A Fighting Chance

by Sand, A. J.

  “I forgot how completely nerve-wracking it can be when you do multiple fights in a night. I don’t want you to think I’m not being supportive. It’s just too hard to watch you get punched.” She hugs me again when I put her down, and she flattens her hands on my chest. “And I guess I was wrong about you. Seemed like you handled tonight well.” Drew scrutinizes my injuries, which aren’t many, at least based on the ones she can see. My ribs hurt a little and I almost rolled my ankle when I was dodging a jab, but otherwise I’m strong enough to run if I need to.

  “Yeah. Followed all your tips. Quick and easy.” I didn’t panic after any of the fights, but I can’t detach myself from those other old feelings—that unnerving blend of loathing and loving being in the cage, the thrill that engulfs me when all I can hear is the rumble of the cheers, and my need to feel like I’m a part of something. It has a way of saturating me, and I have a habit of just letting it.

  “Jess, you’re bleeding…” She fishes napkins from Dulce out of her pocket, dabs them with water from a bottle, and wipes my neck. “Oh…” There’s dried blood on the napkins and she quickly tosses them to the grimy floor.

  “It’s not mine?” I gulp down.

  “There’s no cut there, so I don’t think so. But you are cut…” she says as she presses a Band-Aid to the stinging scratch on my cheek. Her hand lingers on the spot, and a faint tug of desire has me clenching my stomach. “Hey, I was thinking, we should be tourists tomorrow and check out Mexico City.” She smiles. Damn, the girl has a piercing stare, like her eyes are always searching out beyond what you allow her to see. But that’s Drew, innately defiant and perceptive. “Radio up? Windows down? What do you say?” For a moment, as I look at her, it’s just us, and I feel our history playing out on my skin, in my heart, and in my veins. It would be so easy to fall in love with her again…if I weren’t so in love with her already.

  But I remember that we have to lose each other all over again when she leaves, so I push four years and two separate lives between us. “I gotta rest the next few days.” I pull her hand off my face. “Go with Miguel.” I tap him on the shoulder. “Think you can show Drew around Mexico City tomorrow? Hit up the museums? See some cool places?” I don’t look back at her to see the disappointment that I know is there.

  Miguel reaches across me and takes Drew’s hand. “Hell yeah. I don’t come down here much, but we can Google fun stuff.”

  Suddenly the excited crowd shoves us forward, and I get a weird sense of déjà vu when the lights dim. The main event is starting. The announcer, who speaks as quickly as an auctioneer—not that I can understand it, anyway—shouts the name of the first fighter, as the guy jogs into the cage.

  “Ortiz-Peña guy. Arturo something,” Miguel explains. Arturo is a tall man with beady eyes who’s huffing out huge breaths and slapping his palms together. The lights go off completely and people shriek. The sound is exhilarating and chilling in the dark; it is the kind of noise that floods your body with vibrations.

  “Who’s he fighting?” I ask Miguel.

  “Who else?” he yells back. When the lights snap on, the place is transformed, going haywire as a hulking beast of a dude lurches through a crowd that parts for him in a biblical way. Everyone’s hands are cupped at their mouths, and they have to be shredding his eardrums right now, but his eyes are glued to Arturo.

  “Whoa…” I recognize him immediately, before the announcer confirms it. Cocodrilo. Even with his pockmarked skin and scar running diagonally from his hairline to his chin, women are pleading for his attention as he walks into the cage. One of them even grabs a chunk of his long black hair before he yanks his head away. The guy is a fucking brick wall. No, fuck that. An entire block of brick buildings. He reminds me of Duke, tall and wide, but I bet the similarities stop there.

  He’s wearing his signature green fighting shorts and gloves, and when he flexes his abnormally bulbous muscles, there’s an interstate highway map of veins all over them. The sight of him has me edgy. He wears his danger like skin. He goes to all eight sides of the cage and rattles the chain-links. The audience loves it, of course. When he snaps his teeth at Arturo, I see how he got his name. Almost every one of them is triangular, like they were filed into shape, and they are razor sharp at the points.

  “That’s Carlos Garcia,” I tell Drew. “He was pretty famous in underground circles when I was fighting. Still is, obviously. He’s a legend here in Mexico.” I’d heard one guy is paralyzed now from a kick that shattered part of his spine. And then Cocodrilo kept kicking.

  Drew’s hand bumps mine before her nails dig into my palm. “He’s scary-looking.” She’s right. Carlos is really fucking frightening, and in that way your instincts sense, when the hairs are standing on the back of your neck and chills are rushing down your spine. As he’s moving past our side of the cage, I notice the intricate web of tattoos covering his entire back. There’s the Grim Reaper, gray spirit-like figures floating up from dismembered body parts, and skeletal hands clawing up from underground.

  Totally fucking normal.

  A bikini-clad ring card girl takes a twirl around the cage with a ROUND ONE sign before she scrapes her fingers along Cocodrilo’s shoulder as she exits.

  “How much would Arturo get if he won?” I shout to Miguel over the blood thirst.

  He laughs awkwardly. “He’s not going to win, Jesse…”

  “Okay, how much would he win in theory?”

  “For beating Cocodrilo? A lot. Probably ends up being fifteen or twenty grand, U.S.” Wow, that would put us really far ahead. My wheels are spinning, rather recklessly I admit. Carlos weighs a whole other person more than I do, but a guy that big can’t be fast. It would be like boxing a Redwood. Okay, a Redwood that could snap my neck. Still, I think I could maneuver around him, deliver an unpredictable combo of hits, and get him in a painful hold to clinch the win. A theory. Just a theory. And theory and practice are two different things. But as I watch them touch gloves, I know I will never be able to convince myself not to fight him after tonight. Is it crazy to think I can beat him, though? Without the whole permanent injury thing?

  “Drew, can you watch him? Study him?” I ask.

  “Arturo?”

  “No. Cocodrilo.”

  She cinches her brows together. “Are you insane?” The bell dings before I can respond that I probably am. Both of us turn to the cage and see Arturo go from fine to fucked before I can blink. Carlos grabs him by the neck and slams his head into his left knee, sending a wave of blood flying. Arturo tries to protect his face but he gets Carlos’s knee again, several times. Carlos growls as he chucks him against the cage, and the impact is so hard it dents the shape of the chains.

  His reach is his strength. His arms are long, so the trick is to either fight him up close or not get caught. I guess no one told Arturo that because he is already trapped, and Carlos is ruthless in his attack. He’s not fast at all, so I’m right about that, but what he lacks in speed he makes up for in brutality. He cranks Arturo’s arm behind his back and roughly wrenches a few of his fingers. I can’t hear the bones cracking but I know they’re broken from the look of agony on Arturo’s face. Then Carlos pounds his head against the cage with one hand and slugs him in the back with a deluge of punches. Everyone is cheering, except for the sullen men on the opposite side. A stocky Hispanic man is screaming into the face of another man and gesturing at Arturo. I get the feeling that one way or another, Arturo is not going to be okay tomorrow.

  When Drew squeezes my hand and gasps, I turn my eyes back to the fight, which isn’t really much of one. Carlos releases Arturo, but it’s clear that he’s just doing it because he’s bored. The entertainment needs entertainment, too. Arturo collapses onto all fours, crawling with an anguished expression as he tries to get to the other side of the cage. He grips his side, where a large purple splotch has formed. I stare at Carlos, catch the amusement on his face, and I wonder if that’s how I used to look. The thought rakes my insides. Carlos is like some kin
d of inescapable nightmare come to life. My stomach bottoms out and my breaths quicken when he starts a slow walk toward Arturo. But instead of just cutting across the floor, he strolls around the edge of the cage, snapping his teeth and dragging his hand along the chain-links. As excruciating as it is for me to watch, I can’t grasp the situation from Arturo’s perspective, but I see the fear blazing in his eyes. Carlos bursts into laughter as Arturo, who is bleeding from multiple wounds on his face, scurries to another spot the closer he gets to him. Cocodrilo keeps his same pace the entire time, and Arturo just looks more desperate and terrified with each step.

  “Oh my God,” Drew whispers in a hoarse tone, “he’s…he’s…”

  “Hunting him,” I say, filling in. I gulp down and my mouth is so dry it hurts to swallow. “He’s hunting him.”

  Even though he’s not fast, for someone his size, Carlos’s movements aren’t lumbering. They’re actually smooth and slithery like a snake’s. When he suddenly switches directions and catches the unsuspecting Arturo, I suck in a sympathy breath, my heart ready to leap from my chest. Cocodrilo tosses him, and Arturo rolls to a stop onto his stomach. He stays flat and he looks dazed, while Carlos leans against the cage with the cruelest smile plastered on his face. The clock is counting down the round, but it feels like everything is happening in slow motion. Anywhere else, this would have been a knockout, but this isn’t anywhere else.

  I clench my trembling hands into fists. “Get up, Arturo. Get up!” I don’t even realize I’ve said it out loud until Drew turns her head. “Get up!” He’s just so helpless all I want to do is fight for him, because he won’t or can’t do it himself. I’m pretty sure he can’t hear me, but whatever is motivating him pushes him up to his elbows. Hope swells in my chest and I clap, wholly invested in his recovery. “Get! Up! Get up! Get the fuck up! Move, Arturo!” He pushes up again, to his knees this time, but dread as cold as ice seeps into my blood when Carlos takes his first step toward him. Fuck. Fuck. Fuuuuck.

  “Oh my God!” Drew slaps her palms over her eyes—something I’ve never seen her do during a fight before—and mine just won’t shut. The burn of a brewing panic attack steals air from my lungs when Carlos kicks Arturo back down.

  He’s tracking him all over the place again and kicking him in the ribs every time he tries to get up. There’s really no fight left in Arturo, just flight, and an escape is exactly what he won’t get. Carlos crushes Arturo’s injured hand under his heel. Each time he lifts his foot I get a glimpse of the bent, bleeding mess underneath. A knot of despair constricts my heart. As the crowd’s noise roars to the highest decibels I think it can reach before our eardrums explode, Carlos plants a knee on Arturo’s back and smashes his head into the canvas until I lose count. When Carlos bends one of his massive arms around Arturo’s neck, anxiety slashes my insides, and I feel like I’m ripping apart. Cocodrilo’s muscles relax as he eases up for just a second, but he tightens his hold again. He repeats this move over and over. Each time, Arturo struggles and sheer terror washes his skin pale. I have no doubt in my mind that Carlos could crack Arturo’s windpipe with barely a squeeze, and he’d enjoy it, but he likes Arturo’s fright much more. He likes taking him to that place where he almost blacks out, where he almost gives up hope. Carlos’s wide brown eyes whip around, and when they land on me, they’re blank. Not that they are simply empty of emotion but actually seem incapable of it.

  Just your run-of-the-mill psychopath.

  But something else shakes me, too. The last night I fought in Glory…I could’ve hurt Kerr like this. And maybe the reason I can’t really process what Arturo’s experiencing is because deep down I know I can relate to Carlos more. I know what holding power over another man feels like. I know how to drink his fear of you in. I know how a crowd’s electrifying praise becomes your heartbeat.

  Carlos’s gaze slams into Drew and a chill rolls down my spine, even though he looks at someone else right away. I still feel the need to lean her against me and fold my arms around her. “He’s torturing him and he’s going to kill him. I can’t watch anymore,” she says, with a sickened look. “I can’t. I…”

  “Me, neither.” I tap Miguel, refusing to look into that cage again. “We’re gonna go hang out in the back.” Drew and I are already moving, and I keep my focus on Miguel, afraid my eyes will stray back to the carnage.

  “Okay. Good. Me, too.” Miguel is sweating and red in the face, swamped by the same fear we are, so the three of us leave Arturo behind to fend for himself. Even though I doubt he’ll be able to do much more fending.

  CRAZY

  Drew pokes her head out from around the flimsy shower curtain in our hotel room. She pulls the curtain a little too far and her wet shoulder, side boob, and hip are exposed. Damn. I jerk my eyes away and turn on the faucet to wash my hands, trying to pretend I haven’t been staring as she showers. Sometimes what you can’t see, touch…fuck…is as enticing as what you can, and the visual of us against that tile wall has been plaguing me since I walked in here.

  “Jesse?”

  “Huh?”

  “Can you grab my razor and shaving cream?” She points to a plastic bag on the floor below the towel rack. I take out what she wants and walk to the tub.

  “Sorry, I was way in my thoughts…” I lick my lips as my gaze trails the little streams of water sliding down the curve of her waist and then her hip. I want to lick the drops off her stomach and her inner thighs. I don’t give a fuck how dangerous the water is here. My ex is gorgeous. And really sweet and caring. But, holy shit, she’s naked a foot away from me. And engaged. Engaaaaaged. I drag the word out in my head. Eyes up. Eyes up. Eyes up. Fuck. They don’t even make it past the part of her boob that’s visible.

  “Can’t get that fight out of your head, either?” Drew draws the curtain closed, but I’m glued to where I’m standing. She smoothes her hair back under the falling water then hikes her leg up onto the edge of the tub to shave. A hot tingle starts at the back of my neck and lands in my pants.

  “Yeah…” I say, but it’s more like I can’t get her out of my head. She let me in here to take a piss earlier, but I saw the curves of that body I don’t know anymore and then leaving became impossible.

  She has been in there for a while, like it’s hard to wash away what we saw tonight. When I was in there, I certainly couldn’t get clean enough. I already know that Kerr, José and the others I fought—their voices, their faces—are embedded too far down in me to reach anyway, but I don’t think you can ever really cleanse yourself of the destruction you wreak on other people.

  “Hey, let’s go out tonight,” I say loud enough for Miguel to hear out in the room. “We’re in Mexico City, and Miguel drove a long way to get here.” We’re on a tough mission, and tonight we have seen how bad it can get. It will probably get worse, and I need an outlet. I also want us to go out because I feel terrible for rejecting her sightseeing idea earlier. Drew could be a million other places right now, but she’s here helping me.

  She sticks her head out again—just her head—eyeing me suspiciously. “You don’t need to convince me. I heard a place called Las Sirenas is really good.”

  “Drew’s in. Miguel?” I yell out. “What about you?” Like I really have to ask.

  “I was hopeful! Got my clothes in my car!” Miguel shouts back.

  An hour later, we head to Polanco, a ritzy area with glimmering high-rise hotels and ornamental mansions, and go to Las Sirenas. We join a long line of diverse, chattering people at the entrance: stunning women in high heels and short sparkling dresses, guys in blazers and jeans checking them out, a group of literal new adults showing off their dance moves to each other, and even an older couple counting out the cover charge between them from their fanny packs. The various languages interweave, and I can barely pick out my own. If you ever want to see global unity in action, head to a nightclub in any big city.

  The cover is dirt cheap, and Drew gets in free because she’s a chick. Body heat and catchy Latin melodies
waft out when the bouncer waves us through. I really like the casual vibe inside. I’m dressed in a dark blue polo shirt and even darker jeans, and I fit right in. Las Sirenas isn’t overly designed or trying to be the coolest place. In fact, it sort of looks like a warehouse. Or maybe I’ve been in way too many abandoned places lately. It’s just disco balls, blinding lasers, and strobe lights bouncing over a writhing energetic crowd. The place is packed way past fire code regulation, and the live band is sweating just as much as the people dancing.

  “Cuban music,” Miguel explains as he checks out a group of women. “It’s really popular in Mexico.”

  “Oh, I needed this,” Drew says with a sigh as she links arms with both of us. I need to think of all the things about her that used to annoy me. It’s the only way to stop what’s happening. Shit, but all those things endeared her to me. And right now, I can’t help how seeing her smile makes me feel. It’s the best cure for a shitty night, and I keep glancing over at her, noting the way the short black dress she’s wearing fits over her shape, and loving it even more because she’s wearing Chucks and not heels. Drew’s also not wearing her engagement ring, and I can’t deny that it makes me happy. Miguel says it’s a work night, and he’s here to promote me, so I should have someone as attractive as Drew on my arm but still look attainable. Her ring would interfere with that, apparently. Maybe after my wins this plan will get me some more attention, but I can’t help thinking he has an ulterior motive.

  “Tequila!” Miguel says, more as a demand than a question, and then he leads us to the nearest bar. He shoves clear a space for the three of us, leaving a few annoyed people out of the view of the bartenders.

  When our three shots are served, Miguel tells the bartender to leave his tab open. Oh boy. Truthfully, I’m okay with pretending for one night that we’re just three friends boozing it up in Mexico City. And Drew in that dress will make me forget anything. After Miguel gestures for us to raise our shots, I say, “Here’s to being closer to our goal…sort of.” We clink glasses then tip them back, and I nearly cough it up again. I’m now convinced that this place is serving lighter fluid.