Page 109 of Tar City
Two fighters square off. One’s all muscle and fury—a walking slab of violence with tattooed knuckles, teeth filed to points, and a fist that looks like it’s been broken more than once. The other? Leaner and much younger. He’s already bleeding from a split above his eye. Eyes that show not fear, not even desperation, only pure, unadulterated don’t-fucking-quit.I know the look. When you grow up where I did,you see it in the mirror every morning.
Someone throws a crushed can toward the ring. Jax leans on the railing beside me.
“He’s gonna kill him,” I blurt, not expecting an answer, my eyes locked on the kid.
The first punch lands. It’s a sickening, wet thud that echoes even over the roar of the crowd. The younger fighter’s head snaps back, a spray of sweat and blood arcing through the air. He stumbles back a step, his legs wobbling, but his feet stay planted. He shakes his head, a quick motion to clear it, and raises his fists again.
The brute laughs. He follows up, not giving the kid a second to recover. A hook to the ribs, then another. I can hear the impact from here, the dull crack of bone against bone. The kid’s breath hitches but his eyes still burn with that stubborn refusal to quit.
Jax shifts beside me and I glance at him. His gaze is fixed on the fight, but there’s no excitement in his eyes. No bloodlust.
“He’s fast,” Jax says. “But he’s fighting angry. Fighting like a dog with a stick up its ass. He’s wasting energy. He needs to stop trying to win and start trying to survive.”
I look back at the ring. The kid is weaving, dodging another wild swing, but he’s slowing. The brute presses his advantage, driving the kid back against the fence, the metal groaning under the force.
“He’s got heart, though,” Jax says, his voice tightening. “That’s a hell of a thing to see on a fresh face these days. Usually, they piss themselves before the first bell. Kid’s got grit. Bet he’s been eating his own teeth for breakfast since he was ten.”
“I didn’t realize you were into this kind of thing,” I say, noticing how focused he is.
“I’m not,” he says, not looking away from the fight. “But Matt won’t fucking shut up about it. I know all the local blood and guts by now.”
The brute lands a solid punch to the kid’s stomach, and the kid doubles over, gasping for air.
I turn my face and close my eyes. The crowd roars, sensing the end.
The big man is about to charge again when his boot skids like he caught a slick patch. He stumbles enough for the kid to come at him and hit him in the chin, following up with a short, brutal uppercut that catches the bigger man by surprise.
Beside me, Jax doesn’t cheer. He’s a statue of indifference. I let out a breath in relief. The crowd falls silent then erupts, louder than before.
The kid straightens up, his chest heaving. He’s really fighting back. He lands a hit. Then another. A quick, brutal combination that sends the bigger man reeling. The crowd goes feral.
It’s in that exact moment of chaos, when the brute is off-balance and exposed, that the swinging bare bulb above the ring flickers. A tiny, almost imperceptible stutter. But it’s enough. The brute’s eyes dart up, and the kid uses that split second of distraction, to land the final, fight-ending blow. The brute crumples to the floor like a sack of wet cement.
The warehouse explodes. I turn to Jax. His face is a mask of calm, but I saw it. I know I did.
“Did you just help him?” I whisper.
He turns to me slowly, a picture of innocence. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, Lola. Kid just got lucky.”
I step closer, getting in his face, my finger jabbing into his chest. “Don’t give me that. The light. It flickered. Right when he needed it. You did something.”
He raises an eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. “And what if I did?” he murmurs. “I am, after all, Tar City’s vigilante tonight. Can’t let the bad guys win. Ruins my brand.”
“This isn’t a game, Jax.”
“Isn’t it?” He leans in, his eyes dark and intense. “Pretty sure the stakes were twenty minutes of your ass. And it looks like I’m winning.”
I push him back, harder this time. “Stop it. I’m being serious.”
A slow grin spreads across his face.
“Question of the day,” I push, cutting off whatever smart-ass remark he was about to make.
He lifts a brow.
“How often do you use your magic to help people?”
His reaction is immediate, a subtle tensing of his shoulders. He turns away from me and reaches for another ashbrew off a passing tray, he downs half in a single pull.
