12 Rounds

by Lauren Hammond

  Joe puts pads on his hands and takes his place in front of me. “What did I tell ya?” I groan and roll my eyes. Joe whacks me upside of the head and repeats himself. “What did I tell ya? What are the three B’s? The three no-no’s before a fight?”

  I let out a frustrated sigh. “No broads, brawls, or booze.”

  Joe whacks me on the head again. “And how long is it going to take for you to get it through that thick, Irish head of yours, that those three B’s also apply to you?”

  A long damn time.

  I’m good with the no brawls part. I’ve learned to hold my temper when it comes to throwing punches at the random assholes of the world who piss me off.

  Just last week I had to hold back because some twat in a pearly mafia caddy was scamming on Connie’s turf. Do you believe the bastard was trying to sell blow that resembled fucking laundry detergent? Everyone around here knows Connie’s got the purest shit. And this piece of shit thinks he can upstage Connie with his Dreft? I had to regulate. At first I was nice about it. I said, “You can’t sell on this corner. Connor Doyle owns this corner. Scat.” And trust me, that’s nice for me. I could have been a dick and pulled the gat out from the back of my jeans and pistol whipped the bitch.

  I come back the next day and he’s there again. First off, driving a mafia caddy around and selling drugs out of it is like a red flag for the five-o. Either this cat was dropped on his head as a baby or he was the epitome of stupid. I told him to bounce, this time with a little more force and he calls me a worthless Irish prick. Do you fucking believe that shit? A worthless Irish prick? It took all three hundred pounds of Murph to hold me back.

  Even though, with Murph’s help on most occasions, I’ve kept the street scrapping under wraps. My two weaknesses are the broads and the booze.

  The broads because I love females and I love to fuck. And for some reason I can’t explain, the females love me…

  And my doggy style.

  The booze, well, Jamison…

  Need I say more?

  And usually when I have one of the two remaining b’s another one follows.

  Joe whacks me a third time and I scowl at him. “You need to cut this reckless behavior out, Sean.” He puts both hands up. The red pads blur in my vision. Joe squints through the crack in his hands and lowers the pads again. It’s like he’s trying to read me again or be all parental and shit. “You need help, kid? You know you can come to me if you need help.”

  I’d like to ask him if there’s a miracle time machine out there somewhere that could somehow help me rewind, and then erase the last seven years of my life, but I decide against it. Instead I say, “No Joe. I’m good.”

  We’re doing combinations tonight. My training regiment always varies. Joe likes to divide things up between, cardio, sparring, shadow boxing, and combinations.

  Right jab.

  Right jab.

  Left uppercut.

  Right hook.

  I say this under my breath, hoping Joe doesn’t hear me. “No one can help me.” I dug my own grave years ago.

  He doesn’t hear me. Joe raises his hands and I nail the red cushion-like pads with a series of jabs.

  ~ ~ ~

  A few hours later, I decide that I’m going to ignore the broads and booze portion of the three b’s rule one last time.

  Yeah…

  I’m not exactly the type who likes to follow the rules.

  I’d rather break them.

  I go to this tiny dive bar on the west side of town sometimes called, The Shady Grove. I feel like the booth in the back right corner is my private VIP lounge and the bartender knows my drink before I take my seat.

  I like dive bars.

  Despite the musty smell of smoke and the old drunks that sit on stools in front of the bar ordering their alcoholic beverage’s of choice with a garbled tongue, I like dive bars. They feel homey and have a relaxed atmosphere. You don’t have to get all dressed up, and you can drink a pitcher of beer with your dudes without having to worry about impressing anyone. Plus they play really good music. A lot of 70’s rock—the classics. Zepplin. Cream. Floyd. Skynard. None of that pop crap that makes your brain vibrate.

  “Sup Marty.” I nod at the short, bulky man who owns this piece of shit and he slides my drink toward me as I lean against the bar.

  Reaching into my back pocket, my fingers brush against cold metal and I stiffen. I forgot about my gun. I don’t want to look suspicious so I relax and pull out my wallet.

  Guns are a necessity when it comes to the brotherhood. You never know who’s out to get you, and you never know if you’re being followed. I always feel like I’m looking over my shoulder. I always feel like I’m being followed. Even if I’m not.

  Marty puts a thick, chubby hand out. “This one is on the house, Right Hook.” He picks up a white towel, wipes his hands, and announces, “The pride of Cleveland is in my bar!” A wide smile crawls across my face.

  “You act like I’ve never been here before,” I laugh.

  That’s right. I’m not like some of the other athletes who shall remain nameless that abandon their hometown. I don’t forget where I’ve come from. Well technically, I’m an immigrant from Ireland turned US citizen, but since I was seven years old Cleveland has been my home. I don’t remember much about Ireland. I figure that I was so young and I’ve been away so long that I’m not sure if I’ll ever remember what my life was like there.

  I snatch my drink from the bar and place a twenty dollar bill in its place. Even if my drink is free, I want to leave Marty a hefty tip. What can I say, the guy is good to me. And I’m one of those people that believes in treating people how they want to be treated.

  I start walking to my seat. “Hey Right hook?” one of the patrons shouts. I glance over my shoulder at a guy sitting at the bar, his face weathered with age, and tiny sprays of gray hair atop his bald head. A comb over. I wonder if that look will go out of style for old men. I dip my chin to the guy and he continues, “You gonna knock out Mullins with that famous right hook of yours?”

  I manage a grin. “You bet your ass I will.”

  A series of hoots and hollers fills up the small bar as I take a seat at my booth.

  Avery Mullins has wanted my title and belt ever since I got it. After all, he’s the guy I fought to win it. Weighing in at a buck eighty and standing over six feet tall, the guy was on the way to becoming a legend.

  He was 24-0.

  Was 24-0.

  Until I came along. The cocky prick even took to the television, at a press conference before the match, spewing fighting words like word vomit.

  Right-Hook Reilly is a pussy, he said.

  No street rat can box, he said.

  Well asshole, I’m pretty sure this street rat knocked your shit talkin’ ass out in the third round.

  I’ll never forget the look on his face.

  The knock out always plays in slow motion in my mind.

  Mullins big brown eyes bulged out, his lips pulled back. Droplets of sweat watered me like a sprinkler as my glove connected with his cheek, and I swear I heard his jaw crack when his head snapped to the side.

  His knees found the ring floor.

  He toppled over, his face planted into the floor with a grunt.

  You see, I don’t need to shit talk the guy I’m fighting.

  On television, in papers or magazines, or even to the public.

  Why?

  To shit talk is to bluff.

  I don’t bluff.

  I stroll into the ring and provide proof.

  I stare off in daze at the booth across from me. The red plastic covering is worn and faded in spots, and there are even chucks of plastic missing revealing white fluffs of cotton stuffing. My eyes break away from the booth and wander up to the ceiling.

  There are brown water spots decorating the used-to-be-white and now yellowed ceiling. Remnants of leaks and the bad winter storms we have in this part of Ohio. The plastic on the bench across from me crinkles and my att
ention shifts as I watch Murph, who is shaking his head, as he tries to stuff himself into the seat across from me. I frown then decide to bust his chops. Payback for him ratting me out to Joe. “Well, well,” I sing. “If it isn’t Murphy Ashley O’fallon.”

  Murph’s mom is one of those die-hard romance nuts. Right before she had him she went through some Gone With The Wind craze and well, a few weeks later, Murphy Ashley O’fallon was born.

  His round face reddens and he clenches his jaw, reaching across the table, trying to grab me by the shirt. “You dick.”

  I lean into the corner away from his grabby fingers and howl with laughter. I know he hates his middle name. At graduation he refused to put it in the program. “Maybe next time you won’t rat me out to my manager slash trainer.”

  “Shut the fuck up,” Murph scoffs in his deep, heavy voice. “You know I only said something cause I’m worried about you. You’re on a path of destruction.”

  “You sound like a fucking woman.” And Joe.

  “I’m serious, man.” Murph grips my shoulder and squeezes. “You’ve got something none of us have. A way out.”

  I wrench my shoulder away and drop my voice down to a hissing whisper, “You fucking crazy, man? Talking like that? I don’t know how many times it’s going to take me telling you this; There is no way out. It’s the brotherhood until you die.” I lower my head and look him in the eye. “You can’t talk about this shit in public places, Murph.” The big lug has a huge heart, but he hasn’t always been the brightest icicle light on the garage. “You know Connie has eyes and ears all over the place.”

  He does too. Sometimes it amazes me all the shit Connie knows. But that just goes to show you that a lot of the small businesses around here are dipping into his wallet. Meaning that he pays them a hefty amount of money for info. Once some young punk everyone called Sneaky Sammy talked about ratting out Connie to the feds and making a break for it. Two days later, Sneaky Sammy wasn’t so sneaky anymore.

  Sneaky Sammy was six feet under.

  He was a year younger than me.

  “Sean, first off. Connie doesn’t even know we come to this place,” he says. “Second, I know that Marty is Italian.” The Italians and the Irish don’t exactly run in the same circles.

  “Still,” I hiss. “You can never be too careful.”

  Murph eyes the half-empty glass of Cuervo in my right hand. “I see you didn’t listen to Joe anyway.”

  “Ease up, man.” I lean back into the corner of the booth and stretch out my arm, the drink in my hand. “This is my last hurrah.” Murph raises an eyebrow. He doesn’t believe me. “I’m serious,” I assure him. “After tonight, no more of the three b’s until after the fight.”

  Murph shakes his head. “You never listen.”

  “Murph, I swear.” He looks me in the eye. “One more thing,” a puzzled expression crosses over his features and I continue, “You tell Joe about this and I promise that every guy in this bar will know your middle name.” Sometimes you have to fight fire with fire.

  His face reddens. He clenches his jaw and forces out, “You wouldn’t.”

  I give him a serious look that says, Oh wouldn’t I? I never thought Murph would rat me out to Joe, but he did. Whether his intentions were decent or not, he ratted me out to my trainer, and I want to let him know that I can play the same game.

  “Fine,” he mutters and cracks his knuckles. “This is your one free-bee.”

  A brilliant smile curls on my lips and I nod at him. Now all I need is to find a broad.

  The bell on the bar door jingles. Three girls walk in and the tall, tan blonde in the center catches my eye.

  Short black mini skirt.

  Toned legs for days.

  Bingo.

  She casts a glance in my direction and flirtatiously bats her eye lashes. I nod at her, taking my bottom lip between my teeth before flashing her a cocky smile.

  Hello, sweetheart.

  You’ve just met your worst nightmare.

  Or your best wet dream.

  I think she’ll look real nice in my bed.

  Naked and sexy.

  Her legs spread eagle.

  Sprawled out on her back.

  She mingles with her friends for a moment, never taking her eyes off me, then all three of them make their way over to the booth.

  And the whole time she’s walking over I’ve got this image running through my mind about what her face might look like as I’m slamming her into the head board of my bed frame.

  I wonder if she’s kinky.

  Or if she likes it rough.

  Or if she’s one of those chocolates and flowers type of broads.

  I don’t do chocolates and flowers type of broads.

  I rake my tongue between my teeth and slide over on my side of the booth. Her friends wander over to the bar to order drinks. I’m wearing a cut off t-shirt and her wide brown eyes center on my bicep. “Ohhh,” she giggles. “I love your tattoo.”

  “Tattoos,” I correct her, but she doesn’t seem to care or hear me.

  She traces the tribal design that starts at the top of my shoulder blade and ends at my elbow. Her fingers slide up my neck and she brushes her fingertip against my labret piercing. “Sexy,” she breathes as she touches the metal ball. “Did that hurt?” Her voice is soft but sultry.

  No sweetheart, it didn’t hurt.

  But I’m about to hurt you.

  Real good.

  “Hell, no.” I toss her a wide smile complete with perfect teeth and dimples then flash Murph a knowing look. He’s trying to hold back a laugh, but isn’t doing a very good job. His lips make weird noises and he brings his hand up to his mouth to hide his laughter, and and out of the corner of my eye, I look to see if Blondie has caught on.

  She hasn’t. She’s too busy touching my arm and staring at my tats.

  Yeah…

  Murph and I both know that this broad is not a chocolates and flowers type of lady.

  And that in a few hours, I’m about to destroy her.

  Three cheers for last hurrah’s.

  Because mine is going to be fucking memorable.

  Chapter Five

  ~Sean~

  I’ve made a few investments since my fights actually started paying off. I mean I made a decent living when I was running drugs, but it’s not even remotely close to what I made at my title fight.

  Most of my investments are in real estate. I’ve got a house on Lake Erie and another one in a rural subarb right outside the city, but I also keep my old condo. And the other three in the building because after my title fight I bought it.

  But by far, the most important and worthwhile investment I’ve ever made is my sister Tee’s college education. I can’t wait to see her graduate. She’s only got two years left for her under grad and she just informed me last week that she wants to go for her masters.

  Tee has always been smart. Not that I’m not, it’s just Tee has always had a thirst for knowledge. She aims to get to the bottom of every problem. Every equation. And she works damn hard to keep her grades up.

  She’s like my Ma.

  My ma was a smart woman.

  I miss her every damn day.

  I stare at her picture on my nightstand. Then I roll my eyes over to the bare-naked ass of the broad lying in bed next to me. If Ma were alive she'd be scowling at me right now. I assume that she's probably rolling over in her grave. The bimbo's bottled blonde hair is splayed out over my pillow and her soft breathing fills up my twelve by twelve foot bedroom.

  And the sound of it is annoying the fuck out of me. Cupping my hand I slap my palm to her kneedable ass cheek and say, “Get up.”

  She lifts her head and squints. Mascara and whatever other eye make-up she wore last night is smudged around her eyes in circles. The bitch looks like a fucking raccoon. “What a nice wake up call,” she groans sarcastically and rolls over, “aren't you romantic?”

  “Sweetheart,” I say as I pull on my gray sweatpants, “I never promi
sed you romance. What I promised you was a decent lay and a place to crash for the night.” I walk over to my oak dresser to pull out a matching gray hoodie and slide it over my head. “Now I've got a training session and I don't let broads stay in my apartment while I'm not here.” Hell, it's a rarity that I let them share my bed. Last night was an exception. There was way too much tequila involved. I make a mental note to steer clear of Mr. Cuervo for a while. He tends to alter my perception of bangable coeds.

  A lot.

  The girl sits up and my eyes sweep over the back of her. She has a tight little body. Tanned skin. Round ass. She stands. I admire her legs. Hmm toned. Not an ounce of cellulite anywhere. Not that cellulite really bothers me too much. I actually prefer shapely woman. There's something sexy about curves on a broad. The ones that are too skinny, like this one, well, I always feel like I'm going to snap them in half like a twig while I'm fucking them. Mostly because I tend to get rough. Sometimes a little too rough. Where's the fun in fucking if the fucker can't slam the fuckee into a wall or two?

  Once a girl asked me to make love to her. I'm pretty sure I snorted. Or cussed. Or wound up clutching my side I was laughing so hard. I don't make love. I fuck. There's a difference. Making love is for pussies. Or people who care. I'm neither one of those things.

  Don't get me wrong I'm not a completely heartless dick. I just don't see the point in relationships. Or getting overly involved with members of the opposite sex. But I will say that at least I’m honest when I enter into a one night stand with a broad. I don’t make promises. I don’t lead them on or let them believe that the one night of fun we shared was something more than it was.

  Most of the females I pick up, I fuck a few times. Maybe five at the most. Then I send them packing. It's not that I want to be a douche bag. It's that I have to be. Attachments are dangerous for someone like me. Especially with what I'm involved in. Meaning the Braithreachas. Too many people die only a daily basis because of some of the shit we're mixed up in, and I'm not interested in getting anyone else hurt. And on top of that, I’ve never really been with a broad who I’ve had a connection with.