The Bad Boys and the Fighter

1

The parking lot, illuminated by dimming street lamps, was a somewhat silent refuge from the roars of the abandoned building it graced.  My feet, planted firmly on the black asphalt refused to move knowing what would await for me in the dingy building ahead.

"Hey baby," a drunk man drawled from several yards away.

Although perhaps the only refuge in sight was the warehouse that homed New York City's underground boxing ring.

The burly man guarding the steel door gave me a curt nod as I approached before turning back to the car lot.

Bright lights and a sea of men greeted me, the lights disorienting me for a quick moment before I turned towards the burly man guarding the plastic fold up table. Several steel boxes of cash and a stack of paper bags decorated the table.

I waited in the line of bidders and boxers, either placing their bets or entering matches. The hood of my black sweatshirt covered my hair and most of my face, although most of the men here knew who I was and knew I always won.

"Ariel," Tanner mused once it was my turn in line, "Thought we agreed on a waiting period between fights."

I crossed my arms over my chest and looked over at the boxing ring. The announcer was preparing it for the next match.

"You agreed on that." My irritated tone received a pointed glare. "Look, this is a good way for me to the relieve stress from my daily life. Please?"

The man, who's burly appearance scares many, shook his head and begrudgingly wrote my name down — though I didn't miss the vein popping out of his forehead as he did so. "You're going against JC in sixty minutes. When you win you get 4 bands."

I choked on the breath of air I was inhaling. Of course I'd be paired with some guy from my school.

"Would you rather wait another two hours to fight?" Tanner question once seeing my reaction. "That's the only opening left."

Looking back at the ring, I shook my head. "No, he's fine."

I moved away from the table and started wandering closer to the ring, thought stayed a couple feet back from the men in the very back to observe my surroundings.

In the far left corner I spotted Jeremiah and a few men shirtless and talking in hushed whispers. They leaned up against the concrete wall, shirts and bottled waters in hand. Cole Knight, Jeremiah Smith, Tyler Connors, and Carlos Garcia were the "bad boys" at my school. No one really knew them outside of their sex scandals, suspensions for alcohol and drug abuse, and fights behind the school yard.

Forty five minutes later the announcer began preparing the ring for the next fight — mine. A large hand gripped my shoulder and I stiffened under the touch.

"C'mon, I'll take you to your corner," Snake Mullens — the owner of the hand — and a professional fighter whispered in my ear.

I relaxed once hearing his voice and let him guide me through the sea of drunk men to the right side of the makeshift boxing ring. No one dared to mess with Snake Mullens or his associates. This was a known rule in our world, and it was one these men followed closely outside of the ring.

He forced me down on a plastic paint bucket and shoved a water bottle in my hands. "I heard about your agreement with Tanner. Why aren't you following it?"

"Because I never agreed to it," I seethed as I took off my hoodie. "I'm not a child, Snake. I can fucking handle myself."

"Save that shit for the ring, not for me," Mullens scolded.  "By the way, if you could take care of yourself, we wouldn't be so damn worried about you all the time."