Dirty English

Three hours after they left, my phone pinged.

Shelley.

CALL ME ASAP, her text read.

“Excuse me, I have to get this,” I told Rick and went to the back storeroom.

I texted her, What’s wrong? Still at work. Can’t call. Text me.

Declan is fighting in an hour!! was her response.

I called her quickly, my voice hushed. Rick had a strict no cell-phones-at-work policy. “What’s going on?”

“He’s fighting at a warehouse on Water Street, the one next to the old cotton gin.” She rattled off an address. Her voice lowered. “This place is going to be insane with music and drinking and all kinds of shit. I don’t know if you can handle it.”

My chest rose as I inhaled. I’d already forgotten the address. “Text me the address, and I’ll meet you there.”

I ROLLED MY shoulders and paced around the small area behind a screen that Nick, the fight organizer, had set up earlier in the warehouse, trying to block out the blaring music and flashing lights behind me. Max had counted over five hundred heads at the door earlier—the biggest turnout ever. I checked my wrapped fists and my cup. All was good. I let out a pent-up breath and air-boxed to keep the adrenaline pumping. I was ready to knock this out.

Dax popped around the screen. “This place is a bloody freak show. Students are here in costumes from the frat parties. Suits are everywhere. Fuck, it’s crowded.” He grimaced, his face torn as if something was bugging him.

I paused my boxing. “What’s going on?”

He fidgeted and scratched his head. “I didn’t want to tell you, but I figure it’s better coming from me than suddenly seeing her in the crowd—Elizabeth’s here.”

I stepped back from the screen, my eyes skating through the crowd. “Where?”

He shook his head. “I saw her when she came in, but then we got separated. This place is a madhouse.”

I exhaled. Dammit. Now I had her to worry about. “Make sure she gets out of here, okay?”

He nodded and looked over at Yeti. “He’s fucking huge, man. He looks like an albino rat on steroids … that’s very hungry.”

I slapped him on the back. “Relax, his reach sucks.”

He nodded, his face still unsure, but he gave me a fist bump. “Kick his arse, brother. I got money on you.”

“Done.”

He stalked off but stopped a few feet outside the makeshift ring—chalk lines on the ground—jostling around with some of the more hardcore students for a good view. He was never too far from me at a fight. Max came over and took up position in my corner.

Nick blew a bullhorn, signaling the start of the match, and the music grew louder as I stepped into the twelve by twelve ring. Fucking joke. This fight had no rules and no one ever stayed inside the lines.

Yeti came in like the monster he was, his beefy body circling mine as we sized each other up.

We started out slow, each of us testing, until about sixty seconds in when he launched himself at me. Crisp fists landed on my gut, and a powerful one hit my shoulder as I pivoted away.

I inhaled at the pain, sucked it up.

Now it was on.

I clenched my fists and ran for him and got in four hits to the chest, sidestepping back when he retaliated by striking heavy with his right, aiming for my throat and chin.

He missed.

I attacked again, my palm strikes ripping into his shoulders and gut, slicing up to get to his lungs to knock the breath out of him. Punch. Punch. Punch.

He grunted. Blood flew through the air. The crowd screamed.

Yeah. Go down, fucker.

He tore away from me and paced, his face red as he shook it off, but then he grinned, teeth showing. Apparently, Yeti didn’t wear a mouth guard.

A flash of blond hair in the crowd grabbed my attention, and his palm strike connected squarely with my ear twice, bam, bam , then he flipped around and elbowed me in the gut, his other fist connecting with my temple when I bent over.

Dots flashed in front of my eyes.

The room faded.

Wake the fuck up .

My chest heaved as I sucked in air and stumbled away from him.

He tossed back his head and let out a roar. The crowd egged him on, clapping and calling his name.

I shook the hits off, rose up, and went at him again, this time using an elbow strike combination with leg kicks. He took both hits to the chest and went down to his knees. Success. I pounced and we wrestled to the floor, the hard concrete grinding in my shoulder as we grappled for control. I used a forearm submission move.

I pushed him down and got in one … two … three quick punches.

Dir-ty Eng-lish! Dir-ty Eng-lish ! the crowd chanted.

He goosed up with a head-butt as I pounded him; I swerved.

He bucked up again, this time stronger. My purchase slipped. Dammit.

Not yet .

He grunted and blood spurted from his face as I hit his nose with my palm.

I lowered him closer to the ground until his nose kissed concrete.

“Fight’s over, Yeti,” I muttered, and in the millisecond it took me to breath those words, he contorted, loosened the hold and jabbed with his knee, connecting with part of my upper throat.

I gagged and fell back.

Girls screamed. Guys yelled. Max yelled from the sidelines. No clue what he said.

Bugger!

I lost steam. Fast. I couldn’t fucking breathe.

He grinned maniacally and came at me, jabbing at my face. He got my right eye. I kept moving. Avoiding. Dodging. Trying to breathe.

Using all the strength I had, I rolled my hips and retaliated with a jab-cross. The left hook went straight for the liver and the right aimed for the area under his heart. I yelled as it ripped out of me.