Chapter Two-Hundred and Eighty-One
Leon's nose wrinkled as he neared John's cell, the smell of vomit so strong that he couldn't believe the kid could even breathe. "Get up." He ordered, throwing an orange jumpsuit at him and a rubber band t hold his shaggy hair back from his eyes. "Pull that rat's nest out of your face."
John pulled the jumpsuit on and tied his hair back, following Leon through the halls in hopes that he would be allowed to use the bathroom or be able to get some food. "Where are you taking me?"
Leon shoved John forward, opening a door to a stairwell and taking him down to the basement. "We've got our own fights here." He smiled as John's eyes turned pure gold, recognizing the look of fear on the boy's face. "I've got twenty bucks on your ass, so you'd better win." He pushed John into the makeshift ring, grinning as the barefoot teen prepared to fight for his life.
Clarissa held Phoebe to her, looking up as thunder rolled outside. "He'll be home soon." She whispered, kissing her head before they fell asleep.
Leon cheered as John landed a good punch, grinning at the way his eyes changed to pure black. No wonder they called the kid 'Demon Boy' when he was in Mexico, he fought like a whole pack of wolves; using each and every part of him as a weapon against his opponent. "There you go you little fag."
A female cop scowled at the way Leon was making his choice fight —barefoot against the others who all had heavy steel-toed shoes on. She hated that John was the youngest in the ring, at barely three months past his eighteenth birthday, he was the youngest they'd ever put in the underground ring. "Leon, let him rest." She placed a hand on his arm, flinching when a raw scream of pain escaped the teen. "He's wearing out."
Leon growled, noticing how John was now favoring his left foot. "As long as he can throw a punch, he'll stay in that ring."
The woman cop looked back to the ring, wincing when she saw that John's toes were bloody and some looked broken. "Leon. If you keep him in there, you'll be lucky if he can walk."
"So what? He won't be around very long anyway."
John groaned as one of the cops set his broken foot, biting down so hard that his jaw popped. "Fuck…" He hissed, letting the woman wrap his foot up and clean his bloody knuckles. "Why are you helping me?" He asked, propping his foot up on the end of his cot.
"Because, even a crooked cop can show a little compassion once in a while." She dabbed some ointment over his cheekbone, holding a cold rag against his swelling eye and placing a butterfly bandage across the split in his lip. "You never really had those drugs on you, did you?"
John shook his head, leaning his head against the wall and closing his eyes. "No… I used to use all the time when I was a kid, but I've been sober for four months and sixteen days."
"That's good to hear." She pulled his hair out of the rubber-band, glaring at the next cell where Mathew Filkins was. He was a pervert who used his position as a genealogist to pray on naïve young women who were trying to find their families. "Filkins, leave this boy alone." She ordered, having already looked at both of their files. "I've seen him fight, and you do not want to get on his bad side."