His head looks like it might come off his shoulders. Fuck knows how he’s staying on his feet. One thing I got to say for him, he is as strong as a damn bull. He keeps coming forward throwing bombs. One lands hard on my jaw. I see a vapor mist of my blood spray the onlookers. It makes them yell louder. The more blood the better, just so long as it isn’t theirs.
I suck up the pain and catch him again, this time with a devastating blow to the solar plexus that bends him in two. I watch him drop to his knees, face etched in pain, blood pouring from his mouth and a gaping eye cut. He’s a fucking mess, but the fucker won’t stay down.
I gulp some air as he staggers toward me, and I remember the hard way what I’ve learned with fighters—no matter how exhausted your opponent is, the last thing to go is the power of his punch—when a crunching punch lands on my ribs followed by an exploding right to my jaw. It sends more blood spraying all over two guys closest to me. The impact of the rib shot sends me winded to the floor. I choke and cough violently.
‘Fucking give it up, Eden,’ Pilkington bellows, swaying over me, his face snarled and bloodied.
But quitting is not in my genes. I can take his best dogs. I get to my feet—it is only adrenalin that is keeping me going now—and start dancing the famous Eden shuffle. It’s been so long, but it comes back to me as clear as if it was yesterday. It mesmerizes and dazes Pilkington. My jabs come from every angle making his life a little worse with every shot. They’re too fast for him to see them coming out of that swollen eye of his and he’s too fatigued to block any.
The sustained assault on his face and body leaves him gasping for breath. I watch him finally wilt and collapse after three more hard blows. The crowd becomes frenzied: they know as do I. He won’t throw another punch. He’s done. He’s not the only one—the earlier strength in my legs deserts me and I slither to the ground beside him, blood and sweat dripping from my body.
We’ve neither won.
The referee will have to decide on points.
But before he can make his decision, a decision that could start another feud, the barn is split by the sound of a man’s voice screaming, ‘Police, police.’
The lookout has spotted them a mile away, which gives us a few minutes to get out of here. The two hundred odd people in this warehouse panic and start running for the exit in a mass exodus.
Dom and another man are beside me. ‘We got to go,’ Dom says.
‘Wait.’
I turn my head and Pilkington’s heavies are trying to help him up. I grab his upper arm. Pain shoots through my ribs. His mouth spills a long cable of saliva, his face is split and bruised, his hair and clothing are slathered in blood, grease and mud. He looks like a wild man. We both look like wild men, blindsided by lightning.
‘It’s over between us,’ I squeeze forcefully, and he just looks at me. His eyes are no longer electric, replaced by the aftermath mellowness of a punishing battle.
‘I respect you, Jake Eden,’ he says, and a spray of blood hits my face. ‘You have fucking balls. You met me head on. Your family and mine are tight now. You won’t have any trouble from the Pilkingtons.’
I stick out my bleeding hand. He takes it. Like a man.
‘You’re one tough fuck, Billy Joe Pilkington, and I wouldn’t want to do that again.’ He breaks into painful laughter that makes him wince. A mutual rush of respect flows through me.
In typically modest fashion he says, ‘You’re the greatest fighter of all time… Next to me.’
I grin.
I hear the sirens now. His men slide their hands under his armpits and help him away.
In a daze, I hear a woman’s voice calling me frantically. Ah, Lily.
And then I see her face. God! She looks like a fucking angel.
SIXTEEN
Lily
‘Oh, my God, Jake! You’re covered in blood,’ I scream, falling to the ground next to him. I cannot believe the state he is in.
‘Have you seen the other guy?’ he jokes, blood dribbling out of his mouth.
I stare at him in horror.
‘Come on,’ Dom shouts urgently. ‘We better get the fuck out of here. In a few minutes the pigs will be swarming all over this place.’
‘Shane’s waiting in the front with the engine running,’ I say automatically, remembering what Shane had told me. The sirens sound a whole lot closer. ‘Come on,’ I say, my voice high and shrill. ‘We have to hurry.’
Pilkington’s men rush forward to grab an arm each. By a weird chance my gaze collides with one of his helpers and the man’s eyes register recognition before he moves his eyes swiftly away. But I have never seen him in my life. Then they are making for the exit and I turn my attention back to Jake, with all my thoughts back to the worry of getting Jake into Shane’s car before the police arrive.
Dom and another guy support Jake. It is shocking that in his state he can still walk. I run ahead to open the back door of the car. Jake is put in, Dom and the guy run off, and Shane takes off. The sirens are deafening now, but the coppers are about to find that they’re too late again. It is shocking how quickly all the cars have sped away.
I turn to look at Jake.
‘Oh my, Jake. Look at you,’ I whisper.
‘Most of this blood is not mine,’ he lies.
‘We’re going to see a doctor, right?’
‘Nope. A doctor is coming to see us.’
I lean back and close my eyes. I feel shocked and shaken.
‘Hey,’ he says.
I turn my head.
‘The feud is over.’
I nod sadly. The price seems too high to me. ‘Are you in agony?’
‘No, I’m still buzzing.’
‘Buzzing?’
‘Yup. Buzzing. It’s up there with sex.’
I raise my eyebrows.
‘Maybe not,’ he grins, then winces with pain.
I look at him worriedly and he touches my face gently. And for some crazy reason tears start slipping from my eyes.
‘Don’t, Lily. Don’t. Everything is just the way it should be.’
‘It’s just the shock,’ I sniff. Even I don’t know why I am crying. It seems so silly, but I feel unbelievably choked up and shaken.
We hurtle through country lanes, with Jake wincing now and again.
The doctor comes and to my horror tells us that Jake has fractured ribs. He prescribes a course of anti-inflammatory meds and painkillers. I set up an ice bath and Jake gingerly lowers himself into it. The buzz of adrenalin has worn off and the damaged ribs make even talking an incredibly painful thing. He lies in the ice bath for about an hour. I can see huge purple bruises and bumps coming up on his legs, his midsection and his face.
‘How do you feel?’ I ask, coming to sit on the toilet seat.
‘Like hell. Even breathing makes me feel miserable. And I’ve got a splitting headache.’
When he gets out of his ice bath, he is shivering and I gently help him to bed and cover him with a blanket. Then I wrap his hands with gauze bandages—the skin over the knuckles is all broken and raw.
‘Why don’t you have a little nap?’ I say.
He sighs. ‘I’d like to have sex.’
I look at him in astonishment. ‘How?’
‘I could if you did all the work.’
I shake my head in wonder. He can’t even breathe without pain and he wants to have sex. Incredible!
‘Will you?’ he cajoles.
‘No. Look at the state of you. Your face looks like a damn balloon. And you can’t even breathe properly. I’m not going to have sex with you. What if I cause you even more injuries?’
‘We haven’t had sex in three days,’ he says sulkily.
‘And whose fault is that? Who had to conserve energy to prepare for his big fight?’
‘How about a blow job?’
‘You’re mad.’
‘I thought you liked a swollen cock.’
I grin. ‘I’m not doing it.’
‘Right then, just o
pen your legs and let me see your pussy.’
I blush.
‘Right, at least just talk dirty to me.’