by McLean, Jay
My front door burst open and my dad walked out—shirtless, tattoos on display—scratching his nuts, his eyes narrowing as soon as he saw us. “Perfect,” I whispered sarcastically.
“Well, if it isn’t the useless cunt!” Dad yelled.
Jackson shook his head, his eyes cast downward as he fiddled with the straps of his backpack. He waited until he heard the front door close before looking up at me. “So that’s your dad?” he mumbled.
I rocked back on my heels. “That’s him.”
After shoving his hand in his pocket, Jackson pulled out the money provided by the twins. “You should take this.”
I waved him off. “Nah.” He lifted my hand and placed the scrunched up cash on my palm. I stayed frozen in my spot, not sure how to respond. Pity—especially from him—was the last damn thing I wanted. “I’ll see you around, Jackson.” I started to walk away, but he grabbed my arm.
“What are you doing now?” he asked.
I looked at his hand on my arm, then to my front door. “Probably getting my ass beat.” I scoffed. “Again.”
“Maybe we should both use this money. We earned it, right?”
* * *
We walked to the closest diner and ordered everything we could afford—the splurge made even sweeter because of how we obtained the funds. We talked about movies and TV shows. Turned out, he was only a year younger than me, though I would’ve sworn by his physical appearance and the way he acted that he was no older than ten. After a few minutes of us eating, he rested back in his seat with a huge grin on his face.
“Did you enjoy that?” I asked.
“Yup!” He nodded enthusiastically. “You want to know why?”
“Why?”
“Because it tastes like victory.”
Chapter 3
Jackson doesn’t offer small talk or even a greeting when I show up at the station the next morning. He leads me to the same room as the night before and motions for me to sit down. Then he removes his jacket, takes a seat, and pushes a picture under my nose. “Nate DeLuca,” he says.
I lift the picture for closer inspection. It isn’t a mug shot; it’s a surveillance shot, and from what I can see, there’s absolutely nothing remarkable about the guy. Dark hair displayed under his ball cap, average build, around the same age as me—maybe a couple years older. That’s basically all I can make out. “And?” I ask.
“And he’s who you need to get close to. He runs the fights, but like I said, we suspect it’s a cover-up for the drugs. You need to get to know him. You need to live and breathe him. And if you can do that—get in his circle, get in his head—then it can lead us to the people responsible for Steve–” He cuts himself off and looks down at the table, realizing the mistake he was about to make. “For the deaths…” he corrects himself.
“And what do you get out of it?”
“Justice.”
The fights, Jackson told me, are held in basements of bars throughout Philly. You can buy your way in with a five grand VIP membership. The memberships were limited to two hundred. You show up and act like a dick, your membership’s revoked.
The venues are announced to a maximum of only sixty people, chosen randomly via text message two hours before fight night begins. In order to get into the basements, you needed to meet somewhere off-site first, show the message on your phone, text it back to a number, and they mark it off a list.
Obviously, Jackson had prepared all of this in the few days since I’d agreed to The Deal.
I did everything that was asked of me, and now I find myself standing in the basement of a bar I’d never stepped foot in before. The place is exactly how I imagined—tiny room with barely enough space to move. The crowd’s rowdy but obviously interested enough in the fights that they’d fork out five grand just to watch.
I don’t watch the fights. I watch the crowd, hoping for a glimpse of a man I’ve never met before. The man whose life I’m about to ruin. His name—Nate DeLuca—repeats in my head over and over, playing hostage in my mind. I have to live and breathe him; that’s what Jax said. And that’s what I plan to do.
Because Jax isn’t just some newbie detective.
He isn’t even an old friend.
Jax is my brother.
Ky: Age Fifteen
Mayhem ensued in my house while I sat on the roof, again. I’d been in bed for over an hour before finally throwing the covers off and accepting that sleep would be impossible. Holding my arm close to my chest, I maneuvered my bedroom window open and climbed out onto the roof, ignoring the sudden outbreak of goosebumps pricking my skin. I wondered for a moment if he’d managed to dislocate my shoulder this time or just separate it. Tonight’s reason for my beating—Dad was drunk. That was it. There were also people over. Him, combined with alcohol plus an audience, always made for a good time for everyone.
Everyone but me.
Even though I was big for my age, I was no competition for him. Give it a year, it might have been a different story. But even if I could’ve taken him, I sure as shit wouldn’t try. It’d make me just as bad as him, and the last thing I ever wanted to is to become him.
Sitting down slowly, I rested my arms on my bent knees and looked up at the stars.
“I wish I may, I wish I might,” I whispered, then laughed. “Fuck your wish.”
“Ky!” Jackson was half hanging out his window, his hand waving from side to side.
“What’s up?” I asked, not lifting my head. I didn’t want him to see the freshly swelled bruises around my eyes. Or the cut on my jaw. Or the fact I was a pussy and hiding out from my dad.
From the corner of my eye, I saw his mouth move a few times, probably unsure about what to say—or ask—especially since he most likely knew the answers. Finally, he yelled, “You want to come over? I got the new Halo on Xbox.”
I didn’t respond with words, but I slowly came to a stand, careful not to move my shoulder, as I dusted off my jeans that were at least three sizes too big. He told me to meet him at his back door, and a minute later I was there, hands in my pockets as I tried to settle my uncontrollable shivers.
He led me up to his room and handed me a hoodie that was way too big for him. I eyed it suspiciously. That made him laugh. “It’s an NYU sweatshirt, my dad’s way of pushing me to go there. It won’t fit me for years.” I pulled it over my head and then sat in front of his TV, my eyes cast downward the entire time. He sat down next to me, handed me a controller, and finally said, “You played before?”
I shook my head, my gaze fixed on the controller in my hand. And then I chuckled, the sound surprising to my own ears. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen one of these before.”
We spent the entire night playing Halo until the sun came up. In that room, in that one night, we became the most unlikely of friends. Not because he was some kid trying to save me or because I was a kid that needed saving… or even the other way around. We became friends because, in between the few words spoken, the few laughs we shared, and the few times we lost control of those laughs, we saw each other for what we were—just boys that liked to laugh and shoot the shit out of our enemies in an overdramatic video game.
I named his character “Captain Victory.”
He laughed and named mine “Captain Combative.”
From then on, I spent most nights sleeping on his bedroom floor. He offered me his bed, but I refused every time. Sleeping on the hardwood floor was a shit ton better than what I’d been used to.
A few months later, I came over and there was a bunk bed in his room. I asked him where he got the money. He told me he’d taken up beating on scrawny, defenseless kids and stealing their lunch money as a hobby.
By then, I’d met his parents a few times, mostly when we hung out at his house after school. His mom was always home, and they’d wait until his dad, Jeff, got home from work to settle down for dinner. His mom, Christine, would ask me to stay and have a meal with them. I’d always politely decline, feeling too out of place with Jackson and his pi
cture-perfect family. At night, I’d be in and out of their house while Jeff and Christine were asleep—or at least, we all pretended it was that way. But every night I’d come over and Jackson would pull out a plate of food from the fridge and heat it up. “Leftovers,” he’d tell me.
Then, one night, everything changed.
The night of my sixteenth birthday.
It took everything I had just to make it to his back door.
I’d never asked for help before—but that night, I needed it.
Because that night, I needed to get the fuck away from my dad. If I didn’t—I was positive he would’ve killed me.
I didn’t even think about how it would affect them.
I should have thought about it.
I made a fist and pounded on their back door. “Jackson!” I tried to scream, but the knot in my throat prevented it. I looked over my shoulder, watching, waiting for my dad to appear from the darkness.
Jackson’s parents didn’t fake ignoring it that time. Heated words were exchanged over the thudding of footsteps down their stairs. Relief washed through me, but it wouldn’t have shown. I was too far gone—too physically hurt to do anything but use the door to support my weight.
The door opened and Jax was there, his eyes wide as he took in my state. Too weak to stay upright, I fell forward. First to my knees, then the rest of me followed. Even though I’m sure it happened quickly, the fall felt eternal.
I winced in pain as I folded over myself, the one eye I managed to open caught sight of my blood pooling on their kitchen floor. “I didn’t know,” I moaned, but speaking just made the pain worse; I let out an agonizing cry. Jackson squatted down next to me, his eyebrows drawn in concern. He offered a hand to help me up, and when I finally could, I stood in front of Jax and his parents, my shoulders slumped, my breaths ragged, caused by the blows my lungs had just copped. I choked on the blood filling my mouth—coughing and spurting—feeling the warmth of it trickle down my chin. I heard a gasp and tried to settle my breathing—tried to push my shoulders back—but my body didn’t allow it. I eyed them all one by one, pleading for something. Anything. I needed help. So I asked for it. “Help.” And as soon as the single word left my mouth, my body tensed, as if somehow sensing his presence.
The asshole’s voice filled my ears. “Don’t run away from me, you little cunt. Face it like a man!” At the time, I’d never been more frightened than I was those few seconds before I turned around and faced my dad. Dad—the epitome of someone who’s supposed to love and protect you. But he wasn’t any of those things. He was the devil. In the flesh. His red-rimmed eyes held so much rage, and when the snarl pulled on his lips and he took a step forward, I somehow stood my ground. His eyes narrowed at Jackson and then at the blood pooled by my feet. Finally, his gaze settled on me. “Useless, weak, pathetic little cunt,” he spat out. He took another step forward, his eyes never leaving mine, then his fist rose… The word “stop” reverberated in my ears, and I had no doubt it came from Jackson.
A sound echoed through the house—the unquestionable ‘click click’ of a pump-action shotgun.
“You best be leaving now,” Christine said, her tone full badass. If she was scared or intimidated by the situation, the clarity in her voice completely hid it.
Her name was a whisper as it fell from my lips.
Jeff stepped up beside me.
“Now!” Christine clipped.
The cold steel of the gun barrel pushed against my bare arm as she nudged me to the side and got between the devil and me. “I’m not afraid to pull the trigger,” she said, her voice calm. She pointed the gun until it made contact with his chest. “Test me,” she challenged. Like she really, really wanted an excuse to pull the trigger and end him.
Slowly, his hands went up in surrender, his eyes moving from her to me.
“Take one more look at your son,” said Christine. “Because this is the last time you’ll ever fucking see him.”
Chapter 4
“You looking to get eighty-sixed from here?”
I snap out of my thoughts and look up at the man standing in front of me. Shaved head. Black suit. Arms crossed over his huge chest. Fatter than a motherfucker. Wondering for a second why he chose me out of all the people here to approach, I clear my throat. “Who do I need to speak to about fighting?”
He eyes me up and down, slowly, and then he laughs—this all-consuming, guttural laugh. “You and all the other punks,” he states. “Watch the fights. We’ll talk at the end if you still want in.” He grasps my shoulders and makes me face the cage. And I’m glad I do because my initial assumption was wrong; the guys in the cage aren’t amateurs. It’s clear from their appearance that they’re in the same weight class, and I can tell just from watching that their expertise in martial arts is completely different. The cage itself isn’t an octagon like most MMA organizations. It’s round, which makes it harder for the fighters to corner their opponent and pound them.
The bell dings to signal the end of the second round, and a medic comes in to check on both fighters. The breaks are short but long enough that the fighters can catch their breaths. And just as quickly as it ends, the final round begins.
The fighters bump their glove-covered fists and circle each other a few times before the first punch is thrown. The bulkier fighter uses fancy footwork and quick jabs to keep his distance. He throws a mean right hook, dropping his opponent to the ground. He sees his opportunity and rushes the dude, now lying on his back on the mat. He tries to finish him with some decent ground and pound, but his opponent’s good on the ground. Too good. Most likely trained in wrestling or jiu-jitsu. His opponent recovers quickly and catches him in a classic arm bar, but the dude doesn’t tap. The crowd screams for him to tap the fuck out, but his pride wins out and his arm snaps.
He’ll be out of commission for months.
Stupid.
The loser nurses his broken arm out of the cage and down a clear path into another room.
“Idiot,” a voice says from next to me. “He should’ve tapped the second his arm was locked.” I look to my right and come face to face with Nate DeLuca. I try to stay calm on the outside. Inside, my pulse is raging. He asks, his tone flat, “Tiny tells me you want to fight?”
“Tiny?”
“Yeah,” He jerks his head to the guy who approached me earlier. “That’s Tiny.” He waits for me to respond, and when I don’t, he adds, “Meet me up at the bar tomorrow, 1400 hours, soldier.”
I narrow my eyes at him.
He motions his head toward my chest. “Your dog tags,” he says, before patting my shoulder twice and walking away. He weaves through the crowd, hands in his front pockets as if he doesn’t have a single fucking care in the world. Too bad for him—I’m about to change all of that.
Chapter 5
I’m used to wearing an ambiguous mask. Which helps, especially when Nate DeLuca walks into the bar and takes the stool next to mine. “You want to fight?” are his opening words.
I nod and focus on the row of bottles lined up behind the bar.
“It takes months,” he adds.
“For what?”
“You saw the fights, right? They’re not amateurs. Months of training just to get looked at and even longer of showing up to every fight, getting to know the process, the competition… getting to know me… building that trust…”
Perfect. “You think I’m untrustworthy?”
“Here’s the thing,” he starts, turning on his stool to face me. “Normally, we see the prospective fighters around on fight nights. They watch, they learn, and after a while they get the balls to ask what they need to do to get in that cage. You? You show up out of nowhere, and you just ask.”
My eyes lock with his. “I want to fight.”
“Why?”
“Why?” I repeat.
“Yeah. Why?” He sighs and rubs his jaw. “Why do you want to fight?”
I give him an answer I know will intrigue him. “Because if I don’t beat
someone’s ass in a controlled environment I’ll end up killing someone. That’s why.” And with that, I stand up, throw some cash on the bar and head for the door.
“Wait for the text,” he shouts.
Passing Tiny on my way out, I raise my hand to let DeLuca know I’ve heard him.
I wait until I’ve walked a few blocks before calling Jackson, and he tells me to meet him at my apartment. I almost ask how the fuck he knows where I live, but then I remember who he is now and a knot forms in my stomach, slowly releasing the guilt I’ve been repressing for years.
I should’ve been there.
I should’ve known the man he’d become.
Ky: Age Sixteen
For days after my sixteenth birthday I refused to talk about what happened. Jax’s parents walked on eggshells around me. Christine tried to make me feel as at home as possible, but it was hard. I wasn’t used to the attention, and I didn’t know how to act. After a few nights of Jackson tiptoeing around me, I finally caved and confided in him. “My dad found out I wasn’t his,” I told him, sitting on the edge of the bottom bunk.
“You didn’t know?” he asked.
I took one more look at the framed picture of Jackson and me sitting on his bookshelf. Then I let out a bitter laugh. How did I not know? I glared intently at myself in the picture, smiling… dimples on show, my blue eyes reflecting the sunlight. Neither of my parents had dimples or blue eyes. I shook my head as I answered, “He beat the shit out of Mom and me. Mom got in her car and took off. She just left me there, Jax. She left so that he could take it out on me. Steve doesn’t know.”
“Who the hell is Steve?”
“My brother,” I said incredulously, like he was a dumbass for not knowing. “Or half-brother, I guess.”
His eyes bore into mine. “I’ve known you for over a year now, Ky. I’ve never seen this Steve guy around, and you’ve never mentioned him. Not once.”