The sound of flesh hitting flesh permeates the air, saturating it, riling it, feeding it. The vision of blood only makes the way too pumped up crowd even more crazed. The electricity in the room is like a lightning bolt, ready to sting at any given moment. The confined space of the rundown basement in the warehouse adds to the heat factor.

Every bit of this a combination for trouble. Major trouble.

Men and women hold money in their hands, waving it high in the air, each one wanting a win on the man they chose. Bets have to be placed before the first fist is thrown, so this is just grandstanding, reminding the fighters there is a prize to be won and only one of them will come out on top.

The crammed group pushes their way closer, everyone wanting as much of the action as possible, wanting to see every cut or possible bruise. They suck in each strike, grunt, and movement each man makes in the makeshift ring.

The entire space smells of sweat and blood. The excitement in the air blends with it, making for an intoxicating experience for everyone.

One that I love to get lost in. One that not only feeds these people but feeds me, as well.

My skin prickles with each rumble as it syncs with each blow. While everyone’s eyes are on the action, mine is on them. Scanning. Targeting. Watching. Waiting.

There’s a moment during every fight, a peak one would say, where someone watching gets the idea they can swing like the men in the ring. Normally, it’s a push or a shove the wrong way that sends everything into a tailspin.

My job is to keep that from happening. Easy? Fuck no.

A rush like no one has ever known? Hell yes.

In my three years of doing this, I can count on one hand the nights there was nothing to break up. Those three times, I almost thought of starting something just to get a rise, to see some sort of action.

I don’t do boring. Refraining is very hard, but I’m paid to keep things in line, not add to the chaos. The pay is so damn good that I need for nothing. So, no way I’ll fuck up this job. I know what you’re thinking: why in the fuck does an underground fight need security? Schade, my boss, claims the violence, chaos, and the potential injuries are bad for business. He’s all about the money and been doing this longer than me, so I roll with it.

“Rylie!” The deep voice somehow carries over the roar, and I turn toward it. Becks, another of the team, lifts his chin, telling me he’s got a live one.

Finally.

My blood pumps as the adrenaline pushes its way to the surface.

Weeding through the crowd, hands touch my body, but are ignored, at least for now as the warm bodies bump against me.

Making my way over to Becks, he’s in the middle of what we call a Douchebag Dance—two men who are trying to prove how big their balls are. Average sized men, both taller than me, and each has between fifty to a hundred pounds on me, as well. One is dressed like he just came from some type of office job with a navy Polo shirt and dark jeans. His build isn’t enormous, but he’s not lacking, either.

The other is a regular, Jackson. Of the hundreds of altercations I’ve broken up, he’s been in several of them. He came from the streets and is a hell of a scrapper. In his late twenties, he loves the pain and gets off on it. Even a punch and he’s happy. One of these days, I’m going to throw his ass in the ring and let one of the guys show him real pain. Or just do it myself. That’s where he needs to be instead of throwing his weight around out here.

Jackson rears back his arm for a punch. Before he can do so, though, I loop my arm through his crooked one and twist it behind his back, at the same time kicking his kneecaps and causing him to fall harshly to the partially concreted and dirt floor.

With his arm locked and me slightly bent, he can’t move, and with the serious blow to his kneecaps, he’s down for a bit. Pity.

Becks rushes Polo man and has his ass down on the floor, too.

The people around us move just enough to give us space, but still staying in the action of the featured fight. They couldn’t care less about this one. Now, if the main event was over, this would be an entirely different animal.

Polo man looks shocked that his ass is lying in the filth. This makes me smile. Stupid fucker.

“Out,” Becks calls over the rumble, picking Polo man up to his feet and escorting him from the room.

I tug on Jackson’s bent arm, and he yelps. “Up,” I command, knowing full well that he won’t be able to walk smoothly out of here. But there is no way in fuck I’m carrying his ass out. Not that I couldn’t. I’ll just leave it to the cleanup crew. Schade doesn’t fuck around with his job. Therefore, neither do any of us.

Speaking of cleanup crew, Turner shows up, an angry scowl on his face that I’m pretty sure is permanently etched there, considering that, for as long as I’ve been here, he’s never once smiled.

He says nothing, just grabs Jackson by the arm and neck, dragging him through the crowd.

Well, that was uneventful. What a fucking let down.

The loud bell chimes, signaling not only the end of the match and someone completely down and out, but also ringing in my fucking ear. Schade insisted on the fucking thing. Why? I have no clue. It was put in about two years ago when he got a wild burr up his ass, and to my regret, it hasn’t disappeared.

Hands from the audience fly down as the sound grows more intense. Some are pissed they lost their cash, while others are brimming with excitement.

Becks catches my vision, lifts his chin, and moves through the crowd, same as me, scanning and watching.

A body crashes into my back, making me stumble forward, but not enough for me to go down. Turning, I see a man with brown hair look back at me for just a second before he turns back toward another man who is charging at him. Arms swing, punches connect, grunts sound, and blood sprays the surrounding crowd that has now turned to these two, their cheering and egging on now going to them.

This is exactly what I was talking about earlier. Now that the real fight is over, the attendees are ready for more blood, and they don’t give a shit whose it is.

This is more like it.

Moving quickly between them, I slam hard into the man’s kneecap, and he goes down with a thud.

Yes, I have a lady boner for kneecaps. They always take a person down if you hit the right spot.

The other man takes a swing at the same time, hitting me square in the jaw. I can feel my bright red lipstick smear across my chin as the pain shoots up the side of my face. My head doesn’t turn, though, making the man who hit me take a step back and blink rapidly, the shock quite funny.

I step toward him and look up since he has a good five inches on me, even in my heeled boots. With a speed I’ve honed in on, I let my fists fly in rapid succession. Up, across, and even to his nose, as he bends a bit because of the blow to his stomach. Blood spurts out, spraying me. But I don’t give a shit, in this moment.

He puts his hands up to deflect. A couple of times, he even tries to punch back but only hits air as I maneuver away from each strike, getting mine in, in the process. Savagely, I strike him in the gut with my boot, making sure the pointed heel takes the brunt of the contact, and the man falls to the ground, smacking his head and passing out cold.

Damn, it was just getting to the good part.

“Fucking bitch!” is yelled behind me, and I turn to see the man who I dropped out of the fight early. He’s holding his knee, pain written all over his face. I take simple joy in that, even if his mouth is spouting off stupid shit.

“Aw, you say such sweet things,” I coo before slamming my fist in his face.

Looking around at the crowd, I first check to see if anyone else is in the mood to bombard me. Not seeing any takers, I inhale a breath, letting the high take me over. It’s better than any fucking drug out there, and one I can ride until the next fight.

Life has been a challenge. One I refuse to lose. So, bring it on, motherfuckers. That’s how I get through every night at this job.

* * *

“I swear, you get off on this more than anyone,” Schade comments, handing me my envelope of cash after the night is over. Not only do I get a cut of the winnings, I also get my pay.

Schade doesn’t fuck around. When he hired me, he said that it was because I was the best. I don’t know if that’s true, but I do what I do and that’s the end of it.

“Someone’s gotta do it,” I reply, placing the envelope in my black backpack then zipping it up. I throw it on my back, adjusting the straps before making a quick exit.

My bike hums between my thighs as I cruise down the dimly lit streets. The cool night air whips across my face, invigorating me. I’ve always loved riding, ever since I was a kid. Then, money was scarce. Hell, more like non-existent, but we made due, like always.

I would watch the motorcycles go up and down my street, always dreaming that one day I would own one. Now, the Harley is mine. I’ve worked damn hard for it, but I learned from my parents’ that anything worth having is worth working damn hard for. Having taken that to heart, my entire life has been about just that.

The air against my skin, the sounds all around me, and the experience of flying down the wide-open road reminds me that I’m alive. Cars, trucks, SUVs, they’re all nice, but being caged in makes me feel suffocated. Riding on the open road, the power of the machine between my legs, it’s a reminder I’m a damn survivor.

Pulling into my driveway, I scan the place, looking for anything out of place, noting nothing out of the ordinary. The bricks on the house are exactly the same, landscaping the same, and the one light in the living room glows through the window. Nothing amiss. The same as always.

I hit the button on my bike and the garage door rolls open. I park the Harley next to my silver Jeep. Climbing off the bike, I unzip my leather jacket and pull my clear glasses from my eyes as I walk to the door.

Beeping comes from the other side as I slip through and enter the code for the alarm. Just then, paw steps are heard running through the house. The taps of Brewer’s nails hit the hardwood floor and skid as he turns the corner.

I kneel as he barrels into me, almost knocking me down. He’s a sixty-five-pound black lab with a ton of energy, and I love him. He’s my solid in a world of liquid.

He gives me his doggies kisses as I rub him down. When I rise, he whines, then gets excited when he sees me moving toward the kitchen. He loves dinner time. Or, in our house, midnight dinner on days I have to work. He goes to town as I toss my backpack and everything else down on the table.

When I moved to Sumner, Georgia, it was because of this job. A friend of mine said he knew a guy—when you’re deep in the streets, connections are everywhere. It looked interesting, so I thought I’d give it a shot. Now I’ve been here for three years.

My house is simple: kitchen, attached dining room, living room, three bedrooms, and two bathrooms. The furniture is the same—I only have what I need. Nothing fluffy, no throw pillows or decorative vases with flowers in them. None of that shit. Everything in my space serves a purpose. The extras mean nothing to me.

Thanks to Schade, I can afford pretty much anything, but why throw money away on stupid shit? No thanks. That’s not for me. The only luxury I have is my bed. King-sized, extra comfy, with blankets I can melt into. My reasoning for this is a bit twisted, but when you grow up too fast, too soon, too unprepared, you learn quickly the things that make you happy. My bed is one of those. Brewer is the other.

I strip off my clothes, tossing them to the floor, and jump in the shower. After washing off the night, I climb into bed just as Brewer hops up, turns twice, and finds his doggie place beside me. I drift off.

* * *

“What?” My tone is clipped and irritated, because I am irritated. As soon as I saw Aunt CB—CB stands for “cunt bitch”—it shot my day all to hell, and I’ve only been up long enough to eat and let Brewer out. Nowhere near enough time to deal with her.

If I didn’t answer, though, she will just call and call and call to the point where I want to reach through the phone and rip her head off.

“That’s no way to answer the phone, Rylie. Have you no manners?”

“No,” I answer instantly, having lost manners a long damn time ago when it comes to her. The only reason I deal with her is because she’s the only family I have left, being my mother’s sister and all. I’ve felt stuck for a very long time because she’s the only connection I have to my parents’. But that’s about to stop because she only calls for one reason and one reason only.

I’m not a fucking ATM machine, and my mother’s sister or not, I’m done.

“I see.” She clucks her tongue, the same fucking sound she made when I was a teen and did something she didn’t approve of. Fucking hated that shit. She would do it right before punishing me for stupid shit, like asking for a second helping at dinner time. I learned quickly not to do that.

She is nothing like my mother. Nothing. My mother was warm and caring, while CB is nothing of the sort.

“What do you want?” I ask again, grabbing my Diet Coke and taking a drink then sitting it back on the side table.

Brewer comes up and lays in the crook of my bent knees on the couch.

I know what she wants, so why the fuck do I even ask?

“I’m a little short this month—”

“No,” I cut her off with a quickness. “I’m not giving you anything. Only fucking time you call me is for money and to get you out of some fucked up situation that you got your own damn self into. I’m done with this fucking game. You need to lose my number.”

She huffs. “Rylie Marie—”

“No,” I cut her off again. “I’m not fucking paying for your shit. You’re lucky your ass is still breathing. Take this for the warning it is: leave me the fuck alone, or I’ll make you … for good.” I disconnect and toss my phone to the other end of my couch.

That bitch just does not know who she’s fucking with. I’m not some punk-ass kid who lost her parents in a drive-by shooting anymore. Living on the streets was better than her home. I’ve learned my shit and have a damn good head on my shoulders, no thanks to her.

Thank Christ I only had to stay with her for two years. Worst two years of my life, but they made me the woman I am today. Not that I’d ever thank her for that … ever.