Breacher (Tom Keeler Book 2) by Jack Lively (reading well TXT) 📕

in front of them. Whatever that was. I couldn’t see up there because the room was ridiculously sloped in the wrong direction, up toward the front. No matter how tall you were, the guy in front of you was taller. Which was why people were locked in position, peering through any angle they could get. I wondered if it was worth it.

They were fixated on the front. Fixated and fascinated, or horrified. They weren’t smiling, that’s for damn sure. No music, no talking. Only a soft patter-patter coming from up front, like a couple of dripping faucets. Every ten drips punctuated by a soft slap. Then there was labored breathing. Like someone struggling but multiplied. Like two people struggling. I slid my way up the wall some more, until I could see properly.

A single light bulb hung from a long cord. Two men were hunched over, legs splayed for balance. At first, I thought they were staring each other down. But then one of them moved in a jerky way, an exhausted twitch toward the other guy, who absorbed it, steadied himself, then twitched in return.

They were playing a game of bloody knuckles. Each one took a turn hitting the other guy in the knuckles with a clenched fist. That was what the slapping sound had been, two fists hitting together. I didn’t know how long they’d been going, but it must have been a long time. They were slow, clearly exhausted. Both fists were bloody knobs of raw flesh. Between them was a puddle of blood on the unvarnished wood flooring. That was the patter-patter sound. The steady drip of blood from inflamed, exposed, and bleeding muscle and bone. Each time they smacked fists, the blood splashed out in thicker spurts, increasing the growing puddle under their feet.

One of the men had long blond hair hanging to his shoulders, moist and sweaty from exertions. His face was specked with blood. The other guy looked like a wrestler. No shirt, tribal tattoos, shaved head. The tribal tattoo guy was wide and solid. A lot of flesh on his body, but maybe that didn’t work so well for the task at hand. The other guy was emaciated, like a tapeworm was stealing his nourishment, leaving him all bony and hard edged. I figured his punches might hurt more.

The guy with the tattoos landed a solid punch into the thin guy’s right fist. It sounded like a tomato hitting a cement wall. Neither of them flinched, but the lanky guy sagged a little. Then he punched the tattooed guy’s fist. It was a jerky punch from no distance. The wide guy absorbed the blow, his face expressionless. Deep pain, deep fatigue. Both of those guys were going to be permanently damaged.

I whispered to the guy next to me. “How long have they been going?”

He cupped his hand to his mouth and said, “Good hour. At least.”

To win at bloody knuckles, all you have to do is keep going. The loser is the guy who stops. By now, neither of the two was able to open their hands. Fists were glued closed by the hemorrhaging blood and inflamed tendons and muscle. It was all about endurance and legs. I figured the wide guy had the legs, but he also carried the weight.

“What’re the stakes?”

The guy indicated across the room. He said, “Ten grand to the winner. Zero to the loser.”

I glanced in the direction my neighbor had indicated. There were a couple of cocktail tables, over on the other side of the stage, like a VIP area. I didn’t have a clear view of who was sitting over there, because there were men standing in the way. Not in the way of the VIP’s view, in the way of my view of the VIPs. But I was able to get a glimpse of legs and shoes. Specifically, female legs, and women’s shoes. Legs that were presumably coming out of skirts or dresses. Two women on either side of one man. I examined the shoes. Two sets of heels on either side of a pair of penny loafers. Neither of the women were petite, that was for sure. Big healthy feet scrunched into sizable high heels. On the other hand, the man was not large, or at least his feet weren’t. The penny loafers were child-sized, the feet barely touching the ground.

I recognized the penny loafers from the Chinese restaurant. Same guy who had walked through the coat room. Mister Lawrence, I assumed.

But then I was also noticing the security detail. Strategically seeded into the crowd were plainclothes guys like the one with the curly cord ear-piece at the door. They weren’t big guys. No gym bunnies. These were guys in perfect physical condition. Lean and ready. It wasn’t hard to pick them out of the crowd, because they weren’t watching the show, they were watching me. So I turned to watch the show, figuring they’d get bored of the new guy. I had counted six men in the security detail, plus the guy at the back by the door. Seven guys, probably armed. Made me wish I’d brought the Glock.

On the other side of the VIP area was an opening. Maybe another area, or maybe just the bathrooms.

I saw movement among the legs. One set of female legs was moving, uncrossing, finding purchase on the floor and taking the weight of a woman’s body. The small guy’s legs were moving also, like he was shifting in his seat, paying attention to the woman. There was some shuffling of the men standing around in proximity. I figured they were glancing at the woman as she stood. An anomaly in a place heavy on the toxic masculinity. I saw blonde hair above shoulder height, the blonde was turning, making her way around legs and chairs and tables. Moving back to the bathrooms, or whatever was through there. I put the untouched beer bottle down and started to move through the crowd in that direction.

It took