by Josie Kerr
“Ryan, it’s fine, okay?”
Ryan stammered a few more sentences, his voice growing quieter and quieter until Junior could not make out what he was saying. He finally spoke up again, telling Junior he had to go, mumbling again, and then abruptly hung up.
“What the actual fuck?” Junior murmured, the receiver still in his hand. He could swear that Ryan said that he missed him.
“Jesus, you fighters are all alike: up at the crack of fucking dawn.” Nanda’s voice was still raspy, but quickly returning to its normal huskiness. She eased herself into the chair and nodded when Junior held up the coffee carafe. “Who the fuck was calling this early?”
“Our cutman about an upcoming expo fight.”
“Expo fight?” Nanda snorted. “Yeah, like that worked out so well for Colin last time.”
Junior shook his head. “Tell me about it, Sis. I think it’s a terrible idea, but it seems to be happening, so Ryan was calling to set up training sessions for when I get back.”
Nanda’s face fell. “Fuck, Junior. You’ve got fights coming up, and you’re up here, dealing with my fuckup? What the hell?”
Junior took Nanda’s much smaller hands in his. “One, this is not your fuckup, Nanda. You didn’t ask to get the shit beat out of you or for anything else that happened. Two, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to be. You know as well as I do that Ines and Marta can damn well take care of anything that needs to be taken care of.”
Nanda snorted a laugh and then winced in pain. “Yeah, they can.” She slumped farther down in her chair. “Unlike me, who can’t even take care of a succulent.” She pulled her hands from his and waved at the dead plant in a coffee cup. “Who on earth can kill a succulent? They don’t really even need water.” Nanda shook her head and slapped her hands over her face. “God, I’m pathetic.”
Junior grabbed her hands lightly and pulled them away from her pretty face. “Nanda, you’re not pathetic. Not in the least.”
Nanda gripped his hand but didn’t say anything—just sat at the table with tears coursing down her cheeks, and Junior stayed with her, patting her hand.
“You want some breakfast? I can fix some eggs.”
Nanda shook her head. “I’m all right. I might go back to bed. I didn’t realize it was only ass-crack o’clock.” She chuckled, as did Junior.
“ ‘Ass-crack o’clock.’ I’ll have to remember that.” Junior pulled his younger sister into a tight hug. “God, I’m so glad you’re okay, Nanda.”
“Me, too.” She pulled out of his hug. “I’m going to go back to bed for a bit. Don’t feel like you have to hang around here today; I’ll be fine by myself.”
“Like you were fine last night? No dice, Nanda. I know you were completely freaked out. I’m not leaving you again.”
“Junior, it is too damn early to argue with you, but I’m telling you: you are not going to put your life on hold for me. Period.”
“Nanda . . . ,” Junior began, but she put her hand over his mouth.
“Shut it. I don’t want to listen to it. I’m going back to bed.”
Nanda stretched up onto her toes and gave him a peck on the cheek before heading to her room.
“Nanda?”
“Yeah?”
“When you get up, I want to talk a little more about you coming to Atlanta.”
She sighed but nodded. “Okay. See you in a little while.”
Junior nodded. “Yeah.”
Chapter Eleven
“You know that just because you’re going back to work doesn’t mean that I’m going back to Atlanta.”
Junior loomed in the doorway of Nanda’s bedroom, his arms stretched above his head, hanging on to the top of the door frame.
Nanda rolled her eyes. “I realize that. But I’m back to normal, Junior. I’m back at work, so you can just go back down past the Mason-Dixon Line and pester them instead of bothering me.”
She shoved her foot into her sneaker and stood up. She pushed past Junior and grabbed a small tote bag. “Since you insist on driving me to work, are you ready to go?”
“Yep. I’m looking forward to getting a good workout.” Junior hoisted his workout bag to his shoulder but stopped when Nanda stepped in front of him.
“Please tell me you’re not going to stay at the gym today?” she groaned.
“I won’t tell you, but I am.” Junior grinned broadly. “Besides, I want to see you in action as Fernanda Maldonado, Gym Manager.”
She rolled her eyes and shoved him out the door.
“Okay, now convert it, convert it. Go, go, go, now! Yes!”
Junior stood outside the cage where two young fighters sparred, directing one fighter in his Jiu Jitsu.
Manny chuckled. “You know, for a straight-up boxer, you’re an excellent wrestling coach.”
“Well, I learned from the best, and I have to say, C didn’t need much wrestling coaching at all. He’s a natural.”
“So who are you working with now that Carmichael’s retired? Anyone in particular?”
“Oh, man. You’re not going to believe it: Dominic DiGiacomo.”
“Wait, what? I had heard that he changed from Raptor Pryde to a small up-and-coming fight club, but I didn’t put the two together.” Manny whistled through his teeth. “I’d be interested in finding out how that little switch went down.”
“I’ll tell you when you come over for supper on Sunday. It’s too ridiculous to tell when we have work to do. But, really, Dig’s been working with Colin more than me lately on wrestling.”
“Ah, that makes sense. DiGiacomo is a striker already. If I recall, heavy, heavy hands.” Junior nodded. “So, you working with anyone else?”
“I was working with a kickboxer named Mashburn, but Paddy Doyle took over his training. He’s a better match for Tig.”
“So what you’re saying is that you really don’t have a specific fighter you’re training.”
“No, not really.” Junior sighed. “That’s the thing about having a small club roster. It’s great for the fighters because you get a lot of attention from all the coaches, but for a trainer? There’s a lot of waiting for that one fighter that’s going to be yours.”
“Carmichael was yours.”
Junior nodded. “Yeah, he was.” And Junior needed to find his next fighter; otherwise, he was going to go nuts.
“Move back.”
“What?”
Just then Nanda’s voice rang out over the din of the gym, telling a fighter just what he could do with his excuses.
Manny shook his head and snickered. “Oh, I’ve missed that sound. Just think, if you came back, you could hear it all the time. Tempting, hmm?”
Junior sighed. “You know, it is, kind of.”
The afternoon session ran similarly to the morning session, but Junior merely watched and didn’t actually train any of the fighters. Nanda gave him a few quizzical looks, but he grinned and waved off her concern. He was distracted, however, mulling over the conversation that he and Manny had during lunch.
Manny was serious about Junior returning to the De La Garza Fight Club as a trainer, and he made a compelling argument. In addition to the point that Manny made in their earlier conversation about Junior not working with a specific fighter, Manny reminded Junior that MMA was finally legal in New York State again, which meant a lot more regional fights and a lot more regional fighters, dramatically increasing the demand for high-quality trainers. A seasoned, proven trainer like Junior would be a boon for Manny’s little gym, attracting major talent and increasing the potential for lucrative paydays for all concerned.
Junior stood looking at the Wall of Champions, photos and belts and trophies all framed and displayed in glass cases, a testament to the successes of many years. He found his own photo, that of him as a high school junior, when he won his first championship as a boxer. And then he spotted a photo taken twelve years ago of Colin and Junior when C had won his first belt, both of them grinning like idiots, delirious with joy.
&
nbsp; Those past years had been momentous, but nothing compared to the last two.
Though he lost his beloved father to cancer, Colin was reunited with his long-lost brother—thanks to a certain determined Irishman—and when he retired, moving to Atlanta was a given to allow him the chance to get to know his new family. Throw in a certain curly-haired neighbor to the mix, and Colin’s life changed yet again.
Junior followed to Colin to Wisconsin, and then to Atlanta, but maybe the time had come to return home again. Before, Junior would have never left Colin to go back to New Jersey, but now that Colin had a wife and a little girl, plus a brother and his brother’s family? Well, he would be fine.
Yes, the prospect of moving back to New Jersey and being with his sisters and their families tempted Junior; it truly did. He missed them, as this visit reminded him. Yes, they drove him nuts, but the feeling of belonging and those ties to family who shared the same blood were something that you couldn’t substitute.
It wasn’t like he had any ties to Atlanta, other than Colin, really. The thought of Ryan nagged at the back of his mind, the troubled man more like him than anyone he’d previously met. Ryan had family in Atlanta, though; actually, he had a lot of family in Atlanta—five siblings and his father—and supportive, loving family at that. He was far from alone.
Junior pinched the bridge of his nose. Regardless of what he told Nanda earlier in the day, with her returning to work and good health, Junior planned on returning to Atlanta in the near future—at least for a few days. But now, with the opportunity that Manny presented, he had a lot to think about.
A loud whistle snapped his attention from his thoughts.
“Junior, it’s time to go home.” Nanda stood, hip cocked, with a scowl on her face.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Just exhausted and ready to get out of this place.”
Junior raised his eyebrows at his sister, his mouth tugging into a smile.
Nanda groused and rolled her eyes. “Fine. I overdid it today. So now let’s go!”
Chapter Twelve
“God, just say, ‘I told you so, Nanda,’ and get it over with.” Nanda stomped up the stairs, Junior following closely behind and barely stifling his snickers. “I cannot wait to get into the tub with a book and a big glass of . . .” Nanda’s voice trailed off in shock.
“Big glass of what? Nanda?” Junior stepped up behind Nanda and saw the cause of Nanda’s silence.
All the furniture had been overturned, the cushions shredded and the stuffing removed and scattered throughout the living room. Nanda’s bookcases had been emptied, the books strewn on the ground, the pages torn and the spines broken. Junior could see that the bedroom had received the same treatment—drawers and closets emptied and the mattress ripped.
Junior pulled Nanda to him as she collapsed, sobbing.
Junior quickly called the detective that dealt with her initial injury and informed him of the break-in. Junior held her close as they waited in the hallway outside Nanda’s apartment.
Junior sighed. “Nanda, will you tell me the truth now?”
Nanda took a deep breath and started talking about what really happened that night a month ago.
Gene had shown up earlier, acting paranoid. Nanda had accused him of using—which was not out of the question, as Gene dabbled in illegal narcotics and pills—but in hindsight, she didn’t think he was high, nor was his paranoia unwarranted. The two of them had argued about the drug use and then continued when Gene said he was doing a job for Nick Sharkey, a local thug with lots of ambition. Gene had stormed out of the apartment, but when there was a knock on the door a few minutes later, Nanda assumed it was Gene, coming back to apologize.
It wasn’t. Two thugs that had previously shown up at the gym, asking about Nanda and Gene, pushed their way into her apartment, demanding that she give ‘it’ to them. What ‘it’ was, Nanda had absolutely no idea, and she told them that, but they didn’t believe her. So they made an example of Nanda as a message for Gene.
“And you have no idea what they’re looking for?” Junior asked.
“I have no idea, Junior. God, if I did, I would have given it to them, plus Gene.” She started crying again. “What am I going to do?”
Junior just held her tighter, hoping that he could make her feel at least a little more secure. He didn’t
know what they should do, but he did know that she would be safer with her sisters than she would here.
When Junior offered this suggestion to Nanda, surprisingly, she didn’t balk.
“Then, it’s settled,” Junior said firmly. “You’re staying with Marta.”
After the police left Nanda’s apartment and everyone was safely ensconced at Marta’s for the night, Junior and Nanda sat at the kitchen table, each with a bottle of beer and a thin steak, while Marta supervised their eating.
“You ever get the feeling that she was some sort of hawk in another life?” Nanda muttered while their eldest sister busied herself in the kitchen.
“Could have been.” Junior winked.
“I heard that, Nanda.” Marta poked her head around the open cabinet door and shook a finger at her but then winked.
“What were you and Manny whispering about all afternoon, Junior? You looked like two middle school girls gossiping about cute football players.”
Both Marta and Junior laughed. Then Junior cleared his throat. “We were talking about MMA finally being legalized in New York State and about my eventually returning to train up here.”
Marta looked confused. “Like what—split time between here and Atlanta? Go back and forth? Seems like that would get really old, really fast.”
“Not exactly on the splitting time.” Junior cleared his throat. “What do you think about me moving back?”
Marta shook her head and then turned to her brother. “Have you lost your mind? No, you cannot come back here. Absolutely not, Junior. That’s a horrible idea.”
Junior outlined why a move would make sense, professionally, but when he got to the personal aspects of a move, he faltered, not wanting to confess to Marta how much time he’d been spending with Derek. He should have known that his eldest sister would see right through him.
“Derek has nothing to do with it,” he said, hoping to end Marta’s commentary before it even began.
Nanda slammed her hand on the table to get his attention. “Excuse me? What the fuck, Junior? So, you’d dump me in Atlanta, where I know no one, to come back to Jersey and play house? You can’t be that hard up.”
“I wouldn’t just leave you there, and you know that. I’d make sure you could take care of yourself before I left you again.”
“Oh, and now I can’t take care of myself?”
“You sure as hell haven’t so far!” Junior regretted the words as soon as they came out of his mouth, even before Nanda’s chin wobbled under her flat lips.
“Fuck you, Junior.”
“Jesus Christ, Nanda, you don’t even want to go to Atlanta,” he said, hoping to soften his earlier, harsh statement.
“Who said I didn’t?”
“You did!”
“I did not!”
“Dios, both of you, shut up! I don’t know how you two didn’t drive Ma to drink.” Marta pressed her fingers to her temples. “Junior, you look me straight in the eye and tell me that that man doesn’t have anything to do with you considering moving back.”
“Derek’s got nothing to do with this, jeez.” At Marta’s skeptical look, Junior rolled his eyes and admitted that Derek might have a teeny, tiny bit to do with his consideration of moving back. “He’s familiar, Marta. He knows me, I know him. He’s age appropriate.”
“It’s been twenty-five years since you’ve really been involved with him—since he broke your heart into a million pieces.”
“Exactly. It’s been twenty-five years. People change, Sis.”
“Sometimes, Junior, sometimes. But remember what they say: ‘The more things change, the more they stay
the same.’ ”
Chapter Thirteen
Junior and Derek had gone to lunch a few times since that somewhat awkward non-date at the tapas place, and Junior found himself wanting to spend more time with Derek. He’d grown insanely curious about Derek’s dating life. Derek had mentioned a few names, but they all seemed to be Frank’s friends originally, and Junior had the impression that Derek didn’t even a steady fuckbuddy. Not that it was any of his business, because they were just friends, right?
Right?
“This was a great idea.” Derek’s eyes rolled back in his head, and Junior had to bite his tongue because that was the exact face that Derek made when he was getting ready to blow. Well, at least, that’s how he remembered Derek looking all those years ago. “Oh, man, this is great.”
“I take it you aren’t much of a cook?” Junior shifted in his seat and prayed that Derek wouldn’t notice his gawking.
Derek shook his head. “No, I’m a fine cook, but I have a tendency to make one-serving meals so that I don’t have a lot of leftovers. I haven’t mastered making a small meatloaf well. And this meatloaf? It’s exemplary. It tastes like my mom’s. I am never packing a sad sandwich again.” He cleared his throat. “Frank did most of the cooking, and I’ll admit that we went out a lot more that we probably should have. Our excuse was long work hours with even longer commutes.”
Junior had just started describing how to cook an entire chicken in a crockpot when Derek’s eyes grew wide. Then he heard a gasp from behind him.
“What? What’s wrong?” Junior craned his head around and saw the striking figure of Derek’s mother.
This? Was not good.
On one of their prior lunch non-dates, Derek had described the night he came out—privately, at home during Sunday supper, and not until he was twenty-seven. Derek said that his father had cried, and then he’d congratulated him and hugged him. His mother had had quite a different reaction, telling him it was unacceptable, but that she’d suspected he was “that way” for a long time—ever since he’d been running around with “that Latin boy.” Then she had told him she’d done research—in case this situation had turned out to be a reality—and could suggest several facilities where he could reevaluate his choices and where they would provide treatment for his vile disposition. And then his parents had had an actual yelling, foot-stomping, shrieking fight right in front of him.