The Bet

7) Hustler

"Have you seen Camila here tonight?"

"It's so fucking weird that you call her that." Cal shook his head while wrapping a rubber band around a wad of cash

  I frowned. "What do you call her?"

  "Ma'am," he said like it was obvious. "Like every other person here that prefers their brains on the inside of their skulls instead of splattered on the walls."

  My breath got caught in my throat at that revelation, and I started having second thoughts about my decision.

Is she really the type of person I want to be making a bet with? . . .

You need the money so Mickey can go to school, Sam. Keep your head in the game.

  "She didn't seem to —"

  "She doesn't need to care, kid," he cut me off like he's heard this a million times before. "She's got goons to take care of people they deem disrespectful."

  Well that's not terrifying at all.

  "How in the world is all this news to me?" I put my hands on my hips and huffed angrily.

  "Well, tons of people here don't even know she exists. She usually doesn't concern herself with random ass fighters that come to 'The Cave', but you seem to have caught her eye." Calvin shrugged. "Also, you want an opponent or are you just here to bet?" He got right on to business after that, sticking his hand out to collect whatever money I have to give. But I still have questions.

  "Is this attention a good or bad thing? And whether I'm here to fight or not depends on if Miss Camila is here," I crossed my arms, not forking anything over until I get my answer.

  "If it was bad, you'd be long gone, so I wouldn't be too worried about it. She's actually a pretty pleasant woman when you're on her good side. And yes, she's here today," he finally answered all my questions. "Fighter or spectator, Sam. I don't have all day."

So impatient.

  "I'm here to fight." I've never come as only a betting spectator, and I probably never will. People are too unpredictable for me to feel safe betting on. Betting on my own fights, where I have significant control over the outcome, still makes me nervous, even after three years of doing it. No way in heck I'd bet on something I have no hand in.

"I want to fight Miss Camila," I clarified and squared my shoulders to try and summon the confidence I had when I practiced this in the mirror.

Calvin chuckled at the adjustment I made to her title after hearing his cautionary tale. "I guess that's a little less weird," he mumbled, snatching the entrance fee that I held out out of my hand. "You're set. There's a fight after this one, but after that, you're up. Good luck, kid."

"Is she going to destroy me?"

"Probably."

"Dammit."

~*~*~

"Fight!" The druggy we call a referee hollered before scurrying out of the ring that holds me and the woman of everyone's dreams.

  The angel on earth and I watched each other for a second, both of our fists up and ready with our feet light.

  Her face is calm, but I can see a ghost of a grin on her lips.

  I wonder how I look through her eyes. Probably utterly emotionless. I've had enough practice to perfect my poker face.

  I've been told I'm quite unnerving to go up against for that reason.