When Brandon delivered the punch just below the other man's chin, he wasn't even aware of how hard he was holding back from snapping his neck. There was so much he wanted to do, yet he had done so little. As the shouting intensified around him, Brandon couldn't even hear them. With another left hook to the face of the man whose balance was already faltering, it took only a moment for him to collapse to the ground. Without wasting any time, and before anyone could stop him, Brandon straddled the man and started throwing relentless punches one after another.
"You will never, ever open that filthy mouth to speak about her again! I'll destroy you, fucking scumbag." As the shouting grew louder, Brandon landed another punch, and then another. By now, the man was more dead than alive. Brandon knew that there were bets placed on this fight, and most likely tonight's winnings would be the best he'd earned in a long time. His opponent had done everything in his power to prevent this, and in fact, Brandon should have done the same. He should have kept control and let his opponent win this round, but the man had pushed his limits, provoking Brandon for too long, and had dealt the final blow by speaking about Stella. It was then that Brandon had felt his vision darken, and without the need to say anything further or hold back, he had swiftly turned the match in his favor. The fight was fixed, but Brandon hadn't sold out. For that reason, the money he would win tonight would be enormous. At least for a couple of months, it would provide him some comfort, and most likely, his father wouldn't have to work two jobs anymore. The only issue would be explaining where this money came from.
"Brandon! Damn it, we still need this guy later, stop man stop!"
As Brandon continued to ignore Nabu, the man beneath him kept shaking, falling apart more with every blow. Finally, when more backup arrived from every corner of the ring to pull him off, Brandon was forcefully dragged away from his opponent. He was breathing heavily, consumed by an unrelenting rage, determined to be the death of the man whose life he'd already all but ended. It took him a few seconds to notice Stella, who stood in front of him, her eyes wide with fear. Damn it!
Shoving off the hands holding him back, Brandon lifted one of the ropes and ducked out of the ring. As Stella realized he was heading toward her, she swallowed hard, but Brandon grabbed her arm and made her walk with him. Though his grip was furious, it wasn't tight, yet Stella was sure a bruise would form on her arm, partly because of her sensitive skin. Without saying a word, Brandon dragged her along until they reached his dressing room, the only place where they could be alone. Once inside, Brandon pressed Stella against the wall, breathing heavily through his nose as he glared at her angrily. She swallowed again. Brandon's eyebrow and lip were bleeding. And the only thing she could think about right now was how she couldn't wipe the blood off his face.
As Brandon continued staring at her without saying a word, Stella reached into the pocket of her black skirt with daisy patterns, pulling out the white velvet handkerchief she had sewn herself. She raised it to Brandon's face and began gently wiping the blood from his lip and eyebrow, and though Brandon only watched her in silence, it was clear he was starting to calm down. Stella had only wanted to be sure—she and Brandon had made a deal that she wouldn't come here, but she hadn't been able to silence the curious part of her, and in the end, her curiosity had won, leading her to watch Brandon's fight.
Stella knew that there were a lot of troublemakers at her school, girls included. It was an exhausting and draining place, but she had no choice. The neighborhood she lived in hadn't offered her any alternatives; she could either attend this high school or go to a vocational school, which she had absolutely no interest in. In the end, in this town she had just moved to, she had entered into a fake relationship with the most notorious 'bad boy' in school, Brandon Ward. Although it was a mutual agreement, Stella had already crossed a few lines.
When Stella finished cleaning the blood up and lowered her hand, Brandon exhaled through his nose again. For some reason, Stella wasn't afraid of him, even though he had just been on the verge of killing someone. She was certainly worried, but fear? Never. What worried her wasn't that Brandon had lost control, but the sight of his bruised and bloodied knuckles, his face marked with cuts and swollen in places. Even though Brandon was glaring at her right now, Stella wasn't scared of that look at all. She couldn't quite understand how she managed to stay so calm and composed next to this man, who made everyone else tremble even in his shadow. Yet, something inside her told her that no matter the situation, Brandon would never hurt her.
"What are you doing here?" Even though his voice had calmed, Stella wasn't about to leave things to chance. When she finally lifted her gaze to meet his, Brandon took another breath, realizing that the last bit of his anger was subsiding. The fact that a girl could so easily control his emotions was something he couldn't swallow. He knew how he had ended up in this situation, but that didn't make it any easier to accept. "I…" She tried hard to keep her eyes from darting away, gathering words to form a coherent sentence, but it was useless. Why had she come here? To say she was worried? She would need at least an eighty percent boost in courage to admit that, but right now, she was barely at ten. "I wanted to know what I'm involved in."
When Brandon raised his eyebrows and looked at her, Stella unconsciously bit her lip, hoping to take back everything she had just said. If she had spent another minute thinking it over, she wouldn't have blurted out such a bold confession with only ten percent courage. But once again, Stella's naivety had exposed itself, leaving both her and the man in front of her—this massive, extremely handsome, yet equally intimidating figure—completely dumbfounded. Unfortunately, not in a good way.
"You wanted to know what you're involved in?" When Stella nodded, Brandon removed his hands from the wall and took a step back. The response he wanted to give was definitely not something he could muster while she was biting her lip and her scent was calming his senses. "And, did you figure out what exactly are you involved in?" This time, when Stella furrowed her brow, Brandon finally felt his anger rising again. That was exactly the reaction he needed to give.
"I knew you were a fighter, but I didn't know you were doing it illegally. I can't even begin to imagine how much trouble this could get me into. There's a lot more on my plate than what we agreed on."
When Brandon smirked at her, Stella pressed herself harder against the wall. She had witnessed his rage just minutes ago, and the last thing she wanted was to see it again. But it seemed she had done something to make him smile, even in this absurd situation. Without saying a word, he turned his back on her, leaving Stella torn as she stared at his bare, tattooed back. By now, Brandon's demeanor and attitude had become familiar to her; he no longer surprised her, nor did she feel shocked. Still, she couldn't wrap her head around how she had made a trust agreement with someone so terrifying. Even though they were both in their final year of high school, they were dealing with problems far beyond what high school students should face. Stella had made her first foolish move by believing Brandon was her only way out. But Brandon could have easily done the same with any girl. After all, he could have just dated someone and asked her to lie for him—it didn't necessarily have to be part of a game.
Stella froze when she heard the sound of water. Brandon had gone for a quick shower. How could he just casually shower while she stood there? As her eyes darted towards the door, she realized she couldn't move an inch. If she stepped out through the front door, those giant men would swarm her in no time. And the same applied to the back door—Stella knew well enough that in a neighborhood like this, even going out to buy bread alone was like signing your own death warrant. Frustrated, she ran her hands through her wavy hair. How had she gotten herself into this mess? She really was an idiot! This wasn't her only option. She had kept this hidden from her mother to avoid worrying her, and she had dismissed involving the police, knowing they wouldn't make a difference. But now, looking at the situation she was in and realizing just how deep in trouble she was, the only thing she wanted was to scream and end it all.
"Don't just stand there," Brandon said, drying his hair with a towel. He didn't seem the least bit bothered by the heavy water droplets running down his chest. When Stella quickly looked away and focused on the floor, Brandon turned his back to her again, reaching for a few jackets and t-shirts hanging on the rack. He slid on a black t-shirt without caring that he was still damp, then threw one of the jackets at Stella, locking his gaze on her. She managed to catch it awkwardly, but seeing her glare back at him, he rolled his eyes and started moving toward her. Even the gray sweatpants he was wearing seemed so out of place—at least to Stella. Seeing any color on Brandon was a contradiction in itself. "Put it on. Are you really naive enough to walk around in a skirt in a neighborhood like this? We agreed I'd protect you from specific trouble, not every thug in town."
Of course, Stella had a limit, too. "What I wear is not an invitation! I can wear whatever I want, and no one has the right to say anything about it! And that doesn't give anyone the right to do anything to me just because of my clothes." These were the words that every woman spoke, but unfortunately, most people—and sadly, often women themselves—chose to ignore. As Brandon heard this, Stella expected another eye-roll, but this time, he just remained silent, staring at her. He was one of the few people who actually understood the meaning and value of those so-called "cliché" words. The fact that women constantly had to explain themselves, always justifying their clothes, their drinks, their choices—it was a frustrating truth, even for him. While society expected them to behave in a certain way, the reactions to their behavior were even more irritating. Brandon might have been a thug, even terrifying, but he was by no means a jerk.
"You're free to wear whatever you want, but you also have to accept some realities at the same time. You might be able to convince people with those words in broad daylight, but here? You'll just end up getting hurt. So, put it on and keep quiet—at least until we reach my bike." Stella shuddered at the mention of the bike. That topic alone was enough to unsettle her. She wasn't exactly scared, but regardless of what others thought—how "cool" it was to have a thug boyfriend or one with a motorcycle—the truth was, this was every mother's worst nightmare. Especially for mothers who saw their daughters as fragile porcelain dolls, this was a perfect reason to be concerned. "I can call an Uber," she suggested. But Brandon, with his already-waning patience, shot her a hard look, forcing Stella to reluctantly throw on the jacket and move toward the back door, watching as Brandon hurriedly got ready. It was so clear that his shower hadn't relieved his tension—Stella could see the twitching muscles in his arms, the flicker in his expressions, the veins pulsing under his skin. She had always been a good observer, but if asked what her real advantage was, it was this: Brandon had recently fallen deep into a pit of interest in her. When Stella found herself thinking of Brandon before bed and again the moment she woke up, she knew she needed to get a grip. Yet, here she was, their fake relationship pulling them closer with each passing moment, and this one night had brought them even nearer with their sudden agreement. Now, waiting for her fake boyfriend to get ready, in an illegal fight club no less, Stella felt like she was sinking deeper into a mess—one so bad she couldn't even question herself or her feelings anymore.
When Brandon finally finished and turned to her, Stella held her breath. Even though the room was surrounded by cold gray cement walls and the only light came from a dim, yellow bulb, Brandon's scent could trap her so easily here. No matter how much she cursed herself inside, it was useless—Stella knew she was slowly being drawn into the impossible.
Why impossible? Not because something could never happen between her and Brandon—it could, but it would end so quickly. How far could she take her life with an illegal fighter? Brandon wasn't the type who craved love; he wasn't exactly full of it, but he certainly didn't want it either. A lack of affection had become a part of him, and as Stella realized this more and more, her dreams of being loved were shattered. Brandon wouldn't love her, nor could he love her the way she wanted. He was dangerous, and while Stella loved that in books, in real life, it would only break her heart. Only when she noticed Brandon standing next to her, staring blankly, did she nod as if to say she was fine. Brandon, not caring for her response, opened the door, and as soon as his first steps hit the dark street, Stella had to hold herself back from rushing back inside. When Brandon reached out to grab her arm but saw the fear on her face, he sighed in frustration, slipped his arm around her waist instead, and pulled her close. Stella flinched, turning her eyes to him, and Brandon frowned.
"I'm not in a better situation either, so bear with it until we get past these street thugs." When Stella gave him a look of confusion, Brandon tensed even more and was about to ease his grip on her waist slightly. But as a few men lying on the ground lifted their heads and set their eyes on Stella, his grip tightened again, and their pace quickened. He had already started pulling her along. It didn't take long for them to reach the motorcycle. When Brandon handed the helmet to Stella, she shook her head, pushing it back toward him. "I have claustrophobia; I can't wear that."
Brandon tilted his head up toward the sky, praying for patience. He knew he was a good rider, but bad luck didn't come with a warning, and the last thing he wanted was Stella getting hurt and nagging him about it afterward. "Put it on. You won't die."
When Stella rolled her eyes, Brandon didn't waste any more time. He grabbed her and fastened the helmet on her himself. He couldn't recall a time when he had struggled this much before. Even as Stella pushed against his chest to resist, Brandon simply tightened his hold on her waist and continued strapping the helmet onto her. "I said I don't want it! Are you trying to kill me, you idiot?"
Brandon leaned down to meet her gaze, glaring at her in hopes it would silence her, but it only riled Stella up more. She punched him in the stomach, and although it was more like a baby's kick, not enough to cause any real harm, Brandon was taken aback by her audacity. "Did you just punch me?"
Stella, scowling from behind the helmet, with only her eyes and nose visible, glared at him. Brandon, unable to suppress his laughter, looked her up and down. Stella attempted to hit him in the shoulder this time, but he might as well have been made of stone! Frustrated, she turned her back to him and climbed onto the bike. Brandon, licking his lips, felt the need to pause for a moment. It took a great deal of effort not to stare at Stella as he settled himself. Exhaling, he went over to Nabu's motorcycle, grabbed his helmet, and put it on. Nabu would pay the price for the fight Brandon had thrown tonight, but by the time he got back, Brandon would have returned the helmet to its place.
"Hold on tight." With those words, he lowered the visor of the helmet and started the motorcycle. Without bothering to ease into the speed, they sped off, leaving tracks in the damp dirt of the street. Perhaps he was aware, even just a little, that behind him, Stella clung to him tightly, desperately trying to breathe while silently praying to the stars that she wouldn't fall.