Chapter 4 Under the Leather

Punch.

Punch.

The heavy, double-stitched leather of the hundred-pound boxing bag groaned under the impact, absorbing the raw, unfiltered fury Ajax Richmond had been carrying since first period. The chains holding the bag to the steel-reinforced ceiling joists rattled violently, a metallic screech that echoed off the damp, high-ceilinged concrete walls of the old warehouse-turned-gym. Ajax didn't care about the noise. He didn't care about the sweat sting in his eyes or the skin peeling from the knuckles beneath his hand wraps.

"So, how was your first day back?"

Punch.

"Judging by how hard you’re hitting that bag, I’m guessing it was fantastic!"

Ajax caught the swinging bag with his forearms, absorbing the heavy momentum directly into his chest. He stopped it dead, his chest heaving under a thin tank top that was already completely soaked through. He glared over the top of the dark leather at the would-be comedian standing in the shadow of the gym's main support pillar.

His godfather, Pablo.

Pablo raised his massive, scarred shoulders in a mock gesture of absolute innocence, though a knowing grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Hey, don't look at me like that, kid. I told you to get your GED. You're the one who claimed studying on a computer would take too long."

"You know Mom wanted me back in school," Ajax grumbled, his voice low, raspy, and thoroughly exhausted from a full hour of relentless bag work.

Just thinking about the conversation made his jaw tighten so hard his back teeth clicked. He had tried to fight it. He’d argued with Cassandra for three days straight, raising his voice in their tiny kitchen, insisting that he didn't need a high school diploma for the path he was on now. He was already making money. He was already surviving.

But the argument had ended the same way it always did: in a waterfall of tears from his mother. It was followed by heaps of maternal self-accusation and a heavy, suffocating wave of guilt that Ajax simply couldn't stomach. She blamed herself for his lost opportunities, crying about how her illness had ruined his life. To stop the tears, Ajax had yielded.

So, he had done the humiliating legwork. His mother had cried and begged in the principal's office, showing medical records and foreclosure notices, pleading for a waiver. And, lucky him, the administration had finally agreed to let him finish the single remaining semester he had left before life had forced him to drop out.

“You are so lucky to get this opportunity,” the counselor had said with a patronizing smile. “Other kids would kill for a second chance to earn a proper high school diploma.”

Yeah, right. Lucky.

Judging by how day one had gone, he could already tell the next four months were going to be a living, breathing nightmare. He was nineteen years old, practically a grown man, sitting in cramped desks designed for teenagers who hadn't seen a fraction of the real world.

Ajax released the bag with a frustrated huff and launched another brutal, four-punch combination. Left, right, left hook, right cross. The leather cracked like a gunshot.

"We both know why she wanted you back in that building," Pablo said, his playful tone suddenly vanishing, replaced by something much heavier, much more sober. "She thought it would keep you away from here."

Here. The MMA gym.

Ajax didn't argue. He couldn't.

There was no place on earth Cassandra Richmond hated more than this gym. She saw it as a breeding ground for violence, a dead-end trap that would turn her son into a bruised, broken-down street fighter. Subsequently, Pablo constantly caught the heat for letting Ajax through the door in the first place.

Once upon a time, Ajax had different dreams. He was going to be a college football legend. He was going to ride a full athletic scholarship straight out of this rundown town, taking his mother and little sister with him. He had treated his body like a temple, kept his grades pristine, and worked grueling, mind-numbing shifts at the mall food court just to keep them afloat while maintaining his training. He had spent his Friday nights watching his little sister Althea and studying playbooks while his peers were out getting wasted.

He had done everything right.

But the universe didn't care about plans.

The bitter taste of his shattered future soured his mouth, fueling his aggression. He let his fists fly again, imagining the bag was whatever unseen, malicious force was pulling the strings of his miserable life.

Destiny. Fate. The universe.

They could all go to hell.

Two years ago, when the walls had finally collapsed on his family, he had reached a breaking point. He’d taken a leave of absence from school, went to his very first high school party, got completely shit-faced, and slept with the head cheerleader who had been chasing him since freshman year. It was a calculated, reckless middle finger to the world—and a satisfying blow to her arrogant quarterback boyfriend, the golden boy Cliff Radford, who was destined to take Ajax's coveted spot on the defensive line.

Then, he had walked straight to Pablo's gym, looking for fast, dangerous money in the underground circuits.

"Does she know you're still coming around?" Pablo’s voice cut through his memories, pulling him back to the present.

The only answer Ajax gave was the sharp crack of his leather gloves meeting the bag.

"Ajax!" Pablo barked, stepping forward, his voice commanding.

Ajax stopped, his chest heaving, his sweat-slicked hair clinging to his forehead as he faced the older man. "Of course she doesn't."

Pablo’s eyes narrowed, searching his face. "So where does she think you are after the final bell rings?"

Ajax turned away, walking toward the octagon to grab his towel and water bottle. "She knows I'm here at the gym, Pablo. She just thinks I quit fighting. She thinks I'm only doing cardio and light bag work to stay in shape."

Pablo stepped in front of him, crossing his thick, scarred arms. Even at his advanced age, the old man was an absolute tank. He was a living testament to what a lifetime in the ring did to a man—his nose was slightly crooked, his brow bone was thick with scar tissue, but his posture was as unyielding as iron.

"Kid," Pablo warned, his voice carrying a sharp edge of censure. "You are going to get me killed by your mother, and then you'll really be on your own."

Ajax rubbed the back of his neck, trying to soothe the painful knots of tension tightening there. He didn't want to have this conversation. Not today. Not when his head was still spinning from the chaotic mess of his first day back.

He began to walk back toward the punching bag, wrapping his hands tighter. "I still have a debt to pay, Pablo. You know that."

"No, you don't," Pablo said, stepping in to physically block the bag. "I didn't mind giving you the cash for your mom's hospital bill then, Ajax, and I don't mind waiting for it now. You don't need to put your health on the line in unsanctioned fights just to hand me envelopes of cash."

Something inside Ajax snapped. The frustration of being nineteen, broke, trapped in a high school classroom, and drowning in adult responsibilities boiled over.

Without warning, he pivoted on his right leg, launching his left in a lethal, lightning-fast spinning high kick.