DIRTY READS

by Scott Hildreth

  I swallowed nervously and knocked. I’d been anxious the entire drive to his house, wondering why he’d asked me to come over. I’d never been to his home, and expected nothing good could come from the visit. Eventually, men always leave. I fully expected the time had simply come for him to do so.

  The door opened.

  Dressed in jeans and a button down, he looked handsome. His hair, as always, dark and scattered about his head in a perfect mess. He moved to the side. “Come on in.”

  I stepped inside, not knowing what to expect. The sweet smell of something baking caused my mouth to salivate and mind to drift away from thoughts of a disastrous ending to our relationship.

  “Well, are you going to come in?” he asked.

  I realized he was halfway down the hallway leading into the house, and I was still standing at the entrance.

  “Yeah,” I said with a smile, hurrying to catch up to him. “So what’s going on?”

  The landscape crew he worked on had got off work at noon. Realizing he had come home from work, taken the time to shower and changed into the clothes he was wearing, I began to wonder exactly what was going on.

  He glanced over his shoulder, grinned, and shrugged.

  I followed him down the hall and into the kitchen. A long countertop separated where we were standing from the attached dining area. Beyond the countertop sat a small round dining table. On it, several boxes wrapped in fancy paper, a bouquet of balloons, and the source of the sweet aroma.

  A cake.

  I looked at him.

  He smiled.

  “Happy Birthday!” someone shouted.

  Startled beyond belief, I spun around. Ripp and Kelsey jumped up from behind the countertop, each wearing ridiculous paper hats.

  Confused, I exchanged glances between Ethan and the two paper hat wearing fools. “What…”

  “Happy Birthday,” Ethan said.

  Even more confused, I shook my head. “But it’s not my birthday.”

  “It sure is,” he said. “June 6th.”

  He was right, June 6th was my birthday. I didn’t realize it was already June, and furthermore had no idea how Ethan knew when my birthday was. Emotion quickly washed over me. I hadn’t had a birthday party since I was a little girl. The last one I could remember, anyway, was when I was two.

  “How…” My voice began to falter. I stood and stared, incapable of continuing to speak.

  Noticing my emotional state, he wrapped his arms around me and held me close. “Ripp told me.”

  I bit into my quivering lip and turned toward Ripp. Wearing cargo shorts, sneakers, and his typical wife beater, he looked like a complete idiot with the cone-shaped paper hat atop his bald head.

  He offered me the cheesy Mike Ripton grin and shrugged his innocence. “It was on the waiver you signed at the gym. Karen enters that shit in a computer, and it puts out a reminder. Kelsey told me, I told Ethan, and he decided to have a little party.” He motioned toward the table. “Light the candles, Old Man.”

  Wearing his striped sweat pants, a white tee shirt, and the little paper hat, Kelsey looked adorable. He reached into the pocket of his sweats, pulled out a lighter, and lit the candles. He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Blow ‘em out, Spaz.”

  I coughed out a laugh and fought not to cry. Ethan released me and followed me into the dining room.

  I leaned over the cake and prepared to blow them out.

  “Wait!” Ethan said. “We’ve got to sing.”

  And, the three most important men in my life sang Happy Birthday to me.

  “Okay,” Ethan said.

  I closed my eyes, made a wish, and blew out the candles.

  “Open this one first, I’ve got shit to do,” Kelsey said. “I can’t stick around this clusterfuck of a party all god damned day.”

  He handed me a long round cardboard tube with a bow tied around it, but it wasn’t wrapped in paper.

  “Okay.”

  I was still an emotional wreck, but seemed to be fueled by the excitement of actually having a birthday party. I studied the cardboard tube. On each end, a white plastic cap was pushed into the tube, securing the contents from falling out. Eager to find out what it was, I removed one of the caps and looked inside.

  A poster.

  I pinched the paper and carefully slid it from the tube.

  “Be careful with it,” Kelsey warned.

  I nodded as I unrolled the large print, spreading it onto the countertop.

  My throat tightened. My eyes welled with tears. I glanced at Kelsey. He nodded. I shifted my eyes to the print.

  “Good fuckin’ shot,” Ripp said.

  I couldn’t cry. Not after everything I’d been through in my life without crying. Not now, and definitely not in front of the three men who stood before me.

  I fought against the tightness in my throat and swallowed. “It…It uhhm.” I tilted my head toward the print. “How…how’d you get it?”

  “Hired a photographer. Surprised you didn’t see the flashes goin’ off,” Kelsey said. “He shot a few hundred, but that’s the one I picked. Damned good lookin’ left hook.”

  The photo, taken an instant after impact, was of me hitting Amy Wilson with the knockout punch. My upper body was twisted, every muscle in my back was flexed, and my glove was slightly past her face. Her eyes, wide and glassy, expressed her concern.

  There was one thing in the photo, however, that made me fill with more pride than winning the fight. Beyond the ring, standing next to Dekk, stood Kelsey.

  With his hands raised high in the air and his mouth opened wide, there was no denying the pride he felt for me winning the fight. A picture was worth a thousand words.

  I rolled up the picture and slid it into the tube. “Thank you.”

  “Happy Birthday, Spaz,” he said with a nod. “Now I’ve got shit to do. Ethan, thanks for having me.”

  He glared at Ripp, tossed his hat onto the table, and without speaking another word, left.

  “Here,” Ripp said.

  I turned toward him. He handed me a box, wrapped with fancy paper and tied with a bow. I eagerly accepted it and carefully unwrapped it. A cardboard box, clearly marked with the insignia of the manufacturer.

  Converse.

  I glanced at Ripp and then at the box. I removed the lid. Inside, a pair of white and purple Ed Hardy Chuck’s.

  “How’d you know my size?”

  “Got it off them raggedy fuckers in your gym bag. You need to toss them pigs in the trash. Stinkin’ fuckers,” he said.

  I will,” I said with a smile. “Thank you.”

  He folded his arms in front of his massive chest and nodded. “Happy Birthday.”

  One gift remained. A large box, approximately three-foot by three-foot square, and six inches thick, sat beside the cake. I glanced at Ethan. He nodded. “Open it.”

  “From you?’

  “Yeah,” he said. “Open it.”

  I inhaled a deep breath. “Okay.”

  I removed the bow, carefully removed the paper, and lifted the box. It was surprisingly heavy. Anxious to see what was inside, but not wanting the event to ever end, I reluctantly removed the lid.

  A sea of purple silk.

  I scrunched my nose and stared.

  At least they know my favorite color.

  I reached for the fabric, lifted the heavy garment from the bag, and held it at arm’s length.

  A silk boxer’s robe, just like the champion’s wore. I’d always dreamed of the day I would have my own. I imagined myself wearing one, jogging down the aisle while people reached out in hope of slapping my hand as I rushed toward the ring. With the crowd cheering my name, I would duck under the ropes and wave, only to have thousands of screaming fans wave back.

  It was a dream for sure, but one I liked thinking of.

  “Turn it around,” Ethan said. “But don’t get mad.”

  I shot him a playful glare. “I’m not going to get mad.”

  I turned the robe over
and stretched the material wide. Across the back, in large gold letters, a name had been stitched into the purple silk.

  BRAWLER.

  My heart swelled. It was perfect. I draped the robe over the box, turned toward Ethan, and kissed him full on the lips.

  On that day, the 6th of June, I turned twenty-five in the presence of one grumpy old fucker, my trainer, and the man I was quickly falling in love with.

  And it was the best day of my entire life.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Jaz

  Day sixty-eight.

  We were sitting in Dekk’s office at the gym, talking about my future. Eager to find out what was going to happen next in my career, I listened as he explained matters.

  “There was some pretty heavy talk about Amy Wilson,” Dekk said. “She was actually scheduled to go pro, and was expected to fight an undercard fight at a championship fight. But, no contracts had been signed yet.”

  “And now that I beat her?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “She’s still going pro, but they aren’t asking her to fight on that card.”

  Ripp slapped his hand against my shoulder. “What are they sayin’ about my girl, Jaz?”

  The champ looked at Ripp. “Her knockouts have made some people talk. Beating Rose and then beating Wilson got a lot of people wondering just who she is and where she came from. That’s kind of why we’re here. I told Kelsey not to respond, but the promoters have been calling all day asking me.”

  Ripp turned to face the champ and put his hands on his hips. “Askin’ you what? Quit beatin’ around the fuckin’ bush. You’re all stammerin’ around and talkin’ in fuckin’ circles. Let’s hear it.”

  Based on the way Ripp talked to him, it was pretty obvious they really were friends.

  Dekk locked eyes with me. “Were you fighting amateur when you were in Omaha? Officially?”

  I nodded. “Yes, Sir. I was boxing in USA Boxing.”

  It was a governed amateur boxing association that Freddy insisted I fight under so I could one day go to the Olympics.

  “How many fights did you fight before you were seventeen?” the champ asked.

  “I quit when I was sixteen. I don’t know, I can’t really remember. The younger years of my life are all foggy.”

  “Did you remain under USA Boxing’s governing body for the entire time?”

  I nodded. “Yes, Sir. I can remember that. Freddy, he was my trainer. He insisted that we fight AIBA so I could go to the Olympics. That was his dream.”

  “You’re required to fight eighteen fights a year. Do you think you fought that many?”

  “If it was a requirement, I’m sure I did. Freddy would have made sure of it.”

  “Do you have any idea how many fights you won?”

  I grinned. It was an easy answer. “All of them, Sir.”

  His eyes shot wide and he coughed. He looked at Ripp. Ripp grinned. The champ looked back at me and smiled. “All of them?”

  “Yes, Sir. Never lost one. That’s why Freddy was so sure I could make it to the Olympics.”

  He stared back at me in apparent disbelief. “You’re undefeated?”

  I hadn’t really thought about it, but technically I guessed I was. As far as I was concerned, my fights when I was younger didn’t count, though. I shrugged. “I mean, I guess so. Do those old fights count?”

  “They sure do,” the champ said.

  “I’ll go to the AIBA and have your records pulled. They’ll have them on file,” he said.

  “Okay,” I said. My eyes darted back and forth between Ripp and the champ. “What does all this mean?”

  “I’ll tell you what it fuckin’ means,” Ripp said. “It means Ol’ Dekk here can go to promoters and tell ‘em that we’ve got a fighter here at Kidd’s gym that’s won a hundred fuckin’ fights, and lost none. And, we can say she’s knockin’ bitches out left and fuckin’ right, and she wants a shot at someone worth fightin’. Right, Dekk?”

  The champ nodded. “That’s right.”

  I smiled at the thought of it all. “Oh.”

  “Oh?” Ripp said sarcastically. “Hear that, Dekk? Sound like someone you know? Bunch of humble fuckers in here today, huh?”

  “Humility will keep her grounded,” he said.

  Freddy used to tell me the same thing.

  I studied Dekk. He didn’t look like a champion, that was for sure. Dressed in shitty blue jeans and wearing a pair of biker boots and a hoodie, he looked like one of Austin’s many homeless residents. Realizing he was actually the Heavyweight Champion of the World let me know that he was a very humble man.

  I liked that about him.

  “Yes, Sir. It sure will,” I said. “Freddy told me that. He said I should always be humble outside the ring.”

  “He sounds like he was a great trainer. I tell you what, I’ll have Joe get your records pulled. Once we get our hands on them, I’ll let you know what we find out. But Ripp’s right. If we can prove your record, we can make one hell of a claim to get you accepted into the pro circuit.”

  “And then what?”

  “Your first few pro fights should get you noticed, especially if you can keep up that knock out record.”

  He stood up.

  Ripp had been standing the entire time.

  I stood and wiped my hands on the front of my shorts.

  “Just out of curiosity,” he said. “How many of your wins were knockouts?”

  I shook my head. “Hard to say. From what I can remember, probably quite a few. It’s just. I don’t know. I just don’t really remember the fights. I mean, I remember Freddy, and I remember fighting, but I don’t really remember it. It’s hard to explain.”

  “I understand,” he said. “Believe me.”

  He clenched his hand into a fist and extended his arm.

  I grinned and did the same.

  And he pounded his fist against mine.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Jaz

  Day seventy-one.

  Ripp and I stood at the edge of the ring and waited for Ethan. The scheduled fight was with an undefeated fighter who was even more well-known than the last fighter Ethan fought. According to Ripp, if Ethan could beat the guy, his other than satisfactory record really wouldn’t matter very much.

  Defeating the two most recent fighters would outweigh all of his losses, and he’d gain respect in the amateur boxing circuit for being a noteworthy opponent.

  I couldn’t tell Ripp, but Ethan had once again told me he was going to win the fight. His prediction? Another first round knockout. For Ethan’s sake, I hoped he was right.

  “Can’t wait to see what happens,” I said.

  “Shit, I can’t wait to see what Dekk finds out about your record. I’m anxious about this fucker, too.”

  “I’m anxious about my record. I can’t wait to see what he finds out. It’s exciting to think about.”

  Several minutes passed without him speaking. It wasn’t like Ripp. I studied him for a moment. He stood with his hands in the pockets of his shorts and his eyes fixed on the floor, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet.

  “What are you thinking about?” I asked.

  “Huh?”

  I chuckled. “You look like you’re either thinking or nervous.”

  “Me? No, I ain’t nervous.”

  “So what are you thinking about?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I been wonderin’,” he said.

  “About what?”

  “You can’t remember anything about when you were a kid?”

  It wasn’t an easy thing to explain. I could remember some things, and not others. There was a long period of time from when I was about two until I was a sophomore in high school where I really couldn’t remember anything specific about my life, only the bruises and how bad they hurt when I touched them. Then, after Freddy died, for whatever reason, I could remember almost everything.

  “It’s weird. I can remember it, but I can’t remember specific things that happened. My counse
lor in high school told me it was pretty common for kids like me to repress memories, but he said it was odd that mine was the way it was. I’m really pretty happy with it the way it is, honestly. If I remembered everything, I’m sure I’d just be mad.”

  He pursed his lips and inhaled a deep breath through his nose. “I hate thinkin’ about your pop knockin’ you around when you was a kid. You think you’ll ever try and reconcile things with him?”

  It was a question I had never been asked, but was one that I was more than prepared to answer. I’d thought about it several times from when I was in high school to rather recently, and each time I came up with the same answer.

  “No, I won’t,” I turned to face him. “If it would have happened once or twice in a drunken fit of rage, I could probably get over it. You know, forgive him. But it didn’t. It happened over and over. So, what excuse can someone like him give for beating on a little girl with his fists? What could he say to make me forgive him?”

  His jaw muscles tightened and his eyes fell to the floor. “Don’t know.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Me neither.”

  “If you can’t remember your childhood, how do you remember that, though?”

  The answer was what I hated about it all. “Because that’s really the only thing I can remember.”

  He looked up and nodded at the exact moment Ethan came from the locker room with his trainer.

  Ethan looked ready for anyone or anything. He stared straight ahead and pounded his gloves together as he walked, his biceps flaring with each movement of his upper arms. There was no denying he was focused, and I was proud that he agreed to fight the man he was going to fight.

  Dressed in his blue and white shorts and an old raggedy gray sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off, he looked like what I had always imagined the old school boxers from the gyms in Philadelphia looked like back in the day.

  “Kick his ass, Babe,” I said as they walked past.

  Ethan’s trainer glanced toward us, and Ripp glared back at him.

  “What’s the deal between you two?”

  “Just don’t like him,” Ripp said.

  It’s apparent.

  Ethan nodded, but didn’t speak. His focus was clear.