Complicated Creatures: Part One

by Alexi Lawless

  “Okay, do this… You and Talon are his corner men. Jack’s a politician’s son and a stubborn motherfucker to boot, so he won’t bow out of this with an audience. He’ll want to go hard. You’ll both have to advise him on technique and keep his spirits up since Manny’s reffing,” she paused, thinking about how to handle this as she raced up I-55. “You’ll need to be his cut man too. The best we hope for is he gets taken down on a technical knockout before Vidal really does damage.”

  “You got it, boss—” Rush was interrupted by another rush of cheers and whistles. “Holy shit! I don’t fuckin’ believe it. Jack knocked Vidal down. He’s up again, but that was one hell of a cross—”

  “I’m calling Jay,” she informed him, hoping their doctor was available at this time on a Friday night. “Get in Jack’s corner. I’m fifteen, maybe twenty minutes out. Try to keep him alive until then,” she told him before hanging up.

  Sam tried to drive calmly as she flew past other drivers, but her temper got the best of her.

  “What in the actual fuck were you thinking, Jack?!” she shouted into the interior of the car, smacking her palm against the steering wheel again.

  Sam had known he would likely be angry with her when she’d dodged him the morning after, but she didn’t think he’d go picking a fight because of it. She considered his unanswered calls and texts the past two weeks, hoping he’d back off and recognize their time for what it was—an outstanding, albeit brief, affair. She’d fully expected him to go back to his society queens and starlets and she’d go back to…

  What?

  She’d go back to…what?

  Never mind Jack—what the hell are you doing, Sam?

  She took a breath, allowing herself to think about their relationship fully for the first time in two weeks.

  The truth was undeniable. She’d run. She’d fucked and run. Because that’s what she did. He knew it. She knew it. Hell, even Rush knew it after tonight’s spectacle, and Jack had gone looking to beat down or get beaten down because of what was unresolved between them, doing exactly what she hadn’t expected him to do. He’d held on, refusing to let it go as she’d expected him to, surprising her yet again. Sam pressed hard on the accelerator, the ’vette shooting forward. She couldn’t dwell, couldn’t overanalyze. Not right now. It was the path to destruction, and she’d whip herself over this plenty…but later.

  Sam palmed her phone. “Jay? Hey, it’s Sam. Sorry to bother you on a Friday night, but could you meet me at the gym?”

  “Who do I need to patch up this time?” Jay chuckled. “Rush or Talon?”

  “Believe it or not, neither of them, but I wouldn’t call you if I wasn’t worried.”

  *

  October—Twenty minutes later

  West Loop, Chicago

  S A M A N T H A

  The gym had become so packed in the brief time it took her to arrive that Sam struggled to push in toward the ring. She finally managed to slip through the throng of shouting, cheering men waving cash and yelling a smattering of filthy obscenities, encouragement, and protests at the two men beating the living shit out each other. People filmed the action with their phones. After all, a fight with the darling son of Chicago and an up-and-coming Chicano boxer was big news. This would be sure to hit the Trib tomorrow, if not national news. When Sam made it to the edge of the ring and looked up, she was relieved and a little stunned to see Jack still standing—and fighting.

  “Oh, thank God, she’s here!” she heard Rush shout, waving her over to Jack’s corner where he stood with Talon. Mitch was on the ground next to them, pounding the boxing mat and shouting encouragements to Jack as he blocked and punched.

  When Mitch heard Rush call for her, he wheeled around, eyes a little crazy behind his horn-rimmed glasses. His normally perfectly put together appearance was harried, his blonde hair haphazard, like he’d been clutching at it. Mitch reached through the throng of men shouting at the boxers and dragged her toward him in a tight side hug.

  “I don’t know if I’m thrilled to see you or if I should rail at you for getting him into this state, but I’m glad you’re here either way!” Mitch shouted at her over the noise.

  “How’s he holding up?”

  “This is the seventh round. Jack’s exhausted, but he’s holding his own. He managed to knock Vidal down once, but I’m worried about the cut over his eye. If Jack bleeds any more, Manny’ll probably give him a technical knockout,” Mitch told her, head close to her ear so she could hear him over the insanity.

  “I’ve got a doctor on his way. He can check him out between rounds. What the fuck was he thinking?” Sam said, exasperated.

  “He wasn’t,” Mitch answered, eyes on the ring. “He’s been ass-backwards the past two weeks. The shortest fuse I’ve ever seen. I didn’t even know he’d scheduled this fight until tonight when Rush called me to try to get help talking Jack out of it. I don’t know how I’m going to tell his family he got his ass handed to him brawling. This isn’t goddamn undergrad anymore!” he shouted, his eyes following Jack as he parried and shunted one of Vidal’s vicious hook and uppercut combos.

  Sam watched Jack block or slip the worst of Vidal’s punches, goading him into stronger, wider swings, using Vidal’s momentum to find openings for his return strikes. At first, she’d wondered if he’d really been looking for a beat down, but he’d lasted this long against an amateur who was easily seven to eight years his junior. If she wasn’t so freaked out and angry at him for doing this, she’d actually be fairly impressed.

  At the break between rounds, Talon poured water down Jack’s throat, coaching him as Rush patted his face dry with a towel, lathering his cuts and his bruised cheekbones with Vaseline as Jack breathed heavily against the padded corner of the ring. Sam swatted the arm Jack had resting against the rope, surprising him. He glanced down at her, astonished, then anger darkened his eyes to gray.

  “You choose now to come back,” he sneered, his voice hoarse.

  “I did,” she nodded, expression equally dark. “Just in time to see you get your ass handed to you, apparently. What the hell were you thinking, Jack?”

  “Hardly getting my ass handed to me,” he muttered before pushing away from the ropes and standing. Getting into stance, he tapped his cheeks and forehead to remind himself to keep his guard up as Vidal advanced on him, his expression focused.

  The next three minutes of the eighth round had Sam alternately holding her breath, shouting expletives, and howling praise as loudly as any of the men standing beside and behind her. For a guy who had taken up boxing again only recently, Jack had the efficiency and agility of a seasoned fighter. His footwork was light and fluid, following a dance he’d clearly never forgotten.

  Vidal fought with the power of youth. He was an aggressive, well-rounded boxer who favored close-range tactics and had a penchant for torso combos polished off with powerful crosses and hooks. She had little doubt he’d managed to crack a couple of Jack’s ribs, based on the bruising and welting she could see from a distance. Jack, on the other hand, was a defensive fighter. He had good reflexes and had gotten into a rhythm predicting Vidal’s moves about half a second before they happened. Jack was getting better at preventing Vidal’s punches from landing with full effect, shifting away at the last moment. Jack was wearing Vidal down with missed hits and maneuvering, steadily chipping away at Vidal’s offense with well-placed and masterfully-timed counter punches.

  Sam felt a hand grip her elbow and turned, seeing Jay Ross grinning down at her, his baby blues bright with amusement.

  “You called for a doctor?” he asked, glancing at the boxers locked in a clinch as Manny tried to break them apart.

  “God, am I happy to see you,” Sam exclaimed, giving his tall, rangy body a brief hug before pushing him to Jack’s corner.

  “That’s why I joined the Army Medical Corps,” he joked. “Women are always happy to see me.”

  “So are ugly, bruised, and bloody men,” Mitch commented, glancing at Jay and hi
s medical bag.

  “Don’t kid yourself, Jay,” Sam muttered. “Women dig the Green Beret, and bloody, beaten men like the morphine. Mitch, this is Jay. He used to be an Army physician. He’s stitched up everyone on our team at least once, and he has privileges at a couple hospitals if Jack needs it,” she explained.

  Jay and Mitch shook hands.

  “You fixed Sam’s arm?” Mitch asked.

  “Yup,” Jay nodded. “But that’s nothing compared to what I’ve had to do for those two idiots,” he joked, gesturing up at Rush and Talon hanging on the ring. They were busy shouting obscenities as Vidal whaled on Jack. “Shit, your boy’s getting pounded pretty good.” Jay whistled, watching.

  Manny finally called an end to the round.

  Mitch groaned in relief, muttering, “Thank you, God!”

  Sam grabbed Jay’s hand and pulled him forward.

  “Jack!” Sam called out, catching his attention.

  Jack had just turned back toward his corner when he caught sight of her and Jay. He took one look at their hands and Jay’s grin and his expression darkened again, his eyes cold. Jack sat down as Talon poured more water in his mouth, Rush bending to wipe his face down and check his cuts.

  “Jack, this is JR,” Rush explained. “Sam asked him here to check you out, make sure you’re still fit to fight.”

  “JR?” Jack sneered. “As in ‘who shot JR?’”

  Jay chuckled at the Dallas reference. “That was an insurgent in Afghany. Long way from South Fork, I’m afraid. How you doing in there, buddy?”

  “I’m fine,” Jack stated flatly as Rush slathered more Vaseline on his face.

  Manny stepped over to their side of the ring. “Jack, you all right? How’s the cut?” he asked, checking out the bleeding over his eye. It had been stemmed for the most part, held together by a couple pieces of butterfly tape Rush had smacked on a couple rounds ago.

  “I said I’m fine,” Jack snapped. “Next round.”

  Manny looked to Sam. She nodded after a moment, and Manny shrugged, stepping back toward the center of the ring to call a start to the ninth round.

  “Your friend is awfully nice,” Jay drawled as Jack pushed up, pacing toward the center.

  “He’s a stupid asshole,” Mitch chimed in, watching Jack feint left and come back up with a savage uppercut that left Vidal reeling. “Okay, he’s a stupid asshole with a crazy uppercut,” Mitch amended.

  Sam watched as Jack wore Vidal out psychologically with his defensive strategy. The fewer punches Vidal was able to land, the more he angered, advancing too aggressively, giving Jack openings for ferocious return strikes that left Vidal startled and reeling. At one point, Vidal wavered, seeming to weave on his feet. Manny counted a “standing eight” seconds as he observed Vidal, testing to see if the boxer could go on. Vidal shook it off, laying in on Jack like an enraged bull.

  “Knock him down!” men around them shouted, knowing Jack only needed one more knockdown to win a TKO.

  Vidal jabbed hard three times before catching Jack solidly in the ribs on a debilitating right hook. Sam could have sworn she heard the bones crack, clutching her own side in a sympathy as Jay and Mitch flinched beside her. Jack grunted from the impact, attempting to duck back, but Vidal was already coming in with another hook. As Vidal lunged forward to land a fatal blow to Jack’s kidney, Jack blocked it with a sharp elbow drop, delivering a stunning punch to Vidal’s temple. Vidal immediately slumped to the mat. There was a startled silence, then the crowd roared, noise ricocheting and expanding off the warehouse rafters. Sam released the breath she’d been holding in a whoosh, her relief palpable.

  “Holy SHIT! HE WON!” Mitch shouted as Manny lifted Jack’s gloved hand, declaring the victor. Jay jumped up and slid under the ropes with his medical bag, immediately checking on Vidal as he started to come to.

  As the crowd hooted and hollered, money exchanging hands, camera phones flashing, Jack and Sam stared each other down, the tension between them nearly tangible. Manny, Talon, and Rush slapped Jack on the back, congratulating him as he glared at her through swollen eyes. Mitch stood beside her, gaze bouncing between them, looking torn between trying to mediate and staying the hell out of it.

  “Jay, do you want to check Jack out now or wait until after he cleans up?” she called out, not moving her eyes from him.

  “I don’t need your boyfriend to check me out,” Jack spat out.

  “Man, you’re definitely concussed,” Talon laughed as he helped Jack pull off his gloves. “JR’s not her boyfriend. He’s our doctor.”

  “Whatever. I’m fine,” Jack retorted, his voice low and angry.

  “Jack, you need stiches—” Rush started before Jack turned away, moving across the ring toward the locker rooms. A group of guys helped him down from the ropes, congratulating him with high fives, handshakes, and pats on the back.

  Sam turned to Mitch. “Can you make sure he sees Jay? I’m pretty certain he cracked a couple ribs and has a concussion. Jay can also stitch up that gash over his brow,” she told him, trying to communicate with her eyes how important it was that he insist on this.

  Mitch glanced from her to Jack. “I don’t know what the hell is going on between you two, but I think it would be best if you stayed,” Mitch told her in a low voice. “I’ve known him for years, and I’ve never seen him like this. If you leave now, it’s only going to escalate.”

  Sam remained silent for a moment, debating.

  “Fine,” she finally agreed, pushing Mitch gently toward the locker rooms where Jack had gone. “Just get him to see Jay.”

  *

  October—Minutes later

  West Loop, Chicago

  J A C K

  “You a regular fighter?” JR asked, gently testing Jack’s ribs. Jack struggled not to wince. He shook his head mutely, partially because he was too angry to talk to this man that Sam had been clinging to like Jack’s life had depended on it and partially because if he opened his mouth to talk, he’d probably just end up wheezing in agony. Better to keep the stoic, stony expression.

  “You did good up there,” JR continued as he checked Jack’s eyes for signs of a concussion. “That hook was something else.” He nodded as he finished checking the second eye. “I can stitch you up, or we can get you to one of the medical centers tonight. I know a couple of guys in plastics if you’d prefer—”

  “It’s fine,” Jack interrupted. “Let’s just do it now.”

  JR gave him a local anesthetic, chatting casually to distract him as he stitched up his brow and cleaned up the other cuts on his face. He had an easy-going bedside manner, and he seemed unconcerned with Jack’s lack of response. Jack struggled to continue disliking him, trying to conjure the visual of him with Samantha a few minutes ago to fuel his ire.

  As the adrenaline ebbed, the fatigue from the fight and the emotional turmoil of the past two weeks took its toll, making him drowsy even as he ached in ways he couldn’t have imagined. JR confirmed that he’d cracked two ribs, with bruising on a few others, and that he had a concussion. He recommended painkillers, offering to write up a prescription, but Jack refused, accepting a couple of horse-sized dosages of Tylenol in exchange.

  Mitch came in to make sure he was okay before thanking JR. “You want me to stay tonight or call Jaime to come over, you crazy sonofabitch?” Mitch offered, his eyes crinkling with mirth.

  Jack shook his head. “He’ll freak.”

  “Yeah, no shit, he’ll freak. It’ll be all over the papers tomorrow,” Mitch informed him. “I’ve already gotten calls asking for confirmation it was you in all the videos and pictures that made it onto the Internet. You want me to call your family before they find out from the Tribune?”

  Jack nodded, a little ashamed to be foisting that responsibility onto Mitch, but he was practically a member of the Roman clan. If Jack had been beaten unconscious, the burden of communication would have fallen on Mitch’s shoulders anyway. At least he had good news to share.

  Jack groaned a
s Mitch helped him into his track jacket. He was so exhausted and in so much pain that his eyes were swimming. And there was only one person he wanted—wanted more than anything—but he was so mad at her for making him feel that way. He loathed feeling raw and hurt and vulnerable. He hated it. He half-wondered if he hated her.

  Most of the gym’s lights were off by the time he came out of the locker room with Mitch. JR was long gone, as were most of the men who had watched the fight, leaving Manny, Vidal, and a few others standing around, talking.

  Jack walked up to Vic Vidal, shaking his hand. “That was the fight of my life, man,” he admitted. “I grew up boxing, but this was the toughest match I’ve ever had. It was an honor.”

  “Anytime,” Vidal replied, a smirk on his cut lips. “Though I plan to kick your ass next time. You’re not bad for an old man,” he joked, rubbing his swollen jaw.

  “You crazy pendejo!” Manny exclaimed, clapping Jack on the back. “I couldn’t believe it when you asked me to organize this! You keep training, and you can give up that real estate gig and go on the road!”

  Jack chuckled, though it pained him. “No fucking way, man. I learned my lesson. I won’t be able to breathe without hurting for weeks.”

  Samantha stepped into one of the spotlights, a few paces away, looking like the Angel of Wrath in the darkened gym, swathed in a fine ivory dress and coat, her dark hair loose around her shoulders. Her eyes were bright with anger, though her face remained impassive. The silence between them hung heavy and static like the ominous atmosphere before a summer storm as they stared each other down.

  Manny and Mitch glanced between them, sensing the strain.

  “Aww, come on, boss,” Talon said, clapping a hand to Jack’s shoulder. “Our guy did good. He’s been training like a monster—”

  “You knew about this?” she asked, her voice low and cold.

  Talon shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “Not ’til today. I just figured, the way he was working out—” he rubbed the back of his neck, glancing at Jack. “Looked like he was getting ready for something.”

  Rush came with a gel pack, slapping it into Jack’s hand. “For your face. You’re gonna look pretty horrifying tomorrow morning.”