Page 7

“You want to play?” I nod and lean back. The ref steps forward from the waiting crowd, I nod at him out of respect; he used to call the fights I was in and he’s always been fair. At least there's something going right today.

“Winnings?” he asks in a bored voice.

“My bike,” I declare loudly to be heard over the crowd.

“My bike too,” the roadie boasts. He’s confident and I can’t wait to wipe that away.

The others are shifting in the crowd either knowing why I’m unfazed or hearing it.

I nod my agreement to the ref. The mummers increase, but I tune them out.

The ref nods and steps back after placing the knife on the table.

About the size of my forearm, it’s a mean looking bastard.

I should know, it’s mine after all. The ref tosses a coin and my opponent calls it before I can, just like I knew he would.

“Heads,” he shouts looking mighty pleased with himself. Some people cheer, the group of morons. I watch the ref, his lips twitch as he puts the coin down to reveal tails.

“Worth first,” he calls over the crowd. My opponents face darkens and he finally loses his grin.

The rules of the game are easy. It’s all about ways to intimidate and show how tough you are without fighting your opponent.

It’s a fucked-up version of Russian Roulette.

You get to slash your opponent's arms until they either faint, die, or withdraw. You can go deep, but you can’t hit arteries, that is it.

I take my jacket off, gently putting it on the chair.

His shirt is already thrown off from his previous match.

I look at his arm. His last challenger only got two cuts on him, what a pussy.

He lays his forearm down, palm facing up, and smiles at me.

“Give it your best shot,” he leans his body back leaving his arm outstretched, trying to act casual.

I can see the tightening around his eyes and mouth, though and it’s obvious he doesn’t understand why most of the crowd isn’t cheering for him.

I grab the knife, flick it in the air, and catch it.

He gulps, I hide my smile and lean towards him.

Without touching his arm, I use the knife and run it lightly across one of the cuts already made, deepening it and reopening the wound.

He doesn’t make a sound, but he makes a fist as more blood wells, leaving tracks down his arm as he clenches.

“My turn,” he grits out, pulling his arm back and grabbing the knife from me with sweaty hands. I reveal my left arm, placing it palm up and let him see the scars. He pales before he looks back up at me, finally realising who I am.

“Your go,” I’m openly laughing now and the crowd laughs with me.

He hesitates before leaning over me. He makes a big cut; not deep, just long.

I don’t look, knowing that would make me seem weak.

I don’t even move as the blade parts through my skin like butter.

He watches my face for a reaction and pales further when he doesn’t get one.

I grab the knife and wait for him to lay his arm out.

He does it slowly, almost reluctantly. I smile at him sweetly as I widen the cut from earlier.

I wiggle it around, cutting deeper as the skin parts.

This time he grunts in pain. From my years of experience, I know cutting over the same spot hurts more than a new one, and this big bastard of a cut has got to hurt like hell.

The blood runs faster down his arm and onto the already stained table. The red harsh against his skin.

He grabs the knife and yanks my arm out.

I don’t make a noise, just let him do it.

He doesn’t give me any time before slashing down vertically.

I grab his arm and yank it out like he did to me.

Done with playing, I slowly drag the blade from elbow to wrist, making the pain wretch higher as it crosses over where I cut before.

He howls and yanks his arm back, making the knife drag in deeper.

He looks at his arm and goes deathly pale.

I lean back and count to myself.

Three, he watches the blood, not even bothering to try and stop the bleeding.

Two, he swallows rapidly as his skin tints.

One, his head hits the table.

I grab the drink from his side and down it, watching his unconscious body. The ref offers me something to bind my wounds and I nod my thanks while turning to his friends.

“Tell him to bring his bike to the gate. Six a.m. sharp or I'll finish the job.” They mutter a reply, looking uneasy.

“Thanks, boys,” I wink and turn to leave. There, watching at the edge of the crowd, is my new annoying tagalongs. Rolling my eyes, I go to walk past them.

The silent twin steps in my path, I think his name was Jax.

“Why did you do that?” His voice is rough, probably from disuse. It so different from his twin that I hesitate.

“I needed a new bike if we are going to get anywhere. I knew he would lose,” I say confidently. Drax steps up next to him. “They always lose,” I add when they don’t say anything. With both of their stares locked on me and their bodies hovering over me, I have to fight not to step back.

“You can’t know that,” Jax frowns at me.

“I created the game, one that doesn’t focus on physical strength but inner. I have never lost, so it was a fair bet I wouldn’t tonight. If I did, all he would get is a rusted piece of shit bike anyway.”

Jax’s intense stare flares with amusement but none shows on his face.

Drax laughs throwing his arm around his twin.

Unnerved by their reactions, I squeeze through them and head back to Nan’s to get some rest. Most people run far away when they realise how brutal I am, so why did they look interested instead?

“See you tomorrow, boys,” I holler over my shoulder.