DIRTY READS

by Scott Hildreth

  I wiped the corners of my mouth and took a drink of water. “I’m burning up all my calories in the gym.”

  “How long are your workouts?”

  “I’ve been going for three hours a day.”

  “Three hours?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. Maybe I’m making up for lost time.”

  Considering how rewarding I found the sport to be, it struck me as odd that I had spent so much time away from the gym.

  “How long has it been since you boxed, again?”

  “Eight years,” I said, although I wasn’t really sure.

  “Why’d you stop?”

  It was a good question. I didn’t want to, but at the time, I felt I had no real alternative.

  “My trainer got cancer,” I said. “And he died. Like almost immediately.”

  The look on his face did little to hide his guilt. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault. It was just one of those things. Part of life.” I shrugged. “He hated the doctor, so he never went. Ended up getting colon cancer. If he would have gone in for one of those scope things they probably would have caught it. But, by the time they found out, it was too late.”

  “And you couldn’t find another trainer?”

  My father hated the fact that I chose boxing as my sport of interest, but I did it primarily to stay away from him and his abusive behavior. He’d wanted a boy, and was forced to accept me as his only child, as my mother died of complications while giving birth. Initially, I felt my involvement in the sport would make him proud, but he never once expressed it.

  Freddy stepped into my life as a trainer, but ended up playing the part of a mentor and a fatherly figure both. During years I trained at the gym, my father’s harsh physical abuse slowed considerably, but never stopped. I suspected he feared Freddy’s retribution and I even wondered if he had threatened my father at some point. When he died, my dreams of being a professional boxer – and of escaping my father’s abuse – vanished.

  Accepting the death of a man as close to me as Freddy when I was sixteen was something that took time. He treated me like a daughter, and his eyes filled with excitement when he spoke to me or about me – similar to the way Ripp’s eyes looked after he saw me beat the guy at the coffee shop.

  I never sought out another trainer, and my way of dealing with my father’s abuse changed from going to the gym to leaving home as soon as school was over.

  “I could have,” I said. “I guess I just didn’t want to at the time.”

  “What made you decide to now?”

  My response came easy, and seemed simple as a result. “I liked the way Ripp seemed excited when he talked about my mad skills. He reminded me of Freddy.”

  He smiled and nodded, although I doubted he fully understood my attachment to men who acted like Ripp. The hole my father left in my life was something I felt a need to fill, and men like Freddy and Ripp filled it – and did so very well.

  I stared at the miscellaneous uneaten garnishments on Ethan’s plate. Not because I wanted to eat them, but because focusing on them prevented me from staring at Ethan.

  “I think I fight to get rid of my anger,” he said.

  He seemed so peaceful and kind. In fact, I attributed his lackluster performance in the ring to the absence of anger. “What anger?”

  “My father,” he responded. “He was an asshole. Is an asshole. I mean, he still is. I just don’t see him much anymore.”

  I shrugged. “Mine too.”

  He leaned forward and looked right at me. “Mine was really demanding, and he’d whip us for no reason. Sometimes I thought he did it just because he enjoyed it.”

  “Trade ya,” I said.

  He leaned away from the table and returned a confused look. “Huh?”

  “Trade mine for yours. Mine used to beat me with his fists. When I got older, I’d hit him back. It made me feel better, but it just made him hit me harder.”

  “He hit you? Like…” He clenched his fist and raised it in the air. “With his fist?”

  It wasn’t something I typically told people. And, as terrible as it sounded, it was true. True and disturbing. I nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Holy crap.” His eyes fell to the table. For some time, it seemed he was trying to think of something to say, but he didn’t speak.

  Thinking about what my father had done to me, I sat silently while my hatred toward him grew. There was a long list of things he could have chosen to do that I would have been able to forgive him for, but beating me from the time I was a toddler until I decided to leave wasn’t one of them.

  After a very long – and rather awkward – silence, Ethan looked up. His eyes were red and seemed swollen. “I don’t even know what to say.”

  I stared back at him and forced a smile.

  You already said it.

  FIVE

  Jaz

  Day seventeen.

  According to Ripp, I was far too advanced to continue in the amateur circuit, but Kelsey didn’t seem to agree.

  So, roughly two weeks into my training, an amateur fight was set up between me and a girl from Dallas. She had only fought in the amateurs, but so far she was undefeated. I wasn’t worried, because although I hadn’t boxed since I was sixteen, I was still undefeated.

  “Throw those jabs like I taught ya. Find out what her technique is, and look for an opening.”

  I pressed my gloves into the side of my headgear and nodded.

  “You good?”

  I pounded my gloves together. “Mmhhmm.”

  He cleared his throat. “Listen to me, Jaz.”

  We locked eyes.

  “Remember this, tonight and always,” he said. “Fear will get you hurt and arrogance will get you knocked the fuck out. But confidence? Confidence will get you keep you in the game.”

  It was great advice. I nodded.

  He turned and nodded toward the ring attendant. I glanced at Ethan, who was standing beside the ring with a few other people I didn’t know. I raised my gloves and mentally smiled as we made eye contact.

  He smiled in return.

  The referee stepped to the center of the ring. Linda ‘Left Hook’ Lopez and I followed. Although he gave no fight instructions, he made us touch gloves. We stepped a few feet from each other and glared.

  The bell rang, signaling the start of the fight.

  She immediately rushed toward me, which was fine for my fighting style. I’d always felt I was a diverse fighter, and was equally as comfortable fighting offensively as I was defensively.

  She swung a well telegraphed left hook, opening up her right side. I’d been taught by Freddy to give an opponent some time to expose her strengths and weaknesses before I went in for the kill, and Ripp reiterated the same advice.

  I leaned away from the punch, and it swung past me. After a few light jabs on both of our parts, she swung the same slow left hook. I blocked the punch and looked at the gaping hole she left me to counterpunch through.

  Sorry, Ripp, but she’s asking for it.

  I tucked my chin into my chest and responded with a straight right cross before she recovered from the punch she’d thrown. The punch, probably one of my most powerful, landed directly on her chin.

  Her legs went wobbly and her hands dropped.

  Hurts like a motherfucker, huh?

  I felt like I could have ended the fight right then and there, but I wanted whoever was watching to see everything I was capable of.

  A left hook to her ribs caused her eyes to go wide, and she looked like she would have forfeited the fight if she would have been asked.

  The problem, at least for her, was that no one was asking.

  And I was still hoping to impress whoever was watching.

  I followed up with a lightning-fast four punch combination, connecting each one right in the middle of her face.

  It was thirty seconds into the fight, and she hadn’t hit me once. I, on the other hand, had connected six powerful punches, and she was in trouble. I stepped
back in hope of her coming to me for a little more. She teetered on legs that didn’t want to continue and feet that had other plans.

  She looked like she was planning on leaving.

  Just remember, this is only business.

  I knew she’d be expecting my left hook, so I threw it. Slow and without much strength, I didn’t throw it to hurt her – or to even hit her for that matter. It was more to get her to open up for my right. Having been hit by my left hand twice – and not wanting it again – she twisted her upper body to the left, undoubtedly hoping the punch would glance off of her torso.

  It was exactly what I wanted. With her facing to the left, and open to my right hand, I fed it to her.

  Hard.

  The punch caught the left side of her jaw. Her feet came up and she fell to the mat like someone had dropped her out of an airplane.

  The ref stepped between us and waved his hands over her, signaling the end of the fight.

  Excited, I glanced toward my corner. Ripp’s hands were held high over his head, and the expression on his face did nothing to hide his pride.

  The old man, Kelsey, was standing at his side.

  I rushed to the corner, proud of my accomplishment. Ripp removed my headgear and pulled my mouthpiece. “So much for using the jab to establish your opponent’s fuckin’ technique, huh?”

  “Sorry, Boss. She was asking for it.”

  The old man glared at me. His face was weathered, his hair was thin, and he had on the same old-school satin jacket he was wearing the first time I had seen him. He looked angry and tired. “Lift your right heel. You’re fightin’ flat footed,” he said dryly.

  I started to thank him for the constructive criticism, and figured I’d let the condescending tone of his voice slide, but he turned around before I could say anything. I arched an eyebrow in his direction as he sauntered away.

  “Don’t worry about him,” Ripp said.

  I didn’t want it to, but it bothered me that Kelsey didn’t seem to like me. I shook it off and fixed my excited eyes on Ripp. “How’d I look?”

  “You looked like a champion,” he said, his voice filled with excitement. He lowered his tone to a more demanding one and motioned with his eyes toward the other corner of the ring. “Now act like one.”

  I shot him a confused stare.

  “Go tell that girl she fought a good fight.”

  I rushed to the far corner, congratulated my opponent, and climbed out of the ring. Ethan and Ripp stood off to the side talking. I felt like I was on top of the world and wanted to share my joy with anyone who cared to listen, but the first thing I needed to do was eat.

  “I haven’t eaten anything but a protein bar since 3:00. I’m starving,” I said. “If you guys want to come over to my apartment, we can celebrate. I’ll make some chicken.”

  “Chicken? Women after my own fuckin’ heart right there,” Ripp said, slapping his hand against Ethan’s shoulder. “How ‘bout we all go out to eat and celebrate? I’m buying.”

  “I can cook,” I assured him.

  “You beat that girl like she stole somethin’ from ya.” Ripp chuckled. “We need to go out and celebrate.”

  If the severity of the beatings I gave my opponents assured me a free meal after each fight, I’d beat the brakes off of every girl who stepped in the ring with me. I remembered what Ripp said about arrogance, however, and dropped my gaze to the floor. “I got in a couple of lucky punches.”

  “Lucky punches my ass.” He tossed his head toward the locker room. “Go wash the stink off your ass so we can go.”

  Ethan had remained quiet since the end of the fight, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he felt somewhat jealous about my win. His amateur record wasn’t terrible, but it wasn’t fantastic either. Six wins and seven losses wasn’t anything to be ashamed of, but it wasn’t a record a typical fighter would brag about, either.

  I glanced at Ethan. “Are you going to go?”

  Ripp slapped his hand against Ethan’s shoulder. “Fuck yeah he’s goin’.”

  Ethan nodded and smiled a shallow smile. “You looked great. And yeah, if you want me to, I’ll go.”

  “If I want you to?” I shot him a look. “If you don’t go, maybe I’ll give you some of what I gave her.”

  His eyes went wide and he chuckled, although I could tell he was just being theatrical. “Fighting with you? I might like that.”

  The thought of fighting and fucking at the same time made my pussy tingle. I tried to refrain from being my natural self and making a sexual comment, especially in front of Ripp. I kept my response simple, but somewhat expressive of my thoughts on the subject.

  “Not near as much as I would,” I said with a wink of my eye.

  And I walked away.

  SIX

  Jaz

  Day seventeen.

  “No, it wasn’t over a piece of fuckin’ ass. And it damned sure wasn’t in the parking lot of the old gym,” Ripp complained. “God damned rumors. I’ll tell you how the deal went down if you’ll just sit still for a fuckin’ minute, you nervous actin’ fucker.”

  Sitting on the other side of the booth, across from Ethan and me, Ripp was telling the story of how he met the heavyweight boxing champion. I pressed my right hand against Ethan’s chest as if to eliminate him from the conversation, and made eye contact with Ripp. “I don’t care if he wants to hear it or not. I do. So tell me.”

  He leaned forward and playfully arched an eyebrow. “We’ll need a refill. This’ll take a minute.”

  I raised my hand and got the attention of our waitress. “Another round, please.”

  She smiled and nodded.

  Ripp drank what was left of his beer and slid the empty bottle to the side. “So, they told me this undefeated boxer was comin’ in from Compton, California. And I’m thinkin’ he’s gonna be some surfer dude. You know, long hair, all tan from playin’ on the beach, and that he’d be wearin’ flip flops and one a them fuckin’ wet suits.”

  He gazed beyond me as if he was recalling the night in question, grinned, and shook his head. “Well, that wasn’t the deal at all. This fucker rides his Harley from Compton to Austin, non-stop. 1,380 fuckin’ miles with all of his shit tied on the back. I’m tellin’ ya. And he hops off that bitch at about eight o’clock at night, just about the time ol’ Ripp’s gettin’ ready to go out and knock off a piece of ass. He’s wearing raggedy-assed boots with his socks showin’ through all the holes in ‘em, a hoodie, and a pair of faded Levi’s. Weird fucker sure as fuck didn’t look like a boxer.”

  His eyes went wide and he leaned forward, exchanging glances between Ethan and me. “Now, just so you know, this was back when Lightnin’ Wilson was givin’ me pointers on cage fightin’, and he’d been trainin’ me on that very night. So, Ol’ Lightnin’ comes up and says, ‘Hey, that kid from Compton’s here. You want to go four rounds with him?’ Hell, I thought it was gonna be a walk in the park. But it sure as fuck wasn’t.”

  He leaned back, folded his massive arms in front of his chest, and shook his head.

  “What happened?” I asked excitedly.

  I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to fight Ripp. He was probably 6’-4”, weighed about 240 pounds, and was nothing but solid muscle. His in-your-face personality and general bad boy appearance were equally as intimidating as his size, and should act as a deterrent to anyone dumb enough to consider stepping in the ring with him.

  He picked up his empty beer bottle by the neck and wagged it back and forth like a pendulum. “I can’t talk unless I got a beer in my hand.”

  Luckily, the waitress dropped off our drinks – Michelob Ultra for Ripp and Ethan, and water for me. Ripp drank half the bottle of beer in one gulp, then continued his story.

  “So, I told Ol’ Lightnin’ that I’d fight this California fool, and I figured it’d be over in about five minutes, because it was gonna take me three to lace up my gloves.”

  He twisted his mouth to the side, cocked one eyebrow, and made eye contact with Eth
an, and then me. “So, three to lace up my gloves, and I was givin’ this Compton cock sucker two minutes in the ring with me. Back then, they called me The Ripper. You know why?”

  Engrossed in the story, I didn’t respond with anything more than simply shaking my head.

  “I ripped the heads off every fucker that came in the ring. I was undefeated. Never knocked out, and never knocked to the mat. Not even once.”

  I glanced at Ethan. He was as engrossed in the story as I was. I turned back to Ripp and grinned.

  “So,” he said. “Ol’ California steps in the ring, and we touch ‘em up. Now I’m thinking I’m gonna feed this prick a three piece, let him stagger around a minute, and then I’ll finish him off. Now, remember, he probably hadn’t showered in twenty-four hours, and he’d rode that damned Harley halfway across the US of A in a hundred-degree heat. So, this fucker smelled like rotten leather and fucking gasoline and I wasn’t tryin’ to smell him for too damned long. So, the bell rings, and I meet this fucker in the center of the ring. He’s got his left hangin’ a little low, and his right cocked like he’s gonna feed it to me, so I stick him with a quick jab just to let him know how we do it here in Texas.”

  He coughed out a laugh and shook his head. I anxiously waited for him to continue, but he reached for his beer and took a drink instead. After what seemed like an eternity, I asked the inevitable.

  “What happened?”

  He took another drink and shrugged. “Don’t know.”

  “What do you mean you don’t know?”

  “I don’t know what happened, all I know is what Kelsey and Joe told me. Well, them and Lightnin’.

  “What’d they tell you?”

  “Told me the kid hit me with a left hook, followed it up with a right cross, and then what I learned was his signature punch.”

  I swallowed hard at the thought of Ripp being beaten. I reduced my voice to a whisper. “What was it?”

  He fixed his eyes on me and arched one eyebrow. “Left uppercut.”

  “And he knocked you out?”

  He nodded. “Knocked me out cold. Shit, I was punch drunk for a week. Kid hits like a fuckin’ mule kicks. Imagine lettin’ a barnyard mule haul off and kick you in the skull. Well, that’s what it feels like to have Ol’ Shane Dekkar hit ya.”