Not for the first time, as she stood in her corner of the boxing ring in gloves, trunks, and shoes she'd liberated from a used sporting goods store--a sudden cool breeze raising goose pimples on her skin and stiffening her bare nipples--Dakota wondered if this wasn't all a huge mistake. She wasn't afraid, she'd been hit before--hard--and lived to tell about. She'd hit other people--just as hard--and left many of them wondering what day it was and why there were birds singing at night in an alley. But looking at the woman in the opposite corner made her remember all the things Jerry told her about agreeing to this fight in the first place. Worse, the cup chafed. It was bad having to wear one, though she wasn't stupid enough to think about going commando, but she'd never had one on before and shoving her cock and balls into something so small had been a challenge, especially making sure no one noticed. Couldn't have everyone going apeshit over her accessories. She already had enough trouble.
The ring, sixteen feet on a side and four feet off the concrete floor, sat at one end of a large warehouse on Chicago's South Side. Chairs and bleachers surrounded the ring. The blue-white glare of industrial lighting shown down, starkly pushing the shadows halfway up into the crowd. Officially, this was the Dulore Import & Export Warehouse; boxes stacked at the other end of the building told of a more mundane existence. Unofficially, this was The Battleground, an underground fight club, run by the Dulore brothers who discovered promoting illegal fights was more profitable than selling plastic trinkets and soup bowls from China and Japan, exotic though it was.
Dakota found herself in The Battleground out of curiosity and desperation. Mostly desperation. Her well-honed paranoia told her she was being followed and it was only a matter of time--days--before they caught up with her. Who they were didn't matter. If she was being followed, she wasn't going to enjoy the outcome. Police, the feds, any number of citizens she'd conned over the last three months, if any of them found her, she'd be lucky to survive, especially if it was citizens. She tended to pick out those with more money than sense and who almost always seemed connected to people with flat noses and cauliflower ears named Vinnie.
She'd learned about the place from the owner of the gym where she worked out. When he told her she could make a hundred and fifty dollars just for showing up, never mind if a miracle happened and she won, she was all over it. That much money was nearly half a month's wages for a citizen with a college sheepskin and a window office. A win was another five hundred dollars--a whole month, but she didn't expect to get that. She just wanted to finish without too much damage, collect her money, and get the hell out of Chicago.
Now, standing in her corner of the ring with Jerry, her trainer for the night--some guy who took care of the jobbers, talking to himself about having to patch up another human punching bag--she was having second thoughts. Mostly about the woman in the opposite corner, the one who kept staring at her like a big cat eyeing its next meal. The woman was tall, over six feet, which meant she had at least an inch on Dakota, as well as a longer reach. Dakota was no slouch herself, coming in at almost six feet of nicely toned muscle, even if she did say so herself, and a street fighter's sense of how and where to punch. Her black hair, pulled back across her skull and braided to hang down between her shoulder blades, blue eyes, and high cheekbones gave her an exotic quality which had, until now, given her an advantage over the citizens--men and women--she conned for money.
Until now, because even though she had a great pair of tits, a firm stomach, and a tight ass, her opponent, also bare chested, was like a Greek sculpture. Short, curly brown hair and brown slightly almond-shaped eyes topped a body rippling with lethal power. Dakota had seen women something like her at the gym, obsessed with getting the last squinch of muscle definition, but they were all shorter and had flat chests, the product of lots of weightlifting and too much testosterone in their power shakes. This one, though, she had tits like some kind of porn star but they were real enough, they jiggled just right and there weren't any scars Dakota could see. All in all, severely scary. She was now positive she was going to get seriously fucked up. Five rounds, even at three minutes per, seemed an eternity.
Jerry stopped muttering and stood next to her. "You don't have to do this, kid. Really," he said, a worried expression on his face. "You're young, what mid-twenties, got a nice face, great body, you even talk nice, so there's a brain in there somewhere." He poked a finger onto the side of her head. "So be smart, walk away, the money's not worth getting beat to shit."
"Thank you, Jerry, but, no. I'm here. I finish what I start. Besides, how bad can it be?"
"Bad? Dakota, that's your name, right? Dakota, that is an animal." He tilted his head slightly toward the other woman, hands straight against his sides to avoid pointing. "She's a one-woman wrecking crew. Nobody's stayed more than three rounds against her; only one walked out under her own power--and she needed help to stay upright. It can be bad, kid. Real bad."
The part of her who considered itself sane and reasonable began pleading with her to take Jerry's advice and leave now. The other larger part, the part who had kept her alive for years, who gleefully let her walk into seedy bars with a chip on her shoulder, that part was smiling. Dakota smiled along with it.
The announcer, dapper in a tailored tuxedo, stepped into the ring and spoke into a microphone hanging from an overhead wire. "Ladies and gentlemen. Tonight's card is two fights. The second fight is a re-match between Sharon 'The Snake' Addison and Carolina Desmond for The Battleground light heavyweight championship. No love lost there, folks." The announcer and most of the crowed laughed. "The first fight is a five-round middleweight exhibition featuring, in this corner, at six feet one inch and one hundred fifty-nine pounds, with a record of twenty-eight wins and no losses, all by knockout, a Battleground favorite, Katherine 'Kat' Lyons." The crowd cheered and the tall woman raised her arms. "In this corner, at five feet eleven inches and one hundred fifty-four pounds, with no record, the challenger and newcomer, Dakota Grange." A few people cheered; Dakota raised an arm in salute.
The bell sounded. Jerry shook his head and climbed out through the ropes. Dakota walked to the center of the ring to stand eye to eye--well, nearly--with Kat. She kept her expression neutral, no sense in poking the badger yet. Her opponent stared down at her; she seemed bored. The referee began talking.
"Five rounds, three minutes each. Standard boxing rules. No hitting below the belt. When I say break, you get apart. A knockdown, even if you're still standing, is a mandatory eight count. The other one goes to a neutral corner. You got ten seconds at the start of a round to answer the bell, otherwise it's over. And," he looked directly at the tall woman, "no biting, no hair pulling, no gouging, no..."
"Yes, I hear you, Robert. Are you done yet?"
"No," said the referee. "Any questions about the rules?" Both women shook their heads. "Fine. Go to your corners. When the bell sounds, come out fighting."
Kat and Dakota touched gloves. Dakota felt a small jolt like an adrenaline rush but it was gone too soon for her to tell. She went back to her corner wondering what had just happened.
Jerry leaned in to bellow into her ear over the noise of the crowd. "Stay on your toes. Watch out for her right. Don't drop your guard. Keep your left shoulder up. And for Chrissake, don't get killed." He slapped her on the back. The bell sounded. Round One.
------
The women circled, looking for an opening. Dakota tried a few jabs to see what Kat would do. The taller woman didn't respond, she kept moving, an intent look on her face. Dakota shuffled forward a bit, realizing she was inside Kat's reach but she kept her guard up, head tucked in, left shoulder up. They traded punches, some of which landed but did no damage. Time ticked slowly by and Dakota began to think it wasn't going to be as hard as Jerry said.
The punch came from nowhere, straight between her upraised gloves, onto the right side of her face, snapping her head back.
Wait
, thought Dakota, moving to get out of the brunette's reach,
he said watch out for her right; that was her left
. Then Kat's right glove whacked her on the chin. Dakota danced away, not seriously hurt but dazed and uncertain. She knew something about martial arts, how to bob and weave and hit someone with a fist, a knee, a forearm. She'd been in serious street fights, and she'd seen every punch coming from a mile away. This woman was fuck-all badass to have hands that fast. Dakota shifted back more, Kat following her, trying to think and stay out of reach. It didn't work. Again and again, even as she backpedaled, the taller woman found a way to get in close and tag her: on the face, the breasts, the abs. She began to hurt.
Fuck, won't this round ever end?
She only realized the bell had sounded when Kat walked to her corner.
Dakota stumbled to her corner and sat heavily on the stool. Jerry knelt in front of her, took her mouthguard, and tapped her on the face to get her attention. "Hey. Hey. What did I tell you? You keep letting your guard down and dropping your shoulder. You're lucky she's just playing with you. You could'a been out on the canvas at least twice that I saw." He gave her water and poured some of it on her chest; it felt nice. Jerry tapped her face again. "Dammit, pay attention. You can still walk away from this. But if you don't, you better stay away from her until you see an opening. She's not concentrating because you aren't a challenge to her. If you want to see this through, be smart. Watch her. She'll open up. Then you hit her. But," he took Dakota's chin in his hand, "you hit her hard, real hard, 'cause you won't get a second chance. Ready? OK." He put her mouthguard back in and gave her a shove toward the center of the ring as the bell sounded for Round Two.
Again the women circled each other. The crowd was restless and bored.
Too fucking bad
, Dakota thought,
you assholes come up here and try this
. She managed to stay away from Kat for most of the round, guard up, watching. She got hit several times; her right eye was beginning to swell. Then she saw it. Kat would hit her and back away, hands below her shoulders, almost as if she was admiring what she'd done. Dakota decided to take a chance.
The next time Kat tagged her, she slumped as if hurt and the brunette stood back, weight on one foot, hands lowered just enough. Dakota lunged in and planted a right hand to her opponent's chin, as hard as she could, following it up with a left-right combination to the midsection and a left to the side of the head. The crowd gasped. Apparently she'd done something unusual. Kat stepped back and shook her head; blood trickled from her mouth and her face lit up in a savage, seductive, violent, provocative, smile. She stepped forward, hands up and Dakota did the only thing she could think of to keep from being punched across the ring: she moved in and caught Kat in a clinch.
