by Leanne Davis
“You look like a scrawny little shit.”
“I am. I’m also not what anyone expects.”
“Ah. Surprise.”
I shrug. “What does all this have to do with me? I’m taking classes, and you can see I’m many years from being as good as your best fighters here.” I spend a lot of time watching the sparring there. Boxers, wrestlers, and several of the mixed martial artists practice regularly in some of the rings.
“How can someone so short ever win?”
“I only win when I stay on the offensive. If they get me on the defensive? It’s pretty much guaranteed I’m done. I get beaten up.” I shrug as if it is what it is. No one my size could be in fights without expecting to take some hits. It just isn’t possible.
“How do you stay on the offensive?”
“Mostly by placing myself really close to them. You know, like they step back, I step forward. I try to make it so they can’t get their arms out, or fully swing, thereby reducing their range of motion and power. But my only real chance of winning is by bringing them down to the ground; that’s where I stand the best chance. I kick their thighs, knees, shins… and stomp on their feet, whatever is necessary to drop them to their knees. I’m not above any of it. Then I try to end it any way I can.”
“You seem to speak from experience.”
“Yeah. Lots of it.”
“I’ll pay you. You fight for me, and I’ll make sure you get plenty of fights, as well as a cut of whatever we charge at the entrance.”
I am startled. I raise my head in a sharp jerk and stare, first at Bruce and then at Tanya. She nods and gives me a weak smile, like she is sorry.
“Why would you do that? I don’t know all that shit. I’ve seen the guys training here. Some of the fourteen-year-olds know ten times more than what I do!”
“They, over there.” Bruce points at some of the diligently working athletes. “They like rules. They like fighting with honor. Fuck that! I want down and dirty. You got that? Dirty fighting?”
“You mean, just regular fighting? I don’t care what you call it; you guys are putting way too much thought into it.” Now he’s speaking my language. “I know how to pick a fight even with the farm boys, and college preppies around here. Why would I need you?”
“Because I know real fighters. Real big betters, too. There is real money to be made.”
Walk away. I know I should. Right here. Right now. I should turn my back on Bruce and walk right out of that gym. Away from Tanya and Bruce and whatever they are suggesting. It has illegal undertones; otherwise, why all the secrecy? Why spend all that time waiting for Tanya to trust me? I wonder if she approached me for only that reason. Not that it matters really, if that was her true motive. I just wanted a good lay and she’s certainly given me that. So what if her motives run deeper and darker? What do I care?
Still, I don’t walk away. Something about it calls to me, like a wolf, when it’s lost from the pack, hearing the pack’s howls… these two were calling me. I spend my life looking for fights. Hell, they were the only thing that kept me fed and clothed for several months when I was a teen and Mom ran off. I liked it then, and I like it now. It is in my blood, far more than sitting through high school classes, or filling the role of prodigal son to the nice family that adopted me. I know I don’t deserve them… or Christina. I know who I am. In my heart. Deep down. I am this shit. I long to make others bruise and bleed. I find it rewarding. And getting paid? To win? Fuck! There is no better paycheck I could imagine! So… I raise my head with a nod and say, “What do you have in mind?”
“You show me your stuff. Then, we talk.”
“When?”
“This weekend. Fight here, after hours. Show me. Then we’ll talk.”
“All right.” What do I have to lose? If he’s just blowing shit up my ass, so what? I’ll get the fight. And vent some of the steam that’s been building up.
“You’re not worried? Are you kind of crazy? Those guys will crush you! You’re a runt.”
I shake my head. My smile isn’t nice. “I am crazy.” I’m crazy because I can’t wait for Saturday night. Nothing piques my interest as much as this since I’ve been in Washington state. Well, except, of course, the one girl I can never allow myself to have.
I meet Tanya and Bruce at the back door, per their directions. The place is crowded. Music pounds and bangs through the building, amping up the entire scene and the audience. One of the fight rings has a crowd around it and two guys are already going at it. The crowd is loud and bloodthirsty, as indicated by their chants and frenzy. One of the fighters gets knocked down with a vicious kick to the abdomen, and then to the head. As the poor guy doubles over, he gets kicked again in the face. Yes, a sane person would simply walk out. A sane person would not stand beside Tanya as a strange strum of total exhilaration goes through his body. Instead of disdain, or even empathy, towards the guy who’s knocked out, I savor the rush of pure adrenaline. My fists start clenching as my heart beats faster; I’m getting pumped up.
Bruce nods at me. “You ready?”
I put my hands out and nod.
“You’re next. Show me the good stuff.”
I don’t know at this point who my opponent is. I don’t care. I am purely fueled by the energy of the crowd. Half of them are high or drunk. I see money exchanging hands after the last fight ends and the guy is carried off, still unconscious. I wonder if they’ll drop him off out the back. I wonder if he’ll die and just get tossed inside a dumpster. I wonder… what the hell is wrong with me to like this sport? I don’t feel shocked and sickened, but rather, almost turned on by the dark, murky club and the gory things I see going on. It smells like sweat, blood, and vomit, and what is even sicker still? I like it.
I jump around. Shaking my shoulders out, I slip my shirt off and wear only loose shorts. Tanya’s eyes rake over me and I can feel her lust building. She steps forward and crushes her boobs against me, keeping her hands to her sides. She licks my ear. Smiling, she lifts her face off mine, saying, “Do well.”
Stepping through the thick, loud crowd that courteously parts for me, they must realize I’m next. I climb in between the ropes of what is usually a legitimate boxing ring. Now? Now, it’s anything but legitimate. It’s a brutal, dirty fight with someone I don’t know and have no quarrel with. But still, my heart starts hammering with eager anticipation as I glance around, searching for my competition. He’s large, maybe six feet or so. His sleek muscles are bigger than mine. Suddenly, a sense of trepidation fills me. I’m not trained, and just barely starting to get anywhere with it. I should not be doing this, not yet. But the crowd lets out a roar as he slips through the ropes. I feel their energy and it surges through me, bolting inside my limbs. I start to feel weightless, energized, primed. I ignore the boos directed my way. Whoever this guy is, he seems to be the crowd favorite. Usually, my audience is a college crowd, or a random mob of barflies, after sneaking in and prodding one of the patrons into fighting me. Usually, there is no real plan to any of my fights.
This reminds me of years ago when, for six months, I fought for Quentrell. He set the fights up, just like this. He’d take all the bets and set me up against guys who were eighteen or nineteen. At the time, I was only twelve and thirteen, so of course, it never ended well for me. Yet the crowd always ate it up. The worse the beating I took, the louder they clamored for more. It was all fixed, of course. Quentrell told me to win a few, or lose a few, depending on his wagers. If I lost, however, I invariably took a more severe beating than if I won, but that was only to make it look more legit.
I did that until Derek found out and took me away from Quentrell. He erroneously thought that would stop my fighting career. Within days, I was delivered to Ellensburg, and met Lindsey, Noah, and best of all, Christina.
Now? I remember the buzz and energy that radiates from the bloodthirsty crowd. This kind of live or die, primal simplicity. There is no thinking involved or required. This is all instinct. Basic instinct. The surviv
al instinct. And, for some reason, nothing else makes me feel more alive, or primed, or thrilled.
Stepping forward, we both start dancing in this kind of stupid circle around each other. We appear almost choreographed as we hop and skip, each slinging a test shot out, but hitting air. My opponent is good. He’s big, but quick. His arms are like two steel bands. I can’t beat him with my strength, but maybe my agility. I’m pretty light and quick on my feet. Beyond that? It looks pretty grim, like a joke. Me versus him. The crowd laughs harder as they hurl more jeers at me. But that just primes me more.
I let him attack me. He steps forward and his fist connects with my shoulder. Off we go. I bounce, he plods. If he hits me, I’ll be dying and burning with bruises. I throw a few punches any chance I get.
Halfway turning my shoulder, I jump right onto him. I do that a lot. I climb onto the backs of the big guys, who find it hard to shake me. I stand half a chance then at least. I mean, come on, comparing sheer brawn and force, I don’t have what it takes. I gotta use whatever I got. I’m fast, limber, and flexible, and I don’t mind using dirty tricks. So I do. I finally have to resort to nearly suffocating him. It’s soon over, but only because he’s on the verge of blacking out. I should probably feel something, but I don’t. I’m on the guy’s back when he falls flat to the mat. I straddle him. He’s bloody, but so am I. Sweat pours off both of us. My knuckles are scraped. I see blood smeared all over my body. I slowly rise onto my now shaking legs. The adrenaline has all been used up, and I feel totally spent. I can barely stand. The crowd goes batshit in their applause for me. I make it out of the ring, and again, wonder what happens to the guy who gets knocked out. I make a note to be sure it’s never me. I wonder if anyone cares about fighters being knocked out. I doubt there’s any sports coach, or therapist, checking for concussions, or even imminent death. Over my shoulder, I see two guys dressed as bouncers dragging the inert, prone body off toward the locker area.
It’s chilling. Yet, still, I don’t start running. I’m not horrified by the scene. I’m not even all that shocked. I’m actually pretty psyched right now. I won and proved myself to Bruce. Why the hell I care, I don’t have a clue. I don’t even know the man. Yet, here I am, so proud to show him I don’t suck.
Tanya finds me and makes the mistake of pressing her tits against me when she half hugs me. I almost throw her off. She stumbles back, but a smile still plays on her lips. She likes it kind of rough. Her eyes burn with lust as they take in my skin, glistening with a colorful blood-and-sweat sheen.
Her mouth whispers in my ear. “I’ll have you right over there.” She points towards the door to the alley. I nod. She saunters that way, her hips swinging. I turn back when Bruce finds me.
He slaps my back and I flinch, but don’t bother to explain my affliction. I doubt that will happen more often than just this occasion. “You put on a good show. Small guy, and everyone likes the underdog. You ready to make some real money?”
No question in his tone. I am breathing hard. I need water and a hot shower and ice. But I nod. “More fights like this?”
He nods. “You take a cut. I take a cut.”
“Fifty-fifty?”
“Well, seventy-thirty. But maybe we can work it out from there. I take all the risk. My name. My ass.”
It’s a shitty deal. I get that. But I don’t fight for the money. It’s an addiction, my sick crutch. So it’ll be an easy fix for me. I nod, and that’s that. I wonder, however, just to whom I’ve signed my health away.
Ignoring that for the time being, I find Tanya out back, ready and willing. She’s bending over and holding the wall for support so I don’t have to touch her. There is something to be said about hanging out with people who actually get you. Being twisted and weird themselves, they more readily accept that in me.
Chapter Eight
~Christina~
I SEE MAX LESS and less now. He’s distracted and almost uninterested when I do see him. Of course, he always seems a little bored with everything and everybody around him, but that doesn’t usually apply to me. When he does that, I really detest it. I want my Max back. My friend. My confidante. My pal. It hasn’t been the same between us since that party, and I learned about my parents, and he betrayed me, and refused to touch or comfort me.
I wonder if he has a girlfriend. He seems too content. I’m suspicious. When is Max ever content? He’s not. He’s restless. Annoyed. Angry. All of which he suffers in silence. But he’s not really what I’d consider a content person. I mean, it’s possible he met someone, but wouldn’t that occupy some of his evenings? Don’t they go out on dates? I’ve seen him almost every evening so far this summer. Twilight lingering until ten, we are often down at the river, hanging together, or with my friends. We drink beer and relax on the shores. It is warm and perfect for swimming and goofing around. The best nights of my life are spent this way, especially for the last few years. I only go now, however, if Max goes too. I stay close to the group and never venture off on my own.
He seems to like going to the gym since he started. I was surprised when he told me that Noah and Lindsey approved and paid for it. It sparked my interest too. Actually, anything that might even remotely engage Max’s interest interests me. I can’t picture what he’ll do, however, come fall. He seems to have no designs on getting a job, although no one is forcing the issue. He says he’s not going to school; and never talks about anything besides right now. Today. So maybe this gym stuff offers him something, or fuels a new desire. I hope so.
I can’t stand to think of leaving next fall because I can’t bear to live a day without seeing Max’s smile. Every single day. He has a great smile. It starts out small and kind of ordinary, like he’s shy or something. Then it tips up the corners of his cheeks, and finally, lights up his dark, brooding eyes with humor instead of the usual apathy.
First of all, Max is not shy. He just doesn’t talk. There’s a big difference, one most people don’t see. The need to communicate with people is not in his DNA. And yes, it’s always been a thrill to know that I’m the only one to whom he chooses to bestow his spoken word upon. But this summer? I feel like he’s drifting away from me, something that’s never happened before. And this fall, with my upcoming departure, I dread us growing apart. I don’t want anything to change; and like a child, I try to deny that it could.
But now it feels like it already has. I just can’t put my finger on exactly what’s changed between us. Is it as simple as just getting older and losing our old connection? We have to grow up, and things are just different? Still… I can’t figure out where we’re at, or what’s in his head.
It’s now August and during one such evening at the beach, I find him staring at me intently. I am talking to Garrett Chadlow, a friend from our class. He’s always had a bit of a crush on me although I never encouraged it. But when I glance up, Max is staring at me from across the beach. When I catch him, he turns and stares out toward the horizon. His expression looks all deep and contemplative. He’s wearing swim shorts that skim the top of his knees and no shirt. He was always slender and defined, but of late, he is starting to bulk up in sleek lines. It startles me. I don’t expect Max to look so much bigger. But he seems to like it. He’s even going so far as eating differently and drinking all kinds of healthy shakes. Right now, he seems far removed from the general chaos of twenty newly graduated seniors, partying together on the beach, trying to cling to that illusive safety of high school, and not enter the grown-up world we’ve suddenly been plunged into.
The sun has already set and the orange sky spans the distance. A soft breeze stirs and Max’s hair flips up and back down over his forehead. He has silky, black hair that’s easily tousled. The water level is low and a few people are still in it, up to their waists, or floating idly in inner tubes. I have long since dried off and am sitting on a towel with my toes in the rocky sand. It’s not the best beach, since pebbles are mixed in with the smoother sand. But it’s private, on Kyla Winfrey’s land, so no one bothers us
. Cops included. No one needs to get a possession infraction. Especially me. My father would freak. I tilt the beer can in my hand to my mouth and let the icy beverage slide down my throat. I shudder. I don’t really like the taste of beer, but it’s all that’s available. I can’t really custom order my drink. And I want to drink alcohol, so beer it is.
I don’t know what Max is thinking about, and that bothers me. I get up and slip my flip-flops on. I pull my bikini bottom out from my butt crack. It’s cut too slender and always tends to ride up my ass. I slip into my white cover-up that just reaches the top of my bikini. It’s sleeveless and strapless. Simple.
I stop beside him and he glances down at me. His mouth quirks up on one side. My hair stirs around me and I clamp it back with my hand. We’re removed from everyone now, and off by ourselves. I really want to touch his arm with my hand, but, holding in a sigh, I don’t. “You look a little too deep in thought for this crowd.”
He shrugs. “Just enjoyin’ the view, I guess.”
“The sunset? Since when are you so poetic?”
He grins, but doesn’t answer. Pointing my toe, I dig into the wet sand. He’s standing on the edge of the river. The wet sand sticks to my feet. “I’m going to miss these nights.”
He glances down. “Yeah, well, I’ll miss these nights with you.”
“It’s soon, you know. I leave for my dorm in three and a half weeks.”
He nods. “I can read a calendar.”
I flinch, surprised at his snappish reply. He rarely uses that tone with me, or gets into any kind of bad temper. It’s been happening more often of late. I first attributed it to him being tired from working out, but now, I’m not totally convinced it’s because of that.
I bite my lip. He’s still staring hard out at the sky. I raise my fingers and faintly run them down the side of his arm. He flinches and shifts away with scowl at me. “God damn it, Christina, why do you keep pressing me?” Yeah, why do I keep pressing him? I can’t articulate a reason why. I just do. Like a little kid who wants the attention of the boy next to her, but feels too afraid to just say so.