They must not have the need that I do.
“Okay. Chace, Toad, you’re both up!” The guy running tonight’s group calls. His name is Spike. He’s an older man, dark brown skin, graying hair covering not only his head but his eyebrows too. His voice is rough like he’s smoked a few packs a day. He gives us a quick rundown of the rules: no biting, no nut-busting, no chokeholds, or hair pulling. First man knocked down for a count of ten loses, unless someone ‘taps’ out. It’s all pretty simple.
With a nod that I understand, I rip my shirt over my head. It’s cold out. There’s snow in the forecast, but none yet. Still, I don’t want this guy grabbing my clothes to get me out. I have no plans to make this easy for him.
“Aw, pretty boy has some ink. How cute,” Toad taunts and I just roll my eyes.
Yes, I have tattoos. Thanks to Ben’s help, going into rehab, I had two, a cross with Connie’s dates over my heart, and a fading sun between my shoulder blades.
I’ve added to those since. On my left arm, I have a sleeve of scenes from Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass, which seemed fitting after leaving rehab. On my right, I have another sleeve, this one though has the design of my skin being ripped and torn with a face, a prayer for peace, and muscle and bone behind the tears. On my back, I have a dying tree that covers the majority of my back below the sun.
And then there’s my favorite; misting into the tree’s fallen leaves, an image of Celia and myself. It’s one she drew of us when we were nearly out of rehab. She’d had to hide it because it is us, naked, wrapped around one another and protecting each other. Once we’d reached Chicago, after making acquaintances through her first job, we found a guy who was willing to hook us up with the tats in exchange for Celia comping him drinks when he came into the club.
Continuing to ignore my opponent’s mouth, I look toward Spike who starts the fight.
Toad comes at me with a left hook but I’m ready for it. He’s big, not fat, but large, so he’s not as quick as I can be. I duck away from another attempt and whirl around, hitting him right on the right flank. He isn’t expecting this and I see him stumble. I bounce on my toes as he tries to right himself. But again, he rushes at me and I’m able to get away with another hit, this time to his face.
There’s slight pain from that punch, since the head is so much different than the rest of the body. But I’ve drawn blood with this hit. A broken nose, to be exact. His hands immediately fly to stop the gush of blood. “Motherfucker!” he yells. When he pulls his hands away from his face, I hear a groan as I gaze upon the damage I managed. Not only is his nose broke, it’s very crooked. “You’re gonna pay for that, you pretty piece of shit.”
He charges at me again, clearly having not figured out this tactic doesn’t work. I duck his punch once more and toss one of my own into his stomach. I hear him wheeze as blood spills faster. I don’t want to lose momentum this time, or allow him to try to come at me again, so I strike again and again to his gut, until he falls to his knees.
“You got ten to get up,” Spike shouts through the crowd.
I hear a countdown start as I watch Toad continue to hold his nose. “Four, three, two.” He lifts on leg to try to stand and loses his balance just as ‘one’ is counted off.
“Winner: Chace!” Spike raises my hand and shouts to the crowd who cheer me and taunt Toad. He stalks off, just like Reece did. Only this time there are no murmurs questioning his return or his ability. His mouth, his bravado left an irritation under everyone’s skin so he’s laughed away. He’s told to get lost, no one wants him to return. “Good riddance, you racist piece of shit,” Spike proclaims before calling order back to the group.
There are two more ‘undercard’ fights. Jacko against Treat. Winner being Treat. And then Cadillo against Manny with Cadillo taking that one.
Our names are once again placed for drawing, only this time it’s just the four winners. I draw against Treat. He’s a big black guy, not as big as Toad was, but a good sized man. He’s also quiet. No mouthy run-offs commenting on his strength against my own. No insults about my physical form, its decorations, or how I fight. He doesn’t charge at me like a bull like Toad did. He looks like he might have been a boxer in another life, his fists tight, his body loose.
Whereas my match against Toad took twenty-minutes, and didn’t exert much energy from me, my fight against Treat lasts forty-five minutes. And I’m tired as hell by the time Spike calls a winner.
“Winner: Chace!” Spike shouts again.
“Fuck,” Treat spits, blood landing by his feet. He’s got a fat lip and a swelling bruise forming under his left eye. That was what sealed the win for me. The hit to his cheek, it slipped just across his eye, not only dazing him but startling him. Guess his vision went white for a minute and he thought it best to not continue with the fight after that. “Damn, kid, you done got me rattled. Not much can do that.”
I let out a coughing laugh. Treat managed to get a couple really good hits to my sides in. I will definitely be hurting later. But my face is still clear. “Yeah, sorry about the eye.”
Laughing, Treat grabs my hand, shaking it hard. “Eh, shit happens. But you better believe I’m gonna be looking for a rematch in the future.”
“You got it.” I watch as Treat bids the last of us a good night. He says he’s going home to his woman for some TLC and will see everyone later.
Jacko and Cadillo fight next and though this fight lasts nearly a half an hour, there’s more dancing around each other than actual hitting. It takes Spike to yell at the two before a punch is thrown. And then Cadillo throws several in quick secession to throw Jacko off balance. He falls back on his ass, but is able to get up before the count runs down. Even with that break, he’s not able to stave off Cadillo’s continued assault, and falls to the ground again. This time, he chooses to stay down and let Cadillo take the win.
It’s nearing one in the morning when Spike calls for Cadillo and myself to take our places. He runs through the rules for this fight. Not much is different, just that the pot is up for grabs. Two grand is the prize tonight. Well, fourteen-hundred after everything is said and done. And with the ten guys who showed, the ‘loser’ pot is, according to Spike, the full five-hundred. Claims he’s feeling generous tonight.
Either way, I’m taking something home tonight.
“Alright, guys. Let’s go!” And just like that, the main round begins.
Cadillo is a dancer. Well, I don’t know if that’s true for his personal life. But when it comes to fighting, he likes to dance around. Where Toad was a charger, and Treat looked to take the match head-on, Cadillo is trying to out-maneuver me. I wonder, off-handedly, if he won’t tire himself out this way.
Fifteen minutes pass and once again, Spike is shouting for some actual hitting to take place. Apparently Cadillo needs to be told when to hit because once that happens, he’s moving in on me like he’s some professional boxer or some shit. I’m a novice, this being my first ever real fight. And unfortunately, it shows. Where I had an advantage over Toad and his lack of real skill, and even against Treat, getting lucky with some good hits to his face, I’ve got nothing to defend against Cadillo. Even with the few punches I manage to land on his torso.
He outpaces me, and manages to keep several quick hits to my gut before I’m on my knees being counted out.
“Winner, Cadillo!” Spike declares and I hear some jeers.
“Fucker does that every fight,” one guy says, irritation strong in his voice.
“Someone really needs to beat that bitch’s ass,” another grumbles.
Grabbing my shirt, I slip it back over my head. It’s a slow process as I’ve been hit a few times and will definitely be sporting some bruising come daylight. But I feel good about tonight. I won two fights, and even though I lost, I still get to collect five hundred because I made it to the main fight. The night could have gone better, but I won’t complain.
I’ll just have to come better prepared next Friday, especially no
w that I know what goes on during these matches.
“Hey? What was your name?” one of the guys who had been complaining asks me before I leave.
“Chace.”
“Chace, right. I’m Arden and this is Stretch. You looked pretty good out there. You fight somewhere else?”
Shaking my head, I watch Spike hand over to Cadillo his winnings. I watch Spike yell at him about dancing like a fool and to not do it again next week. Then the older man makes his way to me, handing me the five. I smile my thanks and pocket it.
“So you didn’t fight anywhere else?”
“No, I mean I messed around growing up, but nothing serious like this. I only heard about these matches through a former coworker talking about winning just before we were all laid off.”
“Oh yeah? That sucks, man. What’s his name, your coworker?”
I don’t answer right away. I want a chance to see if I can trust these guys to say anything. When I can’t see anything to cause concern, I shrug. “Ace. But I heard about them more than a month ago. I don’t know if he even does it anymore.”
Both the men laugh. “Aw, yeah, we know Ace. He definitely still fights.” I wonder what’s funny until Arden speaks again. “That fool dances too, though I think he’s just afraid of getting hit more than being a bitch like Cadillo.”
“He’s never made it past the Saturday showcase, but he’s won a few Friday matches,” the one called Stretch chimes in. “He’s over in the ‘pig’ district.”
“Pig district?” I ask confused.
“It’s just names the organizers give to neighborhoods. Like this one is raven because it’s always so fucking dark over here. Every light is out and the city don’t give a shit.” Arden shakes his head and I just nod. It’s true. Most of the time, I worry about Celia walking around by herself because it’s so easy for someone to hide in the shadows and hurt her. “They call that one ‘pig’ since it fucking stinks like a slaughterhouse on good days.”
“Seriously?”
“Oh yeah,” Stretch pretends to gag. “I honestly don’t know why those guys don’t change where they fight. Though maybe they stick around there because ain’t no one gonna come chase them off or arrest them.”
I just nod. “I guess that makes sense.”
“Yeah, so. You gonna be back next week?”
“Definitely. Now that I know what to expect.”
Arden laughs again. “Oh yeah. Hopefully that fat fuck, Toad will keep away.”
“He a regular?”
“No. He’s been here once or twice, but this is the first time his name’s ever been pulled. You sure did knock his ego down with that broken nose.”
“Lucky hit,” I smirk.
“If you say so.” Stretch checks his wristwatch and sighs. “Well, it’s been real but I am beat. I have to hook up tomorrow night since Spike isn’t. I’ll catch you ladies next week.”
Arden and I watch him walk away and then head out ourselves. We go in separate directions, and while it takes me only a ten minutes to reach my apartment building, I’m breathing heavy. The stairs are going to be a bitch to walk up.
I check my phone and see a text from Celia letting me know she got home safely and will call me in the morning to let me know how her first day went. I smile, glad to know she’s home and then begin to wonder if there’s any frozen vegetables or ice in the freezer.
FOURTEEN
I barely make it out of bed the day after my first fight.
Thankfully, I am able to control my breathing and voice so Celia is none the wiser during our conversation on the phone. She does tell me she isn’t sure about this job. Apparently, while the patrons aren’t to the quality of douche as her last job¸ there are quite a few who look at the servers and hostesses as nothing more than glorified strippers. Strippers they can manhandle.
She says she’ll give it another few go’s but isn’t certain about it yet.
I tell her to trust her instincts.
Money is not worth her safety.
I am able to make it through three more weekends before Celia sees my bruises.
“What the hell happened to you?” she’d screeched upon seeing my naked back covered in black and blue.
“Fuck,” I’d chastised myself before putting my shirt back on. We’d been about to fuck, but that wasn’t going to happen with her worry. Thinking on my feet, I wracked my brain until I remember how much Frankie likes to work out. “Uh, since I haven’t been able to find any employment just yet, I’ve been going with Frankie and Brock to their gym. Figure I could work off some of this restlessness. They have a boxing ring.”
She’d stared at me for a long time and I’d figured I’d failed in my lie. But then she just shook her head. “Who are you fighting? The Incredible Hulk? Let me take a look at you.”
My laughter was weak, but she’d bought it. That was all that mattered.
Not only am I keeping this secret from Celia, but I try to keep who I am from the guys I fight with. We’re not exactly friends, not really at this point, but I don’t feel the need to share my life story with any of them for any real reason.
I can’t help my accent coming through on occasion so I copped to being from Texas fairly early on. I also explained I don’t really have a home to go back to down there when asked why I am in freezing Chicago so close to Canada when I can be closer to the warm, sunny beaches of Mexico. But I try to keep everything else to myself. Even the fact that I am not a single man and that even if I were, I don’t do random pussy like the rest of them do.
They can think and believe what they want to about me. It doesn’t matter to me.
I still haven’t won the Friday ‘main event’ yet, but I am getting closer. I choose to look at everything as a learning process. I am getting better. The guys who show up to watch, fight, and place bets are taking notice. And the pots are staying around two to three grand.
Thankfully, Spike continued to dish out the full amount from all entries so I am able to bring home at least five hundred every time I make it to the Friday main event.
Which, thankfully, is more often than not.
But like every lie ever told, mine eventually catches up with me.
It’s funny that it takes seven months.
We celebrate Christmas and New Year’s very low-key. My roommates once again go home so Celia and I spent the holidays cooped up in our apartments, watching bad Christmas movies and eating a Boston Market prepared meal.
For our twenty-first birthdays, mine in February and Celia’s in May, we hide away from roommates who want to throw us parties, especially given how the last one turned out for us, and choose to just hang out eating pizza. Being recovering addicts – again – means we don’t celebrate with any alcohol.
Fun times.
And so all these moments pass, as uneventful and low-key as ever, before Cecelia finds out what my extracurricular activity is. Which, as it turns out, is not helping out at the gym my roommates go to on occasion. Like I had told her. Like I had lied to her.
I actually thought it would happen sooner than it did. But I suppose that has something to do with the fact that Celia was working every fucking Friday, and because her friend Melody was still at Bling, she decided to hang around. Of course that all changed this past Tuesday. Guess Bling was raided for claiming to be a nightclub that was actually running a money laundering business in the back.
So once more Celia is out of a job and she knows something is up with me.
Especially when I blow her off Friday night, pretending I have to be at the gym cleaning because I plan on fighting.
So I don’t know why I’m surprised when I hear the whistles and catcalls from the guys gathered as Spike finishes counting out the time on my latest opponent. I’ve won again, and will be fighting the ‘main event’ once more, but looking over toward where nearly every eye is directed has me wondering if the real main event won’t be till these matches are over with.
Because there Celia stands, her body encase
d in a frayed jean skirt and pale pink tank that allows you to see the black bra she has on underneath. Her arms are crossed over her chest, pushing those beautiful tits of hers out and making every damn guy here salivate. Her shiny lips, which are usually so plump and alluring, are drawn in a thin line and those pretty chestnut eyes are slits. I’m in trouble.
Fuck.
“Ten minutes to main event,” Spike decries, oblivious to my new opponent or the fact that every guy here is distracted.
“Look at that,” I hear Arden whistle low.
“Fuck, I’d like to see what she looks like kneeling before me,” I hear another guy say.
With a shake of my head, I walk over to where she stands, bypassing the girls who apparently show up with the warmer weather to watch the guys fight, ignoring the comments from the guys about trying to scam on pussy early, and offer what I hope looks like an innocent smile.
“Hey, baby.”
“Don’t you ‘hey baby’ me,” she growls and I can’t help it, the sound goes right to my cock. It’s interesting too, since these girls who show up to watch, the groupies, they are barely clothed and are always trying to hang off the guys who fight. But none of them have ever done anything for me. None of them have ever made me even twitch the way just the sound of Celia’s voice, does to me. “What exactly are you doing out here, Chace?”
I look back toward the guys gathered watching and leering. To the girls sneering. I know they can’t hear. Celia is keeping her voice intentionally low. But still. “Uh, hanging out.” Being obtuse when it comes to Cecelia Santos is probably the dumbest thing ever. She’s not stupid. She hates people treating her as though she were. “I’m sorry.”
“What’s going on?” Her tone is softer this time, and I hear the faintest breath of worry.
“I’m trying to make some money,” I reply just as soft. Though for the first time since I started this, I feel guilt. I don’t keep things from her. I don’t lie or make up excuses with her. I give Celia honesty and devotion. This reeks of lies. I just hope she can understand my reasoning for it all. “Fuck. I overhead some guys talking about it at work on the day I was canned. I asked for the info and after we… well, after we cleaned up, I decided to give this a shot. I was laid off in the middle of winter with no prospects. If I do well, which surprisingly I have, I can make a few hundred a week.”
The Bitter (Addiction #1) Page 11