by Claire Adams
“I got bored,” I tell him. It’s not too far from the truth. “Are you going to patch me up or not? I was thinking about hitting a club after this, and I don’t think that too many women are into guys with open wounds all over the place.”
“Ah, you’ve just got a bit of a cut on the forehead. The rest are just minor scrapes,” he says, pulling out his portable triage center.
Tom used to fight with Pride until his knee got bent the wrong way. He’s about the only guy in the building tonight I’ve never seen fight up close and in person.
Of course, the rest of us are amateurs. Tom was actually there.
“All right,” Tom says, “this is going to sting like you wouldn’t believe.”
I open my mouth, but before I can answer, Tom is pouring his stinging liquid and I’m trying not to unravel all the good work I just did by screaming like a dying rabbit.
None of the alcohol gets in my eyes, but it gets close enough for the fumes to get me squeezing them shut.
“Hey, could you hand me a towel or something?” I ask. “I can’t see.”
There’s a loud crash and a lot of shouting, and I can feel the vibration of people trying to get out of here.
“What’s going on?” I ask, hoping Tom hasn’t just left me here to the mercy of whatever everyone else is trying to run away from.
“Police, freeze!” someone shouts in the distance, and I’m on my feet.
I have to squint, but I manage to get my eyes open enough to see where I’m going as I try to make my way inconspicuously to the back door.
Someone grabs my hand, and I turn, ready to get pepper sprayed or tackled, but definitely handcuffed. I turn to find one of the guys from the crowd turned halfway away from me, and he’s tugging on my hand as if he’s my dad and we’re about to cross the street.
“Where are you going?” the guy asks.
“Let go,” I tell him.
“Take me with you,” he says. “I can’t go back to jail.”
“Let go of my hand,” I tell him.
He’s panicking and not hearing a word out of my mouth.
“I can’t go back to jail,” he repeats. “Come on.”
The problem is that he’s not moving. He’s just standing there with those eyes all big and white, and I try to pull my wrist away again, but he’s got me in a death grip.
“You’ve got three seconds to let me go,” I tell him.
“Come on, man,” he says. “Tell me what I’m supposed to do.”
“I’m not your mom,” I tell him. “And time’s up. Let go now.”
He doesn’t let go.
My free hand stings as I pull it away from his face. I think my first intention was to punch him, but it’s bad form to knock someone else out when police are raiding a place, so I opened my hand at the last moment.
He’s still standing there, but he’s let go of my wrist.
There must not be that many cops here, because they still haven’t made their way through the rest of the crowd, and I make my way toward the back of the building.
There’s no rear entrance, but there are a couple of windows, though they’re small and I have no idea whether or not they actually open. I’d hate to have to break something, but time is a factor here.
I duck down before I get to the first window, just in case I was wrong and there are police waiting out back for someone to try what I’m about to try. I test the window.
It opens, but not easily, and it makes a piercing squeak as I lift it, drawing the attention of at least one officer, because someone behind me is shouting, “Step away from that window!”
I don’t think I will.
I climb out the window and, as soon as my feet hit the pavement, I’m running. There’s no telling how many cops are out front, so for now, I’m just staying behind the buildings.
“Hey!” a voice shouts a little ways behind me, but I’m not stopping for anything.
I’ve gone about three blocks before the exertion of the fight kicks in and I watch the last bit of useful energy draining from my body. I duck behind a dumpster and peek my head out to look at the path behind me.
If someone was chasing me at first, they’re not anymore.
I stand up again, slowly.
I’m all alone. Unfortunately, with the increased heart rate, the open wound on my forehead is just gushing, and I seriously doubt anyone is going to let me into their cab like this.
It’s not too far to walk home from here. I just hope I don’t run into any neighbors on the way.
My body shivers a little and I realize that, in all the confusion, I never bothered to put my shirt on. I think I had it when I came out the back window, but I can’t really be sure. In all the chaos and confusion, the shirt wasn’t really the first thing on my mind.
I look back in the direction from which I came, but if it’s back there somewhere, I’m not seeing it.
Looking down, now, I’m trying to think of any excuse I could give for my general appearance other than the obvious. If tonight were Halloween, it wouldn’t be a problem. People would just ask how I got the cut on my head to look so real.
Unfortunately, between my black trunks, bare feet and tape-wrapped hands, I don’t think there’s any way I can walk down the street without looking like exactly what I am.
Given the fact there was just a police raid on an underground fight, now’s probably not such a good time to not have real clothes.
I’m walking back home using back alleys as much as possible. When it does become necessary to come out onto the sidewalk for a block or two, I try to move as quickly as I possibly can until I’m back where people can’t see me so easily.
When I get within sight of my house, though, I stop.
I don’t know how they knew where to find me or why they’d go to such lengths over something like this, but there’s a police cruiser going up and down the street.
I don’t have my keys, my phone, anything. What’s really on my mind right now, though, is the police car coming from the other direction.
Seriously, don’t these guys have anything better to do with their time?
I can’t go home, at least not yet. I can’t very well stay out here on the streets, either. Besides, it’s barely spring and Wisconsin gets cold.
I’ve got a buddy that lives about half a mile from here. He’s a bit of a pain in the ass, but I don’t have too many other options at the moment, so I start walking.
I get between buildings as soon as I can. The cop hadn’t seen me, but if they’ve got my ID, they know what I look like. Even if they didn’t, I’m still a guy walking around in nothing but trunks and some hand tape with blood all over him.
Coming to the sidewalk on the far side of this block, I glance down the street in both directions, making sure I don’t have the 5-0 coming down on me, and I go. My feet are starting to hurt.
“Mason?” a woman’s voice calls from down the sidewalk as I reach the other side of the road.
I turn to run, but glance back first to see what I’m dealing with. Given who I see coming toward me, this might actually work out all right for me.
“Jana?” I ask the short, black-haired woman staring at me with her body half-turned like she’s trying to decide whether or not to grab the hand of the woman next to her and run.
I don’t know if Jana and I ever said the words boyfriend and girlfriend when we were whatever it was that we were, but she’s definitely my ex-something.
“What happened to you?” she asks, covering her mouth.
“Oh, just a little sporting event that got interrupted,” I answer and look to the brunette woman standing next to Jana, looking at me with raised eyebrows and a wide-open mouth. “Hi,” I say to the woman. “I’m Mason. I’d shake your hand, but, well…”
“You should go to the hospital,” the woman says. “That cut looks pretty bad.”
“Yeah, I was trying to head home, but…” I stop. I’m already terrifying enough right now just by my appearance. There�
�s no solid reason to tell them that I’m also on the run from the cops.
“But…?” Jana asks.
“…but I can’t,” I finish.
It’s a stupid explanation—not really an explanation at all. Still, though, it keeps the conversation moving and I don’t have a lot of time to stand here and talk.
“You should really get that cleaned up,” the woman standing next to Jana says.
“I’m on my way to do just that,” I answer. “Hey, it was nice to meet you, but I really should…”
“Are you going to the hospital?” Jana asks.
My mind’s a little blown right now, as I can’t imagine why two people would want to stand and talk to someone in my position.
“Hadn’t planned on it,” I tell her. “I really need to go.”
“Are you doing it?” the brunette asks.
“What?” I return, baffled.
“Are you going to be the one treating the wound, and if so, do you have any experience as a paramedic, nurse, or a doctor?” she asks.
“You’re kind of freaking me out a little here,” I tell the woman. “What, do you see my skull or something?”
“No,” she says, “but I’m pretty sure that’s just because of the blood.”
Jana’s looking a little pale.
“Yeah,” I tell her. “I was going to just jump in the shower or something and put a bandage over it. I’m sure it looks worse than it is.”
“You really need to get that taken care of now,” the brunette says. “And I really think you’re going to want to have someone who knows what they’re doing take care of it.”
“Ash, if we’re going to be drunk and dancing by midnight, we should really get going,” Jana says.
“Hold on a minute,” the brunette woman, apparently Ash, says and comes a little closer to me. “Do you have any communicable diseases?” she asks. “AIDS? Hepatitis? Anything blood borne?”
“You’re going to touch his blood?” Jana asks. “Eww!”
It is a rather odd direction for her to go, given she has no idea who I am beyond my name and that I’ve been in a fight very, very recently.
“Not without gloves,” Ash says. “So?”
“No,” I tell her. “Clean and healthy, that’s me.”
“Okay,” Ash says. “Come on.”
She turns and starts walking.
Jana and I just look at each other a for a few seconds.
“Your friend’s kind of weird,” I tell her.
“Yeah,” Jana says. “You got no idea. We better follow her, though. You look like you just crawled out of a collision with oncoming traffic.”
Jana turns and catches up with her friend, who either hasn’t noticed or doesn’t care that I’m still not there, and I’m torn between two possible options, neither one of which make much sense.
Things didn’t end badly with Jana, they just kind of fizzled out, so I have no reason to believe the two of them are going to lure me back to their place and end up stringing me up from the ceiling. Still, it’s been a while and she doesn’t seem quite as sure about having me go with them as her friend does.
Then there’s Logan’s place a few blocks in the other direction. The only problem is that I’m not sure if he’s home, and I don’t have my phone to call him.
I can’t afford to take a chance that I’m going to get there only to have to turn around again. That, I suppose, is all I needed to figure out.
“Hey, wait up!” I call and catch up to Jana and Ash.
Who says you can’t have an exciting Saturday night in a small town?
* * *
“Did you win?” Ash asks as she dabs at my forehead with some sterile cotton balls, dipped in rubbing alcohol.
I’m sitting on a folding chair which is sitting on spread-out newspapers which are sitting on towels which are sitting on the tile floor of the entryway to Jana and Ash’s apartment.
“Haven’t lost yet,” I answer.
“How many fights?” she asks.
“A lot,” I answer.
“Can we go?” Jana asks, her arms folded as she leans against the wall.
“I’m almost done,” Ash says, dropping the cotton ball into the little trash bag sitting next to her.
“Why do you have all this stuff?” I ask.
“What do you mean?” Ash asks.
“Seriously,” Jana says. “This is boring.”
“The medical stuff,” I tell her. “Are you a doctor or something?”
“A nurse,” she says. “Or, at least I will be in a couple years.”
Jana sighs loudly.
“A nurse, huh?” I ask. “That’s pretty hot.”
Ash smiles and shakes her head.
“Jana, could you pass me another cotton ball?” Ash asks.
Jana groans and stomps over to the table just out of reach from where Ash is kneeling down in front of me. She picks up the bag, pulls out a small handful of cotton balls and tosses them to Ash.
“We’ll go in a minute,” Ash says. “Jeez. The guy’s bloody here.”
“It’s a shame we had to meet like this,” I tell Ash. “I usually wear a lot more clothes and fewer open wounds.”
Am I flirting with her? Sure, she’s gorgeous with her wavy hair, turquoise eyes, and absolutely slamming body, but Jana’s standing right there.
“How often do you fight?” Ash asks, rolling her eyes a little.
“Once every couple weeks,” I tell her. “If you’re talking about sparring, too, then I fight just about every day.”
“It’s not a very safe sport, is it?” she asks.
“Could you tell that from the fact that we’re still bandaging Mason up instead of being out, having fun and humiliating ourselves in public for the shot of having one-nighters with some guys who we’re never going to want to see again, like normal people?” Jana whines.
“I’ve survived this long,” I tell Ash.
Jana groans loudly.
“Well,” Ash says, “the good news is that you’re not going to need stitches. There’s a spot where the cut’s a bit deeper and that’s where you’re getting most of the blood. The rest of it’s basically a glorified scratch.”
“Really?” I ask. “I was half-expecting you to go for the sewing needle.”
“Cuts on the head tend to bleed a great deal, even with smaller cuts than what you’ve got,” Ash says. “A bandage should be enough, assuming you’re not going to mess with it.”
“Condescend much?” I ask, smiling.
“I’ve found it’s best to assume whoever you’re working on is going to go out and do the stupidest thing they can possibly do unless you tell them not to,” she answers and presses a gauze bandage over the wound. “At least,” she says, “that’s my experience with guys like you.”
“Guys like me, huh?” I ask. “What are guys like me like?”
“I have no idea,” she says, “but I know you’re dumb enough to put yourself in that ring to get punched in the face, so I just figured it’d be good to cover my bases.”
“Ooh, you are spicy,” I tell her. “I like that.”
“And we’re done here,” Jana says, walking toward the other side of the room and into another one.
“She’s not getting a gun, is she?” I ask.
“I guess we’re about to find out,” Ash says, pulling the gloves off of her hands.
Ash gets up and walks to yet another room, and I think it’s time for me to go.
“Here,” Jana says, coming out of the other room with clothes in her hand, dragging on the floor behind her. “I don’t want my neighbors to see you running around half-naked.” She tosses the clothes at me.
“Hey, thanks,” I tell her. “I really wasn’t looking forward to going back out there in the cold without anything on.”
“They’re yours, anyway,” she says. “I found ‘em when I was moving and didn’t really care enough to get them back to you.”
“Oh stop,” I tease. “If you don’t stop it with t
he sugary words, I’m going to need a toothbrush.”
“I don’t even know what that’s supposed to mean,” she says.
I just shrug. It made more sense before I said it, sure, but I’d say I’m still doing all right given the situation.
“You’re still here,” Ash says, coming out of what I’m assuming is her room.
“Yeah,” I tell her, “I’m just getting ready to take off, though. Thanks for patching me up like that. It was a little weird and pretty uncomfortable, but you did me a huge favor and I appreciate it.”
“Oh, will you just go?” Jana asks.
“It was nice to meet you,” Ash says. “Try not to get hit in the face so much. You keep doing that too much, and eventually it’s going to spoil your beauty.”
Is she flirting with me?
I can’t imagine that she would be. As much as guys like me try to tell ourselves that women love a man who’s bruised and bloody, the truth of the matter—in my experience at least—is that most women just look at you, make a disgusted face, and try to get the hell out of there as quickly as possible.
“Such as it is,” she adds after the long interval.
“Yeah,” I say, “well. I appreciate it. Are you sure I can’t pay you for your time?”
“Unless you’re hiding it somewhere I’d rather not think about, you don’t have a wallet,” she says.
“Fair point,” I tell her. “Well,” I stick my hand out to shake hers, “thanks again.”
She looks down at my hand and shakes her head.
“Nice to meet you, Mason,” she says.
“Okay, can we go now?” Jana asks, and I’m starting to think that I’ve outworn my welcome. “Get your clothes on and get out of our way.”
“You know, I remember you being nicer,” I tell her.
“That was when I liked you,” she says.
I quickly slip on the white t-shirt and sweats I apparently left at Jana’s old place and turn to the door, opening it.
“So, where are you two ladies headed this evening?” I ask.
“None of your business,” Jana answers.
“Neptune,” Ash answers. “It’s a new club that just opened up in Milwaukee.”