The F King: A Bad Boy Romance(110)

When I thought of Skylar, those screams, I wanted to tear my chest open and rip my heart out so I wouldn’t have to feel it anymore. I’d been fucking and fighting my way through life for so long, I never had time to think about the possibility of something better being out there, or what it would feel like to lose it.

Well, now I knew. Skylar was it. She was mine and I swore silently to myself that, first and foremost, I’d save her if I could, and then I’d scorch the fucking Earth to cleanse it of every last Picolli or Bertolini.

Fucking with me was bad enough, but they made their last mistake bringing Skylar into it. I had to win this fight tomorrow, play humble, promise to fight for free, all that shit. Whatever it took to get her out of their clutches.

That was easier said than done, of course. Some people made the argument that Brenton Southgate was the greatest heavyweight fighter that ever lived. It was ten years since a then-inexperienced Southgate last lost, and even that was by split decision. Specifically not by KO or submission in the first fucking minute of the first round.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I couldn’t rely on my conditioning to last until the later rounds, where I had an advantage over the older fighter. That was one thing Ross and I had agreed on when it came to this fight at least.

Fuck. Ross was dead.

He was a bit of an asshole sometimes, but he was a coach, a friend, and the closest thing I ever had to a father figure. I’d pay them back for him too.

I shook my head and grimaced at the pain the movement brought. Holding the gel packs more firmly against my head, I forced down thoughts of Ross. There’d be a time for thinking about him, but everything I had left needed to be focused on Skylar.

What I needed was an explosive, brutal, knockout right out of the gate. That might have been easier if I hadn’t tipped my hand a little with that KO against Sanchez. Southgate would have seen it and taken some time out of his grappling training to dedicate to the striking side of things in response.

In my mind, I visualized scenario after scenario of the opening minute of my fight. Every step I could take, every counter-measure he could take, every way I could get him to expose his head for a knockout.

After a couple of hours, my mind started drifting to what I’d do after the fight, once I’d got her back. She might not want to see me, now that she knew a bit more about the real me, but if she was alive then at least I could have a chance to make her happy again.

Either way, I’d put her in my car and drive until I ran out of gas, then I’d steal somebody else’s car and drive in a different direction until that one ran out of gas. Then I’d put her on a bus to wherever I could, from wherever we were, and make my way back to New Ashby to burn the whole city to the ground if I had to.

One of the guys who came to the gym sometimes was ex-army. He once dropped the fact that he knew a guy still in the services who was dirty as fuck and not above supplying military-grade equipment in an unofficial capacity.

I’d get myself as much as I could afford, and put a mushroom cloud where that fucking mansion used to be. Of course, I’d make sure Gavino, his nephew and that piece of shit Renato Picolli weren’t in there when I did it. Oh no. I had some much more invasive plans for them.

First, I’d…

The room on the other side of my closed eyelids brightened up for a second as daylight flooded in from the door, then went dark again when I heard it slam shut on its spring. Some motherfucker had ignored the ‘closed’ sign.

Footsteps approached the mats, two sets of them. I didn’t bother to open my eyes.

“Gym’s closed, fuck off.”

“I’m not here for the gym.”

I turned my head and opened my eyes to see a big guy in a suit with some dainty little brunette chick standing next to him. He had the build of a pretty handy mafia soldier, maybe only a bit smaller than me, but his suit looked more expensive than the usual fare the low-level guys dressed themselves in.

What was this cunt doing here? Did Gavino send him to keep me in line? Make sure I was doing what I was told in the lead up to the fight? The smoldering embers of anger in my chest began to find fresh fuel.

“I don’t care what you’re here for. Fuck. Off.”

The guy looked from me, to the chick and back again. I could see the tats on his neck, and on his forearm and wrist. He had enough of them that I thought he must be some low-level guy who had a biggish payday, and blew his load on some ego-wardrobe.

What that woman was doing here I had no fucking idea. She was in the later stages of pregnancy too, by the look of things, so this was a fucking weird place for the Bertolinis to send her. Whatever, it didn’t matter.