Free Brawl by Kylie Hillman Page B

painful way possible. I throw a one-two combo. Right fist to the face, followed by a left then another right. Stunned, his hands drop, leaving him defenseless as he backs away from me. I don’t care, following him step for step, determined to make him pay for even allowing thoughts of my wife and son to enter his putrid head. Swinging my right arm again, my uppercut connects with that sweet spot on his chin. He fades, eyelids drooping, his knees wobbling when his retreat picks up pace.
    Fuck no, cunt. You do not get to pass the fuck out.
    Bearing down on him, I almost close the distance his stumbling footsteps have put between us before I launch into a spear tackle. My knees and ankles are strong as they act like a springboard; my shoulder braced to hit him in the solar plexus; and my gaze is zeroed in on Kryptonite’s weak chin. I hit him, dead on target, and he folds like a cheap suit. I hear the air rushing from his lungs and the thud his body makes when it hits the cushioned floor of the cage. His head lolls and I could spit from frustration when his eyes roll back in his head.
    Fuck. He’s out.
    For the first time since the fight began, the noise of the crowd registers with me. It’s deafening, even more than usual. The spectators are stamping their feet as they clamor for a better view. Taking a second to look around me, I see mouths hanging open and fingers pointing. Looking down at the prone body beneath me, my brutality is driven home when I take in the bleeding, swollen mass that used to be Kryptonite’s face.
    After what feels like an eternity, although it’s barely seconds in reality, the ref jumps into action and knocks me off my opponent, calling time on the bout. I roll onto my back, panting and filled with gut-churning frustration. Kryptonite looks like he’s gone ten rounds with Mohammed Ali, yet I feel like he got off lightly for his comment.
    I might be a hard-cunt. I might cross lines that normal people wouldn’t dream of. Fuck me dead, I fight for fun—because I enjoy hurting people—yet I wouldn’t dream of bringing my opponent’s dead wife and kid into the ring. Every fiber of my being wants to kick him in the ribs and lay into him again. Cockhead deserves that...and more.
    Lost in my thoughts of retribution, it takes me a minute to notice the ruckus that’s broken out in the basement. Deep, male voices are baying for my blood. Yelling that the fight was a set-up. Demanding a refund of the money they put on the unconscious fucker still lying on the floor of the octagon.
    Laughing humorlessly to myself, I pull my knees to my chest, lay my palms flat on the ground either side of my head and kick my legs out, arching my back as I go. Landing on my feet, my immediate thought is Nate and his posse. Every piece of shit here knows that he’s my nephew. And he’s down there alone while I’m trapped in this cage.
    Turning in the direction I saw him last, I find that a group of fuckers old enough to know better have circled him, Jep, and the sexy chick they have with them. Security is battling their way toward them. They’re not going to make it in time, that much is clear to me. My nephew is red in the face, his fists balled, and he’s about to start throwing punches. Jep’s standing with his back to Nate and they’ve trapped the girl between them to keep her out of harm as much as they can. What they don’t see is the big red-headed asshole who’s bearing down on them, his focus on the her, and her alone.
    Heart pounding in my chest, I make for the exit. It’s blocked by the stretcher that’s making its way to Kryptonite, so I take a running leap toward the chain fence that surrounds the octagon. Grabbing the top with both hands, I swing my legs over the top and then lower myself down the other side. Balancing on the edge of the elevated platform that forms the base of the cage, I pause to gauge the best plan of attack.
    Nate and Jep can take care of themselves normally—both train at my