may the wolves [ kaylor ]

VI.

Hey there everyone! A few extra notes for this chapter: I'm leaving the country for a month starting the 17th, so I'm trying to write through at least chapter 10 by then. I have chapter 7 and part of 8 written, and I'll post 7 the day before I leave. Then the others will be posted by one of my friends while I'm gone, so just know that the chapters after this probably won't be proofread as well, and some of them might be shorter, because I want you guys to have updates even though I won't have a whole lot of time to write.

The music from upstairs throbs in a distorted way into the basement of the bar, echoing against the walls and pounding in Karlie's skull. She's in the back corner, stretching her arms across her chest to loosen up her shoulders. They're not even what's tense. In fact, all of her tension is focused on her right knee (not that that's anything new--the stupid joint has been bothering her for the better portion of four years).

But obviously she's not going to focus on stretching it and massaging out what tension she can. Because there are people watching her, and she can't afford for them to know the weak point on her body. She knows better than that. And she also knows if someone takes out her stupid knee she'll end up with a hospital bill she can't even begin to think about affording.

The brief thought of money pulls her back to Taylor. She'd left three days ago, and she misses the house and all of its space. She misses the mattress that had hugged her body and the giant kitchen she could get lost in. And she misses Taylor, too, but she doesn't like to dwell on that. She still has the other girl's number in her phone, but she doesn't feel like she's the best person to be around Taylor Swift. Too rough. Too vicious. A wolf when Taylor is a house cat perched on a backyard fence.

She feels better rested for this fight than she usually does, however. Cara had left for London two days before, and Karlie had started her house sitting duties. Cara's couch wasn't great, but god was it infinitely better than a subway tunnel. She feels like her bones are sort of aligning the way they're supposed to again, and it makes her consider getting a job so she can afford her own place even if the only furniture is a futon. But with her track record...she doesn't really have much confidence that the job applications she turns in will be accepted, and even then, it'll probably take stacking three jobs and never sleeping to afford a fucking broom closet in this city.

Fever dreams, Karlie. Fever dreams.

With a sigh, she opens her mouth and aligns her mouthguard. Someone will laugh at her for it, and she'll laugh right back about their dentistry bill when their teeth get knocked down their fucking throat. She cracks her knuckles and then stands at the edge of the ring, waiting for the current fight to finish before she'll step in.

The men are sloppy, throwing punches like teenagers egging a house. There's no finesse whatsoever, just a whirlwind of cluttered, jumbled motions, and Karlie rolls her eyes and barks out as clearly as she can through the guard against her top row of teeth, "Learn how to throw a hook or get the fuck out of the ring!" A few shouts of agreement follow, and it distracts one of the men for the few seconds long enough for the other to knock him out cold, his jaw making a cracking sound as he hits the floor. It's a fluke. She knows the winner still has broken fingers of his own after that hit of bone against bone. But she lets him have it, deciding not to taunt him as he walks out even though she easily could.

She steps in to take his place, hands on her hips. She's thin and bony and female, so she doesn't look particularly intimidating. But the regulars here call her Knockout for a reason, and no one jumps to step into the ring against her. It makes pride swell in her chest that she's made such a name for herself, watering the garden of her ego perhaps a little too much. But she also really needs money to eat, so she huffs out a hot, annoyed breath through her nose.