by Ginger Scott
I think what really made the world shift for me today though was the feeling of driving myself back home—in my car. I was careful, always right at the speed limit, several lengths away from the cars in front of or behind me. Nothing was going to touch my car. No scratches, no dings. Not even the threat of a hard break to throw the alignment out of whack.
She sang for me on the highway as I drove home in the late afternoon sun. The engine purred with every mile, the rumble of the road below me, and the angry tires still with plenty of tread, gripped the road. One day soon—when I’m comfortable again—I’m going to take her out in the country and open her up.
For now, though, I think I’ll just enjoy driving her with the same amount of zeal that my grandfather would have behind the wheel.
Nice and easy.
Trent is leaving, locking up our front door as I pull up to park along the sidewalk, revving the engine until he can’t help but turn around.
I leave the motor running and step out to look at him over the top of the car, my hands flat on the surface, loving it like it’s a woman.
“Please say you did not steal that,” he says, rolling a basketball from one hand to the other as he steps closer, admiring. This car demands attention, and I can tell it’s won over Trent’s heart just as it does every person with a penis.
“Ha ha, very funny. O fixed it up for me. Where you headed? I’ll give you a ride,” I say, twirling the keys like a teenager who just got his license. I might as well be.
Trent’s mouth quirks into a half grin, his eyes still on the shape of the car.
“Yeah, a’right. I’m going to shoot at the rec center. You wanna come?” He opens the door, letting out a soft whistle as he feels the weight of it as it swings wide. The car still needs some fixes—the interior is still a little rough and it could use an upgrade on the air conditioning and stereo system, but the body and the engine are levels beyond what I ever thought I would get them to.
I slide in and shut my door as Trent climbs in.
“I’m not up for shooting, but I’ll drive. I’ll take us to practice tomorrow too,” I say, pulling out slowly on our small side road.
“Fuck that shit, you’ll drive us everywhere from now on,” he says, looking in his side mirror. “Though…are you always going to drive like a fucking old woman?”
“Yes,” I say quickly, glancing to him, but only for a second. Eyes back on the road. “Yes I am.”
He chuckles, and I look both ways at the stop sign, checking my mirror for a sign of anyone behind us before I rev the engine once more and let the tires squeal just enough to give us a good jump off the line. I cut us off when I hit forty and back it down quickly to senior-citizen pace, but the thrill I feel from punching the gas, just a tiny bit, lets me know this careful habit—it won’t last forever.
“Hey, so that Harley dude from the gym stopped by earlier, said he tried calling you, but couldn’t get through,” Trent says. I pull my phone out and slide it on my lap, not looking until we hit the red light before the main road to campus. My phone was low when I left for my mom’s this morning; it must have died in the middle of the day.
“Did he say anything?”
My mind goes right to the list of bills I have due and the pathetic double-digit dollar amount I have in the bank right now. I don’t get paid for the before-school program until Friday, and even then, five hours of morning coloring with five-year-olds isn’t going to make a dent in my tuition bill. I’m not due to fight for him until later this month, but the thought that maybe he could use me a little earlier has me driving faster so I can say yes before he asks someone else.
“Nah. He just told me to tell you to stop by when you got home. He’s a weird dude,” Trent says. “He seems young to own a gym.”
“Yeah, but it’s not a very nice gym,” I say.
Trent’s never been. I’m pretty sure if he saw the sketchy warehouse set-up I spend time in, he’d start to question my sanity more than he does now. As scary as the gym is though, Harley is just the opposite. He comes off as a preppy young businessman from money, and that’s because that’s exactly what he is—on the outside. But he’s also connected, with people who help him make things happen, people who make large bets with him, and sometimes, for him—and the money always flows. If there’s ever a kink in the system, Harley makes sure it’s taken care of. He might dress like a lawyer, but he’s built like a fighter.
And when I do him a favor, I always get paid.
“Nice gym or not, junior Wall Street freaks me out a little,” he says as I pull up to the drop-off for the rec center on campus. Trent steps out onto the lighted walkway, girls in yoga pants and tank tops walk along behind him with mats rolled under their arms. I laugh to myself at how different this gym is from the one I’m about to drive to.
“I’ll be okay, Mom,” I yell through the open window.
Trent rolls his eyes, then starts dribbling as he turns and heads toward the building. As a new group of girls passes the car, I wait to see if they notice, glance my direction, take in the ride, and wonder about the driver. Only one of them does though, and not for long. Their attention is focused on my roommate about twenty feet ahead of them. As nice as my car is, it’s still nothing compared to the Captain America of hockey.
I leave Trent to be worshiped by sorority girls and head to the vacant row of buildings on the south side of town, circling Harley’s gym twice until I find a spot that doesn’t put my car right on the corner where some asshole could rear-end it. The sun is still up, but barely. I’m hoping Harley hasn’t left yet. I don’t know who he’s rolling out for rounds tonight, but I’m sure he’s leaving with someone soon.
The lights are on in the space, which gives me hope. I pound my palm on the rolling door when I hear voices, and after a few seconds, I see three pairs of feet appear underneath as it lifts. Music is playing in the background, the low thump of the stereo offset by the slapping sounds of gloves hitting hands.
“You finally check your damn messages?” Harley says. He’s dressed in his dark gray suit, like he always does for fight nights, his hair slicked back and his glasses tinted. He says it makes him look older, and I think he thinks it makes him look tougher. I always thought it just made him look like a pansy asshole. Honestly, the version of him I see at the gym—the one that walks around with his shirt off and lifts fifty-pound dumbbells, tossing them around the joint like they’re water bottles—is a shitload more intimidating. But Harley’s also never been screwed out of money, so maybe he knows some shit I don’t.
“Phone died, and I was at my ma’s. Sorry,” I answer, holding my phone up for proof. He slaps my hand.
“Put that shit away. I believe you,” he says, turning to face the guy standing in the ring working out with Bill, one of Harley’s head trainers. “Danny, he’s here. You can go ahead and bail. I’ll hit you with something in two weeks. Take care of that fuckin’ hand.”
The dude boxing in the ring is bald and looks a few years older than me, but we’re about the same size. He pulls the tape from his hand, twisting it into a ball that he throws in the trash, and nods at Harley in response. Bill comes over to look at me, leaning on the ropes with both arms.
“I don’t know, dude. You think we can roll him out there?” Bill asks.
Harley looks at him, his back to me still, and the silence means he must be making one of his faces at Bill, the kind that says shut the fuck up without the use of words. Bill leans forward and spits on the concrete floor, then looks at me.
“All right, boss. You know best,” he says, his grin either crooked from getting punched by Danny a few minutes earlier or because he’s snickering at me.
“Roll who out where?” I ask, ignoring Bill and hoping like hell this means payday for me.
“Pitch has a fight tonight. It’s kind of a big one, and I need it to look good, but I need Pitch to feel good—like he can kill in his next fight, ‘cuz that one will be real. He’s been off, so I need to get him right
again. Danny usually works with him, and he was going to go tonight, but that asshole hurt his hand doing some goddamned house project for his wife or whatever. You’re close to the right weight, and you’ve handled Pitch before,” he says, tossing a pair of shorts my way along with a backpack.
“If by handled you mean let him knock my front teeth loose and deviate my septum,” I say. I need money, but fuck—Pitch could honestly kill me if he tried hard enough.
“Funny septum joke. I like it. Look, it’s late and I just sent Danny home. Are you in or are you going to fuck me over? Because if you’re going to fuck me over, you can just get out of here and find a new place to work out your juvenile-aggression shit or whatever it is you do when you come here.”
I swallow hard, and I know he sees it. I can’t cut myself loose from Harley—I need both the money and the pain, and I think he knows it. I nod and sit on the folding chair to pull out my gear from the backpack.
“Where’s this thing at?” I ask, my tongue in my cheek as I check the gloves, tape and mouth guard to make sure everything looks ready, wishing there was armor buried in that bag, too, for the massive stomach shots Pitch always likes to land.
“It’s by Cicero, just down the street from Union. You can ride with us,” he says.
“I’m good. I got a car,” I say, wrapping my wrists and hands early, cutting the tape with my teeth.
“Well look who finally grew up and got himself a license,” Harley teases.
“I’ve had a license, asshole. My car’s just back from the dead finally. And I have work and practice in the morning, so I wanna head home right after we’re done,” I say, looking up to notice Harley and Bill have already made it to the back door to leave, not bothering to listen to me—not really giving a shit, more likely.
“We’ll pull around; you can follow us,” Bill says as the door shuts behind them.
“Oh, you’re welcome, Harley. Always happy to help out. I’m sure I’ll love getting my ass kicked for thirty minutes in front of an angry, drunken crowd. This all sounds super,” I whisper, chuckling to myself as I grab the rest of my things and walk back through the sliding door, pulling it down behind me and tugging up to make sure it’s locked.
Actually, I’ll probably like it more than I’m willing to admit. And I know if it’s a Pitch fight, the pay is going to be pretty damn sweet too.
I toss my bag in the passenger seat and get in, pulling out as soon as I see Bill’s black Tahoe in front of me. I follow them down Lakeshore for the twenty minutes it takes to get to our highway, then manage to find their car again on Roosevelt after losing them in traffic. We stop near sixteenth, where the roads are packed with BMWs and Porsches parked illegally. I’m not sure who else is on the card, but if Pitch is going, I have a feeling a lot of these people are here for him. I hope they’ve come to drop some cash, and I hope like hell I can make it four rounds.
I find a spot near the exit reserved for the crew and Bill holds up a badge when one of the club owners tries to give me grief for parking there. He nods and waves me forward to join them.
“Thanks,” I say.
“Sweet ride. I’d park that shit somewhere close, too,” Bill says.
The back rooms are swelling with people, half of them women all waiting to get with one of the fighters for the night. They drag their hands over my body as I pass through the narrow, crowded spaces behind Harley and Bill until we slip into a training room near the main hallway to the ring. Most of the fights I’ve done have been in front of dozens—maybe a hundred people at the most. The crowd I hear through the brick and concrete walls sounds like it reaches close to a thousand.
“All right, here’s the deal,” Harley says, already running through texts and numbers on his phone. “You need to make it to four. You understand? Four.”
I nod. Shit, I hope I’m standing after four. My heart is pounding with the force of a boxer trying to break out from inside, and my body is drenched with sweat already. How ironic. I keep my game face on though and get to work, changing and prepping myself for whatever I’m about to step into.
“You go four, and we’re looking at eight K for the night, you feel me?” I don’t react on the outside much, just nodding that I hear him. Inside is a different story, because eight thousand dollars is about four times the amount I normally make at one of these. That also probably means my face is about to take four times the force from Pitch’s fist.
Tuition. Paid.
Insurance for six months. Paid.
Three months rent. Paid.
Shit, maybe with the money I make from coloring with kindergarteners in the mornings, I can take Lindsey out for a real date, like dinner and a movie or something.
Or…not take Lindsey on a date.
Not take Lindsey anywhere, and just disappear because I can’t take Emma somewhere. I don’t want to take Emma anywhere, but I also can’t let go now that I’ve found her. Fuck! I’ve managed to go the entire day without thinking about my problem—I’m stringing along a really nice girl I have absolutely no interest in. Of course, it all comes racing into my head now—minutes before I’m about to intentionally thrust myself into mayhem.
A good time for a distraction.
I pull my phone out and click it to check the time, but am greeted by nothing but a blank screen. Still dead. No music, nothing to read—only my fucked-up thoughts left to keep me company while I stand in a yellow-painted brick room that’s big enough to house a training table and a locker, but nothing else. The room starts to feel smaller with every minute that passes, and my heart begins to race more, sweat threatening to drip from my brow as my eyes dart from corner to corner, my ears perked and waiting for the knock to come. I need out. This room—it looks like Lake Crest.
I need out. I need out now!
I lie back and hold a towel over my eyes, the weight of my arm closing over one ear and blocking out any other light.
“You like getting hit, boy?” he says. “You like the way it feels? I’ll hit you again. I’ll hit you so hard you’ll fuckin’ cry yourself to sleep for a month, wishing you had a mommy and a daddy who gave a shit and didn’t send you to a place like this with a guy like me. I’ll set you straight. I bet you’ll never try shit like that with me again! When I give you a job, you do it!”
The voice in my head feels real, and I fling the towel away from my eyes and sit up swiftly, looking around at the bare walls. It’s only a memory, but the fact that it was real once—that a man who was supposed to protect me did exactly the opposite—is enough to bring it back to life as I sit here waiting in this tiny yellow room.
The pound on the door comes seconds later, and I race to my feet, welcoming the escape.
“You ready?” Bill asks. His expression is worried, which isn’t one he usually makes at me. I respect it, but I also can’t let it get in my head, so I hold my gloves out for him to pound and then push them into my temples and chest a few times to prime myself for Pitch’s worst.
I wait behind the crowd, behind Bill, while a blonde woman reads the cards in the center of the ring, announcing Pitch to a deafening sound of screams and the thunder of feet pounding bleachers. I tell myself the louder they are, the more money they’ll drop, and I breathe deeply as she announces me, Pitch’s opponent.
“And fighting in his sixteenth match, the Irish blood running restless through his veins, Andrew Wicked Boy Harper!” She lets the echo of my last name drag on loudly through the mike, and I focus on her lips and the noise they make rather than the heavy boos and threats from the crowd around me. Wicked Boy Harper was Harley’s idea—he gave me that name the first time I fought for him. He said the word came to him the first time he saw me spar in the ring. I just kept getting up, asking for more.
Wicked. Poisoned. Empty.
My eyes meet Pitch’s as I step into the ring, and his lip ticks up with the only hint of recognition I’m going to get for the night.
That’s right. It’s me. Go easy, but get us paid.
I move to the corner and let Bill shout things at me that won’t matter. He makes me drink water, checks my tape and gloves, then stands with me and squeezes my head in his hands, bringing his head against mine, the foul smell of his breath only mildly better than the view of the nicotine-stained toothpick dangling from his cracked lips as he mutters a prayer.
Too late, Bill—I’m beyond salvation, and Pitch is the only one who can control how much pain I get tonight.
The bell sounds, and I turn to face my penance, to earn my stay and forget my life. Pitch swings hard, and I dodge. He swings again, and I dodge. And then we dance.
I spend most of the first round moving with him, faking and stepping at all the right times, working from my memory of our sparring last week. I catch the smirk on his lip more than a few times, and I also note the nodding approval from Harley in the crowd when I let a few jabs land in my side near the end of the round.
His punches come full force. There’s nothing pretend about them, even if he’s going easy. The announcer says he’s toying with me—I’m the mouse. That’s fine, as long as this mouse gets to eat some cheese later tonight with all of his teeth in his mouth.
We spend the second round doing much of the same, but this time his fists find new spots on my body, and when the first hook lands squarely on my right cheekbone—my body is instantly flooded with the chemistry I’m constantly seeking. The sting is immediate; the bruising deep, and the pain is so good. I smirk as my head slings to the side, my mouth guard slipping from my lips. I suck it back in place, spitting blood out on the mat before grinning back at my opponent.
“Come on, Pitch! Yeah, baby. Yeah!” I shout, my gloves pounding my chest then hitting together.
My feet feel lighter, yet my head feels heavier. Everything is turning on itself around me, but Pitch is still locked in. I swing at him a few times, landing blows to his right ribs, where I know he can take it.
The bell rings, and I move over to Bill in the corner. He holds something from a stick against my right cheek and eyebrow, slowing down the blood that wants to spill.