Chains by Kelli Maine Read Free Book Online Page B

from the abused dogs I’d follow into the makeshift ring.
    This was all for Danny. If I kept reminding myself of the end goal, I’d make it through. Soon, I’d have her out of here and we’d be together. She’d sober up, and I’d keep her safe.
    “Eight Ball’s got Achilles by the neck!” the announcer shouted through the bullhorn. Then the crowd let out a resounding “Ohhhh…”
    “Karma’s a bitch, Achilles,” the announcer said. “R.I.P. brother.”
    Disgust ripped up my throat. I spit on the ground and punched the brick wall.
    Motherfuckers killed a dog.
    A fucking dog!
    I hoped to God Danny was inside and not witnessing this mess. “Is it time?” I shouted to Dealer.
    “Yeah. They’re done. Let’s go out.” He rubbed his hands together, eyeing the crowd. “You’re the underdog, so watch for beer bottles and shit.”
    That’s all I needed was a beer bottle to the head. “If this ruins my chances of going pro, I might kill you,” I said.
    “You agreed to this. Don’t put it on me.”
    “You put my balls to the fire. All I wanted was to take Danny home. This fight is on your back.”
    “Just make sure you win,” he said, “for both of us.”
    We got out to the courtyard where there was a guy spreading hay over the grass, soaking up blood. Bugs swarmed around the lights on the walls. I blinked my eyes hard, spotting a group of kids in a side yard playing on a swing set, watching.
    My head swam with memories of growing up in a place like this. When my mom took off, I was passed along to neighbors for a while in our Section 8 apartment complex until one of them turned me over to social services, and I entered into the foster care system.
    The first twelve years of my life were spent playing in yards where no grass grew, covered in dirt, sliding down rusty swing set slides, knees and elbows bruised and covered in scabs, eating Wonder Bread and ketchup sandwiches—the government cheese wasn’t for the neighbor’s kid whose mom didn’t even want him.
    “Why the fuck are those kids out here?” I asked. “They don’t need to see this shit.”
    Dealer didn’t answer.
    The announcer’s bullhorn let off a loud bleep. “I hope you pimps and hos got your bets in, because it’s time to bring out tonight’s main event!”
    I bounced on my toes and stretched my neck from side to side. My stomach burned, and I had the urge to yell as loud as I could to let out pent up aggression, but soon enough I’d have someone in front of me to take it out on.
    The dealer shoved his way through the crowd making a path for me behind him as the announcer introduced me. “The contender, here from parts unknown, John Doe!”
    Boo’s rippled across the courtyard as I stepped over the orange fencing. Cigarette butts were flicked my way along with jeers and taunts: “Mama let you out past bedtime tonight, homo?” “The Renegade’s going to fuck you up, son.” “That pretty face is about to be busted wide open.”
    It was nothing I hadn’t heard before. The organized MMA associations were regulated and went by codes of conduct and ethics, but the amateurs were only a step up from this. The semi-pro’s weeded out most of the low life’s. My first few years were spent wading through the bullshit that tested my patience and my temper. I had no problem zoning it out now.
    “Back for his twenty-sixth consecutive win tonight,” the announcer said, spurring on Rex’s fans to start going wild, “Rex The Renegade Rollo!”
    Pandemonium broke out when Rex stepped into the snow-fenced ring. He threw his fists into the air and let out a guttural war cry. His chest was painted with red symbols. I’d heard a rumor that he used his opponents’ blood to draw them on and never washed his chest. I’d also heard that they were gang signs, but I didn’t believe any of it. I knew how the publicity machine worked, even in these underground fights—especially in underground fights where psyching out your opponent was