Dizz,” I said, smiling up at him.
His scratchy, deep voice spilled out. Hitting my ears in the same spot as the door. “Cadence, nice to see you. Wasn't sure if this was an on night for you.” He sat back on his stool, lifting his Playboy magazine. “Head on down,” he said, his eyes falling back to the pages, bulging from their sockets.
Dizz had been working for my dad for years. He used to be one of his top guys, it would take a fucking freight train to get him down.
And that's basically what happened. One night after a fight, he went out, got wasted, then fell asleep in his car parked right on the train tracks. Luckily for him, it was only the ass end of his car on the rails.
The train came along, hit him full force, and sent the car tumbling. Long story short, he had massive head injuries and can barley see straight.
Hence the nick name; Dizzy, or as we call him, Dizz.
My father won't put him in to fight any more, he says he's a liability now. Instead, he uses him for the main entrance and crowd control. Dizz might not be able to get in the ring, but he can still take one hell of a hit.
Heading down the stairs, the roaring of voices echoed through the walls. It sounded busy tonight, a lot noisier than usual for a Sunday.
Wow, tonight there isn't any special matches. No high rollers. Why does it sound so packed?
Hitting the bottom step I pushed my way inside. The room was loaded, filled to the brim with guys hooting and shouting. The smell of piss and vinegar hung in the air.
Glancing around, my father was standing in the center of the ring, microphone in hand. His arms held up, egging on the observers. “Welcome to the Ground Game! For those of you who have been here before, you all know who I am.”
The crowd began to chant, “Macro! Macro!” Grunts and yelps, fists raised and began to pump in the air.
My father grinned wildly, feeding off the excitement. His face glowed with the power these people infused inside him. “We're going to get this blood bath started! You all know the rules. Fists and pure brute force only! No weapons! Fighters will go till they tap out or unconsciousness sets in!” The sea of people yelled louder, barking like rabid animals for the fights to begin.
I made my way over to the bar. Once a week I had to work here during the fights. I hated it, every fucking second of being here caused my skin to crawl.
My dad insisted- or for lack of a better term- forced me to be here. Our legal business was closed on Sundays, and he thought it would make him look bad if I didn't participate in some way.
Every muscle in my body tensed with disgust for this place. It was awful, the things people would pay to see. To get a quick thrill out of watching two guys beat the living shit out of each other, spill blood from one another for no purpose other than money.
It made me cringe. I despised the assholes who used these guys for gain.
My father was one of them.
He loved to walk out of here after a long night of fights, pockets filled with green and ready to do it all again.
Gliding behind the bar, I eyed the crowd. I was hoping to see Nico, see how his face was looking after the other day. Wonder plagued me as to how swollen or bruised he was.
Seeing that would definitely put a little more spring in my step.
What did Quinn decide to do?
After getting him back to the bar, my father had sent me home. He told me that I had done all I was needed for. The rest was between Quinn and himself.
I tried to press him for answers this morning, but was met with angry stares and muted answers. He wouldn't tell me shit, told me it was none of my business and if I pressed anymore, I wouldn't be talking for a long time.
I knew what that meant; he would send of his guys to break my jaw. Make me pay for sticking my nose where it didn't belong.
I wanted to see Quinn again. I couldn't get him out of my mind. His muscular chest, jaw cut hard as marble, the massive cock I had gripped.
Fucking tease,
His scratchy, deep voice spilled out. Hitting my ears in the same spot as the door. “Cadence, nice to see you. Wasn't sure if this was an on night for you.” He sat back on his stool, lifting his Playboy magazine. “Head on down,” he said, his eyes falling back to the pages, bulging from their sockets.
Dizz had been working for my dad for years. He used to be one of his top guys, it would take a fucking freight train to get him down.
And that's basically what happened. One night after a fight, he went out, got wasted, then fell asleep in his car parked right on the train tracks. Luckily for him, it was only the ass end of his car on the rails.
The train came along, hit him full force, and sent the car tumbling. Long story short, he had massive head injuries and can barley see straight.
Hence the nick name; Dizzy, or as we call him, Dizz.
My father won't put him in to fight any more, he says he's a liability now. Instead, he uses him for the main entrance and crowd control. Dizz might not be able to get in the ring, but he can still take one hell of a hit.
Heading down the stairs, the roaring of voices echoed through the walls. It sounded busy tonight, a lot noisier than usual for a Sunday.
Wow, tonight there isn't any special matches. No high rollers. Why does it sound so packed?
Hitting the bottom step I pushed my way inside. The room was loaded, filled to the brim with guys hooting and shouting. The smell of piss and vinegar hung in the air.
Glancing around, my father was standing in the center of the ring, microphone in hand. His arms held up, egging on the observers. “Welcome to the Ground Game! For those of you who have been here before, you all know who I am.”
The crowd began to chant, “Macro! Macro!” Grunts and yelps, fists raised and began to pump in the air.
My father grinned wildly, feeding off the excitement. His face glowed with the power these people infused inside him. “We're going to get this blood bath started! You all know the rules. Fists and pure brute force only! No weapons! Fighters will go till they tap out or unconsciousness sets in!” The sea of people yelled louder, barking like rabid animals for the fights to begin.
I made my way over to the bar. Once a week I had to work here during the fights. I hated it, every fucking second of being here caused my skin to crawl.
My dad insisted- or for lack of a better term- forced me to be here. Our legal business was closed on Sundays, and he thought it would make him look bad if I didn't participate in some way.
Every muscle in my body tensed with disgust for this place. It was awful, the things people would pay to see. To get a quick thrill out of watching two guys beat the living shit out of each other, spill blood from one another for no purpose other than money.
It made me cringe. I despised the assholes who used these guys for gain.
My father was one of them.
He loved to walk out of here after a long night of fights, pockets filled with green and ready to do it all again.
Gliding behind the bar, I eyed the crowd. I was hoping to see Nico, see how his face was looking after the other day. Wonder plagued me as to how swollen or bruised he was.
Seeing that would definitely put a little more spring in my step.
What did Quinn decide to do?
After getting him back to the bar, my father had sent me home. He told me that I had done all I was needed for. The rest was between Quinn and himself.
I tried to press him for answers this morning, but was met with angry stares and muted answers. He wouldn't tell me shit, told me it was none of my business and if I pressed anymore, I wouldn't be talking for a long time.
I knew what that meant; he would send of his guys to break my jaw. Make me pay for sticking my nose where it didn't belong.
I wanted to see Quinn again. I couldn't get him out of my mind. His muscular chest, jaw cut hard as marble, the massive cock I had gripped.
Fucking tease,
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