“Bullshit.”
“It’s just fuckin’ clothes, man,” I say. I swing it in front, unzip it a little, show him. “Just dirty clothes.”
He snatches it, or tries to. I jerk it back, snatching it from his grip. I see his punch coming, dodge it, smash my fist as hard as I can into his throat. He gurgles, and shuffles backward.
I know what’s coming next. I dance backwards, drop my bag and stand on the strap. They’re closing in, all five of them. One swings, I dodge it and return the punch, but another fist is incoming at the same time and I can’t dodge both. I ain’t Jackie Chan, that’s for sure. It’s a sucker punch to the back of my head, and it sends me sprawling. I roll, catch a kick to the kidney before I can get back up.
It gets nasty, after that.
I give all I’ve got. I lay them out, knock teeth out of skulls and balls up into crotches. I take knock after knock and keep getting up. I’m drooling blood and feel a tooth loosen. I gasp for breath, peering blearily, woozily at the scene around me. I’m sagging, staggering. One of them is standing over me. He shoves me, kicking me as I fall, sending me flying. I can’t fucking breathe.
Another kick. Seeing my bag, I grab it and haul it to me, curl around it. Kick after kick, rattling my bones and jarring my organs.
I hear a petrifying sound: a metallic slide, followed by a click. A gun being cocked.
“Leave his ass, dog. He ain’t shit.”
“Knocked my fuckin’ tooth out, the hell I’mma leave him alone.”
I scramble away, each movement an agony. I roll to my knees, struggle to my feet and spit more blood. All six are on their feet, staring at me. They’re all hurt and bloodied; I held my own, motherfuckers.
The one in front has a silver pistol in his hand, and it’s aimed at me. This is none of that movie bullshit where some thug holds the gun at a stupid sideways angle. He steps up to me, jams the barrel into my chest, grinds it hard. I stand my ground.
Blood pools in my mouth, and I spit it at my feet. Meet the gun wielder’s gaze. Wipe my chin on my arm. Stare him down. All but daring him to shoot me, basically.
“Come on, man. He ain’t worth it. Just a cracker in the wrong ’hood. Leave his ass.” The speaker urges his friend backward. I lift my chin. I’m scared fucking chicken, very literally shaking in my boots. But I don’t show it. I continue to stare them down, holding my bag in one hand. I spit more blood.
I swear I’m about to get shot.
But then an engine snarls and tires squeal. Eli, in his Buick, slides to a halt beside me and jumps out. He draws his pistol smoothly, holds it out, swinging it to point at each of the other guys in turn.
“Ya’ll know me. Back off. Ya’ll wanna start some shit with me, you’re startin’ shit with Train. Back…the fuck…off.” He says the last part through clenched teeth, stomping forward like he’s got a dozen armed friends at his back, rather than just bloody, fucked-up me.
They all back up, get into their SUV without turning their backs on Eli. He doesn’t lower his pistol until the black SUV is out of sight.
And then he whirls on me. “I fuckin’ told you stay put, motherfucker!”
“And you’ve been gone three days, Eli! There ain’t shit to eat in that place except fucking crackers, man! I’m hungry! I haven’t anything except that sandwich before the fight in over a week. I gotta eat.”
“You playin’?”
“Why the hell would I lie about that? You think I’d be fighting homeless bums for somewhere to sleep if I had anywhere to go? You think I’d venture out here on my own if I didn’t have to? I know what’s up. I knew I’d probably get jumped, and I did. But I gotta fuckin’ eat, and I didn’t know when you’d be back. I couldn’t wait for you.”
“You a crazy-ass motherfucker, you know that, Colt? They’d’a shot you if I hadn’t shown up.”
“Almost did shoot me.” I have to collapse backward against Eli’s car, sagging, breathing hard, clutching my ribs where they ache.
“You done fucked things up good, man. There’s a fight tonight. A big one. I got you booked to fight this cat named Moreno. He’s big trouble, real tough-ass mo-fo. I got a grand for you, bet five G’s on you to beat his ass. And now you go and get your ass kicked. What the fuck am I supposed to do now, man? I can’t back out.”
“Just get me something to eat. I’ll fight him and I’ll win. Just get me food and let me chill.”
“You just got your ass handed to you by six dudes. You gonna fight anyway?”
“I can’t afford to turn down a thousand bucks, Eli. I need my own place.”
He chuckles. “What, Maisy’s ain’t cuttin’ it for you?”
“Between the meth and the tricks, no, not really.”
Eli makes a surprised and unhappy face. “That dumb bitch is hookin’ again? I told her to quit that shit. I told her I’d take care of her.”
“Didn’t get the memo, I guess. Seven or eight in the last three days.”
His expression hardens. “I’m cuttin’ her shit off, then. She ain’t gettin’ shit from me, if she wanna turn tricks behind my back. Dumb-ass bitch.” He tucks his gun back into his waistband. “You need anything from her place?”
I shake my head. “I got my bag. Wasn’t about to leave it there.”
“Smart.” He jerks his head. “Let’s go.”
I climb gingerly into his car, sag back against the velvety upholstery. Just breathe, let him drive wherever he’s taking me. I must have dozed off, because I start awake when the engine shuts off. I rouse myself and glance around. Yet another part of New York, similar to everywhere else Eli’s taken me so far. Whatever. It doesn’t matter where I am.
There’s a Chinese carry-out place, a gym, a liquor store, and a cell phone store, all in a row in a single building with apartments above. Eli leads the way to the door leading up to the apartments above the stores. Narrow stairway, wood-paneled wainscoting, the smell of Chinese food permeating the space. There is a short hallway with two doors, one on either side of the hall. Eli knocks on the door on the left and waits. I hear several locks being unlatched, then the door cracks open.
“Eli, ’sup, dog? Who you got with you?” Deep, deep, deep voice. Chasmic, syrupy.
“Rhino, this is Colt.” Eli steps aside so the person on the other side of the door can see me. I see nothing but inky skin and pot-reddened eyes and brown irises, a hint of scruff on a chin, a slice of forehead, a shaved head. “Colt, this is my boy Rhino.”
“He a fighter?” Rhino asks.
“Yeah. On the come-up. Needs somewhere to crash, and some technique.”
“Looks like you just lost a fight.”
“There were six of them,” I say.
A nod, understanding. Six-on-one is nasty odds for anyone. “You in trouble?” he asks, his eye on me, on my bruises and cuts.
“No.”
“Nobody looking for you?”
I shake my head. “Nope.”
That’s the sad truth, too. There isn’t anyone looking for me. They just let me go. Because I couldn’t meet their standards.
The door closes, a chain slides, unhooks, and the door opens again. “C’mon in, y’all.”
Holy fucking hell. I see why he’s called Rhino. Six-seven at least, probably close to four hundred pounds. Huge motherfucker. Scalp shaved bald, goatee scruff, gold chains around his neck, rings on his fingers. He’s wearing a pair of gym shorts and nothing else, displaying a physique that scares me a little. Or a lot. A layer of fat, but under that is enough muscle to deadlift a car off the ground. Tattoos, a dragon on his right arm, skulls, lettering, a face and “RIP” in tag lettering. Bullet hole scars, knife scars and a burn scar on his left forearm.
Rhino settles into a sagging La-Z-Boy recliner, the hinges and springs squeaking. There’s a brown couch, fuzzy and scratchy, the fabric pilling, cushions faded and dented by decades of butts. Eli and I sit down. A blunt the size of a stogie smolders in an ashtray on the battered coffee table, and Rhino lifts it, takes a
drag. Extends it to Eli, who smokes it and hands it to me.
“So why you stashin’ your boy here, Eli?” Rhino asks.
“Gotta go somewhere. Tried him at Maisy’s, but she back to hoein’ herself out again, so that ain’t gonna work.”
I really don’t know why Eli is doing this. Or why he cares.
“I just need somewhere to crash for a few nights. A couple fights, I’ll have enough for my own place.” I take the blunt as it circles back to me.
Rhino chuckles. “Couple fights and you done, huh?”
“That’s the plan.”
“That’s a stupid-ass plan.” He laughs again. “That ain’t how this game works, man. You don’t just quit. Especially not once the money starts addin’ up.”
Eli seems fidgety, nervous. “So, you in?”
Rhino lets the smoke roll out of his mouth in a thick cloud. He squints at Eli through the pall. “He wins, I get a cut. Fifteen percent.”
“Five.”
“Fuck you and yo’ cheap ass. Twelve.” Rhino passes the blunt to Eli.
Eli stares at the cherry, thinking. “Ten.”
“A’ight. Ten.” A glance at me. “You better fuckin’ win, white boy.”
Why do I keep hearing that? “I will.”
He palms his knees, pushes his bulk upright. “Best hit the gym, then. See what you got.” A glance at Eli. “He’s fighting tonight?”
“Yeah. He’s fighting Julio Moreno.”
Rhino just nods. “After the stomping you just took, that’s gonna be a bitch of a fight.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“You haven’t fought Moreno, yet.” A wicked grin. “You won’t be fine when that’s over with.”
“Very inspiring.”
Rhino chuckles. “You funny.” He extends his hand to Eli, and they slap palms, bump shoulders. “I’ll work with him. He can crash on the couch for a minute. I’ll bring him to the fight tonight.”
Eli nods. “Don’t get in any more fights unless you’re getting’ paid for it, you got it?” He points at me with his index finger, his expression serious. “I’m for real, man. You got a knack for finding trouble.”
“Hear you.”
Eli leaves, then, and Rhino vanishes, reappearing wearing a T-shirt with sleeves that have been ripped off. “Let’s head down to the gym.”
“You own the gym?” I ask, following him.
“Yeah.”
The place is in darkness; the shadows of weight machines are barely visible, but I can see a boxing ring, a speed bag setup, and a heavy bag. Rhino flips a few light switches and fluorescent lights hum and flicker on. It’s a small space, but all the equipment is newer and well maintained, the floors are clean and the walls have been recently painted.
He circles the ring and stops near the heavy bag. “Work the bag, lemme see what you got.”
I just stand there for a second, feeling awkward. “I’ve never worked in a gym before. I just…got in a lot of fights.”
He nods. “Which means you probably got no technique, and that’s what I want to see. Just hit the bag hard as you can.”
I go into a fighting stance, haul back and hit the bag with my right fist as hard as I muster. The thwack is loud, and the bag jumps back, wobbles and swings. My fist stings.
“Again. Just keep hitting it. Move around it.”
So I hit the bag. Left, right, cross, hook, uppercut. I throw everything I’ve got at it, moving in circles. I find a rhythm in it, and let myself flow. I duck, weave, bob and use my torso for momentum until I’m sweating and the bag is circling and swaying and bobbing.
“A’ight. Hold up.” Rhino assumes a loose approximation of a boxer’s stance. “You like this. Fists low, body facing straight on, almost standing, head up.” He pivots so his body is edge-on, puts his fists closer up near his face, crouches. Chin tucked, knees bent. “Gotta get low. Give ’em less to hit, and tuck your chin in so it don’t get clipped. That’s the fastest way to get knocked out.”
He moves closer to the bag and jabs. Just a light jab, but the bag is rocked farther back than I managed with my hardest punch. He glances at me, makes sure I’m watching him. “You’re using your body, you got that much right. But you ain’t using your legs. A good punch starts in your feet, way down in your motherfuckin’ toes, man. Push off with your foot, let that move in a line up through your hips, out through your arm.” He moves in a sideways crab walk, ducks low as if to dodge a swing, and then brings his fist around in a whistling arc. He hits the bag so fucking hard I think for a minute he’s split it open. “With a hit like that, you twist and, like I said, it’s gotta come from your feet. This may sound stupid, but I try to pretend I got the whole earth pushing up with me, twisting with me when I punch. Like the power is coming up from the ground and moving through me. Know what I’m sayin’?”
I nod. “Yeah, I get it.”
I crouch, twist sideways, tuck my chin in and try the jab. I push through my toes. My whole body moves forward with the punch. I feel the difference immediately, feel it in the way my body moves, in the way the punch feels, in the way the heavy bag is knocked backward. I let the bag swing, move away, circle around, duck under an imaginary punch and try to summon the power of the earth through my feet. I twist, push through my feet, push with my stomach and my shoulders and my knees and my elbow, and the impact is like a clap of thunder.
“You gettin’ it.” Rhino hits the bag with a flurry of punches, high and low, and cross and hook, and I realize how devastating it must be to fight a massive bruiser like him, especially with the speed and skill he’s showing. “Now you just gotta practice it until that kind of motion is automatic. Second nature, na’mean? Every hit, it comes way down low. You can take a hell of a beating, and you got naturally good technique, which is prolly how you won so far. Little bitta skill, little bitta natural ability, and lotta will to just stay on your feet, am I right?”
I nod. “You’re not wrong.”
“Well, you want to win regular, you gotta add a lot more skill. Fighting a mothafucka like Moreno, luck ain’t gonna cut it. Moreno is good. He’s got a rep as a winner, so if you can beat him, it’ll take you places. Get you big money fights. And that’s what you want. Big money fights bought me this gym.”
“You don’t fight anymore?”
He just laughs. “Hell nah. I got my gym, don’t need to fight no more.”
“So you quit, then.”
“I fought for four years before I quit. Saved all the money I won. Spent money on food and smoke, and that was about it. Saved it until I had enough to buy this place up with cash. You wanna get out, you gotta pay your dues. You don’t get out quick.” His expression is serious, hard. “You’re just gettin’ in, Colt. You got a lot of fighting ahead of you.”
That’s a sobering thought.
Chapter 6: Bad Shit
I dance and bounce around on the balls of my feet. I shake my fists and roll my shoulders and I wonder what in the ever-loving fuck I’ve gotten myself into. The man facing me is a predator. Lean, all sharp edges and hard muscles, cold dead eyes and a slight grin. Six feet tall, same as me, but probably ten pounds lighter. Long arms, quick feet. His fists are taped up to his forearms, and it’s clear he’s already fought at least once tonight, judging by the split, puffy lip and the tiny butterfly bandage over the bridge of his nose. He’s wearing a pair of loose shorts and nothing else, no socks or shoes, no shirt.
Ruiz is between us, stuffing cash from the bets into the back pocket of his loose, low-hanging khakis.
He glances at each of us. “No biting, no gouging.”
We’re facing each other now, standing up straight, both of us taking slow, even breaths, pushing all thoughts away, summoning the coldness necessary to beat the hell out of a stranger against whom you have no grudge. Julio smirks and says something in Spanish, something insulting, if the cackles and howls of the Spanish-speakers in the crowd is any indication.
“Insults work better if the person understands th
em,” I say.
He juts his chin at me. “You sure you wanna fight, gringo? Looks like somebody already wrecked you up.”
There’s nothing to say to that, so I just smack my fists together, knuckle on knuckle and spit on the floor. Truth is, I don’t want to fight. I want to lie down and go to sleep and not wake up for a week. I’m hurting. My ribs ache from taking those kicks, my jaw aches, a tooth is loose and my eyes are both black and yellow.
But I never back down. Not from anyone.
So I hold my chin up, work on looking aloof and arrogant. I ignore the pounding in my chest, the thrum of adrenaline and fear in my bloodstream, the slight shake to my hands as I clench them into fists.
Ruiz steps back, drops his arm between us. “Fight.”
Moreno is like greased goddamn lightning. He’s on me and hammering his fists into my gut with machine gun rapidity before I have a chance to even set my feet. And then he’s dancing back and weaving, feet working him around me like a dancer. A bob, a weave, a feint, and then he’s hooking a vicious right into my ribs and I’m gasping and seeing stars, and it hasn’t been six seconds yet. Goddamn.
Fuck this.
I curl down, root my feet in the earth, feel the ground under me like an anchor, and feel the blood haze settle over my brain.
Moreno ducks in, expecting to land another flurry of wicked slugs, but I’m faster than he is this time. He’s mid-punch, committed. I pivot, and his torso is wide open. I twist with the power of the rotating earth, grunt as I put all my force into it. I swing my arm, twist my hips, curl my torso around, haul my fist like a motherfucking freight train into Moreno’s liver.
He’s staggering backwards, stunned breathless by the raw, bone-crushing fury of the hit. No fucking mercy. I’m on him like a mauling bear, settling down into each punch and drawing colossal, primal vigor from the ground under my feet.
To his credit, he endures the battering I give him, and manages to deliver an elbow to my throat.
I gasp, and we’re both tottering backward, taking a breath.
And that’s when he changes shit on me. Instead of coming at me like I expect, fists flying, he darts forward, hops, and sends the ball of his left foot into my chest. I can’t breathe, and he’s spinning like a cyclone, and I can see the next kick coming but I can’t get out of the way. I manage to throw up a forearm, intercepting the kick; I’ll have a hell of a bruise there, that’s for damn sure.
Falling for Colton (Falling #5) Page 9