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  "Sure," Anne calls, "just stay where you can hear me when I call, or I'll send Love after you."

  "Yes, ma'am!" Trish says excitedly before turning to me. "You want to come?" she asks.

  "She has work to do," Anne answers.

  I watch Trish's crestfallen face and the way her shoulders droop. I force myself to smile and lean over to hug her.

  "It's okay," I say. "Maybe next time." She wavers in front of me, unsure if she should go now that she knows I can't. "Don't worry about me," I urge her. "Go have fun."

  She hesitates for a moment more, but the thought of meeting the neighborhood kids is too thrilling and soon she's waving goodbye and heading out the door. I watch as she goes before I pull down one of the boxes from the kitchen counter and start to unpack. Anne continues to ignore me, and I can only hope that's how the rest of my dad's business trip will go. If she just ignores me, things will be just fine.

  I’ll be fine.

  I hope.

  Prologue: Part Two

  Tax

  13 years old

  My arms and legs are sore as fuck. I've got bruises on my face, on my arms – hell, they're on my shins too. I've got bruises on my bruises, and my dad tells me that each and every one of them makes me a man. They're supposed to give me pride – I'm supposed to be proud of what I'm doing, of beating other kids to a bloody fucking pulp. But I'm not. I can't be. I don't understand how this is supposed to make me a man at all. I've only been doing it for a couple of years – not a decade like some of the older guys. Some of them started as early as six or seven I hear. It makes me sick, but I'm not exactly in the position to do anything about it.

  Thankfully, I'm not squeamish about the blood. I once fought a kid who was. Poor kid. I punched him in the face, and I'm pretty sure I broke his nose. He put one hand to his face and pulled it away before he promptly passed out. He was a skinny guy too. Those are the ones you know aren't good fighters because most of the fighters – I won't call them kids because none of us really are anymore – fight for their food. If they lose, they don't eat. It's a dog eat dog world. Or rather, dog starving dog world because we're all starving for something out here.

  I close my eyes and hold my breath for a moment, releasing it in a gust as someone opens the cage and my dad pushes me in. "You got this, boy," he says, eyeing the competition. It's Corbin Jung. I've fought him before. I watch him with a narrow gaze. "You win this match for me, you hear me, boy?" Dad says. "You win it for your mom, win it for Ally."

  Fuck that, I think. And fuck him. I don't do this shit for him or for Mom. She's a bitch anyway. Always high as fuck. Dad sticks it in her and probably half of the dads here tonight do the same. There's no telling if the man at my back is even my real father. I don't do this shit for either of them. I do it for Ally. My little sister needs me, and I won't let her down. If I keep fighting, I can keep her safe. If I keep fighting she won't end up like Mom.

  I stare down at my hands as the gate closes behind me. She's always been sunshine, my Ally. I will always be nothing but blood. I raise my gaze to Corbin who looks back with sunken eyes. He circles me, and I raise my fists, doing the same. Foot to the side, I keep moving. We assess each other – Corbin and I. He's bulked up a bit since I last saw him. He must have won a few more fights. Either that or whoever makes him fight is feeding him steroids. It wouldn't be the first time that's happened here. There are so few rules. What rules do exist aren't written down. We just know.

  Rule 1, I think as Corbin jumps forward, raising his fist. I dodge. No one talks shit about the fights. If you do and you're caught, you're dead.

  Rule 2. I raise my own fist and slam it into Corbin's cheek. He doesn't even hesitate to use the momentum to come barreling around and shove a knuckled fist right back at me. You don't have to fight fair. I see Corbin's right hook coming a bit too late and it lands on my jaw, knocking me backward.

  Rule 3. My whole head is spinning, and I try to right myself before Corbin comes at me again. He's like a fucking shark, if he smells weakness, he'll come down extra hard. If you kill someone in the ring, you get double what you were promised, but you have to dispose of the body. Corbin and I start circling each other again.

  Then there are the other rules. The rules the fighters and I have. No, they aren't written down either and no, we never talk about them. They're the unspoken rules. The ones we keep to survive both mentally and physically.

  Unspoken Rule 1. Corbin's eyes land on a bit of blood drying on my lip. Yeah, he had a cruel punch. No one is your friend. I look at the bruise quickly forming on his cheek. So do I.

  Unspoken Rule 2. The roar of the crowd is almost deafening as we slowly pace around the cage. If you can get out without killing someone, do it. If you can't, don't cry about it. They were already dead to begin with. I watch the way Corbin's feet move, knowing we're merely staving off the inevitable. One of us is going down tonight, and I'm damn sure going to walk out of here on my own two fucking legs. So, it's not going to be me.

  Unspoken Rule 3. Corbin and I attack again at the same time, our muscles tensing, our bodies bunching. I slam my fist into his face again and blood spurts from his nose. He slams his fist into my temple and I see stars. Never apologize for anything that happens in the cage.

  Corbin manages to get me to the ground and he mounts me, fists swinging. I put up my forearms and try to block as much as I can, but it's nearly impossible. I gasp for breath, but with the big bastard sitting on my ribs, it's hard to draw in a decent one. In one last desperate attempt to get out from under him, I lay back completely, keeping my forearms over my face and bring my legs up, crossing my ankles in front of his neck, jerking him back and down.

  Together, we roll to the side and break out of each other's holds. Before he can get even a foot away, I grab his head by the hair and slam his face into my knee. I can feel his teeth crack over my knee cap as they cut into my bare skin. For this match, we're only wearing shorts, our sweaty upper bodies on full display. I don't let the image of the cigarette burns on his chest stop me from slamming his face repeatedly. After a few more on my knee, I stop and force him to the ground, slamming it into the concrete floor. Despite Corbin's weight, despite his size and strength, after several more double taps to the floor, he's out for the count.

  I'm breathing heavy, covered in blood and sweat and new bruises as I stand up. The crowd roars, half in disappointment and half in exuberance. Money changes hands swiftly as someone comes into the cage and removes Corbin's slack body. I'm tired, aching, and hungry as I slowly walk toward my side of the cage. When I get there, my dad's talking to one of the big shots who runs this place; an older man with dark gray hair pulled back into a tight ponytail and a scar running down the side of his f’ugly face. Dad doesn't open the cage door.

  "Hey," I slap my hands on the metal wiring of the cage, "are we leaving or what?"

  Dad looks at me as f’ugly face shoots me an unreadable look and walks away. "There's another fight," Dad begins.

  I shake my head. "Not tonight," I say, "I don't want to chance it."

  Dad doesn't smile or try to wheedle me. I can only talk back so much, I've come to know, but usually he doesn't mind trying to convince me. Because usually, it's not hard. He knows all the right buttons to push, or really, the one button he has to push – Ally. He doesn't do that this time, though; he just cuts me a look that I do not like at all.

  "You're staying in for another round," he says.

  "What? No!" I slap my open, cut up, palms on the cage gate again.

  "It's double the pay," he says as the gate behind me opens up.

  "Why?" I demand, not looking behind me. The fight hasn't started yet. It doesn't start until the other gate closes. I listen intently for the sound of the lock clicking in place. It doesn't, not yet. "Why is it double?" I ask.

  Dad doesn't reply, he just takes a step back and hardens his face. The lock clicks behind me and I whirl around, fists up and at the ready with my back pressed against the metal wir
ing.

  Oh, fuck me. I think. The guy that's standing across the cage from me is in sneakers, a ratty t-shirt, and holy jeans. He looks skinny as fuck, wide-eyed, and confused. They think I'm gonna kill him; that's why it's double the pay. Poor guy doesn't even seem to know where he is. His face is bruised to hell, his eyes sunken in even further than Corbin's had been, and he's obviously gaunt under his clothes. They practically hang off him like he's a motherfucking wire hanger. His pupils are dilated and that's when I realize he's high. I don't want to do this. I take a step back.

  “What the fuck are you doing, boy?” my father snaps at me. “Get in there. This should be a piece of cake for you!”

  I shake my head. My eyes burn as the noise from the crowd echoes in my ears. “You’ll do this,” I hear my dad say. “You’ll do this or I swear to God I’ll put Ally on every corner from here to fucking Tega Kay.”

  A hole opens up in my chest. I know he’ll do it. He so rarely threatens it, but I know he’s serious because that’s how Mom got hooked on drugs. Because of me. After my first fight. I refused to go back. I threw up. I bled. I cried. And he tied me to the kitchen chair while he shot Mom in the arm with a needle that glinted under the dull kitchen light.

  “This is what you made me do, boy,” he said. “If you don’t fight, this is what happens to your family.”

  Mom had been too drunk to care. Maybe when she had just been a drunk, she could have gotten better. But now she was a drunk and an addict and it was all my damn fault. I won’t let anything bad happen to Ally. She’s the only good thing I got left.

  So, I take a deep breath and take a step toward the poor bastard about to become acquainted with my fist. I fall deep into the hole in my chest and let it swallow me up. I don’t close my eyes when my fist connects with his face. I don’t blink as he struggles pathetically under me. I’m not a fucking killer. I’m not a fucking killer. I’m not a fucking killer. I repeat it over and over again. Every time I punch the kid, I say it to myself.

  When it's all said and done and the high as a kite "fighter" is down and out, I stop. The crowd is roaring for me to do it. To kill him. To end it all. I shake my head and retreat to the cage door where my dad's practically frothing at the mouth. "You had him!" he yells at me as we collect our cash and leave. "You could have snapped his neck like a fucking twig. It was easy. That was the easiest damned fight you could’ve had."

  "I don't care," I snap back, opening the car door and climbing in. I slam the door harder than necessary, but in no time at all Dad is on the other side, his face beat red as he prepares to lay into me again.

  "You threw that damn fight, you punk ass bitch!" He cranks the engine. Surprisingly, it sputters to life on the first crank.

  “I won, didn’t I?” My words fall on deaf ears.

  “You didn’t win, you pussied out,” he snaps and then off he goes, on another rant about how ungrateful I am. How worthless I am. I can’t disagree.

  As the car turns out onto the street, I close my eyes and picture Ally, all golden curls and sweet smiles. I can't wait to get home so I can wash off the blood and then read her a bedtime story. It'll be shitty, and she'll hate it, but then will come the lullaby, and that's always her favorite part. Because despite my bloody fists and bruises, when I sing, all the pain comes out and Ally tells me that it’s beautiful. Who am I to tell her it’s not?

  1

  Love

  Present Day

  21 Years Old

  The light bulb flickers overhead as I flip on the bedroom light switch, and Beverly strides through the place in her ginormous high heels. The aroma of her floral perfume permeates the apartment causing me to wrinkle my nose. It’s not that the smell is unpleasant – it’s simply overwhelming, like choking on dollar store air freshener when she passes by. At least I know she'll pay her rent; my last roommate moved out without telling me and she still owed me two months in back rent. Now that I think about it, that's probably why she moved out while I was at work.

  "It's not the best," Beverly states, clutching her iPhone-whatever-number-they're-on-now, and takes another snapshot of a random place in the apartment before quickly texting it to her dozens of friends. Of course, none of her dozens of friends want to room with her either because she's bitchy, self-absorbed, and kind of a twit. I don't care about any of that though. I spend most of my time in my room, at work, or in class – the few that I actually have to attend in person. Most of my classes are online.

  "The rent's cheap," I say, and Beverly looks up.

  "Hmmm, then it'll do, I guess." She raises her phone to take a selfie. "New apartment!" she says with a wink and a smile as she takes the picture. When she lowers it to look at the screen, she squeals with glee. "It's perfect. Oh, my followers are gonna love this one on Instagram."

  I sigh and take a step inside the bedroom. The window overlooks the back parking lot. It's nothing fancy, and the neighborhood isn't high class, but I've lived in worse places. It's fairly safe and I can get in without any sort of guarantor or cosigner. That's the main issue. I won't ask my father for help and Beverly doesn't understand how to do half the shit it takes to live on her own. She knows how to hand over money, and I don't mind that. I'll pay the bills as long as she gives me her half. Her face pops back in the doorway, blonde hair bouncing over her shoulder.

  "When can we move in?" she asks.

  "The landlord said we could move in tomorrow if we pay the deposit today," I reply.

  "How much is that?"

  "Three hundred."

  She nods. "Okay, I'm going to head down to the ATM. I'll be right back." She scoots out the door faster than I can say anything. I guess we're moving in tomorrow then.

  When Beverly returns, we head down again to meet with the landlord – an elderly person with white-gray hair and black bushy eyebrows. I still can't tell if it's a man or a woman. By the long hair, I'm inclined to think woman, but men can have long hair too. That, and there are a few scraggly looking hairs poking out of the he-she's chin. He-she tells us to call them Jordan. A gender-neutral name for a confusingly gender-neutral look. I nod and thank the he-she. Beverly is out the door before the ink is dry on the lease – telling me she’ll be around later.

  "See you tomorrow." I wave absently to our new landlord – or landlady? – as I head out. As I walk across the parking lot to my old car, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I frown down at the text message from my boyfriend, Todd. That is, if you can call someone I barely see and only have sex with every now and then my boyfriend.

  Todd: I know you've been really busy lately and we just haven't seen each other, but I'd like to see you tonight. Can I take you out? Pick you up around 7?

  I grimace, my fingers sliding over the screen as I debate. I’m not really in the mood, but he’s right. We haven’t seen each other in a while, and I know there’s something I need to do. If not for myself, then for him. I shoot back a quick reply, agreeing to the time. Better now than months down the road, when he still thinks there’s a chance that I can love him.

  I drop my phone in the cup holder between the front seats of my shitty Buick and turn the ignition. Backing out slowly, I watch as a medium sized U-Haul, followed by a couple more smaller cars, pulls in after me. A dark head of hair appears out the side of one of the cars – a Jeep – and a flash of golden hair in the seat next to the man catches my attention. It's a young girl, probably a teenager. She looks like a ray of sunshine – not unlike my sister – while the guy in the driver's seat is massive, barely fitting in the tiny excuse for a vehicle. Probably one of the new tenants, I decide as I turn out of the parking lot and head back to my dorm. Tonight will be the last night I ever sleep there, and I’m more than ready to get it over with.

  Hours later, Todd texts me that he’s here. I snatch a light shawl off of the back of my desk chair and lock the door behind me, taking the long way down via the stairs instead of the elevator. My stomach cramps with every step. When I make it outside, Todd smiles as he leans up against his
jacked, red Ford F-150. I step up next to him and he leans down to kiss me softly on the cheek. His light blond hair pokes the side of my face as he pulls away. It’s brushed awkwardly in a spiky disarray. “Ready to go?” he asks, taking my hand.

  “Yeah.” His soft blue eyes remind me of robins’ eggs because they're so pale and flecked with nude hues. His chiseled jaw is highlighted by his high cheekbones and the passing street lights as we drive through the city.

  Silence stretches between us. Out of the corner of my eye – across the seat – I notice Todd’s hand inching towards mine. My chest coils tight as I pull my hand away and settle myself closer to the door, even going so far as to roll the window down and let the hot air into the cab. If Todd’s disappointed, he doesn’t show it.

  The dinner is over rather quickly – passing in a blur between the restaurant and the streets. Shapeless, nameless faces move around me, and Todd’s one of them. At least, he is until he pulls up to a stop outside my dorm. As his hand reaches for the key in the ignition, I stop him.

  “This isn’t working out, Todd.” The words fall from my lips like scripted lines, hollow and insincere.

  “What?” Todd’s robins’ egg eyes widen as he stares across the seat at me. When he reaches out for me, I shake my head. His hands stop a mere inch from my arms. “Love?” He sounds confused, upset.

  “I think it would be better, for both of us, if we stop seeing each other.” I pop the door open and slide onto the pavement.

  “Is it me?” Todd’s question follows me out.

  I turn around. His brows are drawn down low over his eyes. I don’t get it. Logically, if something doesn’t work then you either care enough to fix it or you throw it away. I don’t care enough about him. It’s not his fault. It’s mine. But he should know, shouldn’t he? That something isn’t right with me. That I don’t feel the same way he feels. I can’t feel the same way he feels. That little piece that makes people care, that makes them love, connect, give even the most minuscule of shits about something outside themselves. Mine is small. Tiny. There’s barely enough room for my sister. And even her, I don’t understand.