Free Cage by Sarah Sparrows Page A

it. I can’t let him have that kind of power over me.

 
    “Look,” he conceded, “I just need to get out of here, alright? I can’t
be here.”

 
    “We just gothere? You’re going to leave me alone on
our first night in? Aren’t you supposed to be, you know, watching over me or
something?”

 
    “Is that what you want?” He growled. “You want me to watch your every
move? Stand around and just hover whenever you want to do anything? Or would
you like to slam a door in my face again?”

 
    “Look, that was my underwear ,
you jackass ,” I snarled at him.

 
    “You’re the one who left it out in the open. Why in the hell do you need
the world’s biggest assortment of sexy underwear anyway? Plan on moonlighting?”

 
    “NO! I… That’s none of your business!” I said, flushing red.

 
      “I was just trying to help.
And if you do want my help,” he said,
throwing a hand against one of the cabinets, “then maybe you shouldn’t piss me off. Maybe you should stay out of my way and let me just go enjoy some
of my night…the parts of it I can salvage, anyway.”

 
    I clenched my jaw and fought back my tears, curling my hands into fists
at either side.

 
    “By the way, the oven’s preheated.”

 
    Sawyer turned away, disappearing from sight.

 
    Fuck you....

 
    As I furiously glared at the spot where he’d been standing, trying to
hold myself together, I heard his footsteps retreat. A few seconds later, the
sound of the door opening and slamming shut rang out into the silence, and I
broke down in tears.

 

 
 
    ( Return to Table of Contents )

 
 
 
    Chapter 8 – Sawyer

 
    New Orleans, Four Years Ago

 
 
 
    Af ter my first
brawl, life fell into a particular rhythm. The fights were scheduled late on
the weekends – but the venue skipped around from time to time, depending
on how much of a blind eye we received from the authorities.

 
    For the most part, the fuzz didn’t seem to give a rat’s ass about our
matches. Sometimes, that would change for a few weeks. Luckily for us, Gary had
a high-ranking friend on the force, and we were tipped off early to any
increased interest. All that meant was moving information through the network
of usual spectators, then shifting our fights somewhere else for a weekend or
two.

 
    During the week, I took up odd jobs for Gary’s bar regulars, doing more
manual labor. It was easier to manage with a roof over my head and a shower on
call, and they paid me under the table for everything.

 
    Meanwhile, Gary pulled through on that ‘training’ promise from the
start. Before the second weekly brawl, I’d already been introduced to Chen, his
dojo owner contact, and even attended a few sessions. It wasn’t news to me that
Gary had been right – I was unrefined,
and that was painfully clear to me after a few afternoons with the group.

 
    “Discipline,” Chen told me on the second night. “You lack discipline . Your body is a heavy block
of clay – very powerful, very sturdy. But power is never enough. Teach
yourself discipline , and you will
learn finesse .” He sized me up, as so
many did around those times, and smiled confidently. “You are a quick learner,
and you do not fear pain. An excellent pupil… I think you will be.”

 
    And so it continued: brawls every weekend, a roulette of work during the
week, and fitting forty hours of training around it. At first, my training was
at the drawing board – revisions made to how I lift weights and trained
my cardiovascular. At the same time, I was educated in how to throw a proper
punch, the right stances to take, and everything I needed to know about taking critical punches and kicks.

 
    After I had been retrained in the very basics, I studied for a month
under Chen’s instructors with basic, common denominator martial arts. I learned
the bottom-rung ways to evade powerful jabs to the jaw, catch or deflect
striking kicks, and how to avoid being