Cruz (Diablo's Throne MMA)

by H. J. Bellus

  My muscles scream at me all the while Cruz’s bed sings out my name, but instead, I rush into clean clothes. They smell like Cruz’s new cologne—a mixture of leather, a hint of sweet orange, and lots of sex. I could bathe in it. I pull on my Diablo’s Throne sweatshirt and step into a pair of tight black yoga pants. I swear, me in the gym in one of Cruz’s favorite outfits is an extreme exercise in mental strength training for the man.

  I rush into the kitchen, finishing tying up my hair in a loose, messy bun. It will be extra curly tonight for the fight, the way Cruz likes it. I grab the last Pop-Tart from the box and race down the steps. With extra time put into the new gym clothing line, I’ve been swamped in paperwork and lining up the final fight here at the gym.

  The familiar sounds of the gym echo up and down the stairway as I jog down them shoving half of the Pop-Tart in my mouth. I make one step toward the desk and hear my papi hollering my name. The boom of his voice brings everyone to a standstill.

  “Jesus, Papi,” I whisper to myself and shake my head.

  He strides over to me, sweat beads running down his face. “Did you see the deposit I left on the desk?”

  “Since I haven’t made it to the desk odds are not in your favor, old man.” I give him the full bratty head twist and wrinkle of the nose.

  This gains me a smile. “Don’t be a smartass, little one. Need you to run that to the bank.”

  I glance at the oversized clock on the wall and notice I have six minutes to make it to the bank. I groan. I just showered for Christ’s sakes. The bank is only four blocks down the road. No sense in driving there. And with my time limits, it’s going to be a brisk walk slow jog combo type of action.

  “On it.” I pat his shoulder, beginning to walk off.

  Papi catches my wrist pulling me back to his chest. He wraps his arms around me, giving me one of his famous hugs finishing it off with a kiss to the top of my head.

  “Have I told you lately how damn proud I am of you, kid?”

  I look up to the strongest man I know and twist my lips. “No.”

  “Well, I am. You have this gym thrumming with life with new additions, and you’ve pushed yourself mentally and physically. That shit is brutal. You are doing it. I’m damn proud of you, sis.”

  A genuine smile covers my face. I wink at Papi and sprint to the desk. I’m out the door jogging down the sidewalk and realize I never even looked for Cruz. I stop and damn near turn around to send him a wink, but think better of it. Papi was damn serious about getting this deposit to the bank on time. I’ve been pushing for online banking with Papi. The saying “can’t teach an old dog a new trick” fits well in this circumstance.

  I swing open the door to the bank with one minute to spare. I save the happy victory dance ready to burst out of me at the sight of the disgruntled workers sending me daggers. I’ll never understand people who work by the clock instead of doing a good job. I take it upon myself to leisurely stride over to the cashier. Yeah, it doesn’t give me any bonus points at all.

  The door locks behind me the second I step out.

  “Assholes,” I mutter, folding Papi’s receipt and tucking it in my pocket.

  An old familiar sign grips my attention. Abuela’s store. The only one she’d shop at. She went every Wednesday and had the same damn shopping list. Before I realize it, I’m crossing the street and opening the doors.

  “Dios Mio. Is that really you, Layla?” Maria steps out from behind the counter, repeating the same question over and over again in Spanish.

  “Yes.” I smile and step into her hug.

  “Oh, sweet child. How have you been?” she asks in Spanish.

  “I’m good. Really good.” I have to get out the words before I lose the courage to speak them. “Yo quiero hacer tamales como mi abuela.”

  “Sí. Sí.” She’s off going up and down the aisles before I get another word out. Maria’s eyes lit up when I asked her to help me gather the items for Abuela’s tamales. She rattles off in Spanish reminding me not to miss certain steps. Maria has my basket filled in no less than five minutes.

  “I charge to your papi’s account.” Maria plugs in all the items and writes down the total in her worn notebook.

  She rounds the corner, grabs my two hands, and bows her head then begins praying for me in Spanish, her voice so reverent and gentle. Even though she’s a fragile elderly woman, she’s strong and fierce. More powerful than anyone else. Tears prick at the corner of my eyes. I don’t let them fall while mumbling the final lines to the prayer in Spanish.

  The four plastic bags dangle on my wrist while crossing the street. I’m lost in the magical moment of Maria’s shop, not paying attention to my surroundings. My Nike catches on the lip of the curb sending me sailing forward. I manage to get myself upright before eating a mouthful of sidewalk.

  “Holy shit that was close,” I whisper to myself.

  “Yeah, it was,” a deep voice booms the same time a strong hand wraps around my bicep, jerking me into the alleyway.

  “Hey,” I holler.

  The person doesn’t stop. The grocery bags dangling from my wrists make it impossible for me to send punches at my assailant. The person’s pace quickens. I fall to my knees. The harsh and gritty surface of the asphalt slices right through the material of my yoga pants. I gasp in pain as it shoots up my spine.

  Once whoever is dragging me stops, my whole body flops to the filthy ground. I scamper. I sit back, fighting to gain my bearings. But my arms are tangled up in a bunch of bags. When I brush the fallen hair out of my face, I look up to see Ash. My blood runs cold, a downright terrifying sensation thrumming throughout me.

  Ash never laid a hand on me when we were together. He reaches down and grabs me by the front of my sweatshirt, yanking me up.

  He shows no remorse. Each of his actions are calculated and evil. “Have you told him about our baby yet?”

  “What are you doing, Ash?” I flinch when he throws his leg back.

  The toe of his boot collides into my side taking my breath away. His evil laughter fills the hollows of the alleyway.

  “I’m asking you a fucking question, Layla. Answer me. Have you told him about the baby?”

  I let the shopping bags tumble to the ground and stare him dead in the eyes, rising to my feet. I will not show fear. He can be as mean as he wants, and hell, even throw a few punches, but I will not give in and show fear.

  I straighten my shoulders. “It’s none of your fucking business, Ash.”

  Before I have the chance to step back, he grabs my sweatshirt, yanking me toward him, and spins me around, slamming my back against the brick wall. Pain radiates through me from my scalp down to the tips of my toes.

  Ash gets right up in my face. Spit sprays out with each word he speaks. It strikes my skin.

  “It is my goddamn business, Layla. My baby that was made with you. I want to know that you fucking told your new boy toy about our fucking baby. I will not repeat myself, Layla.”

  The training from the gym comes to me as clear as a still yet silent and powerful body of crystal water. I know what to do. I calm my breathing, smile at him, and take a second to gain my bearings. I hike my knee up with such force that he doesn’t see it coming. He moves at the right time. My knee connects with his thigh. It’s enough to throw him off. I try to get in a few more punches. I land one right to his throat, stunning him.

  I recognize my mistake right away. It hurts him. But even more it pisses him off. Ash sets off in a fit of rage, a type I’ve never seen before.

  “Let me go.” I struggle against his grip.

  “You cunt.” In a flash, Ash drops his forehead to mine, knocking it hard. “You were supposed to get an abortion, but the almighty Layla could never play by anyone else’s rules. You were always such a stuck-up bitch.”

  “Why are you doing this?” Emotion and tears catch up with me, haunting each word.

  “Because you made me look like a fool. Now you’re back shacking up with my competition. The on
ly way to him is through you, Layla. And trust me, he’s going to get the message loud and clear when I’m done with you.” He reaches down with one hand undoing his jeans while he keeps his other hand clutched to my throat. “Going to take what’s fucking mine.”

  Panic settles in. This isn’t a mind game. He’s for real. Ash has lost his fucking mind. Gone mad. And I’m his target. I fight back with everything I have, kicking and thrashing around. Movement in the corner of the alley catches my attention. There’s two more bodies in the corner watching all of this.

  I squint my eyes until they come into focus while continuing to fight Ash off. My mom. His dad. I go to open my mouth to scream for help. A mangled yelp expels from me. Ash tightens his grip.

  “Enough, Ash.” His dad steps up to us. “You’ve made your point.”

  Ash ignores his dad, smacking me around while trying to get his pants down.

  “Mom,” I plead. It comes out as a wheeze. “Help me.”

  She turns her face, ignoring me completely as if I was a stranger to her and not her blood.

  “She came back here because we paid her to. Knew it would get under Boss’ skin. Had to rattle the fucker to distract him.”

  Nobody is going to help me. Ash is going to hurt me. I have no options left, so I stare down the fucker using words to cripple him.

  “You’ve always played dirty, the only way you can win. You are scared of him. Cruz. He’s going to beat you. You have no fucking chance, Ash.”

  My words do the trick, hurting him as much as he’s inflicting pain on me. He retaliates with his fist, landing blow after blow on my face, stomach, and directly to my sternum. His rage distracts him from raping me. My mom steps back while his dad struggles to pull Ash off of me.

  “Enough. You’re ruining everything, son. You were going to scare her into leaving Cruz. Not this. You’re fucking it all up.”

  Ash elbows his dad sending him backward then focuses all his attention on me. My whole body grows numb. The pain fades away while warm liquid trickles down my face marring my vision until everything goes black.

  Chapter 23

  Cruz

  “Layla make it back?” I lean on the counter taking a long pull from my water bottle.

  “Should have. She left hours ago.” Boss doesn’t look up from the paperwork he’s studying. “Knowing that girl she probably got distracted. Just hope she got the deposit to the bank on time.”

  “That’s not like her,” I mumble, setting my water jug back on the counter.

  This gets Boss’ attention. He peers up to me, raising an eyebrow. “She’s my daughter. I’d know.”

  “Got me there.” I raise both hands in the air.

  “Sure she got some wild hair up her ass.” He goes back to his paperwork.

  “Going to hit the shower in the locker rooms. Tell her where I am if she comes back.” I tap the counter.

  “Got it, Romeo.” He flips the papers he’s reading.

  The first thing I do when I get back to the locker room is find my phone. Nothing from Layla. An unsettling chill sets in. Something isn’t right.

  “Where are you, baby?” I mumble to myself.

  I send her a text then flip on the shower. I wait for it to warm up and send another text. My mind is so fogged with the worry setting in I don’t remember if I washed my hair or not. Once the droplets of water have been wiped from my face, I grab my phone. Nothing except the texts I sent.

  Me: Babe, twenty minutes and I’m done.

  Me: Done.

  Me: Where are you?

  Me: Getting worried here.

  Me: Ten minutes then I’m sending out the search party.

  Seeing no reaction, the panic settles in and takes over. I dry off as fast as I can and hop into clothes. It’s not until I’m jogging down the hallway I realize I’m in my dirty workout gear. I don’t stop until I make it back to Boss’ desk.

  “She back?”

  “No.” He stands from his office chair.

  “Something’s wrong. She hasn’t responded to my texts.”

  “Calm down, Cruz.” He picks up his phone and puts it to his ear.

  The rings echo around the gym followed by Layla’s goofy greeting.

  “Hello? Hello? Hey, you there? Hellllooo.”

  The familiar greeting that’s got me so many damn times. Boss’ face grows a shade lighter. I can see his desperate worry settle in. It’s enough to make me panic.

  “What do we do?” I pace back and forth hoping the action brings me an idea.

  “Jag, Jett, Blake…” Boss hollers out name after name.

  Fighters come jogging. Boss wastes no time telling them what to do.

  “Layla hasn’t returned since taking the check to the bank. She’s not answering her phone. We need to find her. I want half of you on foot and the rest in your goddamn vehicles searching for her. Call me,” he thumps his chest, “when you find her.”

  We take our own directions busting out the front door. I head toward the bank. The sidewalk is vacant. I was hoping to find her visiting with an old friend. No such luck. I race to the bank and nothing. I cross the street peering into open businesses. Nothing.

  “Help! Someone help! Call 911!” Jag’s voice echoes through the streets. Each word radiates in a different direction.

  I sprint to the place where I think it’s coming from.

  “Jag, where are you?” I roar, not stopping.

  “Here.” The one word rings out from an alleyway.

  I turn down it and make out Jag’s slumped form through the dim light.

  “You hurt?” I run up behind him.

  “Back!” He pushes on my chest. “Back! Call 911 now!”

  “Jag.” I throw my arms up in the air.

  “Now.” He keeps his arm planted on my chest.

  I rip it away and toss him my phone. My world crumbles. Layla’s beaten and broken body lies before me. Her eyes are shut and blood pools around her head.

  “Baby.” I drop to my knees. “Oh my God, baby.”

  I know better than to move her even though the only thing I want to do is cradle her to me. Instead, I slump over framing her face with my forearm.

  “I’m here. I’m here. Layla, open your eyes!” I rock back and forth not moving her. “Jag is getting help. C’mon, baby.”

  A muted voice in the background telling our location is no reassurance at all.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  Siren sounds grow closer also offering no comfort. I turn my head enough to see Jag running to the mouth of alleyway flagging down help. Paramedics trail him down the filthy, unkempt shithole. One of them pushes me back. I go without a fight, sliding back into a pool of Layla’s dark crimson blood.

  “No one in the ambulance,” someone orders.

  “Fuck that,” Boss roars.

  There’s a commotion that doesn’t last long. The ambulance rips away from the street fifty feet away.

  “C’mon, man.” Jag jerks my shoulder.

  I don’t move.

  “Cruz, let’s go.”

  I don’t move.

  “Motherfucker.” He swings his fist toward my face. His fist grazes right above my eye, stinging like a bitch. “You fucking bastard.”

  He jerks me up into a standing position using my shirt and gifts me with an uppercut.

  “Get it together!” He shakes my shoulders. “Layla needs us.”

  “Di-did you see her?”

  “Yeah, motherfucker, I did. She’s a damn fighter.”

  It’s true. She is. I take one step at a time focusing on the movement until we are in Jag’s truck speeding to the hospital. It’s not lost on me as we pull up to the emergency room entrance that this is the place I met Layla. It was one of the worst days of her life. I stood by watching her and her dad’s world crumble. I was there to catch her; our story unfolded from there.

  The smell of a hospital is the first thing I tend to pick up on. There’s nothing. All the background noise is muted. The wall
s and images upon them begin to blur together.

  “Here.” Jag catches my elbow tugging me into a waiting room.

  Fighters line the wall. Boss sits closest to the door, blood all over him. He looks like the victim if you walked into this scene. And maybe, in the end, he will be the victim. I lean on the wall near the door and don’t say a word because there’s nothing to say. Every single thing is torn from us in these moments of silence.

  The woman who breathed life back into me and the gym is now fighting for her life. I bang my head back on the wall, struggling to digest all of it. No pain registers as I stare down at her blood on my knuckles. It’s the part of my life that plays out in a slow-motion reel. Every single touch, kiss, laugh, and warm embrace flashes before my vision. My lungs constrict, the oxygen becoming less and less. I’m about to pass out until one memory strikes me harder than any punch or jab I’ve taken.

  Layla lying against my side immersed in Dad’s notebook. She soaked up every single detail on the page like it was a lifeline.

  Long moments. I have no clue if minutes or hours pass until the first person speaks. It’s not one of us. A woman busts in the door in a manic state, rambling on about something.

  “Dexter!” She throws her hands up in the air. “Dexter!”

  Boss is up on his feet with fire lighting up his eyes. I go to him, pulling him back until he falls into my chest. I’d recognize that gleam anywhere; he was ready to throw down no matter if it was a woman approaching.

  “Get the fuck out!” he roars, trying to throw a few swings.

  “Dexter!” Her screams win out. “Listen to me.”

  “Fuck off,” he bellows back. “You walked out on her years ago.”

  It’s then I recognize Layla’s mother. I almost let go of him, letting Boss shred her like she deserves. Something stops me. It’s the panic and urgency dancing in her eyes. The same hue and shape of her daughter’s. It guts me. Everything inside of me wants to let go. Yet I know in the back of my mind Boss would kill her. He would without a shadow of a doubt.