Sick Hate – Sick World Read Online J.A. Huss

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Dark, Sports, Suspense, Virgin Tags Authors: J.A. Huss Advertisement1

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Stackable. It was a brand-new word and it’s just fun to say.

Whatever. I’m weird.

Anya got me interested in learning more English. She’s the one who taught me most of it. And I guess it never occurred to me that I might have an accent—Anya never said anything about it. So it was a little bit of a shock to learn that Americans judge you on your English accent. Who knew?

Hiring someone to fix my speech was actually a good idea. I mean, how in the world could I put my past behind me if everyone I met had preconceived notions the moment I opened my mouth?

That’s how I found Nandy.

LMR Eats is just down the street from me—about five blocks closer to the beach—and Nandy is Romero’s daughter. First in her family to graduate from college. She was in her senior year majoring in linguistics when I was in the restaurant ordering the Argentine rice bowl to take back to my condo—condo is also a great word, especially when you own one. There was a flyer taped to the glass counter at the cash register. It said, Ditch the accent. I can teach you to speak perfect English. Nandy Jardinez, Romero’s daughter. Inquire here.

There was a picture of her face too. Long, dark hair, wide, dark eyes, and golden-brown skin. She looked my age and I had seen her around the restaurant when I’d been in previously ordering rice bowls.

So I inquired.

Three years later that Russian accent is history, Nandy is my BFF, I occasionally work fill-in shifts at the restaurant, and I’m a well-loved member of the LMR Eats family.

So. As I said. I do not think about them.

Ever.

I literally got off a boat when I arrived here in America. I didn’t understand that it was a cliché back then, so when I told people I just got off the boat and they would chuckle, I didn’t get it.

Culture shock is a real thing. I’ve been places. Kind of. I mean, I’ve seen places. The jungles, naturally—since I spent most of my childhood living in them—and many cities in Brazil. Plus the Rock, that counts. And the eastern coastline of South America. And Rio, of course. I was there a lot that last year in Brazil.

But none of that was anything like Miami.

To say I was enthralled wouldn’t even come close. To think that people live like this… I was in awe.

I had some money because I had been fighting in Rio before I left. I had a Brazilian ID and passport. Maart made all his professional fighters do one fight for each of us kids so Cort could buy us all legal identities. They’re totally real too. Bribery is kind of a thing down there.

So I had that, but it wasn’t enough to get me to Miami. I needed quite a bit of money for that, so I did my own fights in the underground favela circuit. By this time, Maart’s gym Sick Fights was already a worldwide phenomenon.

I wasn’t fighting anyone big. Actually, it was a tournament. The first fight’s winner got to fight again, and if they won the second fight too, the purse was doubled. Then they got to fight again, and if they won that one, the purse was tripled.

You fight until you lose. And since there are ten to fifteen fights each tournament, the prizes can be quite big. If you can get into the first fight of the night, and keep winning all the way to the end, it’s a life-changing opportunity.

I had been going to the fights for weeks before I finally got my chance to be in the last round. When you first show up, they give you the last fight automatically. So even if you win—and I did—you don’t earn much.

But I was smart in that fight. I didn’t show them everything. I didn’t give it all away. I did just enough to win. They passed me over several times after that win, but eventually, after three more months of showing up and getting nowhere, they gave me a real chance.

Fight one.

Those men taunted me. Laughed at me. Called me names and made rude offers.

They never saw me coming and the whole place went quiet when I took down that first fighter with an elbow move. Several people complained that the move was illegal.

I guess it was. In their world, but not in mine. And anyway, it was an underground fight club. It’s not like I kicked him in the balls. Though I wasn’t above doing that—it’s just cliché and a sign of desperation.

They gave me the win and in the second fight I did another ‘illegal’ move. Because when you’re five foot five and a hundred and twelve pounds, you win any way you can. Maybe they should consider that, since my winning move of choice has always been the neck snap.


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