Page 62 of Caged Hunger

Something was burning his eye.

Was it sweat? Blood? A mixture of some other unknown substance floating around this godforsaken place?

Basher didn’t know. But still, he swiped at his eye, hoping to wipe away whatever it was that was currently causing him pain.

“One more round. That’s all you gotta do.”

The words barely registered as Basher tried to see ahead of him.

Money.

He was broke.

He needed the cash.

Just one more round. He could do it.

Basher glanced up at the other barely standing man.

The man was Brazilian. Another young pup in his early twenties, trying to score some quick and easy cash, just like him.

The man was leaning against the ropes, struggling to hold himself up as he shot water from his water bottle into his mouth, then dumped a bunch over his head.

“Just one more fuckin’ round,” the man standing behind him shouted. “The guy’s barely standing. Just a few more solid blows, then all that money will be yours.”

Tito was right. He had lasted this long. What were a few more minutes in the grand scheme of things? He wasn’t about to let this punk-ass beat him and take the money he had worked so hard to get.

“You got this,” Tito shouted again, shoving Basher to his feet and pushing him toward his opponent.

Basher had met Tito two weeks ago in a shady bar just off the Las Vegas Strip. The man had just finished watching Basher beat the snot out of a group of jocks out celebrating one of the idiot’s bachelor parties.

When Basher was through with him, he was pretty sure that his fiancée would insist on having the lights off while she rode him on their wedding night.

Mr. Cocky Jock was not so cocky once Basher got through with him.

Tito, a man with dark, graying hair and an affinity for jazz, suggested that Basher enter one of Vegas’s underground street-fighting matches. Depending on the night, the winner could take home anywhere from a thousand to eight thousand dollars.

It wasn’t pay-per-view fighting, but hey, in Vegas, you could make money off anything.

So Basher agreed, choosing to make money the only way he knew how—with his fists.

With his vision beginning to blur, Basher put up his fists and waited for the ref to ring the damn bell.

Finally, it came. The high-pitched ding that told the killers in the ring they were finally allowed off their leashes.

Basher lunged in for the attack. He was not a patient man. He didn’t believe in standing around, waiting for his opponent to make the first move. He liked to jump right into the fight and use all his power to crush any man who dared challenge him.

He was an alpha and fucking fought like one.

Just as Tito had predicted, it didn’t take him long to crush his opponent. The man fought with everything he had, but once Basher got him on the floor, he just couldn’t take the savage beating that Basher unleashed.

The bell rang once again, telling Basher that he was back on his leash and that the laws of man applied once more. Basher slowly slid off his opponent and extended his arm, offering the barely breathing man a helpful hand up.

That was the least he could do after completely crushing the guy’s confidence and manhood.

He took it, giving him a slight nod as Basher helped him to his feet.

Turning around, Basher raised his arms and listened to the crowd roar once more. He had won this round. He’d made enough to cover his rent and possibly a few bills. He could take a break from fighting and wait another week or two before having to jump back into the ring to make a few more bucks.