"Ease up, will you?"

"You need this stitched otherwise it's going to get infected."

"It won't get infected."

"Jesus, son… are you always this stubborn?"

"Yes." I answered, standing against the wall with my arms crossed, observing from afar.

Rosalie had brought in a medic– an on-call kind of guy, given the fighting, drinking and bloodbath-ery that occurred downstairs. He was 'the best in Wildetown' according to her, though the folding table and briefcase of tools said otherwise.

She remained cool and impassive, or as much as those silvery-green eyes could allow – occasionally walking down Eddie's bare, bruised torso, and over to my puckered brow and crossed arms. A reader of rooms.

He had been stupid to even try a roadtrip with the injuries he'd endured, let alone a bar brawl. Though as Eddie half-perched, half-laid in an armchair– shirtless and stinking drunk –I realized he craved a little pain. Especially as the doctor offered a little tablet for relief, and Eddie took a swig of vodka instead.

"You'll live." The doctor said, bearded and big– possibly a fighter himself. He had stitched the skin where Paul had slashed, and a few cuts Eddie had earned tonight. "Will you be fighting again this weekend?"

Eddie shrugged, and I dropped my arms in exasperation.

We were meant to be surviving this storm together, not dipping in and out when we chose.

I couldn't be patching up his cuts and wounds with the competition looming– my focus now cemented on the promise of fresh, sweet land and my journey into what I could do with it.

Eddie hissed as he hunched back into a sitting position, dangling his elbows on his knees. "Is it a weekly thing?"

"As of last month, yes." Rosalie sighed. "It's a good way to earn money whilst Drandice is in town."

"Drandice?" I asked, hesitant.

Those cool eyes of hers swiveled in my direction. "Drandice is the name of the family who are offering the free land. They come from old money… the kind that existed when blood couldn't be swabbed and recorded on a database, if you get what I mean. They live here in Wildetown, though occasionally portion off a big majority of their land every now and then to 'give back.'" Rosalie resisted rolling her eyes. "They did it in New Mexico, China and the UK, and named the event after themselves."

I remembered seeing the large house with the sign out front, all manicured and pretty. I wondered if the Drandice family lived there, with their copious amounts of money and fine things. I mentioned this, and felt a quick burn of embarrassment flush through my cheeks when Rosalie chuckled.

"They don't just live in a nice house here. They own Wildetown."

Eddie cocked a brow. "They own the city?"

"And even more." She shrugged. "The competition is legitimate… but you have to be committed."

"Committed how?" Eddie pushed.

His interest pulled my attention more than Rosalie's words– a contrast to his opinion yesterday.

The medic chuckled lowly, commanding the room without meaning to. He was wiping the blood off of his hands with a rag, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up. "The Drandice family are ruthless, and don't believe in offering up a slab of cake to any hungry belly. They want to know their investments are worthwhile– that the winners will turn a grain of sand into a castle, and not just spunk away what's been given to them."

It strangely made sense.

"Is there an interview?" I asked.

"Try a twenty-first century hunger games." Rosalie was quick to snap– a little resentment in her tone. "Are you really interested?"

"Who wouldn't be?" I remarked, looking at the room as if it highlighted every raised hand. "It's an opportunity to make something of yourself."

"There are other ways of doing so." Rosalie added cooly.

She had some hidden grudge against the Drandice family, which was evident. Though her opinion meant nothing to me, and neither did Eddie's - not yet.

I had brought myself here on a few bucks and a dream. I wouldn't give up at the first warning sign.

Though maybe the first caution was the tattooed Irishman in my grandaddy's truck, and not the blonde from Wildetown.

"Rosalie is right." The medic added, lighting up a cigarette and taking a long draw. "You have to be smart to enter these things… clever, cunning, ready for a challenge. And those things don't come cheap. You need resilience, and enough money in the first place to keep living whilst you're playing their game. Fighting here at Paradice will get you a good sum of money whilst you're competing in Drandice. And maybe the girl can serve a few drinks on the side?" He looked at Rosalie.

Her mouth curled cruelly, and she kicked a laugh with a thorned tongue. "You running my bar now, Sett?"

"Just saying it how it is, m'am. You know he'd be good in the pit."

Rosalie observed Eddie, angling her head slightly – a breeder noting the muscle and stamina of a showpony; deciding whether or not to take him out back with a shotgun and little remorse. Her silence said a lot, and as she swiveled – unexpectedly – at me, I felt the breath hitch in my throat.

"I don't need another waitress." She noted, more to herself than Sett. "She would get in the way."

An unruly fire bloomed in my stomach, sending a wisp of smoke up to my head – clouding what judgment lingered there. Desperation and jealousy met me first, as I wanted to be accepted into this opportunity more than anyone else, perhaps even the Irishman. And then came rage and molten wrath.

"I'm not some piece of meat for you to decide whether you want or not. We stumbled in here for a drink - not a business meeting." My nose wrinkled in distaste, disgust melting into my words as they ran like hot sewage. "How dare you even brandish me as unworthy. I was an honor student, and learnt more in my first year at kindergarten than you did selling booze at some–"

"Easy, firecracker." Sett said. "We're only trying to help."

"I'm worth something." I whirled, following my turn with a glare. "And so is he. This is a fucking insult."

"You came in here because you were desperate." Rosalie crossed her arms, leaning against the solid-oak of her desk. "Don't let your pride get the better of you. You won't get many offers here."

Another insult was ready to launch, though Eddie stood, and I went silent. He had positioned himself slightly in front of me, his bare chest rising and falling as he withstood the pain of his sown skin and the bruises that began to blossom. A little protective… a little heated.

"She's right. We came here for a little freedom, not to sign a contract and shackle ourselves down."

My chin lifted a little higher with his words, facing the brute and his own blonde showpony.

Rosalie grinned, uncrossing her arms and leaning her palms onto the desk behind her, stretching out her body as if the stakes were higher – if a challenge was ahead.

Her leather vest pulled taut around her stomach and chest, and a dozen scattered tattoos of stars ran up her waist and joined as a consolation at her neck. Eddie's eyes roamed there, though didn't stay long.

"How much did he earn tonight, doc?" Rosalie asked without acknowledging her friend.

"A lot." He answered, staring at us as he did.

"How much is a lot, doc?"

"Seven hundred-ish."

Rosalie let out a long whistle, and I felt Eddie go tense beside me.

Seven hundred was a lot to a working man, let alone a homeless one.

I must have inhaled a little too sharply, as Eddie's head tilted slightly to the left, glancing down at me from his shadow-casting height.

We said nothing, though I cocked one brow.

That's a lot, my look said.

A lot of hard work, his sigh replied.

Eddie's eyes flickered back to Sett, and he nudged his chin forward. "What's in it for you?"

"A percentage."

"Of course."

"And I choose your fights."

"Why?"

"Because he's good." Rosalie added. "And he's an expert on making money."

"Alright then." Eddie frowned. "What about you?"

"Who says I want anything?" Rosalie pushed off the desk, circling to Sett where she plucked that cigarette from his fingers, taking a long draw. "Fights bring paying customers, paying customers pay my bills."

"And Isabella?" Eddie inclined his head my way.

I clenched my teeth, feeling like a piece of furniture that had been packed by mistake. An ugly armchair the dad was desperate to keep, despite mom hating it. Or a childish teddy a little boy couldn't get go of.

My pride was all but squashed until–

"Her and I can have a chat." Rosalie exhaled a breath of smoke, her words fading to gray. "The bar is almost closed. Why don't you two boys have a hash out of the do's and don't's of licensed bar brawls and I'll take shortcake here for her lemonade?"

Eddie stepped forward in agreement, and I almost hacked off his arm for abandoning my side– reaching out and then recoiling my fingers before they made contact with his skin.

Sett clasped an uncle-like hand on his shoulder, and they steered toward the large oak desk where a decanter of bourbon sat.

"Come." Rosalie sauntered forward, discarding the cigarette in an empty ashtray. I watched after her hips as they swayed to the door, the faint hum of the jukebox flipping to the B side of an old vinyl– Tears for Fears now playing 'Everybody wants to rule the world.'

I tried not to grunt at the irony.

The bar had cleared, save for a few of the girls who were counting their tips and having a nightcap on stage. The wait-staff had cleaned down the bar, and a few were changing out the barrels for tomorrow.

Rosalie entered, and those who were dawdling drunkenly behind finished the dregs from their pint glasses and disappeared. Maybe I should have joined them.

I followed to keep the peace, wanting to give Eddie a chance to mull things over – not really trusted enough yet not to screw me over, though the only person I had.

A gift or a curse, I wasn't entirely sure.

Rosalie clicked a button behind the bar and the neon sign outside winked goodnight, not checking to see if I had followed, though continuing as if I had.

She replenished the lemonade that had grown flat and topped it with a little rhubarb gin, setting it on a napkin beside an iced martini for her.

Or so, I hoped it was for her. The thing looked strong enough to remove the polish from my toes, let alone drink.

"We got off on a bad foot." Rosalie said, busying herself with bottles as she did. "I don't do high-school drama, and I don't do big groups of girl friends. So this is going to go one way, or no way."

She eventually stilled, planting her hands on the wooden bar, meeting my eye-level.

"This is a business, and I invest in things worth my while. If your boyfriend is going to work here, and you don't have any way of making money, I'm happy to offer you a job."

"He's not my boyfriend."

"Sure."

"He's. Not." I stated, two separate words that came through gritted teeth.

Rosalie's eyes narrowed, and I knew I was swimming too far with my attitude to be offered any more rope. I didn't want to push my like, despite my ego. The offer of money was much needed, especially if Eddie and I's agreement wasn't to work out. Though wouldn't a retail job sound better?

Was Paradice really worth the agro from an ice-queen boss?

I sighed, letting my defense fall. "What would I be doing?"

"Let's get on a more friendlier basis, shall we?"

"What's your name?"

"Isabella Swan."

Rosalie's mouth tweaked, a little grin that made me insecure. "Most people from around here would lie and just give a fake first name, though you're so willing to throw out an entire identity."

I tried not to take this as an attack.

"Isabella."

"Shorter. You're working with the roughest of the rough."

"Bella."

"Much better." Rosalie reached forward, sipping from that cold martini glass. "Where does Bella come from?"

"The Suburbs."

My briefer answer made that smile grow wider, and now she was interested. "And what is a little slice of humble pie like Bella doing traveling with a non-boyfriend to Wildetown?"

I hesitated, now wondering if it looked suspicious to sip my lemonade-twist, wanting to buy a few seconds before an answer.

Time enough passed, and she laughed in merit with my silence.

"Let's leave it a mystery then."

I reached forward to sip my lemonade, feeling the sharp bite of the gin.

"There's always a slot open for dancing."

It took everything within me not to spit, wanting to break out in hysterics at the mere thought.

She spotted my eyes as they widened. "You look shocked."

I swallowed with struggle, and then coughed out an answer. "I'm not taking my clothes off for money."

"Who said anything about taking anything off?"

I flickered a quick, unsuspecting look to the women on the stage. One of them in nothing but stockings and panties.

Rosalie toyed another knowing grin. "Those are the girls that dance during fights. Vixens. They keep the morale up and the money flowing. Those aren't our usual dancers."

"And what are the usual dancers called? Daffodils?"

Rosalie extended up a hand, pointing to a stretch of artwork that flourished behind the liquor cabinets.

At first, I had dismissed it as fetishised cabaret, or artistic burlesque. Though as my eyes narrowed, I noted the times and dates beneath each girl. Four in total. All with their schedules flourished in neon paint to match the aesthetic - each one with their own musical theme.

Electric Princess was donned in purple, which married her bronze skin and tousled afro-hair. She was curled around a pole, drizzles of dark rain falling across her body. Homage to Prince.

Lucky Star was clearly inspired by Madonna, with flashes of blue netting and aqua flecks for nipple pasties. Her hair was blonde and curly, her bare rear straddled on a curved moon.

I cleared my throat for that one.

Black hair, red lips and tight crimson spandex was Sugar Doll, and her punky-rock theme. She was holding a water gun, one eye closed and her tongue licking the edge.

Def Leppard. I knew that one all too well.

The last was Fireball, with her warm skin, knee-high boots and southern-esque style. She had a cowboy hat covering her eyes, with a knowing smirk just peeking underneath it. The yellow fleck for the rainbow of girls. In her left hand was a knuckle-duster that said 'Springsteen is King' and in her right was a can of whipped cream.

"They're strippers?" I asked after some time.

"They'd cut your tongues out for saying that." Rosalie scoffed, pouring herself a second drink. "One of them is working tomorrow. Come. See what they do… then decide."

I wanted to laugh off the idea – ridiculous, stupid, crazy. Though as I finished the rest of my lemonade, I felt a fire light in my stomach.

Curious.