by E. M. Moore
If it weren’t for all that, Oscar and I might even be doing this at another place and time. I actually like having him here and watching TV with him. He hasn’t had his bad boy gang persona on, he’s just been real. And just for thinking that, the itch to scrub off the top layer of my skin hits. It’s not Oscar per se. I don’t want to become accustomed to this. This is not my life. It was never supposed to be my life for fuck’s sake. This is just a means to an end.
Oscar laughs at something on screen. I hadn’t even been paying attention for the last five minutes. He peeks at me. “You got quiet.”
I shrug. “Just spaced for a second.”
He stares at me a while longer then drags his hand down his face. “Listen, I know this life can be crazy. I’m a member of the Crew, don’t get me wrong, but if you need someone to talk to about it, I’m here.”
I tilt my head at him, trying to make him out. Trusting these guys was not part of the plan either. Brawler’s almost there. He’s creeping up on me. Then again, he’s on the outside of the Heights Crew. Oscar? He isn’t. He’s right in the thick of things. “What do you do for the Crew?”
Oscar’s jaw snaps shut. He’s wearing a faded Rawley Heights football shirt that stretches across his muscles. He’s lean and tall, but with a muscular build. “Right now, I help watch you. I do whatever they ask me to. Sometimes it’s one thing. Sometimes it’s another.”
“Vague answers. I could’ve guessed all that.”
“I guess I’m just easy to read then.” His dark eyes shine with amusement.
“That could be. Or maybe you’re just asking me to trust you without giving that trust in return.”
Oscar grins easily. “Listen, I know you probably already heard about me. It’s everyone’s favorite topic where I’m fucking concerned. I bailed on the Heights. I spent a few blissful months in Spring Hill where my mom had a job with a great place to live and look after. A place where I could focus on football.”
“You play football?”
“Yeah. You won’t hear too much about it because here, the Crew is everything. We have a game tomorrow, and if you notice at school, no one gives a shit.”
The hardness in his voice tells me football might just mean a lot more to Oscar than the Crew. “What position do you play?”
“Quarterback.” He tries to hide his pride, but it comes out anyway. His chest puffs up. “And I’m fucking good, too.”
I smile, a genuine one. Oscar’s fucking full of himself. That’s for sure. “So, you played football in Spring Hill, too?”
He nods. “Briefly. Their QB was hurt, and I stepped in.”
A shadow passes over his features, telling me there’s way more to the story than he’s telling me, but I won’t push.
“Football’s a big thing in Spring Hill. Their games are huge. They actually have a cheerleading squad, nice uniforms, and new pads.”
“And the Heights has?”
“Decades old pads, uniforms without our last names on them, and I think I saw a Burger King wrapper in the stands last time we played. When we go to away games, we have to drive ourselves.”
His eyes grow darker, anger seeping in. I can’t blame him. It would make anyone mad. This piss poor community holds him back. If he’s as good as he says he is, he would be better off at another school that actually has money. “It sounds like you really love the game if you’re willing to put up with all that just to play.”
He blinks at me. Uncertainty crossing his face. He didn’t expect that to be my reaction.
“Are you going to go to college to play football?”
The degrading laugh spills from his mouth again. My shoulders lock in annoyance. “What?”
He shakes his head, and I have a feeling I’ve just told him more about not being from around here than anything I’ve done yet. “If I get a scholarship, I might be able to go. Even if that, maybe not. I’m a part of the Crew now. They might not let me go.”
Understanding fills me, pulling at the string in my stomach. I’m beginning to understand who Oscar is now. “And you joined the Crew because…” I wait a beat for him to tell me the story, but he seems content for me to put the pieces together. “Because when you came back, you had to. It was the only way you had protection.”
“Because no one leaves the Heights thinking they can have a better life, Princess. No one.”
His words seep into my pores and then sink into my stomach like a dead weight. No one gets out of the Heights. That’s about as worse of a threat as you can get. This place isn’t for people who want to better themselves. There’s no opportunity. Sometimes by force, sometimes by choice. It’s not like the kids around here see people succeeding every day. There’s no one to look up to.
And even with all that, Oscar tried. And even with him trying, things got a lot worse for him. Now he probably won’t ever be able to escape. He’ll become a statistic the suburbs hear about on the nightly news. Another gang member gunned down. Or stabbed. They won’t tell his whole story. The people listening will sit in their picture-perfect lives shaking their heads at all the youth who can’t seem to get their shit together.
16
The next morning, Oscar’s still with me. I tell him to take off because he has to attend practice to be eligible to play in his game. He hesitates, but eventually, I push him out the door. If Johnny realizes he left, I’ll — Well, we’re just going to have to hope he doesn’t realize he’s left.
As Oscar walks out of the apartment, a genuine smile lighting his face, he looks about as real as I’ve seen him yet. He’s fake when he walks around the school like his shit doesn’t stink. He’s fake when Nevaeh plastered herself all over him. He doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want any of that.
It makes my heart hurt to think how trapped he is.
No wonder why I’ve felt like he’s like me. We’re both trapped. The only difference is, I plan on getting the fuck out.
I’m not alone for long. Just enough time to shower and think about how I’m going to spend my Saturday even though I should’ve known it wasn’t mine to plan. The door to my apartment opens, and I peek out of my bedroom to see who it is. A rough looking guy with long hair moves a loveseat into the room. “Hey, whoa,” I say, not recognizing the guy who’s currently turned away from me. “What are you doing?”
He ignores me, but Brawler pushes through holding the other end. “New furniture,” he says in explanation.
“New furniture?” My mind starts to race. I didn’t order furniture. What the—?
“Rocket,” Brawler says as they place the loveseat down in the area where we trained only yesterday. He bends over to push the loveseat against the wall. Bandages wind around his neck, and I suck in a breath. Before I can ask him about it, he stands and looks to the side of me instead of right at me, and asks, “Is this good?”
I shake my head. “What’s going on?”
“Rocket,” Brawler says again, turquoise eyes still avoiding me. “He told us to pick up this furniture and to drop it off for you.”
The other guy, who’d left, comes back in carrying a short table and plops it in front of the loveseat. Brawler claps him on the back, and the guy leaves. I stare at the stuff in shock. It’s clearly a set. A nice one. The coffee table is squat with a beautiful cherry wood. The loveseat is a dark gray microfiber.
“He probably realized you didn’t have much,” Brawler says, his voice tight.
“Nobody does.” I’d picked just the old armchair out because I knew no one would have very much, and I wanted to blend in. Plus, the more money I keep in my getting- out-of-dodge fund, the better.
“He doesn’t want you to be like everyone else.” After a heavy pause, he says, “It’s brand new. We picked it up at the furniture store across town in Pedro’s truck.”
“It’s nice,” I mumble, eyeing it and not knowing what to say. I’m not used to this. Whatever Johnny is, I can’t say he’s not observant…and caring? He must’ve seen how sparse my furniture was and wan
ted to give me more.
Brawler glances around the apartment. “Where’s Oscar?”
I stand there like a deer in the headlights. It doesn’t take Brawler long to figure out he’s not here. There really isn’t room for me to lie. What could I tell him? He’s in the bathroom? The door’s wide open. Clearly, no one else is here with me. “He had to go to a football game,” I say, shrugging. “He didn’t want to. I made him.”
Brawler shakes his head. His eyes turn into that stormy color again. “Fucker would do anything for football.”
“Johnny doesn’t have to know. Right?” I ask. I’m beginning to think I can count more and more on Brawler, but I’m not sure. Shit’s weird between us right now. I’m not sure I’m even thinking clearly.
“Not my place to narc,” Brawler responds.
He reaches up like he’s going to itch his neck but stops as soon as his fingers brush the bandages around his neck. He sees me looking and flushes. “What are those?” I ask, worried he’s been hurt. He isn’t acting like he’s in pain, but why else would he be swathed in bandages.
He finally looks at me. “I got a new tattoo last night.”
“Oh.” My voice rings high with surprise. “What did you get?”
He shrugs. “Nothing big.” His answer is intentionally vague, and I immediately want to call him out on his bullshit. I have a feeling Brawler just doesn’t decide to get a tattoo one day. Especially where he’s gotten it. He won’t ever be able to cover it up unless he wants to wear a scarf, so it must mean something to him. He motions toward the furniture with his head. “You should probably call Johnny.”
“Right,” I say. “Of course.” I should’ve done that already, but Brawler is distracting.
Johnny answers the phone with a smile in his voice. He’s definitely pleased with himself. I thank him a few times, telling him I never expected he would do that. He repeats over and over that his girl should have the best. The call doesn’t last long because he’s needed in another business meeting, so we hang up, and I find myself smiling.
Ridiculous, I know. I’m judging myself, so I can only imagine what those on the outside see.
I school my features, but I turn to find Brawler staring at me. His gaze intense as he watches the smile fall off my face. It’s like I’m on display for him, so I immediately turn to place my cell phone on the counter. Then, I head toward the new furniture and sit. The cushions envelop me. It really is a nice couch. The kind I might see sitting in my aunt and uncle’s den. “The only downside to this is that there’s no room to train now.”
“We shouldn’t do that again.”
My mind flashes to Brawler putting his hands on me. His arm wrapping around my middle. How good it felt. There’s only been two times since moving to the Heights where things felt normal. Watching TV with Oscar last night and training with Brawler.
He’s probably right. We shouldn’t train together again. It’s too much temptation. But I want to. “We should go to a gym,” I press.
“We can’t.”
His attitude pisses me off. “Why can’t we?”
He runs a shaking hand through his short-cropped hair. “You know what I don’t get? One minute, you’re pushing me around because Johnny fucked some other girl and cut your back open. The next, you’re giggling into your phone because he bought you furniture.”
“I wasn’t giggling into the fucking phone.” My mouth drops, and I suck in a breath. “How did you know he fucked some other girl?”
He gives me a look of disbelief. “It’s not hard to guess. He handed me a bunch of bags filled with clothes. I know exactly where you were. My brother used to date the owner.”
I stand, ready to escape to my bedroom. She told him. That Lynette girl is probably the owner, and she told Brawler what happened. Mortification brims at the surface. I’m so embarrassed I could scream.
Brawler moves in front of me, blocking my exit. “Like what the fuck is it, Kyla? Do you want to be a princess? Is that it?”
“Why don’t you man up and tell me what this is really about?” I threaten. He wanted me yesterday. The bulge in his pants clear evidence. His arm around me made the thoughts churning in his brain abundantly apparent. Plus, he fixed me up last night. His gentle fingers made sure I was okay.
That had to mean something, and he just doesn’t want to admit it.
Brawler just stares at me. His chest raising and lowering in front of him.
I raise my eyebrows. I’m not saving him from this. He needs to talk.
“I can’t,” he finally says.
“Then get out of my way.”
I try to move around him, but he steps in front of me again. “How’s your back?”
I flinch. From all that to how’s my back? “Fuck you.”
He growls, the low grumble pricking my skin.
“You can’t insinuate what you did about me and then ask if I’m okay. I wasn’t giggling on the phone, and yes, I was fucking pissed off yesterday. More than you know. I’m not used to being treated like that.”
“You shouldn’t be treated like that.”
“We’ve already come to the conclusion that I really don’t have a choice. But please, throw it in my face if it makes you feel better.”
Brawler swears under his breath. “It doesn’t. It makes me feel like shit. It makes me furious.” His body shakes. His fingers curl into his palms until his knuckles turn white. He’s a volcano about to erupt, spewing his shit over anyone close to him.
I’m not afraid of getting a little dirty.
“Good,” I say. “Then get your shit together because we’re headed to a gym. We can pound the shit out of inanimate objects until there’s nothing left inside us.”
We lock gazes, and I silently pray I’ll be so tired when we’ve finished that I’ll be able to resist the pull to Brawler. Whether he wants to admit it to himself or not, he’s jealous of Johnny.
An hour later, two workers at a local gym across town hold pads for us as we obliterate them. The looks on their faces when Brawler walked in was something to behold. I could tell they were regulars at the fights and had probably seen more than a few starring the guy to my left. For never setting foot in a boxing gym, Brawler takes to it easily.
They run us through round after round of focus mitts, then let us punch our aggression out on huge swinging heavy bags that rock forward and backward with the force of our punches. It’s like having someone come swinging back at you. At least, it’s easier to pretend this way than just hitting a stand-up heavy bag.
During a break, Brawler guzzles down water the workers throw at us, and we sit on a bench to catch our breaths. “I knew you’d like it,” I say.
He seems less agitated here. More carefree like the heavy baggage around his neck lifted away. “What’s not to like?”
“The fuck if I know.”
He grins at me, his smile toothy and downright sexy while sweat drips down his face. Instead of returning it, I’m struck, staring at him, imagining licking the bead of sweat edging down his cheek right now.
The light dies in his eyes, and a low rumble starts in his chest. “Don’t.”
I bite my lip.
He looks away. “Fuck.” He slams his water bottle down and heads back to the swinging heavy bag, beating the ever loving shit out of it. A few times, I’m afraid it’s going to come crashing down off the ceiling, but it holds steady.
To cool us down, one of the trainers has us do some stretching while he runs through some mechanics with Brawler. The guy’s a monster as it is. He just needs a little refinement, and he’ll be unstoppable. I’m talking UFC level fighter who brings in multi-millions for Pay-Per-View matches. I’ve never seen anyone who fights quite like him, and I’ve been around a lot of gyms across several states.
The sad fact is, he might not ever get out of the Heights to see what he’s capable of.
We take quick showers at the gym and then catch a city bus to our apartment building. People give Brawler a wide berth
which is fine by me. I hide a smirk when I’ve watched the third person take the empty seat next to him and then change their mind last minute when they see who they’re sitting next to. One even changed direction on the descent of butt into chair. I almost drew blood on that one, biting the inside of my cheek so I wouldn’t laugh.
When we get to my apartment, the door closed and locked behind us, I ask, “How do the fights work?” I turn, heading into the kitchen to retrieve us both glasses of water.
“The fights?”
I look over my shoulder to find him running his hand through his already dry blond hair. His blue eyes are fucking fierce and sharp right now. Swallowing, I add, “Yeah. Do the fighters get paid?”
Brawler accepts my glass and then sits down on the loveseat, giving me the armchair. “It started out as just the Crew making money off the fights. People needed a structured way of settling conflict. If you had beef with someone, you would call them out. Whoever won, won. You weren’t allowed to have beef after that. It was settled in the ring. Then, shit got popular. We started drawing crowds. People started betting on the side, and when Big Daddy saw that, he turned it into what it is now. He was just second-in-command then. It’s one of the reasons he got voted into top dog position. When he made it into the fight circuit, they started paying the fighters. Nothing huge, but enough to entice them to fight without settling beef with someone. Now, if you’re a good fighter, you can make quite a bit. It depends on how long you’ve been fighting for us and how many people are betting on your fight.”
“You make money on your fights?”
He nods.
Understanding dawns on me. “That’s why Johnny was so pissed when you pulled that other guy out last time.”
He doesn’t have to nod again. It’s true. Johnny said as much to me.
I’d wondered how the Heights Crew made money, so this is something. If Johnny can afford to give “his girl” a new loveseat and table, they must be doing okay. I just wonder what else they’re into. It can’t be just the fights. Not for how big the Crew has gotten. They must have several business ventures by now.