I wait behind the crowd, behind Bill, while a blonde woman reads the cards in the center of the ring, announcing Pitch to a deafening sound of screams and the thunder of feet pounding bleachers. I tell myself the louder they are, the more money they’ll drop, and I breathe deeply as she announces me, Pitch’s opponent.

“And fighting in his sixteenth match, the Irish blood running restless through his veins, Andrew Wicked Boy Harper!” She lets the echo of my last name drag on loudly through the mike, and I focus on her lips and the noise they make rather than the heavy boos and threats from the crowd around me. Wicked Boy Harper was Harley’s idea—he gave me that name the first time I fought for him. He said the word came to him the first time he saw me spar in the ring. I just kept getting up, asking for more.

Wicked. Poisoned. Empty.

My eyes meet Pitch’s as I step into the ring, and his lip ticks up with the only hint of recognition I’m going to get for the night.

That’s right. It’s me. Go easy, but get us paid.

I move to the corner and let Bill shout things at me that won’t matter. He makes me drink water, checks my tape and gloves, then stands with me and squeezes my head in his hands, bringing his head against mine, the foul smell of his breath only mildly better than the view of the nicotine-stained toothpick dangling from his cracked lips as he mutters a prayer.

Too late, Bill—I’m beyond salvation, and Pitch is the only one who can control how much pain I get tonight.

The bell sounds, and I turn to face my penance, to earn my stay and forget my life. Pitch swings hard, and I dodge. He swings again, and I dodge. And then we dance.

I spend most of the first round moving with him, faking and stepping at all the right times, working from my memory of our sparring last week. I catch the smirk on his lip more than a few times, and I also note the nodding approval from Harley in the crowd when I let a few jabs land in my side near the end of the round.

His punches come full force. There’s nothing pretend about them, even if he’s going easy. The announcer says he’s toying with me—I’m the mouse. That’s fine, as long as this mouse gets to eat some cheese later tonight with all of his teeth in his mouth.

We spend the second round doing much of the same, but this time his fists find new spots on my body, and when the first hook lands squarely on my right cheekbone—my body is instantly flooded with the chemistry I’m constantly seeking. The sting is immediate; the bruising deep, and the pain is so good. I smirk as my head slings to the side, my mouth guard slipping from my lips. I suck it back in place, spitting blood out on the mat before grinning back at my opponent.

“Come on, Pitch! Yeah, baby. Yeah!” I shout, my gloves pounding my chest then hitting together.

My feet feel lighter, yet my head feels heavier. Everything is turning on itself around me, but Pitch is still locked in. I swing at him a few times, landing blows to his right ribs, where I know he can take it.

The bell rings, and I move over to Bill in the corner. He holds something from a stick against my right cheek and eyebrow, slowing down the blood that wants to spill.

Let it spill! Let me bleed!

“Come on, hurry up! Get me back out there!” I shout at him. He shakes his head, ignoring me. I push at him to get out of my way, but he leans into me with all his weight, which is twice mine.

“You’re a crazy little punk, and I get that you need this, but just do me a favor and let me save you from getting killed, huh?” he speaks through gritted teeth.

“Whatever,” I say, looking past him to Pitch, who smiles at me. He wants more too. He’s having fun with this, and I’m forgetting everything. It’s exactly what I need.

The bell rings, and I brush Bill away and rush back to the center where I find Pitch waiting, his fist opening up the wounds Bill just spent seconds trying to secure. I laugh as I stumble back on my feet, losing my balance enough to catch a glimpse of Harley, whose lip is between his teeth under his angry eyes.

I gotcha, Harley. I know this is only three. I’ll stay on my feet. I just want to feel it a little more. Let me go, let me spar.

I come at Pitch with everything I’ve got. My swings are sloppy; he blocks most of them, but I’m wild and aggressive. A few shots land on his chin and head with enough power that he stumbles back a step or two. The crowd actually turns for a second, cheering for me. My breath, as stuttered as it comes, is mixed with a rush of adrenaline and fear and pride.

I’m too lost in this feeling of glory to see his next swing, and soon I’m caught in the ropes, his fists taking turns moving from my right side to my left, my skin red from punches and my bones begging to break.