Ford
MY OPPONENT IS GOING DOWN.
As soon as we're joined in the ring, I know immediately that he's just another hopeful to steal a glimpse into the prestigious life of Red Alert. His eyes canvass the audience more than they do assess me, and that's his first downfall. Actually, it's his second. His first is the unruly arrogance married up to his waltz and demeanour because I'm going to knock him down a few pegs.
He's stocky and perhaps an inch or two taller than me, which he's sure to capitalise on for his reaches for punches because I'll have to reach further than him to retaliate, and it'll screw me further if he steps back in defence. But whatever. I'll cross that bridge when it comes to it.
As my opponent's dark grey eyes shift to his personal trainer, mine wander to the girl sitting between Jax and Jeremiah. Harris is seated next to William and Clark divides the two groups—thank fuck. Genevieve looks so fucking stunning in a burgundy dress that's blanketed in decorative lace and falls to her mid-thighs. It features long baggy sleeves and an incredibly low neckline to below her tits so her cleavage is gloriously and distractingly on display.
When I saw her enter the dressing room—I arrived at the stadium early as I usually do and Genevieve had to make her own way a little later on when it was time—I was ready to throw my gloves at Renner and call the whole damn thing off just so I could have my wicked way with her in another dressing room. She's absolutely devilish, and the burgundy hue only seems to complement her dark hair. Dressed to the nines with her makeup done, she's so fucking sexy and beautiful.
And way too out of my league.
Yesterday I saw the difference in her behaviour. When I turned up at the cafeteria in front of her friends—who she ended up having the third degree from in the evening while still in my company—with her hot chocolate she was supposed to have in the morning, I knew it instantly. She wasn't at all irritated for my radio silence. She should have been. She would have been—any other day.
She's completely surrendered to Bullet's overriding power. She's at the mercy of Bullet.
She's mine.
As the referee steps to the middle of the ring, he beckons both my opponent and I to approach. He bullshits the rules as per and then has us performing the boxer's handshake.
Back in my own corner, I steal one final glance at Genevieve who's more in awe of me than repulsed as she was at my last fight, and then fasten my gaze to my nameless opponent. Here comes another victory, I muse dreamily.
The first round is shitty. I'm gauging his boxing abilities, technique, and any vulnerabilities I can exploit. He's too hyped up on adrenaline, which blurs his concentration for technique, and I land some hard-hitting hooks to his jaw when his defences lapse.
The second round follows a similar pattern, though he manages a winding liver punch to me. Luckily, it's right as the bell rings throughout the stadium to indicate the round termination and I have time to recuperate. Renner's muttering instructions and guidance to me about my opponent's inconsistent talent, telling me to defend myself when his technique peaks and attack when his defence falls as arrogance overrides him.
From the audience, Genevieve's cheeks bear a similar hue to her dress. Her gaze is latched to mine and I wink at her, despite a tender tickle emanating from my eyebrow from an earlier shot I conceded from my opponent. It's just another reminder I'm human, and the way Genevieve's blush intensifies to mirror the shade of her bloodshot eyes reminds me just how much of a shitty human I am.
"Get a knockout," Jeremiah encourages. "Harris has been talking shit about you the entire time."
Colour me shocked. But I'm aiming for a knockout anyway because it's my standard goal. A technical knockout is sufficient, but I'm insatiable for blood and a damn good fight. To cement my victory with my opponent unconsciously sprawled on the floor with blood staining their pale skin. Only few other things measure up to that height of appeasement.
