Free Dirty Fighters by Kyle Adams Page B

as an afterthought like I haven't been choked out enough times to know not to move my head too fast. I gradually sat up and noticed my balance was fine, I was already feeling a lot less dizzy.
    Striker pulled off his latex gloves and put them in a plastic trash can before reaching into his pack and grabbing a bottle of water and some pills. He turned back to me and asked, "Are you nauseous at all?" I thought about it for a second before slightly shaking my head. "Good. Sip a little of this," he said before opening the water and handing it to me. I took a cautious sip and was grateful when it soothed the burning in my throat. "Here, take four Ibuprofen, it will help with the swelling and you should feel better soon." I took the pills and swallowed them one at a time.
    I looked closer at Striker's face, he was already starting to bruise around his right eye, it would be a nice shiner in a few hours. He deserved it, just for being a smug bastard. He was about two inches taller than me but his body was the same compact build as mine. He wore his dark brown hair in the same style as me. His face was softer and more round. I had a rougher look, which some might even call ruggedly handsome, but Striker he was just stunningly beautiful. Just when my eyes were starting to take a full appreciative look of his body, he turned his head and locked his gaze onto mine.
    Not wanting to be caught admiring him, I narrowed my eyes and glared. Half smiling, he scowled back at me. We were only about a foot apart, and I couldn't tell if he wanted to hit me or kiss me. I wasn't friends with any of the guys I fought against, I didn’t talk to them outside of arranging fights so I knew nothing about any of them. This was the longest conversation I’d ever had with Striker and I had only really said a few words. He was gorgeous, and if I had met him anywhere else I would have taken him home and fucked him. But I don't make a habit of sleeping with guys and then beating the shit out of them.
    "When are we having a rematch?" I asked. My voice sounded raspier than usual and my throat still burned when I spoke.
    Striker shook his head. "There won't be a rematch. This was my last fight, I’m getting too old to keep making excuses for why I have bruises and tired of people assuming I’m always starting fights. I used to really love fighting and it was great for releasing tension but I’m ready to find a new release that doesn’t leave bruises and broken bones."
    "What the fuck? That can't be your last fight; you have to give me a rematch. We have a two-two tie, you can’t let it end like that," I said raising my voice as loud as I could, ignoring my sore throat.
    "I told Buddy before the fight this would be my last one. I don't see the problem ending with a tie. Equal!" he snapped back.
    "It’s unsportsmanlike to refuse the looser a rematch. Stop being such a pussy," I said probably sounding childish, but I wanted my rematch. I had to win our last fight, I had to be at the top.
    He looked thoughtful for a minute, grinning at me slyly, "I thought you might say something like that so I will give you a rematch but I have a few stipulations."
    "And those would be what?" I asked irritably, he sounded like a diva. “You need your own pansy-ass dressing room?”
    "I was thinking it would be at my house, no audience, and just grappling. That way you won’t be as embarrassed when I make you my bitch."
    It was on the tip of my tongue to say no because I liked striking, and wanted to give him matching black eyes, but I’m very competitive and I wanted a rematch. And although I preferred fighting with my fists, grappling could be a good release of tension. "When are we going to do this?"
    He gave me a playful grin before responding, "Tonight, if you're up for it, that is." Even if I wasn't feeling up to it, I wouldn't have been able to refuse the challenge in his statement. I just nodded my head. "If you think you’re okay to drive, you can just follow me