19
It’s the day of the big match, and I know I’m not up for it at all. Gabe’s funeral is supposed to be this afternoon, so that is in my head. I don’t know how the hell I’m supposed to pull this off without Gabe here. Damion is quiet as he ties up my hands, prepping them for my gloves. “Look, Jonathan,” the old man speaks softly as he wraps the bandages around my knuckles, “I know the odds are pretty stacked against you today, but-”
“I got this, Damion,” I say, but even I can hear the lack of confidence in that statement.
Damion glances to his side as though he was about to ask Gabe to hand him the gloves, and he shakes his head. “Damn,” he grumbles under his breath. The old man looks teary eyed. “Your manager is an asshole for not calling this match after what happened,” he says.
“You’re telling me,” I say.
Soon they’re calling for me to come out, and I know this is not going to go over well. I head out to the ring, and the crowd is going nuts. Most of those people out there have no idea my life has been completely shattered. They’re just there to see the fight. The revenge fight of the season. Donte is running around the ring like an ass, pumping up the crowd. He heads to his corner as I make my way into the ring. Brandi is sitting in the front row, shaking her head at Donte’s antics and my stupidity.
My manager hired some kid to come to help Damion out last minute to replace Gabe. I don’t think I was ever told the kids name. Everything about this match feels off. I just don’t know what to think about it all.
The ref makes us bump gloves. Donte is grinning ear to ear; he’s really pumped up, and I’m not even sure if I am going to make it past the first round. My entire career is resting on me winning this match, but all I can think about is Gabe’s funeral this afternoon –about seeing all of his friends and seeing his parents. About how everyone is going to ask me about it. Everyone is going to want to know. His parents had hinted that they wanted me to speak at the funeral, but then they had withdrawn their request after seeing how bent out of shape I was about it. That makes me feel like absolute shit that I can’t even give him some passing words.
The bell goes off, and Donte comes at me like a lunatic. He’s ready to go, and I am just barely aware enough to hold my gloves up to block him from knocking me in the face. The end of the first round can’t come fast enough, and I wind up taking a real serious beating. Already he has split some skin above my right eye. Damion wipes the blood from my face and the kid that replaced Gabe tries to give me a sip of water. “What the hell, Jonathan?” Damion is saying to me, “Look, I know you’re distracted, but you have got to snap out of it.”
“I know, I know,” I say, and soon Damion is pushing me back into the ring for round two.
Donte nails me in the jaw with a serious cross hook, and I just about fall out, but somehow I manage to keep myself upright. He lands probably double the number of punches as I do by the end of the second round. At the end of round two, Donte manages to get a serious knock on the side of my head –so I wind up almost waddling over to the wrong corner of the ring in my haze. I’m seriously fucked.
Damion waves me back to my corner, and he pours a bit of water over my head. “Come on, Jonathan, keep your gloves up! You have got to get your shit together, or you’re going to wind up in the hospital again.”
Round three and four are equally devastating. I’m hardly able to breathe. I’ve never fought so lousy in my life. I take a deep breath. I need to focus. The bell for the fifth round goes off, and I go at Donte. By some grace of God, I manage to land a few good punches, but I leave myself open like a damn amateur. He nails me right between my eyes, and I am out like a light.
I wake up on the floor of the ring, and the announcers are already declaring Donte the winner by knockout. It’s over. The match is over, and my career is over. I stand upright, an arm over Damion’s shoulder, as I watch the ref hold up one of Donte’s gloves, declaring him the winner.
Damion takes me back to the locker room, my head hanging low in shame.
20
Brandi unwinds the tape around my bloodied fingers, shaking her head. I stretch my fingers out now that they are freed from the sweaty gloves; at least I am still allowed that small relief. “I knew this was a terrible idea,” Brandi says as she tosses the dirtied bandages aside.
Damion, who is seated over in a corner, nods along with her. “Your manager won’t drop you. I’ll have a word with him. He should have called this match after what happened. You weren’t ready, and he knows it.”
I keep my mouth shut. I’m still thinking about the funeral later today. It makes me sick to think about. I’m not looking forward to it at all. Brandi kisses my forehead. The door to the locker room opens, and Donte enters with his gloves thrown over his shoulders –his fingers now freed from the tape and bandages. He spots me over in the corner with Damion and Brandi. “Hey man, heard about your buddy Gabe,” he says, “tough break.”
I nod –acknowledging his words. I guess he’s not that big of a jackass. He’s just my competition is all, so I guess it’s easier to think of him as a dick. Donte opens up a locker, digging through his belongings. “Are you going to shower here?” Brandi asks me, but I don’t get a chance to answer her.
“So what happened to him exactly?” Donte says from his locker, “I mean; I heard that it was a car accident, but someone else told me he had been shot.”
“Look, man, I don’t really want to talk about it,” I say and then when I glance over at him, I see that he has this grin on his face. What the fuck? “I’m sorry, but what the fuck is wrong with you?” I snap.
He holds up his hands defensively, “What?”
“What the fuck are you smiling about?” I snarl.
“Jonathan, don’t,” Brandi warns me, but I’m already standing.
“Hey, I just won a match, I can’t smile?” he grins even bigger to emphasize his point.
I’m not stupid. He was asking me about Gabe with that goofy grin on his face. “Fuck you,” I hiss, but I lower my hands. I’m not going to get into a fight in the locker room.
He shrugs, “Sorry if I struck a nerve,” his tone wreaks of sarcasm. “Was just curious is all. Honestly, jackass, I had heard a rumor that you had been driving drunk and got your buddy killed.”
“Shut the hell up; you don’t know shit!” I shout at him, and he steps over the bench he had been standing by in order to get in my face.
“You sure do have a big mouth for a guy who just had his ass handed to him,” he says, still wearing that stupid grin on his face. “You fight like a little bitch,” he says and then looks over my shoulder right at Brandi, “If you’re ever looking for a real man, sweetheart-” he starts, but I don’t let him finish with whatever he was about to say to her.
I punch him in the face, and he immediately reaches up and wraps an arm around my throat. We stumble toward the door and wind up falling out into the hall –right where all the damn news fuck-tards are with their cameras ready to go. We hardly notice, of course, and we swing at one another like a couple of nut jobs.
I hear Damion and Brandi running out of the locker room behind us, but neither of us listens to their screams to get off of one another. The paparazzi bozos fight to get in front of each other to record the incident. I manage to somehow get the upper hand, and I pin Donte against the wall with one of my hands wrapped around his throat. “Stop!” someone screams at me, and I feel their hands touch my arm. I fling an elbow back, realizing it was Brandi a split second too late.
I immediately let go of Donte, who drops down and starts to gag and choke –putting on a bit of a show, I’m sure. “Shit, Brandi!” I say and go to help her up off the ground, but she slaps my hand away.
“Fuck you, Jonathan!” she says, and I can see that I busted her lip.
She grips her elbow, clearly having landed awkwardly on the ground. “Back off, Jonathan,” I hear Damion say as he helps Brandi up and escorts her through the crowd of on-lookers, disappearing in
to the back of the building.
“Brandi!” I shout after her, but I’m blocked by a couple of brave reporters who are giving me some “eat-shit” looks.
Donte stands, his hand around his throat where I had had a good grip on him. “You damn psychopath,” he snarls and pushes his way through the crowd, probably to go find his manager.
Looking up, there are probably half a dozen of cameras in my face. Well, if losing to Donte didn’t get me dropped, this certainly will. I can’t believe I knocked Brandi down. I hurry back into the locker room if only to escape the media frenzy for a brief while. I really messed up this time.
21
I straighten my tie and check myself out in the rearview mirror of one of my less extravagant vehicles since my Ferrari is kaput. I wish Brandi had come home after the match –not just so she could help me with my tie like she always does but so I have tried to make up for what had happened in the locker room. I can’t believe I knocked her in the face.
After several minutes of debating with myself, I climb out of my car and head down the stretch of walkway towards Gabe’s graveside funeral. My stomach churns slightly. I don’t want to be here. There is a large, framed picture of him set up on an easel as I make my way towards the large tents and chairs. I pause here. It’s an older picture of him from when he was probably just seventeen; I have to remind myself that for him that was only four years ago. It was the last formal picture he had taken –his senior photo. This makes it all the more surreal for me; he was still just a kid having just turned twenty-one.
There is a considerable crowd already here; I can hear his mother up front sobbing while she talks to other mourners about Gabe. Damion is up there talking to her. Despite Damion always giving Gabe hell, Damion had been Gabe’s idol. Hell, he was mine too. I go to offer Gabe’s parents my sympathies, and they thank me for coming –but they are fairly distant with me. I don’t really blame them; most people are pretty sketched about knowing that I had been there when Gabe had been killed.
For a moment I am able to pull Damion aside before the ceremony can get underway. “How’s Brandi?” I ask. “How pissed is she?”
“Honestly, she was not that angry. She was just real quiet,” Damion says, and I definitely do not think that that is a good thing. “You really fucked up, kid,” he tells me.
I see Marty and Tyler pulling up together. The two of them look pretty ghostly. I had not seen them since Gabe’s passing; I had been the one to call them both and tell them what had happened, though, and they had sounded pretty wrecked. I head towards the back of the tent area towards the picture frame where they both had paused. “Awe, man,” Marty has to look down and away from the photograph. “You told me what happened, but I guess I just didn’t really believe it until I got here today.”
I nod. “Yeah, well, reality is a bitch.”
Tyler is really quiet. Gabe was the kid brother to all of us, not just to me. Marty reaches out and puts a hand on Tyler’s shoulder. Marty’s eyes go up towards the tents. “A closed casket?” he asks, “They didn’t have a viewing at the funeral home, so I thought-”
“He was shot in the face, man,” I say, and I shiver slightly because the words make the memory of it flash in front of my eyes for a second, and I can almost feel the blood splatter against my face again.
This makes Marty and Tyler all the paler. I had told them that on the phone, but being here at the funeral is an entirely different ballgame. “Damn,” Marty says, getting a little choked up.
“You all right, Ty?” I ask, not having heard Tyler’s voice since they had first arrived.
“We had just been with him, you know?” Tyler says, “We should have just all taken a cab together. We just didn’t want to have to ride across town and then back again. We should have just-”
“Relax,” Marty says as Tyler’s voice starts to crack.
There is a long pause in which none of us speak, just silently reminiscing about Gabe. “It’s about to get started,” I say, “we should-”
Before I can finish my thoughts, Marty suddenly blurts out, “Had you had anything to drink, Jonathan? When you took Gabe home?”
I frown. “He was shot, Marty.”
“I know. You told me what happened. You cut some guy off, and then he chased you guys down and shot Gabe. I was just…”
I get defensive. “What?” I snarl, “You think if I hadn’t been drinking then I wouldn’t have cut the guy off? Man, fuck you, I swear-”
Marty takes a step back. “I didn’t mean to make it sound like I was blaming you, Jonathan.” His tone his harsh.
“Let’s just go find some seats if there are any left,” Tyler says quickly and starts to push us both under the tents before we can get into an argument.
The funeral service gets underway, and I have to try my best not to lose it while I’m standing in the back of the tent beside the guys listening to stories and praises about Gabe. Suddenly I look over, and I see Brandi standing on the far side of the tent –having arrived late, probably to avoid having to speak to me. She’s dressed in a black dress and black funeral hat, and I see that her fucking arm is in a sling with her wrist and elbow tied up in a brace. Did I do that? Her lips are swollen, and I can see a line of stitches running along her bottom lip –and that makes me feel like hell. She’s wearing sunglasses to avoid eye contact with anyone.
After two of Gabe’s older cousins give him a sound off with an acapella style Amazing Grace, the funeral dismisses, and Gabe’s casket is lowered. Brandi suddenly makes a run for the parking lot without sticking around, and I hurry after her. We get a good distance away from the crowd before I shout after her, “Brandi!”
She reaches her car, and I can see her dad jumping out of the driver’s seat and running around to the passenger’s side to open the door for her. “You better walk away now,” he warns me.
I’m a bit taken back by this. I’ve always gotten along real well with her parents, but I’m sure Brandi showing up at his home with a busted lip and an arm in a sling probably did not bode well for our in-law relationship. “Look, I just want to talk,” I say as calmly as I can. Brandi pokes her head out the window of the now closed car door, having removed her hat and sunglasses. I can see now that I had gotten more than her lip during my tussle with Donte; she’s got a damn black eye from all the swelling in her face from where I had busted her dead-on her lips. “Awe, shit, Brandi,” I say under my breath when I see her.
She has been crying –probably from the ceremony. “Fuck off, Jonathan,” she tells me, “I’m done.”
“Done? What do you mean?” I ask, talking around her father and not daring to come an inch closer. I definitely don’t want to get into a fight with her dad.
“You’re just a washed up boxer and a damn drunk! I’m tired of your bullshit. Gabe’s dead because of you, and I don’t want to be next!” she lets the window roll up, and I can still feel the sting of her words as her father walks around the car and peels out of the parking lot.
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22
Two days after the funeral and Brandi still has not come home. I believe that she is staying with her parents, but I can’t be sure because she won’t answer her phone. I don’t really know what to do. I wake up and head downstairs to the kitchen, and I see my cell phone sitting on the kitchen island –a light blinking on it, indicating a missed call. I have a voicemail from my manager, and he is positively irate. Apparently, he saw the news coverage of me accidentally knocking Brandi to the ground after getting into a fight with Donte. He tells me he’s dropping me, and he adds that I’m a washed up drunken asshole.
Well, what a way to start the day. I shake my head. What am I going to do? Boxing is all I know, and there is no way I am going to get a new manager anytime soon. I’ll have to get into amateur shit again, but who is going to even want to fight me? I drag my feet into the den and plop down on the couch. As though life is trying to just taunt the shit out of me, when I turn on th
e television the news anchor is showing the video of me socking Brandi with my elbow and knocking her to the ground. Just to add salt to the wound, the news guy plays the clip from a few months back of me talking smack about female boxers. It seems as though I have been labeled as an abusive, sexist jackass by the media. Great. I certainly never meant to come off that way, and I definitely didn’t mean to hurt Brandi. I got to find a way to make this right.
My doorbell rings, and I jump up excitedly, thinking for a moment that it could be Brandi. That doesn’t make sense, though; Brandi has a fucking key, so I doubt it is her. I answer the door, and there is this nervous looking kid in a suit. “Hello, sir,” he says, his voice almost shaky, “I’m an intern for Attorney John Braxton.”
“Okay?” I say, awkwardly standing in the doorway.
“Um, are you Jonathan Trial?” he asks.
“How did you get past my gate?” I snap, and the kid looks like he is going to pass out.
“Um, Mrs. Trial gave me the passcode,” he says and then holds up a stack of papers.
I take them and glance down at them, “what is this shit?”
“Mr. Braxton is representing Brandi Trial,” he says.
Filthy Desires: A Romantic Suspense Collection Page 133