Made for Breaking

by Lauren Gilley

  “How’s it going, Pipe?” Mark asked. Ray had no idea where his brother found these big, toothy, seemingly genuine smiles, but Mark wore one now. He approached Piper first, offered a hand for the tall man’s shake.

  “Fine.” The Piper never looked at Mark; he’d deemed him non-threatening. His eyes moved to Sly – who was taking up a watchful stance at the edge of the crowd, looking for ears that might be listening – and then came back to Ray. “Help you boys with somethin’?”

  Ray and his brother traded places, Mark sliding in front, creating a barrier between Ray and the con man, putting just that much of a wall around their conversation. “What if I needed to get hold of high-end electronics?”

  Piper shrugged, scratched at his patchy mustache. “’Fraid I wouldn’t know anything about that. DVDs, CDs, I’m your man, but – ”

  “Who would I talk to then?”

  The match in the ring ended as the fighter in the blue shorts sent his opponent spinning back against the ropes and then to his knees. Red Shorts didn’t get back up and the voices in the stands swelled, cheers and boos drowning out all other sound.

  Ray felt the tall man lean closer to him. “People are talking, Russell,” Piper said. “They say you’re nobody’s friend.”

  “Nobody’s anybody’s friend, and you know it. So…” He lifted his brows in a blatant demand.

  The crook held his gaze a moment, then looked away with a sigh. He shrugged. “I don’t know anything…but if I did, I’d say you oughta talk to Ricky Bullard.”

  “Who?”

  “He’s got a man in the fights tonight. You’ll see him in a bit – won’t be able to miss him.”

  Beer sloshed over the sides of the plastic cup as Johnny passed it to her, the liquid running down over her hand. Lisa set the drink on the bleachers beside her and sucked the spill off the web between her thumb and forefinger before it could get sticky. “Thanks, cuz,” she said with an eye roll as she picked the beer back up.

  “Hey, you shoulda seen me down there,” he defended himself, handing over Eddie’s beer and then sitting, sucking the foam off the top of his own. “All those people pushing me around and I didn’t spill a drop.”

  “Till you got up here.”

  He made a face.

  “Leave him alone,” Eddie said, which drew two dark looks. Lisa had watched him charm his way into the pants and skirts of so many girls, but when she stared him down, Eddie glanced away. His swagger had no effect on her and he knew it. “Next fight’s about to start,” he said, pretending he hadn’t just tried to give her an order.

  Lisa smiled internally. Ray called her a brat when she used her sway over one of his guys, but she’d seen the smiles he’d tried to hide. Never again. She was never going to let a man shape her life again, and her dad was proud of that.

  “Coming into the ring – ” The ref had a bullhorn now and he yelled through it. He turned to one side of the ring, arm stretched out to showcase the man climbing between the ropes. “The Monster!”

  And the man looked like a monster: a big block of a head with a nose that had been broken so many times it was only a blob of flesh in the middle of his face. He had a thick, Cro-Magnon brow and a neck like a tree trunk. She didn’t envy whoever was going up against him.

  “The names these guys come up with,” Eddie snorted. “Real creative.”

  “You expected boxers to be creative?” Lisa asked.

  He made a sound of agreement.

  “And daring to stand up against him tonight,” the ref continued. “Standing five-eleven, weighing in at two-hundred pounds…the Lynx!”

  “Shit, it’s Rocky and the Russian,” Eddie said. “Gonna be a slaughter.”

  “Well they said ‘Lynx’ and not ‘mountain lion,’” Johnny said, laughing at his own joke.

  As Lisa watched the man who’d dubbed himself “The Lynx” climb into the ring and straighten to his full, unremarkable height, she knew his weight had been embellished by at least twenty pounds. He was fit and tight; exercise had shredded every ounce of fat from his body and he was an impressive display of carved muscle and tendons. But he was not the brute his opponent was. And even if he was quick and strong and more skilled than anyone else in the barn had been tonight, he didn’t look like a man who could take down The Monster.

  As Lisa watched the two fighters come to the center of the ring and touch gloves, Monster sneering around his mouthpiece, she felt a tiny coil of fear twist in her stomach. It was such an odd sensation, it took her a moment to put a name to it; she realized that, though The Lynx was nothing but a pair of silky shorts and red gloves to her, she was suddenly afraid she might witness a man get killed in the ring tonight. It was an intoxicating kind of fear, the kind that invested her in the outcome of this match.

  “Ref might as well call it now,” Eddie said.

  Lisa scooted forward, hands clasping together in her lap. “Let’s wait and see.”

  “Ricky Bullard?”

  “What?” The man was nearly as wide as he was tall, the thick rolls around his waist testing the elasticity of his white tank top and sweatpants. He had two meaty arms hooked over the top rope of the ring and swiveled a neckless, splotchy face in their direction. He was even uglier than Piper had indicated, his teeth gapped, his nose a bulbous nightmare, more white hair spilling over the neck of his shirt than there was on top of his head.

  “Can we talk a minute?” Ray asked.

  The trainer scowled. “I got a guy in the ring! Not now.”

  Ray flicked a glance toward the match that had just begun. The problem with these underground things was that there weren’t any regulations, which meant unequal opponents were pitted against one another, as was happening now. “He won’t be in there long,” Ray said. “It’ll just take a minute.”

  “I said no!”

  Ray felt a hand clap down on his shoulder and knew it was Mark before he turned. “I’ll handle it,” his brother said. “You’re grinding your teeth again.”

  He didn’t argue, but nodded, and Mark climbed onto the ropes beside Ricky Bullard, a smile lighting up his face.

  Ray shook his head. “You know,” he told Sly, who stood silent sentry next to him, “of all my clients, I never had to work at getting my brother off light. No one can stay pissed at Mark.”

  Lisa was transfixed. Eddie and Johnny’s voices faded into the din of the crowd. She was aware of cheers and yells, but she didn’t really hear any of them. Her eyes were beginning to water because she refused to blink. Lynx was good. Lynx was better than that, he was talented.

  He approached the fight like a dance. The lumbering Monster was his partner and he anticipated every step, every strike, every parry. He didn’t just move his feet and throw jabs at the other man, but controlled his entire body; every muscle was mastered, every move deliberate.

  She chewed at her bottom lip as he ducked a vicious swing and then popped up faster than Monster had expected, landing a hard blow to the guy’s jaw.

  Something wet hit her knee and went dribbling down into her boot and she realized she’d squeezed her beer until the plastic cup cracked. With a disgusted face, she set the ruined drink down at her feet and swept her eyes back up to the action.

  “I can’t believe this,” Eddie said, a touch of awe in his voice. “This guy’s actually gonna – ”

  “Don’t say it,” Lisa cut him off. “You’ll jinx him.”

  “He’s the guy,” Mark confirmed as he joined them again. Ray and Sly had moved beyond the crowd and stood in the open doorway of the barn, where lamplight met moonlight and where a breeze relieved some of the stinking heat of so many humans pressed together. They smelled as bad as a barn full of animals would, Ray thought.

  His brother shoved his hands in the back pockets of his jeans and shrugged as he came to a halt. In the shadows, he could have been twenty-years-old for all the lines that showed on his face. He always brought literal meaning to “little brother.” “Said we could meet up this week to talk a
bout ‘transfer.’” He rolled his eyes and cast a glance over his shoulder to where Ricky was red-faced and screaming at his fighter – who was actually winning the match. “Dumbass used about fifteen words he didn’t know the meaning of.”

  Ray snorted. “Stupid’s good. We can work with stupid.”

  “Who stole the van?” Sly asked. “I know his fat ass didn’t do it.”

  “He’s got a crew. At least, he said he did. And at least one of ‘em’s the man he’s got in the ring.”

  Ray glanced up toward the ring and saw the smaller fighter, the one he’d assumed was at a severe disadvantage, hammering his opponent with a deadly-fast combination of punches. “Using his fighters to boost church vans,” he muttered. “Now I’ve seen it all.”

  ***

  When the last match had been fought and the loser dragged away unconscious, the bleachers emptied in a matter of seconds. Enraged and delighted bettors grouped together around the ring, haggling over winnings, shoving at one another. The air was cloudy with smoke and the smell of spilled beer and sweat. Lisa didn’t argue when Eddie looped an arm around her shoulders and steered her out of the barn and back into the welcome coolness of the night. The field came alive with humans and trucks, headlights slicing brightly through the dark.

  “Be glad your old man wouldn’t let you bet,” Eddie said to Johnny as they found a spot in the shadow of the barn in which to wait for the others. “You’d be what, five hundred in the hole?”

  “Shut up.” Johnny waved him off. “Would not.”

  Lisa tuned them out as they continued to give each other shit. She scuffed a booted toe through the dirt and reflected on the scene that she couldn’t shake out of her head; of all the matches she’d watched tonight, it was Lynx standing over the huge, fallen Monster that she saw every time she blinked.

  She wasn’t easily impressed – by anyone – but she hadn’t expected to see a boxer of that caliber fighting in an underground gambling match. She admired raw talent, in all its forms.

  When her father, uncle and Sly emerged from the barn, she pushed herself away from the wall she’d propped against, ears pricked. Ray didn’t talk about certain things in front of her, like the “business” he and Mark discussed in their office back at the house, but she always hoped to catch meaningful glances and hints of conversation. She watched Sly and Eddie trade some silent communication with a look.

  “Dad.” Even in the shadows, she watched his face change, saw his features shift into the mask he wore when he was her father, transitioning away from his lawyer face, his working face, his intimidating face. It always stung a bit to think that he had to be different people, that he didn’t trust her the way he trusted the guys. “How much did you win tonight?”

  He twitched a smile as he moved forward through the others and put an arm across her shoulders, leading the group back toward the truck. “None. I wasn’t betting tonight.”

  “You shoulda bet on that Lynx guy,” she said. “That was…amazing.”

  He snorted and she didn’t know what he meant by it.

  It was always the same after every fight: as the adrenaline bled out of his system, Drew was left with an achy, empty feeling that had nothing to do with sore muscles and lucky punches. When his opponent lumbered out of the ring, clutching his bloodied face, he wasn’t filled with a sense of pride or accomplishment. Drew was good at what he did, but he wasn’t The Lynx any other time save those few minutes when his life and livelihood were dependent on his performance. When the action stopped, the excitement went away.

  “How’s the hand?” Ricky asked from behind the wheel.

  Drew flattened his palm against his knee and watched his fingers tremble. “Fine,” he lied. He knew Ricky didn’t want the truth, only some version of it.

  “Good.” The tires hissed as they pulled off the gravel drive and back onto a real road. The headlights cut a path through the dark, showing them the way back to civilization. Ricky offered no praise or gratitude for the victory Drew had just won; instead, he cleared his throat and said, “I think I found someone to unload the new merchandise on. You’ll meet them Wednesday.”

  And he would. Because it didn’t matter how many men he took down in the ring. Out of it, Drew wasn’t a fighter. He wasn’t much of anything, really.

  5

  Lisa had an unconscious sleeping routine: she always ended up facing the window, on her side, the covers pulled up to her chin, one hand beneath the pillow, the other fisted up on the sheets beside her head. The encroaching, gray light of dawn had pulled her up out of sleep only minutes before, but she knew it was time to get up when she felt something cold and wet press against the side of her hand. A smile touched her lips.

  “What?” she asked, voice a croak.

  There was a soft thump and the mattress dipped. Lisa cracked her eyes and Hektor’s sleek, seal-like head was a dark wedge in the shadows of her bedroom. He had his chin rested on the sheet and when her eyes opened, he responded, nub of a tail wagging, tall, lean body wiggling. He snorted and rooted under her covers. Who needed an alarm clock when you had a ninety-four pound Doberman?

  “Is it time to get up?” she asked, as per routine, and the dog withdrew his head and backed up. He snorted and then executed an elaborate stretch that ended in a yawn and an impatient snap of his teeth. “Okay, okay.” She sat up, waited for her vision to clear, then flipped back the covers while her dog pranced happily around the room.

  Hektor – named after the fabled Hektor of Troy – had been a present from her parents. Their first year back in the old Russell family house in Cartersville had been one of empty pockets and hard adjustments. With the exception of Morgan, all of her friends had disowned her after she’d admitted to them, that, since her father had been disbarred, they could no longer afford to stay in Alpharetta. Leaving Tristan’s cheating ass at the altar hadn’t helped her social situation either. So she’d thrown herself into work: a waitressing gig, a bartending gig, a summer or two as a horse camp volunteer. She’d slaved over the house with her family, breathing new life into the warped wood and haunted halls. The place would never be a posh mansion, but it had a certain amount of old South charm to it.

  Six months after the huge change in all their lives, Ray had come home with a thirteen-week-old puppy in his arms that was as long-legged and clumsy as a foal. His freshly-cropped ears had been taped up and he hadn’t slept through the night the whole first week, but Lisa had been in love. Hektor was her baby, her guardian, her – as pitiful as it sometimes sounded – friend. He forced her to have a routine, which was good. Otherwise, there had been times she thought she might have gone crazy.

  “I’m coming,” she told him as she stepped into a pair of flip-flops and cinched her light robe around her waist. The house was full of original hardwood floors and poorly insulated to boot, so even in summer, it was cool at night. Lisa rubbed at her arms on her way across the room, fighting off a chill. Her mother said she was always cold because she was too skinny, but she didn’t believe that. She was sticking with the haunted-house-cold-pockets theory.

  This early in the morning, the house was full of whispered sounds: running water from down the hall at her parents’ room, the dull droning of Johnny’s radio, Uncle Mark rifling through drawers in the bathroom. The upstairs was a large horseshoe hall with a sitting area at the top of the stairs. As Lisa followed her dog, she glanced through the unadorned windows above the little cluster of chairs on the balcony and could still see a sliver of moon visible in the rapidly-lightening sky.

  Hektor’s nails clicked on the wooden staircase that curved down and around to the first floor, Lisa’s flip-flops slapping loudly behind him. Ground level was shrouded in deep, black shadows, the wingback chairs in the sitting room looking almost humanoid to her cautious eyes as she went to the front door and punched the release code into the alarm system’s keypad. The motion detector chimed as she let Hektor loose and then closed the door again. She locked the deadbolt before she returned upst
airs; Ray had raised a prudent child, but not a frightened one.

  Cheryl was coming down the stairs as she ascended, also in a robe, her own flip-flops made out of fleece so they made no sound. For one moment, Lisa was struck by how twin-like they seemed. You’re turning into your mother faster than you thought, she told herself, but then shook the thought away.

  “Bagel or toast?” Cheryl asked, pausing. The soft bit of color on her eyelids, even in the shadows, proved she already had her makeup on, and her hair fell in soft, perfect sheets around her shoulders. Southern women got up and put their faces on, by God.

  “Apple,” Lisa said, beginning her climb again.

  “Ugh, you’re not going to go on another of your diets, are you? Because, honey, you really can’t stand to lose any more weight.”

  “No,” she lied, still climbing.

  By the time she’d gathered clothes for the day, the bathroom was free, though fogged up with rolling clouds of steam left over from Uncle Mark’s shower. The humidity was already going cold and the showerhead leaked with a sick-sounding plunk every three seconds or so. Lisa set her clothes on top of a clean towel and tried to ignore the little bristles of hair and shaving cream scum her uncle had left behind that morning. Every day she cleaned the bathroom, and every day the boys messed it up again.

  This morning she scrutinized her reflection in a way she hadn’t done in a long, long time. She primped and applied her sheer lipstick twice, frowned and couldn’t get her hair to twist the way she wanted it. She was not usually this self-conscious.

  An image from the night before, of the Lynx cartwheeled through his mind without warning. What would a guy like that – what would he – think of her hair this morning? Why did she even care?

  “You’re being stupid,” she told herself with a scowl that turned her brows to angry dark slashes over her green eyes.