CUL-DE-SAC (On The Edge Book 1) (2 page)

CHAPTER 1

She was out of her depth, Catalina decided,
when she found herself in a dark alley, long past after midnight. She should
have rejected it the moment this job offer came through, yet she didn't. She
wasn't exactly sure why that was, but now was a little too late to ponder all
the reasons behind what resulted in her nearly instantaneous agreement.

Oh, she could still turn around and leave.

Go back to her comfortable life, writing
herself off the assignment and nobody would berate her for it. But she worked
hard to be known as a reliable person and reputation was one of the most
important things in business.

While that was all an undeniable truth, it
was not all there was to it. She simply refused to back down just because
something was not easily attainable.

Underground fighting club wasn't.

It took her more than two weeks to find her
way in and a significant part of the advance payment she got for this
commission. However, she would have paid even more without so much as batting
an eyelash because the instant she said yes all reason fled her, the need to
witness tonight's event beating in some primal rhythm within her.

It was the same rhythm that had caused her
problems on several occasions already, and was driving the wedge deeper between
her and Florence Bennett, the sole remaining member of her family.

A sudden noise somewhere behind her caused
her to swivel on her heel and reminded her of the purpose of her presence
behind the nightclub.

Cul-de-sac was a well-known lounge in Santa
Monica, California, built in a former warehouse with thick insulated walls and
just a few windows so that the neighboring buildings were not disturbed by the
powerful beat of the music.

Large platforms for dancing, intimate décor
and DJs playing mixes people greatly enjoyed dancing to, were reasons why the
club was sought and filled to capacity night after night. The luxurious design
was inspired by the look and feel of a nineteenth century European bordello,
bringing Santa Monica's nightlife to the next level.

Crowds of locals and tourists alike were
flocking to the place every night. The establishment opened its door to all
kinds of extravaganza.

Cat had been one of the patrons once or
twice herself.

What she didn't know, until recently, was
that there was another entrance leading to the underground part offering
different kind of entertainment to those whose appetites ran much darker.

Her knowledge about fighting clubs was very
basic at best, but even she was well aware this kind of bloody sport while not
exactly illegal
–
wasn't sanctioned
either. Some events were nearly spontaneous, dictated by spur-of-the-moment;
others were well-planned and organized, guaranteeing a pretty nice income for
those who were on top of this food chain.

The one she came to observe tonight
belonged to the latter. She came to observe
and
perpetuate, she thought,
while wrapping her fingers around the camera lying safely in the pocket of her
light leather jacket.

She considered herself well informed and
prepared for the job ahead of her, but nothing she had been imagining before
came close to the reality of it when she passed a special entry key to the
bouncer and was ushered inside.

People were pouring from every dark recess
of the inside like some peculiar moths following the promise of the light. The
whole place was vibrating from sounds, scents and heightened emotions brought
in by participants and those who came just to observe like Catalina.

She wanted to register it all on her
camera, already knowing from the experience that it would never be the same.
Failure was almost a calculated factor, a part of the job of being a
photographer, as much as the deep rooted need to try it time and time again
regardless the outcome or previous disappointments.

Before tonight, her exuberant imagination
was pushing at her images of a dark and dank place reminiscent of a dungeon,
and some part of her expected to see exactly that. Yet the reality she found
herself in couldn't be further from it, Cat decided.

The design of interior wasn't as opulent as
the club above her head. There was no dance floor with laser lights
illuminating it, but a fighting ring rose in the middle instead with a few
strategically placed spotlights above, giving it an edgy,
somehow more
sinister look.

While Cul-de-sac demanded upscale
fashionable attire, frowning upon ripped or baggy jeans, its afterhours version
was the complete opposite, bringing and accepting all kinds of wear together, because
the determining factor for people wasn't their fashion taste but the interest
revolving around thrills accompanying the fight sport.

Catalina was not sure where the place was
for her in all of it, but she felt as if there were a big, fat neon sign above
her head singling her out of the crowd, making it painfully clear she didn't belong
to this place, between these people. The wild pounding of her heart was
deafening to her senses, yet it was nothing but a background noise in all the
commotion.

Cheering and chanting gained in strength
turning into a wild roar when one of the fighters was making his way through
the gathering, parting the mass of people with confidence which spoke volumes.

Cat was convinced that most people saw only
purpose and maybe some dose of arrogance when they looked at him, yet her
trained and detail greedy eyes caught some kind of indifference in his pace as
well.

He seemed tall and dark haired but in the
artificial light she couldn't be sure the exact shade of it. Most people were
taking few cautious steps back when he was passing them by, some
–
the braver ones
–
were trying to pat
him on the shoulder or gain his attention by other means, but there was no
mistaking the look of awe in their gazes.

It was obvious he was a well known and
apparently favored warrior.

Catalina had never really wondered about
the type of people who chose to fight for any reason, be it money or some
internal, ingrained need for brutality. However, she knew that from this moment
on his face was going to come to her mind whenever she would consider this kind
of hazardous sport. His face was an intriguing combination of harshness and
savageness, even if to her he seemed strangely detached from the whole event he
was obviously the main attraction of.

Catalina's eyes felt too faulty to register
every nuance of the situation unraveling in front of her. Her fingers played
nervously with the belt of her camera, but before registering any of it on
pictures, she wanted to soak in the atmosphere first, become part of it.

Yet in her mind's eye she saw exactly what
and how she wanted to show.

Before stepping into the ring the man
dropped his sweatshirt, which was welcomed by increased applause and really,
Cat couldn't be able to blame others for the reaction because her hand
automatically reached for her Canon.

In her haste to capture the fluidity with
which he was moving, along with compelling, seemingly alive tattoos adorning
his bared flesh, she forgot all her reasons to wait.

She utterly gave herself to what she came
here for, to what she was good at after all.

***

Xan breathed deeply and closed his eyes for
a moment, trying to distance himself from everything except the awaiting fight
when it was being announced. He knew his opponent but it didn't make a
difference to him one way or another. It was neither the time nor the place to
be sentimental and pull his punches.

He came here to do one thing only
–
win the fight.

Besides that, nothing mattered to him.

Not the crowd anticipating the show, not
individuals trying to engage him in conversations, not even countless women
trying to gain his attention. Nothing and no one could pull him away from his
priorities while he was zeroed on the win.

He's been fighting for long enough to work
out a kind of routine for himself, instinctively omitting anything that could
lead him astray and further from his goal.

Xan knew that the majority of the audience consisted
of regulars but he also knew better than to make a mistake and look at faces.

He didn't care about their names, reasons
for being here, emotions or fantasies. He was used to people wanting to be a
part of the event, wanting to
own
a part of him.

None of it had anything to do with him
personally so he paid it no heed while he was walking through the throng.

Perhaps someone else in his place would be
proud or satisfied at the very least when the cheering grew in volume after he had
bared his torso. It had no effect on him, making him smirk instead.

He knew how feeble people were, how easy it
was to no longer enjoy their affections no matter how misplaced they were to
begin with. He had seen it time and time again, knew a day would come he was
going to find himself on the losing end so he was hell bent on gaining as much
as possible as long as he held their interest.

Was he cynical? Undoubtedly.

But it was hard to be an optimist after the
things he had witnessed. After the things he had
done
himself, he
acknowledged and pushed this line of thinking out of his mind.

He fist-bumped his rival, noticing the guy
had taken a beating recently but it wouldn't sway Xan or soften him. Nor would
the fact he knew Noah Michaels
–
known
by most as Dragon
–
was a soldier who
had come back from his tour in Afghanistan just to find out his wife had left
him for his best friend.

They all had their stories, lost something
or someone on the way if they didn't learn how to cut their losses in time.

It turned some into victims, others into
fighters.

Xan knew how it felt to be both and he
would be damned if he ever let himself taste defeat again. Failure was
not
an option, he thought taking the fighting stance with his left foot forward,
keeping his guard up at all times.

He was the one who threw the first punch,
striking with his left fist. It was just a small jab, a foreplay really,
heralding the next move. He pulled back his left fist, striking with his right,
while he twisted on the ball of his rear foot in order to rotate his hips and
gain extra speed and strength.

It was a gentle introduction to Jujitsu,
something to test his opponent's mood and Noah should have blocked him without
the smallest problem. Yet Xan's blow reached its target and blood spurted from
the other guy's nose. Noah's distraction was going to make Xan's win so much
easier and faster. He tried not to show his disappointment.

Challenges were all there was to fights.

Challenges
and
money, he thought,
not letting lack of the former to lessen the meaning of his impending success.

The crowd hooted with glee at the sight of
blood but it was yet another thing that was a part of this sport.

People were like a horde of wild animals
shedding any pretense of civilization with every blow delivered, with every
drop of blood spilled. The frenzy often fed his personal mercilessness, but not
tonight.

Tonight he felt as if he were in the wrong
place and at the wrong time, walking in the skin of someone who was like a wild
horse trying to buck and rear just to get free himself.

But tonight everything was proving to be
just
more
annoying to him, just
more
disappointing after he
witnessed a drug deal.

A teenager, a fucking kid, he thought
again.

What were they thinking? Were they at all?

He had done plenty of questionable things
himself but drugs were never a part of it. He wasn't naive to believe he was
going to change the dirty reality of the underground world; in fact he didn't
give a flying fuck about saving someone who didn't want to save himself. Who
didn't even realize needed saving in the first place.

He just didn't want to be mixed up in
things he avoided since he was younger than the kid trying to get his fix
tonight.

It was Xan's old man's game and he was a
heavy player, but Xan himself had always stayed away and it was not going to
change now.

It all rubbed at him, bringing forth
memories of places he had left a long time ago, chafing at his skin like lies
his boss tried to feed him with after he had brought the matter to him.

Again.

It was the same song and dance they went
through before and Xan was growing tired of this bullshit. Money was always the
reason, he wasn't much better himself and he guessed that the only difference
was how far a person was willing to go and what boundaries to cross to get more
dough.

Just because he wouldn't be the one to cast
the first stone didn't mean he was willing to participate in it either.

Xan avoided a front snap kick Noah used to
strike him in the groin and he chuckled at the dirty move.

Dirty but acceptable.

In their club there were not many things
that were forbidden. The unpredictability was as dangerous as it was
exhilarating, nipping the routine in the bud.

Noah threw a right punch and Xan blocked it
instinctively with his right arm twisting anti-clockwise on the ball of his
right foot, his body moving with precision which was the effect of years spent
on perfecting its usefulness. He threw his right foot in answer and this time Noah
blocked it with his right arm without any effort.

They kept coming at each other, throwing
and avoiding blows, neither remaining unscathed. Noah grabbed both of Xan's
wrists when he attacked him, trying to stop him from delivering a punishing
punch. Xan responded immediately by directing his hands slightly outwards and
clasping them together. He stepped into his attacker and used them to strike
him in the stomach throwing them both off-balance and pulled his hands free
over his shoulder while moving backward.

It was then when a sudden flash distracted
him, causing him to falter and lose his rhythm. As he searched for the source
of the disturbance he saw a blonde with a camera raised to her eyes, snapping
pictures as if nothing else existed around her.

His first thought was that she was an
undercover cop because he simply couldn't imagine someone bold or stupid enough
to step into their underground world and carelessly take pictures for God knew
what purpose.

It was unheard of and he didn't think Tony Boden
–
the owner of the
club
–
would invite a
journalist, leaving her unfettered with a free reign to roam around and do as
she pleased.

Especially not with all the activities
taking place behind the scene.

She stood in the middle of the crowd, yet a
strange kind of aloofness seemed to be clinging to her skin, making her look as
if she were standing alone. She was concealed by half-shadows and he couldn't
see her clearly but it was obvious she saw him just fine since her nosy camera
was pointed more or less in his direction.

His brows furrowed and his uneasiness
spiked.

The moment of diversion cost him when Noah
used the chance to strangle him from the back. It pissed him off to no end and
he used his own flare or temper to escape the hold.

He stepped with his left leg and placed his
foot to the left of the other man's left foot and struck with his right elbow
to Noah's stomach again, vulnerable after the previous blow. Xan placed his
right hand behind his attacker's back and grabbed his right bicep with his own
left hand. Next he placed his right foot to the right of Noah's right foot.
Took his left foot further to the left and bent his left knee.

He kept his right leg nearly straight with
the ball of his foot on the floor. His calf muscle touched the shin of his
opponent's right leg. Xan twisted his upper body counterclockwise and put the
heel of his right foot on the floor.

Noah's right leg was swept backwards as
Xan's right hand dragged him over his right leg. Since Noah was already on the
floor, Xan used it to his advantage by taking up the mounted position and
delivering blow after blow until Noah tapped out signaling he had enough.

And just like that the fight was over.

The crowd started to chant Xan’s name but
he barely heard it through the roar of blood in his temples.

No, it wasn't due to the fight, not even
because of his win.

The unfamiliar woman, with her camera and
unknown motives, was solely responsible for that, unaware at the moment she was
going to pay for what could have resulted in Xan's downfall.