Page 39 of Deviant Need

Shoving the bathroom door open, I step back into the locker room. The announcer’s voice bleeds through the concrete, trying to whip the crowd into a frenzy outside. The coke hits hard and fast. My heart’s hammering a million miles an hour, fingers tapping against my leg in a rhythm I can’t control because being still isn’t an option anymore.

That crawling-out-of-my-skin desperation from before? Gone. Replaced by this electric energy that makes everything feel possible. This is so much better. Everything’s better now, even if it’s temporary as hell and I’ll pay for it later.

“Let’s go. Hands need wrapping before gloves,” Carlos says, already moving toward the bench.

“Da, calm your tits. I’m coming,”

Carlos drops onto the stool and motions me over. “Remember what we went over?”

“Watch my back. Tiago likes to sneak it.”

“Exactly. Spinning hooks. He’s all about your blind side, same patterns every time.”

My knee bounces while he wraps my hands tight, the familiar ritual calming me down a little.

Once he’s done, I pull the gloves on and flex my fingers, and then we head down the hallway to the staging area where the crowd’s loud enough to make the walls shake.

The announcer calls my name, and the doors swing open with Carlos right behind me.

My hype song “Back to Life” by ScurtDae tears through the speakers, makes the entire place shake and people lose their minds, screaming, reaching out to touch me while we walk to the cage. Hands grab at my shoulders, my arms, anything they can reach.

My eyes are already burning under these brutal lights. The building is massive, the cage sitting dead center surrounded by bleachers stacked up high. Every expensive seat filled with rich pricks who dropped serious cash to watch people beat each other bloody, sometimes worse.

They get off on it because none of this is official, just expensive entertainment for the night while they sip overpriced drinks.

I take the platform stairs two at a time and step through the cage door while a staff guy holds it open. Carlos follows me in and hands me my mouthguard.

The lights drop and Tiago’s name blasts through the speakers, music hitting so hard the floor trembles under my feet. I drop into a crouch, hands braced on my knees, and stare straight at the cage door where Tiago’s about to enter. Waiting.

He steps into the cage with his arms up, working the crowd into a frenzy. He’s about the same size as me, maybe an inch shorter. Confident. Cocky even.

He finally looks my way and realizes I’ve been staring at him the whole time. Something shifts in his face, and I stay completely still.

The crowd gets louder. They love this.

Tiago’s trying to look unbothered, but I can see the tension creeping into his shoulders.

The bell sounds, and everything snaps into focus.

Straightening up, I move to the center and tap hands with him quickly, barely a touch, then circle back.

Tiago moves fast, throws a jab straight at my face. I don’t bother blocking. I let it land. My jaw snaps sideways, vision blurs for half a second, and something inside me explodes.

My fist crashes into the side of his face before he can pull back. I feel teeth shift under my glove, hear something crack deep in his jaw. He stumbles backward, and I don’t give him time to recover. I drive my fist into his liver and the air rushes out of his lungs. He tries to throw another punch, but I’m already inside his reach. Everything moves slower now.

Another swing comes at my head, but slipping it takes no effort.

My elbow rockets across his nose and the crack echoes loud enough to cut through the roar of the crowd. Blood erupts from his face, spraying hot across my chest as he jerks back, clutching at the damage, but I don’t let him breathe.

Grabbing him by the neck, I drag him forward and slam my knee into his stomach with everything I have. Before he can drop, I wrap both arms around his waist from behind and lock my grip tight across his stomach.

I arch hard, throwing my weight backward into a suplex. His feet leave the ground, and for half a second, we’re both suspended in the air, then I drive him down. His shoulders hit first, then his head bounces off the mat hard enough that the cage shakes.

The crowd’s screaming, but it sounds like static in my ears.

I’m on top of him before he can pull air into his lungs, straddling his chest and pinning him down with my knees on either side. I start throwing punches, one after another without stopping. His cheekbone gives under my knuckles, something wet and warm spraying across my forearms with each connection.

Blood pools on the mat beneath us, spreading dark and thick. He tries to turn his head away, but I fist his hair and force it back, holding him still. My glove connects with his temple, then his eye socket, then his jaw again.