Fight for Her #2

by JJ Knight

  Colt’s girlfriend, Jo, decides to take me under her wing. She’s tiny and serious and fierce, but she knows how to laugh.

  We head to a boutique she says is very exclusive, but a friend of hers will get us in. When we arrive, a tall elegant man with caramel skin practically lights up.

  “Jo, Jo, JO!” he says. “My baby girl has come to see me in Vegas!”

  He holds on to her like she’s his long-lost sister. Then he picks up the brown braid that falls down her back and clucks his tongue. “You’ve gone back to your terribly unfabulous hairstyles.”

  “You never should have taken your drag show on the road,” Jo says. “I fell apart without you.” She turns to me. “Zero, this is Maddie. She’s Parker’s girlfriend.”

  Zero places his palm to his cheek. “Dark haired and lovely.” He circles me. “Not dressed for Vegas, although look at this!” He fingers the fluttery strips of the hem of my shirt, a couture failure by Anton that I picked up in the discard room a couple months ago. “Ahead of your time, girl. This is not your ordinary blouse!”

  I glance over at Jo.

  “He’s a bit of a fashion nut,” she says.

  “Who IS this designer?” Zero demands. “Not Calvin. Or Dior. You must tell me.”

  “I work for Anton Le Fleur,” I say.

  “Hold my feet, I’m flying with Jesus!” Zero cries. He threads his arm through mine. “Sorry, Jo, I have a new best girlfriend.”

  Jo laughs. “Have at her. I refuse to go any more designer than overpriced jeans.”

  Zero leads me through the shop. “We need something green in honor of your boy’s fight colors,” he says. He pauses and looks around. “And something to speak divinely to these curves.”

  He pushes through the racks.

  “Do you live here, Zero?” I ask.

  “Just part-time,” he says. “My show is here for six glorious weeks. It’s luscious. You must come.”

  “Sure,” I say.

  He picks up a green silk sheath and twists his hand so that it flutters. “No,” he decides.

  I glance at Jo. She’s bored already, but amused by Zero. She sees me watching her and shrugs. “There’s no arguing with him.”

  “It’s because I’m always right,” Zero says.

  Zero proclaims this shop has nothing worth even trying on. We go in and out of boutiques on the Strip. Eventually he chooses a lightweight sundress that looks like a handful of scarves sewn together, bright green, of course, for Parker.

  Even Jo agrees to a green silk shirt with her jeans, despite being more comfortable in “gym-short gray,” as she calls it. The color accents her complexion, just like Zero said it would. She’s really beautiful, but careless about it, as if she doesn’t have patience for makeup or complicated hairstyles.

  Zero has to leave to prepare for his show. Jo and I walk along the boulevard in front of the MGM Grand. It’s seriously decked out for MMA fights. Giant images of the main-event fighters span the full height of the hotel.

  “There they are again,” Jo says, pointing up at the huge video screen.

  Parker and Blitzkrieg had their media face-off yesterday. They were filmed glaring at each other in front of a backdrop full of sponsors and logos. Partway through, Parker starts laughing, and then Blitzkrieg does too. They shake hands instead, then end up in a manly back-thumping embrace. That’s the clip that keeps making the sports highlights and is playing up on the screen.

  “Colt says Parker’s perfect for this gig if he can win enough fights to keep going. He’s got the charisma and charm,” Jo says.

  “He does have that.” I feel anxious and a little alone. Jo has been good company, but I miss Parker and almost wish we’d done things differently. But this trip isn’t about us, or hanging out in Vegas. It’s about the fight, and his career. How well I can handle it. How well he does with me around.

  “You ready to go in?” Jo asks.

  I look up at the enormous gold lion in front of the MGM Grand. “How long until fight time?”

  “Half hour. It’s probably getting crazy in there. And Parker’s up first.”

  I stand there another moment, letting a sudden hot breeze whip my skirt. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

  Colt is waiting for us inside, so we skip the lines that are forming by the ticket gates and head to a side entrance. He’s wearing a cap pulled low over his face so he isn’t recognized. It’s not good enough, though, because a couple of teenage boys taking their picture in front of the backdrop where the media interview was held recognize him.

  “It’s Colt McClure!” they shout, jumping and shouting. “This is un-freaking REAL!”

  “He’s going to be stuck for a while,” Jo says. “Let’s head in.” She takes two badges from Colt, who is signing T-shirts good-naturedly. A horde is already forming around him.

  We enter through a small door that goes to a back hallway. Then we turn down another corridor lined with logos and fluttering banners. “This is the entry for the fighters, but they won’t take any notice of us,” Jo says.

  We hurry down the ramp. Above us the stands loom, half-filled with fans. A few are leaning over the rails, their arms dangling, waving flags.

  I am awestruck by the arena. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever been in. Rows and rows of seats, on the floor around the octagon, then rising up and up and up like a football stadium. The cage is black with a pale gray floor covered in logos. Even the padded bars have advertisements on them.

  A dozen giant screens ensure every spectator has a close-up view. And in the center, over the cage, are metal grids holding the lights. It’s lit up blue right now, like a streak of iron sky.

  “It’s a lot to take in,” Jo says. “Let’s head over before it gets too crazy with officials and security.”

  She walks us all the way to the cage itself. I’m shocked at how close the seats are. In addition to the judges’ table, which is always right up against the cage, there are chairs within a couple feet of the platform.

  “We’re over here,” Jo says. She leads me to a short row of seats.

  “I don’t want him to see me,” I say. “It’s too close. I mess him up.”

  Jo sits down. “Hey, I know exactly what you’re going through. When I was first dating Colt, every time he saw me outside the cage, he got clobbered.”

  This shocks me enough that I plunk into the chair beside her. “Really? That’s how I feel too!”

  “And it’s sort of natural to think that. I mean, we’re here, and they lose, right?”

  “Exactly!”

  “But here’s the real deal. Those boys win or lose by their own skill. Their ability to pay attention, read their opponent, and outfight them.”

  “But —”

  “No buts.” Jo sits back. She flips her braid over her shoulder. “I’m an old-timer now. It’s clear to me how it works. He’s going to want to know where you are. He can be just as distracted by not seeing you as seeing you.”

  I get her point.

  The stands begin to fill up. The judges come out and find their spots at the base of the cage. Several men in suits begin to mill around, and a couple of them go up into the cage itself to talk to a referee in a black uniform.

  The screens flicker to life and show montages of previous fights. I look away, not wanting to see any more pounding than I have to. I wonder if I’ll have to stay for all the fights, or if I can leave after Parker’s. I’m about to ask Jo about this when Colt finally wanders in and plunks down next to her.

  “Hard tearing yourself from the masses?” she asks and kisses his cheek.

  “They’re good kids,” he says. “I just get annoyed by the aggressive autograph brokers who want to ‘authenticate’ the signatures.”

  “Did you break anyone’s face?” Jo asks.

  “Not today. But a few pens died a horrible death.” He opens his hands to reveal blotches of black ink.

  “Didn’t Dylan play here once?” Jo asks.

  “Nope. He was down at Celine
’s stage.”

  “Who’s Dylan?” I ask, glad for any diversion from my nerves.

  “A musician friend of Colt’s,” Jo says. “You might have heard some of his songs. ‘Blue Shoes’ was big.”

  “You mean Dylan WOLF?” I ask.

  “The one and only,” Colt says. “Just ask and I can get you tickets to something.”

  My face flushes. This is such a completely different life than I could ever have imagined.

  The lights start to go down. An announcer comes out. I press my hand against my chest, realizing it’s beating way harder than it should.

  I’m so scared. Scared he’ll win. Scared he’ll lose. Scared he’ll get hurt again. Scared he won’t get fixed this time. Scared he’ll become so big and sensational that he won’t have time for me.

  Scared he’ll become someone else if he loses or gives it all up, someone who isn’t Parker anymore.

  The crowd cheers and I realize I’m missing all the warm-up talk. Blitzkrieg’s image and win record flashes on the screen. Parker is right. He really does look silly with that hair.

  Then Parker, a new shot, one they must have taken yesterday. He looks tough and intense. A rush of pride goes through me. That man belongs to me.

  They show the takedown from the previous fight. I look away, but there is another screen and another. I can’t escape it. I stare down at my hands while the announcer explains that this is a rematch and eleven thousand people have bought tickets to see who will challenge Viper for a coveted spot in the league.

  Spotlights run all across the crowd. The music intensifies, then suddenly everyone is on their feet. I can’t understand the words anymore with all the noise. The lights all focus on the ramp and Blitzkrieg comes out in his red fight shorts, arms in the air. He’s shouting, but no one can hear him.

  I realize I’m still sitting, so I stand up too. My hands are tightly fisted together in front of my chest. It probably won’t matter that I’m so close to the cage. Parker won’t be able to see me. The lighting is way too intense. The stands are nothing but flickering colored lights and the shadows of people. Only the cage is brightly lit.

  Then the crowd erupts again. I can’t even really see for the throng of people lining the ramp now. I look up at the screens since they are zoomed in.

  And he’s there, Parker, in his green shorts, the lights all over him. He raises a single fist to the crowd, encased in a black glove. I wish Lily could be here, just to see this part, but not the fight. To see her father with all these people screaming his name.

  Parker heads into the cage. Brazen is there, the trainer I met yesterday. They’re talking with their heads close together.

  Blitzkrieg is doing the same with his trainer. Then it’s just the ref and the two fighters in the cage.

  I feel faint. It’s too much.

  We sit down again, but I’m betting it won’t be for long.

  A woman in a tiny red outfit holds up a white octagonal sign with the number one on it and walks around the cage to a chorus of whistles and cheers. When she’s gone, the ref motions Parker and Blitzkrieg forward. He says something to them both, then backs away.

  A bell clangs, and the fight begins.

  Chapter 17: Parker

  I’m not going down this time. No way, no how.

  I don’t care who is out there. I don’t care who the crowd wants to win.

  All I care about is Blitzkrieg’s weak left, his tells that let me know where he’s going to strike, and how to take him down.

  He bounces back and forth, then turns for a kick. I don’t know what he’s thinking, other than I’m some farm kid taking Tae Bo. His intent is obvious. I grab his leg and flip him on his back like he’s in beginner martial arts class.

  He looks a little surprised when I’m on him instantly, delivering four fast punches and two elbow strikes before he can roll away.

  Did he think I was that easy?

  Maybe he got a little cocky. Maybe he was already thinking ahead to Viper and his challenge for a league slot.

  Not today.

  He lands a solid blow to my gut with his right, but that leaves him with that pathetic left. While he tries to brush a feather off my rib cage with it, I spin into him and bring him down with a double-leg takedown that is literally MMA 101.

  It’s clear to me what is happening here. His heart isn’t in it. He thought he already had this. He wanted to skip ahead to a real fight.

  But the real fight is with me.

  If Blitzkrieg gets any licks in, I don’t feel them. I’ve got him pinned, and I’m delivering enough blows to top out the score for this round even if he pulls out of my hold on him.

  But he doesn’t. He can’t get around me, and I don’t stop. When his head snaps to one side and his arms drop, the ref calls the match.

  Holy shit.

  I look up at the round clock.

  Only 22 seconds have passed.

  It’s not a record — James Irvin was hard to best with an eight-second win several years back. But it’s nice.

  The lights are all over the place, crossing the crowd. Colt has told me Maddie will be sitting just to one side of the cage door. I hold my arm up to shield the glare. And I see her. She’s standing up, her hands up to her face. I think she’s crying. But I don’t think she’s upset.

  There has never been any moment in the history of my life that sounds quite like this. I can’t hear my own heartbeat or the announcer standing two feet from me. Brazen’s gone wild, not even coming around the cage but climbing over the top and falling to the floor. I swipe the back of my wrist against my eye, the cut that always seems to open up, but there’s nothing. Not a drop of blood anywhere. I see myself on the screen and it’s like I’ve just stepped out of my house for a Sunday stroll.

  I’ve never felt anything like it.

  Chapter 18: Parker

  I’m flying on some sort of euphoric body drug. Maddie, Jo, Colt, and I are walking along the Strip and I couldn’t feel more high. Every time a car passes with open windows and loud music, I stop to dance with Maddie — reggae, rap, even a rousing version of a church spiritual.

  Colt and Jo take off to meet with people in the business. Brazen’s back at the slot machines.

  I think about the god-awful amount of money I just made. A year’s worth from one fight. And I know I can do anything. Anything.

  We pass one of those do-it-now wedding chapels, and I drag Maddie over to it. I’ve been carrying this dang ring the whole time, thinking I’m going to ask her now. Or now. Or now.

  But nothing’s seemed right. I don’t want it to be simple or sudden or stupid.

  “Look at all the famous people who have gotten married here,” Maddie says, running her finger down the list.

  “Should we add another one to the bottom?” I ask.

  She looks around. “Is Brad Pitt around?”

  I take her hand and spin her in a circle. “Is that your first choice?”

  Maddie looks up at me, her eyes as wild as they were when I knew her at nineteen. “Probably just a really close second,” she says.

  She glances at the window and the displays of their packages. One boasts an “all inclusive” with a boutonniere for the groom, a bouquet for the bride, and a little basket for a flower girl.

  “We need Lily,” she says, and I know what she’s thinking. We can’t get married without our daughter. I try to think of something else to do, something permanent, to mark this amazing night. And I’ve got it.

  “I know exactly what we need,” I tell her.

  She leans into me. “What’s that?”

  “A tattoo.”

  Maddie snaps her head around. “Really?”

  “I promised you one on your twentieth birthday. I never forget a promise.”

  She looks around at the casinos, tourist traps, and shops. “I don’t know if I trust a tattoo parlor on the Strip.”

  “Agreed.” I pull out my phone. “I’ll just see what the Internet has to say.”


  I pull her close as we stand next to the chapel window and I look for tattoo parlors.

  “Hey, we’re in luck. There’s one just a few blocks down, off the Strip, lots of good reviews.”

  She peers at my phone. “Lucky Lu Tattoo. Sounds like a night for luck.”

  I shove the phone in my pocket. “We can cut through this hotel, come out the back, and then it’s just another few blocks on a side street.”

  “What am I going to get?” she asks.

  “My name, of course,” I kid her. “‘Power’ on one thigh and ‘Play’ on the other.”

  She smacks my arm as we head into the hotel and begin to wind our way to the back. “I was thinking I wanted a lily flower.”

  “Now that’s a good idea. Maybe I’ll get one too.”

  “Matching tattoos?” Maddie rolls her eyes. “You’d think we were teenagers.”

  “Tonight, maybe we are. Again.”

  We pop out the back door, holding hands, both of us giddy.

  “It’s sort of dark back here,” Maddie says.

  “Yeah, it is.” I tense up. “But it’s super close to the next big street.”

  We hurry across a delivery driveway and cut between dumpsters. My hackles rise a little, and I think maybe we should try this tomorrow, when it’s light out. Vegas may be a twenty-four-hour town, but this part could stand a little high noon.

  I breathe a sigh of relief when we make it to an actual street. There are a few lost souls wandering here, as if they have gotten drawn away from the lights of the Strip.

  “Up this way,” I say.

  “Are you sure?” Maddie asks.

  “Absolutely.” We approach a sidewalk that goes in front of a building that houses an Asian market, a nail salon, and there it is, the tattoo parlor. Closed.

  I peer through the dark glass of the door. “What sort of tattoo parlor closes before midnight?” I ask.

  Maddie tugs me away. “One that can’t compete with the Strip. Let’s head back.”

  There’s a group of guys ahead, and I’m relieved we’re not by ourselves out here.

  We head back toward the street. “Should we go back the way we came or try something different?” I ask Maddie.