing on the outside of the ring. Both I and Doom nod. We fight until someone taps out or is unable to tap, period. “Fight!” he yells, and the crowd’s cheers fade away. This is where I feel free.

We begin to circle each other, both waiting, watching the other for any weakness.

It takes him a single circle around the ring before he loses patience and charges forward.

His body is bent like he thinks he can tackle me, but because he is a big guy, his momentum carries him, so I jump out of the way at the last second before throwing my elbow down on his kidney.

He lets out a grunt as he hits the side ropes before spinning and letting out a snarl, but I’m already shifting back with fists at the ready.

I throw him a little smirk to taunt him, and it gets me what I want.

He charges forward again, this time swinging, but I duck and dodge, throwing my own punches into his stomach.

I roll out of the way as he tries to knee me in the stomach.

Doom lets out a roar of rage before his eyes narrow on me.

Honestly, I’m barely panting at this point.

“Fucking bitch!” Doom yells before charging like a bull once again.

I’m about to jump out of the way to dodge his swinging fist, but I miscalculated his arm's length. His fist hits my left shoulder, pain cascading down my arm as I’m thrown off balance.

The punch hurt like a bitch, but it’s still not the worst I’ve ever felt.

Before I can reorient myself, Doom is there, throwing another punch to my stomach.

I grunt out in pain before I’m suddenly flying through the air.

Pain radiating through my face and head.

What the fuck! I’m a bit dazed as I climb to my feet, hand coming up to the side of my face.

It’s tender. Tender like this fucking asshole just punched me in the side of the face.

Doom is chuckling as he comes towards me.

“Oops. I broke your rule. If you’re a good girl and tap out now, I’ll still let you suck my cock.

And if you beg, I might even get you off too.

” He sneers at me, but the damage has been done.

His words hit their mark, but not in the way he might have wanted.

Doom leans down to grab me, probably to haul me up into a headlock or something, but that’s when I move.

My arm snaps out, and my hand wraps around a semi-hard cock and balls.

Doom lets out a curse and tries to jerk away, but it’s too late.

I already have a grip. Then, while he’s in a stunned, painful state, I go for his face.

Punch. Punch. Punch. He grunts and groans, trying to block my fist, but every time he attempts to move, I tighten my grip around his family jewels.

I don’t know how long we stay like that, but at some point he passes out, then arms wrap around my chest, pulling me off the fucker, Doom.

“Fuck, Ali. I don’t think the asshole will be having kids anytime soon.

” Shane hisses next to me. The room finally comes back to me, and I glance down.

Doom lies unconscious in the middle of the ring, face bloody and bruised.

My eyes shift to his junk area, and I frown.

Whoops. Blood is trailing down Doom’s leg as someone rushes in with some smelling salt.

I check my hands to make sure I didn’t get too bloody.

Luckily my hands were wrapped, so most of the blood is on the wrap.

Which means I now need new wraps since blood stains.

The announcer steps up and grabs my hand, raising it into the air.

“All hail the queen.” I snort at his words as the crowd’s cheers go wild.

Bloodthirsty fuckers, the lot of them. To me, he whispers.

“Your cut is already in your locker.” That was all I needed to know.

I give him a nod before I glance over at Doom.

Some guys have him awake, handing him ice for his junk.

Hopefully, I didn’t do too much damage, but I did warn him.

But it’s his own damn fault this happened .

I know for a fact my face is going to bruise.

Which means my boss will be pissed. Bruised girls can’t work.

Even if I’m not one of the girls on stage and only behind the bar.

Customers want eye candy, and bruises aren’t pretty.

I can hear his annoying, nasally voice already.

Which means I need to work my ass off tonight, since he will send me home. Let’s hope it won’t be too noticeable.

Not wanting to stick around for a round two, since men start acting like bigger assholes when they get their ass beat by me, I head for the locker room.

Shane follows, asking if I’m alright, but my head is throbbing too much to answer.

People around us congratulate me as I pass, joking by repeating the announcers’ words.

“All hail the queen.” I pay them no mind as I push through the metal door and make a beeline to my bag.

Quickly grabbing some pain medication, I swallow it down with a gulp of water.

I need them to kick in, or I won’t survive my bartending shift at the club tonight.

I slump against the lockers, still ignoring Shane, but he’s used to it, as I unwrap my hands.

Flexing my hands a couple of times, I make sure nothing is broken.

The fucker had a hard head. “Alright, well, I’m going to go collect my paycheck.

Thanks again. I always make the most when I bet on you.

” I look up, giving Shane a dry look. He chuckles, then winks.

“All hail queen Ali.” And then he’s gone, and I’m finally alone.

I finally let out a breath. I give myself a few minutes to just relax, letting the pain meds work.

My silence is interrupted when my phone goes off.

A text message. Knowing it’s probably my boss because I don’t have friends or a life for that matter, I grab the device from the side pouch of my gym bag. Sure enough, it’s Dickhead.

Dickhead: Need you at work. Now. Becka is sick.

I roll my eyes in distaste. Becka is a bitch who could get away with murder because she fucks the boss.

She used to dance full time, but now she bartends with me on most days.

If you ask me, I think she’s pregnant. Knocked up by Dickhead himself.

Strippers tend to keep a slim body, but Becka has been gaining some weight.

I would ask, but honestly, I don’t care that much.

Me: Be there in 30.

After tossing my phone back into my bag, I quickly grab my work clothes.

I don’t have time for a full shower, so I just use a washcloth and soap before dressing in my too-short black jean shorts and AC/DC cut-off crop top.

Skipping the hair styling, I focus on applying makeup to disguise the dark mark now forming by my right ear.

I’ll feel it tomorrow, but I’m thinking if I wear my hair down, no one will notice it.

I have fifteen minutes to get to the club by the time I’m done.

Good thing I have a lead foot. Grabbing my money from the locker I usually use, I shove that to the bottom of my bag and head for my car.

I’m definitely going to need an energy drink because it is going to be a long-ass night.