Crossing the Line

by Simone Elkeles

  "It's a fucking cage, man. I'm not some sort of animal."

  "We're all animals, Ryan. Listen, you're a gringo in a bar full of Mexicanos. You're going to bring in big money. If you win, you'll have enough to pay Camacho if he agrees to train you. You came to Mexico to go pro and make a name for yourself. This is your first obstacle. Show everyone you're not a joke. You came to fight, kick ass, and make cold hard cash. Think about it."

  But I can't think right now . . . because all of a sudden I scan the place and she is on the other side of the room. Dalila. A blaze of desire rocks my core, which agitates the hell out of me.

  I know why I'm here. Mateo set me up and in the end I'm gonna fight so I don't let him down. But why does Dalila keep showing up in my life?

  "I'll be right back," I tell Mateo.

  "Where are you goin'?" he calls out, but I'm already weaving through the crowd.

  I'm going to confront her again. Because annoying the shit out of her is the only light in my darkness.

  Twelve

  Dalila

  Rico and his friends lead us to an underground fighting ring. A scared Soona is clutching my elbow, but Demi is totally excited to party like everyone here.

  "This is so cool!" Demi says, grasping a drink from one of Rico's friends.

  I take it out of her hand and hand it back to the guy. "Remember what happened to me in Texas? Don't let it happen to you."

  "Wow," Demi says. "That night really had an impact on you."

  "I'm more aware now," I admit to her. I wince as one of the guys in the ring starts fighting as if it's a fight to the death. "What's cool about this?"

  Rico takes a gulp of his beer. "Those fighters can make a ton of money, Dalila." He gestures to the betting cage. "I bet on Esteban Rivera and expect to make a killing tonight. He's undefeated."

  I don't tell Rico that I'm not a fan of betting, especially on underground fights like this. Boxing is one thing. It's a religion to my father. But this . . .

  I glance at the guys in the cage. I can see a splattering of blood on the mats as the cage opens and the winner of this round is declared. It's a huge guy with oversize muscles and a scary grimace on a grizzly face that reminds me of a bear.

  Rico claps. "That's my boy."

  Soona glances at the cage. "I don't like this place," she whispers in my ear.

  "Just ignore the fight," I tell her. "Everyone else is dancing and having a good time."

  Soona turns away from the cage. "That guy who just won es enorme. I don't think anyone can beat him. Why don't they just call it off and give him first place?"

  One of Rico's friends comes over and leans in close to tell him something. "I'll be right back," Rico says, motioning to his friends to follow his lead. He heads to the other side of the club.

  Demi, who's been flirting with Rico's friend Marcus all night, starts jumping up and down to the music. "This place is awesome! We should come here more often, Dalila! It's like a dungeon of heaven."

  "That doesn't make sense," I tell her.

  Soona nods. "Dalila's right. A dungeon can't be heaven. And heaven better not be a dungeon."

  Demi flips her head back and holds her arms out wide. "Don't you two get it? Nothing makes sense here, and that's the beauty of it!"

  I'm probably going to be grounded the rest of my life for coming to this heavenly dungeon.

  "If you wanted to see what skills I got, you're going to get a glimpse of them very soon," someone with an extremely American accent calls out behind me.

  Ryan Hess, otherwise known as Mr. America.

  I whip around so fast it takes me a second before I can focus. Just staring into those bright blue eyes makes my body shiver with excitement. "Ryan, wh . . . what are you doing here?"

  "I've been askin' myself that same thing." He gestures to the cage. "Lots of action tonight, huh?"

  I glance at the now-empty cage and then back at Ryan. "You like watching fights?"

  His eyes sparkle with a hint of mischief and something else I can't identify as he leans in close. "I like winning fights."

  When he leans back and the sides of his mouth quirk up the slightest bit, I cross my arms. "You have a big ego, Mr. America."

  "Sometimes."

  "You can't win every fight," I tell him, thinking of the giant who just won the last fight. "Some guys will always be better than you."

  He seems to contemplate my words for a second, then shakes his head. "Nah. If I thought about losing, I'd never win."

  "So all you think about is winning?"

  He shrugs. "Most of the time."

  "Well, it's a good thing you're not fighting tonight, then." I gesture to the cage. "Because you couldn't win against that beast who just won the last fight. He'd tear you apart, and mess up that clean shirt you're wearing in the process."

  He looks down. "You think he'd mess up my shirt?"

  I nod. "Definitely."

  "Well, damn." I'm completely unprepared when he pulls his shirt up over his head. His defined muscles shouldn't impress me, but I can't stop staring. Masculinity and that ever-present slew of confidence flows from every pore of his powerful body. "Well, then, you'll have to keep my shirt for me until I get out of the ring. We wouldn't want it to get messed up now, would we?"

  His shirt is draped over my hand now. "You're not going to fight tonight," I tell him. I don't even know why I care. But I do. Big ego or not, I know how hungry guys are to fight Americans and show them that Mexicans are just as good if not better than our neighbors to the north. "That guy who won the last fight is a monster. I'm not even sure he's human."

  "The thing about me, Miss Mexico," he says, "is that I'm not afraid of anything. Human or not."

  "It's pronounced Meh-hi-co," I call out, but he's already weaving through the crowd on his way to the cage.

  And I'm still standing here with his shirt in my hand.

  "Um . . . what is Ryan doing here?" Soona asks me.

  Demi wags her brows. "Did you see the six-pack on him?"

  "I wasn't paying attention to his six-pack."

  Demi looks down at my hand. "Oh, really? Is that why you were drooling as you stared at his retreating back? And is that why you're clutching his shirt as if it's your personal property?"

  I shove the shirt at her. "Here, you hold it."

  She steps back. "No way, chica. He gave it to you. You're the chosen one."

  "Does it smell good?" Soona asks shyly.

  I shake my head. "Ew. I'm not gonna smell it."

  Soona holds her hands up as if she's surrendering. "I'm not crazy. I just read something in a magazine about some guys having a certain scent that attracts girls."

  "Ryan attracts girls because of his looks . . . and body." Demi scans the crowd. "And those eyes. Did you take a gander at his ojos?"

  "I didn't notice them," I tell her.

  "Sure you did, just like every other girl in this place," she teases. "Or maybe you were too busy wondering what those full lips are capable of."

  I pull my shoulders back and stand up straight. "I don't know what you're talking about."

  As I scan the room for Ryan, I spot Rico walking over to us and my spirits drop.

  "Oh no, Rico's coming. What do I do with this?" I say, holding out Ryan's shirt.

  I hand it to Demi.

  She hands it to Soona, who hands it back to me.

  I quickly shove the shirt into my purse hoping Rico doesn't notice.

  "The next fight's starting," he says, taking a swig of beer. "Esteban will fight the winner of the final round."

  Ryan and his opponent are escorted into the cage. He looks just as tough and intimidating as he did when I first saw him at the gym, unwilling or unable to be frightened by anyone. His opponent looks like he's out for blood. All eyes are focused on the cage as the opponents face each other--Ryan versus a local fighter, ready to pound on the American as if it's war.

  "No way! It's that gringo from the gym I was telling you about," Rico says to one of
his friends.

  While Rico explains to his friends how he knows the white guy in the cage, I can't seem to shake this feeling of dread off of me.

  "Guey, I know that guy," Rico's friend says. "His old man's a crooked cop connected to Vega."

  "How do you know?" Rico asks. I listen intently for the answer.

  "I know all the crooked cops," he says. "They're all on the payroll. I've seen this guy fight before at some dive in Texas. He's good."

  Rico narrows his eyes. "I don't give a shit how good he is or who he's connected to. Even if he wins this one, which I doubt, there's no way he can beat Esteban."

  When the crowd roars, I stop thinking and focus all my attention to the fight in the middle of the bar.

  Ryan's friend Mateo is standing close to the cage, urging Ryan on.

  It isn't long before both guys are pummeling each other. The music is pounding so hard the floor is shaking. Or maybe that's my nerves. As much as I don't like guys with oversize egos like Ryan, I don't want to see him hurt.

  But that isn't happening. Ryan is obviously more skilled than the other guy. When he lands a good hit, the other guy stumbles back and the crowd boos.

  I watch as Ryan relaxes his stance and stops in the middle of the cage, standing completely still.

  Oh no.

  He's going to let his opponent get in a free shot. A courtesy hit. When the guy gets in a good punch and Ryan's lip starts bleeding, I turn away. I can't watch.

  This is a cage fight. Why would Ryan let the guy get in any punches when he's obviously a better fighter? Who cares about decency and saving face in a dirty fight?

  The boy with the big ego actually wants his opponent to lose with dignity. Demi is right. This place doesn't make sense.

  I try to ignore the fight and focus on the music and having fun with my friends, but it's hard. Some of the guys in the crowd are shaking hands with Rico and his friends like they're celebrities. When a few guys with gang tattoos chat with them, the hair on the back of my neck stands up.

  I don't know if Rico is just a rich kid with lots of connections, or if it goes deeper than that. Ever since Rico's family came to dinner, my parents have been on edge.

  As if I don't have enough to worry about, Ryan is fighting another opponent. I don't want to care, and yet there's something about him that draws me to him. Throughout the night I keep glancing at the cage while trying to forget that Ryan is locked inside it.

  Finally, it's the main event. Rico is standing next to me now, watching with anticipation. "I've got big money on this final round," he explains.

  I don't want to watch Ryan fight the giant. While Ryan may be strong and muscular, Esteban's bugged-out eyes and bulging veins make me think he must be on some kind of steroids or drugs.

  When the crowd starts chanting "Esteban! Esteban!" my gaze focuses on Ryan. His body is battered from the previous fights and I can see blood slowly dripping from a cut on his cheek. He doesn't seem fazed that the crowd is rooting for his opponent. He's stone-faced, unwilling to be emotional or intimidated just because the majority of people are against him.

  I'm tense and hold my breath in an attempt to calm my nerves.

  This is the main event.

  Ryan glances at me as the ref walks into the cage and suddenly my face feels all hot and my chest feels tight. I find myself shaking my head as a signal to Ryan to stop this before it starts. Don't do this. This isn't boxing. It feels like a revenge fight. Instead of taking my subtle hint and stepping out of the cage, Ryan winks at me, then turns to face his opponent.

  The air in the place is suddenly charged, the chants getting louder.

  "I want to leave," I tell Rico.

  He looks at me like I'm crazy. "No way. We can't leave now. The fight is about to start." He turns his attention to the cage.

  I grab Soona's and Demi's hands. "Let's go," I tell them.

  "Now?" Demi asks.

  "Yes."

  I don't want to see the bloodshed.

  Thirteen

  Ryan

  Every part of my body aches.

  Hell, it even hurts to breathe.

  Last night I fought for what seemed like hours. Guy after guy stepped into the cage with me, hoping to knock me out. First were the preliminary rounds, which I won easily. I even let a few of the guys get some solid punches in so it'd be a good show.

  Then came the final round with that Esteban dude. He growled a few times. I don't think anyone had the balls to tell him humans don't growl. It didn't matter, though. I don't back down. Esteban got in some pretty good shots. I haven't been challenged that much in a long time, not even with Mateo. But Esteban was too slow, too aggressive, and lacked any strategy.

  I stunned him with my jabs. And when he let his guard down, I was there to take advantage of it. It was clear from the shocked look on his face that Esteban had never faced a challenger who wasn't afraid of him. Especially a gringo.

  When I caught Dalila glance at me with a disgusted expression on her face, it just spurred me on more. I wanted to show off, to show her I wasn't a loser.

  It didn't matter, though.

  She missed the final fight.

  I saw her walk out of the club with her friends, leaving her boyfriend behind. In that split second with my attention averted, my opponent landed a sucker punch to my ribs. It was a painful wake-up call that the girl who's invaded my thoughts didn't give a shit whether I lived or died in the ring.

  Or cage, as it were.

  I was winning until some random idiot in the crowd thought it'd be a good idea to use the ceiling as a shooting target. The ref stopped the fight as the crowd of people started pouring out of the club. We were left there waiting in the cage until someone let us out. The management said they couldn't declare a winner. They handed me fifty pesos for fighting as a consolation prize.

  Fifty measly pesos.

  I'm lying on the mat in my little makeshift bedroom in Sevilla. Mateo drove me here after the fight, apologizing the entire time for failing to get me a big payout. He was proud of me like a big brother. I couldn't get him to shut up as he recapped the fight in the voice of an announcer going through a highlight reel.

  A knock at my door makes me wince. I know it's Mateo coming to check on me. He said he'd come by today and make sure I was alive. He also warned me I'd be sore and stiff, and he was right. I should make myself move or get dressed, but I don't want to.

  "Go home, Mateo!" I call out to him.

  "It isn't Mateo," a girl's voice comes from the other side of the door. "It's Dalila."

  "Dalila?"

  "Si."

  I manage to get out of bed long enough to open the door. Standing in front of me is the bossy girl who hates heroes. This time her dark, shiny hair is perfectly straight instead of that natural curl she wore last night. I wonder if her hair is as silky to the touch as it looks. Too bad I'll probably never find out.

  The girl has proved to be a distraction, but that doesn't mean I'm not attracted to her. Flirting with her might not be smart, but it feels good.

  The sound of Dalila sucking in a horrified breath makes me take my eyes off her hair. "You look like death," she says.

  "Matches how I feel, I guess," I mumble.

  "You shouldn't have fought last night. It's not good to get your head punched so many times in one night. You could have a concussion."

  "I've never been one to make smart decisions," I tell her. "Why start now?"

  She doesn't smile or laugh. Instead, she stares at me as if I'm some sort of alien. I'm used to stares from people. Time is ticking by. I don't know what to say, and I have no clue why she's here.

  "I, um, wanted to bring you back your shirt." She pulls my shirt out of her fancy leather purse with shiny metal buckles on it. "I figured you'd need it."

  I take it from her. "Thanks."

  "You can put it on," she says, eyeing my bare chest riddled with bruises.

  "I'm good," I say, holding the shirt in my hand. I'm confused though
. "You came all the way over here to give me my shirt back?" I ask, wondering if she has an ulterior motive.

  She shrugs. "I guess." It doesn't escape my notice that her eyes are focused on my bare chest.

  I toss the shirt on my bed. I might not have much, but I work hard at being fit. Going shirtless doesn't bother me one bit. And if it rattles her even the slightest amount, there's no way I'm going to miss that opportunity. Better her than me.

  She clears her throat as her eyes travel from my chest to the cut on my lip. "You need to clean that," she says, gesturing to my face. "You could get an infection."

  I don't tell her that at this point I don't give a crap if I get an infection. Or die.

  "Thanks for bringin' back my shirt."

  I start to close the door, but she shimmies her way inside. "Have you talked to your family back home?" she asks.

  "Why?"

  "People talk." She stands in front of me with her hands folded in front of her. "Do you know anything about the shooting last night? Like who started it?"

  "Nope." I ask her, "Why all the questions?"

  She stands there staring at me with those dark brown eyes that remind me of melted milk chocolate. "It just seems weird that you showed up when Las Calaveras and Los Reyes del Norte cartels are in some kind of power struggle. Then last night I find out you're related to a crooked cop . . ."

  Wait one second. "Back up. Who told you he was crooked?"

  "I can't tell you."

  "Well, if you think I've been sent here to be some sort of spy or something like that, think again." A chuckle escapes my mouth. "I don't even like my stepfather enough to have a full conversation with him."

  "Do you know if he's working with the cartels? Does he know a guy named Santiago Vega?"

  So that's why she's here. She doesn't give a shit about giving me back my shirt. All she wants is to pry information out of me. I'd bet the fifty pesos I made last night that her rich boyfriend or father sent her here as a spy to find out what I know.

  "I don't know if he's working with the cartels. And honestly I don't care. Tell your boyfriend I'm just here to fight, not get caught up with some cartel or be a damn spy. I don't know who Santiago Vega is, either. If that's all you wanted--"

  "That's not . . ." She takes a deep breath, her chest moving up and down like she's doing some sort of calming exercise. Her entire demeanor changes and she pastes on a friendly smile. "I'm sorry. Let's change the subject. Have you eaten today?"

  "Does it matter?"