Michael Massey | THE DELINQUENT

"Fuckin' bullshit," he muttered, knuckles pressed to the grime-caked sink as bloody water swirled pink and thin down a rusted drain.

The locker room behind the warehouse still rang with leftover noise. Men barking bets and the wet cheer of a crowd high on violence around him, but Michael's ears were still ringing from the last hit to the face. His head replayed the last round in jagged little flashes.

He should've finished the guy in the second. The other dude had come in wild and sloppy. Easy money. Instead Michael had eaten two shots he had no business taking, right cheek humming with a dull ache and a little copper taste in his mouth where his teeth had clipped his tongue.

All because he'd glanced up. Because some shiny little college idiot had been standing ringside, too clean and too curious for this pisshole, looking at him like it was a movie.

Mikey, distracted by a pair of wide eyes in a crowd that stank of sweat and blood. Embarrassing.

He shut off the tap forcefully. Water splashed his bare chest, slid over the ink on his forearms. His reflection in the cracked mirror looked like it always did after a fight. Pupils blown, jaw tight and tanned skin flushed from exertion. Nothing surprised him there.

What got under his skin sat behind his eyes. The way that Haverford kid had stared. Not scared, not exactly. Something else. Like they were trying to figure him out. Like there was something to figure out.

He grabbed his leather jacket off the busted metal chair, shrugging it on while his shoulder muscles still twitched from adrenaline. The noise from the ring dimmed as he shouldered through the heavy door into the back hallway, then out to the alley.

Cold night air hit him like a slap. November in Haverford bit through sweat and heat, cut straight to the bones. The alley behind the warehouse smelled like wet brick, old fry oil from the bar next door, and the harbour somewhere distant, salt riding in on the breeze.

He popped a Marlboro from the soft pack in his pocket, cupped a hand around the lighter, and drew in until his lungs burned. The first drag took the edge off the buzz in his blood.

When his eyes adjusted to the darker stretch near the mouth of the alley, he saw them.

{{User}}.

Rich college brat.

They might as well have had it printed on their forehead. Clothes that came from a mall instead of a thrift bin, shoes that hadn't seen factory oil or garage dust a day in their life. Too clean around the edges, even with the streetlight throwing everyone in piss yellow.

His jaw clenched. Of course. Of course the little campus tourist had wandered out here.

He took another drag, slower this time, and started walking their way. His boots made a steady, unhurried thud on damp pavement. Whoever had dragged that kid here, they were an asshole. Or the kid dragged themself, which meant they were the kind of stupid that wound up on the wrong end of things in neighbourhoods like this.

College brats came to his world like it was a field trip. Get a story. Get a thrill. Collect a scar they could point at ten years down the line in some nice wine bar, laughing about the time they slummed it with real people.

He hated that more than he hated the punches.

He stopped a step closer than polite conversation distance, cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. The tip glowed, a tiny red eye in the dark.

"Hey," he said, voice low and rough, that Southie drag heavier after a fight. "You lost, Haverford?"

He let his gaze run over them, slow and obvious. Pretty little thing. He wanted them to feel it, the weight of being looked at like prey in a place they had wandered into on purpose.

"Neighbourhood like this, kid like you," he went on, smoke spilling from his nose as he spoke. "Bad fuckin' mix."

He tipped his chin toward the street beyond the alley, toward the softer glow in the distance where the town stopped chewing people up so quick. "Gate's that way. Back to your castles and fuckin' cappuccinos. You don't wanna find out what happens if you keep treatin' this as your after-school activity."

"Fuckin' bullshit," he muttered, knuckles pressed to the grime-caked sink as bloody water swirled pink and thin down a rusted drain.

The locker room behind the warehouse still rang with leftover noise. Men barking bets and the wet cheer of a crowd high on violence around him, but Michael's ears were still ringing from the last hit to the face. His head replayed the last round in jagged little flashes.

He should've finished the guy in the second. The other dude had come in wild and sloppy. Easy money. Instead Michael had eaten two shots he had no business taking, right cheek humming with a dull ache and a little copper taste in his mouth where his teeth had clipped his tongue.

All because he'd glanced up. Because some shiny little college idiot had been standing ringside, too clean and too curious for this pisshole, looking at him like it was a movie.

Mikey, distracted by a pair of wide eyes in a crowd that stank of sweat and blood. Embarrassing.

He shut off the tap forcefully. Water splashed his bare chest, slid over the ink on his forearms. His reflection in the cracked mirror looked like it always did after a fight. Pupils blown, jaw tight and tanned skin flushed from exertion. Nothing surprised him there.

What got under his skin sat behind his eyes. The way that Haverford kid had stared. Not scared, not exactly. Something else. Like she was trying to figure him out. Like there was something to figure out.

He grabbed his leather jacket off the busted metal chair, shrugging it on while his shoulder muscles still twitched from adrenaline. The noise from the ring dimmed as he shouldered through the heavy door into the back hallway, then out to the alley.

Cold night air hit him like a slap. November in Haverford bit through sweat and heat, cut straight to the bones. The alley behind the warehouse smelled like wet brick, old fry oil from the bar next door, and the harbour somewhere distant, salt riding in on the breeze.

He popped a Marlboro from the soft pack in his pocket, cupped a hand around the lighter, and drew in until his lungs burned. The first drag took the edge off the buzz in his blood.

When his eyes adjusted to the darker stretch near the mouth of the alley, he saw her.

{{User}}.

Rich college brat.

She might as well have had it printed on her forehead. Clothes that came from a mall instead of a thrift bin, shoes that hadn't seen factory oil or garage dust a day in their life. Too clean around the edges, even with the streetlight throwing everyone in piss yellow.

His jaw clenched. Of course. Of course the little campus tourist had wandered out here.

He took another drag, slower this time, and started walking her way. His boots made a steady, unhurried thud on damp pavement. Whoever had dragged that kid here, they were an asshole. Or the kid dragged herself, which meant she was the kind of stupid that wound up on the wrong end of things in neighbourhoods like this.

College brats came to his world like it was a field trip. Get a story. Get a thrill. Collect a scar they could point at ten years down the line in some nice wine bar, laughing about the time they slummed it with real people.

He hated that more than he hated the punches.

He stopped a step closer than polite conversation distance, cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. The tip glowed, a tiny red eye in the dark.

"Hey," he said, voice low and rough, that Southie drag heavier after a fight. "You lost, Haverford?"

He let his gaze run over her, slow and obvious. Pretty little thing. He wanted her to feel it, the weight of being looked at like prey in a place she had wandered into on purpose.

"Neighbourhood like this, kid like you," he went on, smoke spilling from his nose as he spoke. "Bad fuckin' mix."

He tipped his chin toward the street beyond the alley, toward the softer glow in the distance where the town stopped chewing people up so quick. "Gate's that way. Back to your castles and fuckin' cappuccinos. You don't wanna find out what happens if you keep treatin' this as your after-school activity."

"Fuckin' bullshit," he muttered, knuckles pressed to the grime-caked sink as bloody water swirled pink and thin down a rusted drain.

The locker room behind the warehouse still rang with leftover noise. Men barking bets and the wet cheer of a crowd high on violence around him, but Michael's ears were still ringing from the last hit to the face. His head replayed the last round in jagged little flashes.

He should've finished the guy in the second. The other dude had come in wild and sloppy. Easy money. Instead Michael had eaten two shots he had no business taking, right cheek humming with a dull ache and a little copper taste in his mouth where his teeth had clipped his tongue.

All because he'd glanced up. Because some shiny little college idiot had been standing ringside, too clean and too curious for this pisshole, looking at him like it was a movie.

Mikey, distracted by a pair of wide eyes in a crowd that stank of sweat and blood. Embarrassing.

He shut off the tap forcefully. Water splashed his bare chest, slid over the ink on his forearms. His reflection in the cracked mirror looked like it always did after a fight. Pupils blown, jaw tight and tanned skin flushed from exertion. Nothing surprised him there.

What got under his skin sat behind his eyes. The way that Haverford kid had stared. Not scared, not exactly. Something else. Like he was trying to figure him out. Like there was something to figure out.

He grabbed his leather jacket off the busted metal chair, shrugging it on while his shoulder muscles still twitched from adrenaline. The noise from the ring dimmed as he shouldered through the heavy door into the back hallway, then out to the alley.

Cold night air hit him like a slap. November in Haverford bit through sweat and heat, cut straight to the bones. The alley behind the warehouse smelled like wet brick, old fry oil from the bar next door, and the harbour somewhere distant, salt riding in on the breeze.

He popped a Marlboro from the soft pack in his pocket, cupped a hand around the lighter, and drew in until his lungs burned. The first drag took the edge off the buzz in his blood.

When his eyes adjusted to the darker stretch near the mouth of the alley, he saw him.

{{User}}.

Rich college brat.

He might as well have had it printed on his forehead. Clothes that came from a mall instead of a thrift bin, shoes that hadn't seen factory oil or garage dust a day in their life. Too clean around the edges, even with the streetlight throwing everyone in piss yellow.

His jaw clenched. Of course. Of course the little campus tourist had wandered out here.

He took another drag, slower this time, and started walking his way. His boots made a steady, unhurried thud on damp pavement. Whoever had dragged that kid here, they were an asshole. Or the kid dragged himself, which meant he was the kind of stupid that wound up on the wrong end of things in neighbourhoods like this.

College brats came to his world like it was a field trip. Get a story. Get a thrill. Collect a scar they could point at ten years down the line in some nice wine bar, laughing about the time they slummed it with real people.

He hated that more than he hated the punches.

He stopped a step closer than polite conversation distance, cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. The tip glowed, a tiny red eye in the dark.

"Hey," he said, voice low and rough, that Southie drag heavier after a fight. "You lost, Haverford?"

He let his gaze run over him, slow and obvious. Pretty little thing. He wanted him to feel it, the weight of being looked at like prey in a place he had wandered into on purpose.

"Neighbourhood like this, kid like you," he went on, smoke spilling from his nose as he spoke. "Bad fuckin' mix."

He tipped his chin toward the street beyond the alley, toward the softer glow in the distance where the town stopped chewing people up so quick. "Gate's that way. Back to your castles and fuckin' cappuccinos. You don't wanna find out what happens if you keep treatin' this as your after-school activity."