Page 8 of Bound By Ink

Growing up with a single mum, I needed to make extra cash, and I was good at fighting. I used to clean the gym before and after school in exchange for free lessons, MMA, boxing, you name it. I trained, and I trained hard.Fighting came easy after I learned how. It’s how I was able to afford to buy the tattoo shop when David, my mentor and boss, decided to retire.

I don’t fight so much now. I don’t need the money so much anymore. I do it for the buzz, the excitement of it all. The notoriety. My tattoo business is very lucrative, and as lazy as Steven is, he rents a chair from me, so I have that monthly income whether he chooses to use it or not. I can’t bring myself to give it up, though, still fighting now and then, but tattooing is my life. If I fuck my hands up, I’m screwed, but I love the thrill, and the attention is definitely a bonus. It certainly keeps my dick wet.

I head over to the corner. The top brass are huddled around, discussing who goes where and when.

“Yo, Killer, want a space on the card? I can bump you in, you know the crowd goes wild when you show up.”

“Nah, not tonight. I’m just here to watch, see who’s up-and-coming.” I lean next to them on the railing. “Maybe win a little.” I give them my best smile.

“You sure we can’t talk you into it, dude? You know you’ll make bank.”

“I’m good, I’ll take a bet on Beanpole, though.”

“Seriously. He’s like a damp noodle. That kid’s scrawny as fuck.”

“Five hundred on him,” I say with a confidence that makes them all focus on me. “Eight to one, yeah?”

Barry frowns in my direction. “You fucking serious?”

“Deadly, Barry, write me up.” Barry, the bookie, nods and takes the roll of money from me.

“Don’t come crying to me when you lose.” He stuffs the wad in his pocket, writes in his notebook, and crosses his arms over his chest.

I smile. “Make sure you come cryingto mewhen I win.” I chuckle and slap him on the shoulder. I flick the ring pull on my beer. I take a swig of my room-temperature beer and head to the dressing rooms.

I scan the signs as I walk down the corridor until I find “Beanpole” on the door. I lightly knock before cracking it open and shoving my head through.

His head whips around. “Killer. I can’t believe you came!” Beanpole’s eyes widen, and his face lights up.

Stepping into the dull room. “Got money riding on you, kid, don’t let me down, yeah.” Beanpole bounces up and down, feral excitement spreading through him. I’ve seen him at the gym; he’s got what it takes. He’s easily underestimated because of his frame, but pound-for-pound, dang, that boy can throw a punch. I toss him a wink. “You’ve got this, yeah. Jenga’s on the bill with you. He’s got a dodgy right knee; keep bobbing that way and it’ll buckle. Now I’ll fuck off, and you can make me some money.” I give him a one-armed hug and toss him a cheeky smirk. He nods at me in return.

I take a step back through the door, not wanting to distract him anymore, but knowing a small interaction will boost his confidence and my bank balance no end. I make my way to the ringside and find a seat in the VIP area. I hate sitting, but it’s a better option than standing in the cramped crowd.

Jenga comes out to some skanky music with a half-dressed girl in front of him, roaring to the crowd. She steps towards the cage, climbing the few steps, then gyrating on the cage. I have nothing against strippers, but this isn’t the place. I shake my head, rolling my eyes.

I glance back to the corridor Beanpole will exit from, seeing his form in the shadows as his music starts up, and he steps into the warehouse. His focused glare roams the space as he walks towards the cage. His gaze meets mine, and I give him a nod. He hits his gloves together. They’re not boxing gloves, more of a martial-arts glove—thinner, less padding, but help to stop bone-on-bone contact, helping the fights last a little longer.

He steps into the cage, turns to face Jerry, and opens his mouth. Jerry shoves his mouth guard in. Beanpole gives me an awkward grin. I lean in, resting my elbows on my knees, dangling the can between my fingertips as I watch intently.

They both step into the centre, and the ref says his piece, spitting out the rules while they give each other death glares. The room goes silent for a split second, everyone waiting with bated breath as the ref drops his hand, and the bell finally goes. They weave around each other. The crowd goes wild, and there’s a surge forward, some shoving against my back. I try to ignore it, but I’m sitting in the last row.

There’s a punch thrown here, a kick there, and Jenga tries to grab at Beanpole, but the slippery motherfucker is too fast. I chuckle and take a swig of my drink, only to be knocked into again.

“Bastard,” I mutter as I slide the back of my hand over my chin and shake away the warm alcohol. There’s a roar in the crowd, and before I can turn, I’m slammed into again. My beer crashes to the floor, splashing up and covering my boots.

I stand abruptly and spin around; whichever cunt is behind me is about to find out why they fucking call me Killer for free.

Scott

Chapter 5

It’s Friday night, and I’ve heard nothing from Derren all week. Unable to feel anything but dejected, I wallow in my room alone.

Becky has been taking the piss, and it’s grating on my last nerve. I’m starting to feel foolish for thinking someone as hot as him would ever be interested in someone like me. I scoff at the absurdity of it. He’s bad-boy-model hot, and I’m a total nerd. He’s way out of my league. I shake my head, knowing I clearly have a type. Too hot to date me. Although Derren is hot, he’s not Killian hot. But then again, I don’t think anyone else ever will be.

Locked inside the whirling chaos that’s my brain, the reality of my situation taunts me: another out-of-reach hot guy who will never want me. After hours of contemplation, I’ve decided to push childhood crushes aside. I can’t carry on living life in what-ifs, even though it seems I’m making the same mistake with Derren.

I’ve been to the sandwich shop twice, but he hasn’t been on shift. Watching and waiting all week with my phone beside me, wishing and wondering whether he’s gonna actually call me. I’m embarrassed and deflated.Feeling frustrated, I jump in the shower, forgoing tea because I just can’t stomach anything right now.