First at the gym, but that was short-lived. They wore gloves there. Fucking pussies.
No, he’d had to find underground fights—no rules, no gloves, no chit-chat, no bullshit. They moved from location to location, to avoid gawkers and cops. If these guys had any idea Landon used to be a detective and still had connections—albeit useless ones—at the station, they would’ve all pounced. Huh. One against, maybe, ten? That might be a good thing. Mitch would be bleeding and in pain for weeks. It’d be worth it. Too bad Landon hadn’t come with him this time. For some reason, the cop didn’t enjoy watching Mitch get the shit kicked out of him. Or it could’ve been that he didn’t like what the other guy looked like once Mitch was done fighting.
The only thing that worked to blind him was to be blinded. Literally sometimes, when he went up against an opponent who was fast enough to nail him in the face a few times. But it was getting harder and harder to find someone who would fight him. In fact, with all of the bad Fight Club jokes he kept making, it was getting harder to find someone who would tell him where the next meet-up would be. Desperate times called for desperate measures. He needed to try being a gracious winner.
“Thank you for the lovely evening, gentlemen.” He saluted awkwardly, wondering how many of his bones were broken this time. He pushed past the men, still not knowing—or caring—what they were saying. The crowd around his opponent looked at him menacingly as he approached. They had no idea what menacing looked like. What Mitch saw in the mirror every day. Just under his skin.
His beauty truly was only skin deep. Except now. No, right now even your skin is probably pretty fucking ugly, asshole.
When he looked down at the man he’d defeated, he saw drops of his own blood land on the guy’s shoulder. Now, not only was that highly non-hygienic, but it was also very disrespectful. He wiped his mouth, thinking the blood was probably coming from there. Then he wiped his forehead just in case. “Fuck,” he yelled as the sting hit. That one might even need stitches. Until Hyde’s good, good healing kicked in and forced Mitch back in the ring.
“You okay, dude?” he asked, bending down. “You need some help?”
The guy grunted and shoved Mitch’s leg. “I don’t need your fucking help.”
“ Everyone needs help once in a while. There’s no shame in it.” Mitch stuck out his hand. “You fought the good fight, my man. Thank you.”
Through eyes almost swollen shut, the guy glared for a moment and then slapped his hand into Mitch’s. “You fight like the devil’s chasing you.”
Shaking his head, Mitch hauled the guy up to his feet. “The devil caught me a long time ago. Now I’m just his bitch.” When the guy smiled, Mitch winced. “I see many unpleasant dental bills in your future, my friend.”
The guy nodded, reached into his mouth, and yanked on one of his teeth. It popped out like he’d just flicked-on a light switch. “Give this to your keeper. Tell him it’s payment for the next hard fucking he gives you.”
If Mitch was a better man, he would’ve laughed at the joke, left the guy with a little bit of pride. But Mitch wasn’t a better man. Nor did he want to be a better man. Not now. So he slammed his fist into the guy’s jaw, hearing a crunch followed by a communal groan from the crowd. At least his ears were working properly.
“Watch your mouth,” Mitch said. “The Devil’s actually a hell of a guy. And he lets me be the little spoon.”
Limping out of the warehouse towards his car, Mitch was numb to everything—his thoughts were simple, easy, and frankly, barely coherent. Just the way he liked it. But once his adrenaline died down, he’d feel the physical pain. And it would almost be enough to cover the emotional shit. Almost.
When he got back to his house, he paused on the doorstep. Every time he came home, he imagined he would find her there, dumped
No, he’d had to find underground fights—no rules, no gloves, no chit-chat, no bullshit. They moved from location to location, to avoid gawkers and cops. If these guys had any idea Landon used to be a detective and still had connections—albeit useless ones—at the station, they would’ve all pounced. Huh. One against, maybe, ten? That might be a good thing. Mitch would be bleeding and in pain for weeks. It’d be worth it. Too bad Landon hadn’t come with him this time. For some reason, the cop didn’t enjoy watching Mitch get the shit kicked out of him. Or it could’ve been that he didn’t like what the other guy looked like once Mitch was done fighting.
The only thing that worked to blind him was to be blinded. Literally sometimes, when he went up against an opponent who was fast enough to nail him in the face a few times. But it was getting harder and harder to find someone who would fight him. In fact, with all of the bad Fight Club jokes he kept making, it was getting harder to find someone who would tell him where the next meet-up would be. Desperate times called for desperate measures. He needed to try being a gracious winner.
“Thank you for the lovely evening, gentlemen.” He saluted awkwardly, wondering how many of his bones were broken this time. He pushed past the men, still not knowing—or caring—what they were saying. The crowd around his opponent looked at him menacingly as he approached. They had no idea what menacing looked like. What Mitch saw in the mirror every day. Just under his skin.
His beauty truly was only skin deep. Except now. No, right now even your skin is probably pretty fucking ugly, asshole.
When he looked down at the man he’d defeated, he saw drops of his own blood land on the guy’s shoulder. Now, not only was that highly non-hygienic, but it was also very disrespectful. He wiped his mouth, thinking the blood was probably coming from there. Then he wiped his forehead just in case. “Fuck,” he yelled as the sting hit. That one might even need stitches. Until Hyde’s good, good healing kicked in and forced Mitch back in the ring.
“You okay, dude?” he asked, bending down. “You need some help?”
The guy grunted and shoved Mitch’s leg. “I don’t need your fucking help.”
“ Everyone needs help once in a while. There’s no shame in it.” Mitch stuck out his hand. “You fought the good fight, my man. Thank you.”
Through eyes almost swollen shut, the guy glared for a moment and then slapped his hand into Mitch’s. “You fight like the devil’s chasing you.”
Shaking his head, Mitch hauled the guy up to his feet. “The devil caught me a long time ago. Now I’m just his bitch.” When the guy smiled, Mitch winced. “I see many unpleasant dental bills in your future, my friend.”
The guy nodded, reached into his mouth, and yanked on one of his teeth. It popped out like he’d just flicked-on a light switch. “Give this to your keeper. Tell him it’s payment for the next hard fucking he gives you.”
If Mitch was a better man, he would’ve laughed at the joke, left the guy with a little bit of pride. But Mitch wasn’t a better man. Nor did he want to be a better man. Not now. So he slammed his fist into the guy’s jaw, hearing a crunch followed by a communal groan from the crowd. At least his ears were working properly.
“Watch your mouth,” Mitch said. “The Devil’s actually a hell of a guy. And he lets me be the little spoon.”
Limping out of the warehouse towards his car, Mitch was numb to everything—his thoughts were simple, easy, and frankly, barely coherent. Just the way he liked it. But once his adrenaline died down, he’d feel the physical pain. And it would almost be enough to cover the emotional shit. Almost.
When he got back to his house, he paused on the doorstep. Every time he came home, he imagined he would find her there, dumped
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