Chapter Two-Hundred and Forty-One
Kaylie laid in her bed, numb from the terror of what could be happening to John coursing through her mind. She had barely moved in days, and Jan had been calling the school to tell them that she was sick.
"He's alright, Child." The voice again. It echoed through her room, causing her to bolt into a sitting position. "Do not be afraid."
"God?" She asked, the image of a young man shimmering before her.
He chuckled, placing his scarred hand on hers. "He's my father. And yours as well." He kissed her forehead, drying her tears with soft hands. "John will be okay. He's still breathing and alive."
She nodded, feeling that weight lift from her shoulders as they talked.
John started to wrap his hands, jumping when Jacob pulled the cotton from him. "Hey, I need those!" He reached for the yellowed fabric, trying to ignore the blood stains on the borrowed things.
"A real fighter doesn't worry about their hands." He shoved John toward the ring, stopping when Beverly and a couple that John remembered from the music store approached him.
Beverly nodded to the wrappings, laying gentle hands on her husband's wrists. "If he damages his hands, he can't play his guitar."
The other man nodded, tightening his tie. "The music will bring more profit than a fight."
Jacob growled, tossing the wraps at John and letting him wrap his hands and knuckles up. "I expect a good fight, Bastard." He spat, running his fingers up the back of John's head and pulling on his long hair. "Or else I'll sell you to a whore house and let fags take you every night."
John swallowed, giving a slow nod before he was pushed into the dirt ring. He looked up at his opponent, fear swelling in his chest at the sheer size of him. He was huge, arms as big around as tree trunks, and legs like iron bars.
The guy lunged at him as soon as the bell rang, giving John the perfect chance to find his tell. He favored his left hip, probably an old injury from a fight long ago.
John sidestepped him, using his advantage of a fully healed leg and his speed and agility to swing his body around and land a good blow to the liver. He followed with an uppercut, breaking the guys jaw with a sickening crunch.
Asher lifted a bag of concrete and handed to his men on the ground, wiping the sweat from his brow as he squinted up at the sun that was beating down on him. He could feel a sunburn starting on his shoulders, and he couldn't help but wish he had the Greek blood that John did. That kid seemed to never burn, but only become even more tanned with each hour in the sun.
Roger leaned on the bed of the truck, knowing darn well that his boss was worried about something. "Bender." He moved the toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. "What's going on? You've been out on the sites more than usual."
Asher shook his head, pulling a bandana from his pocket and scrubbing it over his face. "We're shorthanded, I just wanted to do what I can." He lied, the words like a blow to his gut as he fibbed to his best-friend.