by HJ Bellus
A fighter I don’t recognize pulls me to his chest. He doesn’t wince at the vomit smell or grunt when he picks me up. He cradles me to his chest like a mother would a newborn. His lips rub over my forehead in a soothing way.
“I’m sorry.”
The two words coat my skin. His voice is deep and sincere.
Chapter 2
Layla
He follows Jag’s truck while driving Dad’s Escalade. It smells like my dad in here, and his half-eaten pack of sunflower seeds sits in the console. It’s his nervous habit.
After several minutes of driving it hits me and I blurt it out.
“I don’t want to go home.”
He looks over, giving me a curious stare.
“She was cooking tamales for me. I don’t want to go home.”
“Okay.” He nods. “The gym?”
“No.”
“Okay,” he replies in a calm voice.
We drive a long while in silence for once. It’s springtime in Vancouver, Washington, and quite warm, but I’m cold to the core and shiver. He picks up on my movement, flips on my seat warmer, and cranks the heater to high. I appreciate the effort but don’t have it in me to formally thank the man.
He pulls into a dive bar on the edge of town. He kills the engine and gets out without further explanation. I follow him; what else am I supposed to do? Where else did I expect him to take me? I feel his large hand on the small of my back when the old worn wooden door swings wide open. The nasty smell of cigarette smoke assaults us.
It’s a shady place, but no one will recognize me and for that I’m thankful. It’s all typical, so very typical. The regulars sit at the bar, wasted and telling the bartender their problems while a few people play pool, the rest hanging out in the dark shadows.
We take a seat in our own dark shadow in a corner. He makes sure I’m comfortable in my seat before strolling to the bar. I study the man in front of me to avoid the reality of my situation. He’s definitely a heavyweight fighter.
A tall frame, long and very defined arms that could strike an opponent with one deadly reach, and legs that are by far the most powerful ones I’ve ever seen. I can only imagine how many sweep kicks of his have taken down other men. I’m sure he came straight from the gym since he’s in black and red shorts. I continue studying him as he makes his way back to our table.
“I hate fighting.”
He gives me a sideways glance. “Okay.”
“I seriously hate fighting. I have since I was little. I never liked seeing my dad come home bruised and beaten. He and my abuela were all I ever had.”
He nods.
“And a bar, seriously?” I’m in full bitch mode and can’t stop it. This isn’t me, but I’m out of control at the moment.
He shrugs.
If he hadn’t whispered to me in the hospital, I’d think he was a mute.
“If you think I’m about to get liquored up and fall into your lap like some fighting whore then you’re wrong.”
He laughs. The fucker full out belly laughs at me. A waitress with double Ds spilling over her top sets down a tray of shots with clear liquid in them. She all but puts her tits on his cheeks. This man with me sits back, avoiding the contact. Bonus point for him.
“How did she know our order?” I ask, pointing a finger to the shot glasses brimming over with clear liquid.
“Um, just placed it at the bar.” He relaxes back in his seat, throwing an arm over the back of the chair next to him. “I drank the night my dad died. It didn’t help, but it felt good.”
I scrub my face with palms. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I get it.” He shrugs.
“How long ago?”
“About a year.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
He hands me a shot glass and picks one up too. “Cheers.”
We both slam back the shot. I’m not a big drinker, and when I have done shots I usually chase them with pickle juice, but tonight all fucks given have vanished.
I extend my hand out after I choke down the burning liquid. “I’m Layla.”
His massive hand swallows mine. “I’m Cruz.”
“Nice to meet you.” I try to shake my hand up and down, but Hulk is, well, Hulk.
We throw back two more shots before speaking again. I wince every single time, feeling the burn ignite low in my belly.
“You train with my dad?”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t like to talk a lot, do ya?”
“Bingo.” He raises both his eyebrows.
“Perfect.” I pluck another shot from the table. This one goes down smooth. The action is too fast, making my head spin and grow foggy.
A tray of fried food appears before us. I’m thankful since I’m not a seasoned drinker. I pluck a few onion rings from a plate, testing their temperature before taking a full bite.
“Thanks,” I offer around a mouthful.
“No problem.”
“Are you Mexican?” I blurt out. I blame it on losing my abuela and the alcohol. Mostly the copious amounts of alcohol.
“Puerto Rican.”
I can tell there’s more to his response, so I goad him.
“Oh, Puerto Rican.” I roll my r’s hard. “You don’t like being called Mexican do you?”
His deep laughter fills the bar, overwhelming the light chatter. Cruz leans forward, planting his elbows on the table, staring right at me. “No.”
“Well, I’m Mexican. Actually, half Mexican and half wiener dog.”
This time he chokes on the beer he’s nursing between shooting shots with me. “Wiener dog?”
“Yep, no clue what my mother is besides a heartless bitch who had great tits and seduced my father.”
“Gotcha. Never met a Mexican wiener dog cross before.”
“You have now.” I gesture down my body and don’t miss when his gaze takes a second too long on my cleavage.
It’s the one thing I got from my mother—a phenomenal rack. I guess I should be a bit appreciative for those genes, but the rest is from my dad’s side. With an olive complexion, curly black hair, and dark brown eyes, I’m the spitting image of my father—minus the boobs.
“Your dad is a great guy. I wasn’t in a good way when he took me in.”
The pain strikes and slashes at my soul. There are no words to explain how losing one of the two people who are your entire life can destroy a person, so I grab another shot and down it.
Cruz doesn’t judge me or warn me to slow down. He relaxes back in his chair nursing a beer. The bar soon begins to spin, and the giggles commence. I’m not a mean drunk. No, I’m a gracious, loose-lipped, giggling fool.
I go on and on about losing my virginity in a doughnut shop, the first time I smoked weed, and acceptable cock sizes. Cruz grins and sips on a beer, listening to me the entire time without interrupting.
Chapter 3
Layla
My tongue has doubled in size. My throat is so dry it scratches. I’m so thirsty. I want to float down the Niagara swallowing up all the fresh water. When I peek open an eye, the pain strikes in my head, hard and unforgiving. The pain. The thirst. It’s all so real.
I drag my ass out of my bed in the same top and short white shorts I flew home in. I stink, I hurt physically and emotionally, and the thirst is real. I drink two full glasses of water then sit to pee and pee and pee. I gulp more water like it’s my last drink then turn on the shower in my bathroom. The hot water is welcoming, and between washing and conditioning my hair I stick out my tongue, lapping up more water.
Coffee is a sweet savior. I sip on it, making sure not to make myself sicker than I am. I check the place for my dad and see he’s not here. I know where he is. The gym. I’m thankful as I glance around the kitchen and see the tamale mess is cleaned up. I’m not sure what stage of cooking my abeula was in, but I’m only thankful not to see any of the aftermath. I throw on a pair of Dad’s flip-flops and pad downstairs. They pair perfectly with my homeless look
of baggy sweats, hoodie, and wet hair.
The familiar sound of fighters beating the shit out of stuff rings through the stairwell. The gym is below us, but you have to step outside and enter through a different door. Business is in full-force as everyone swings and attacks punching bags while others focus on cardio training and a few pair off to spar in different rings. It’s home, my home, even if I hate the sport.
Dad is in the middle of a ring, up in a fighter’s face—ripping him a new asshole. Been there, done that; I have empathy for the young fighter. Papi, Dexter Garcia, delivers a hard punch in and out of the ring. He’s the type of man you yearn for his respect, and once you have it, you’ll do anything never to lose it. I’ve seen him shape street thugs into respectable champions. Once you enter his gym, you represent, and that means in every aspect of life.
I hop up on the counter, holding my coffee mug like it has magical powers. Papers flutter to the ground, but there’s no other collateral damage. Being Dexter’s only child, and a girl at that, I can get away with anything in the gym.
I relax back on the counter and take in my surroundings. Shards of pain strike my soul. Life is going on like nothing ever happened. I spot Jag training hard, and you’d never know he lifted my dad from a hospital floor yesterday.
Then I see Cruz. He’s jabbing and kicking at a bag. He’s light on his feet as his upper body moves with finesse. He’s a freak of nature with a large frame and quick moves. Pieces of last night float back into my memory. He was understanding and kind even though my emotions ranged from shattered to flat-out bitch mode. And I’m sure he got the memo loud and clear: I hate the sport of fighting.
I place my coffee mug next to me then bury my face in the palms of my hands, remembering all the other random stuff I decided to bestow upon him. Really, Layla, really?
I pull my legs up on the counter and cross them, sipping my coffee and peering around the gym. I go back to Cruz quite often, but I never flat-out stare. Funeral arrangements linger in the back of my mind, but I refuse to face them. Abuela was still sleeping when I snuck down here and will be up bustling around when I go back upstairs, warming up tamales for me. Denial. Denial. Denial.
My butt is numb, and I have no clue how long I’ve been sitting here when Papi saunters over to me.
“Morning,” he grumbles.
“Hey, old man.” I pat his shoulder.
“What time did you get home last night?”
I shrug because honestly, I have no damn clue. “You?”
“Never made it home. Woke up on the mats hungover as hell.”
I giggle. “Wait. You didn’t come home?”
“This is home too.”
“The kitchen was all cleaned up.”
He shrugs, unwrapping the tape on his fists. “No clue. Where did you go?”
“Cruz took me out.”
“Cruz?” He pauses, looking up at me.
“I didn’t want to go home or cope.”
“I’m guessing that’s why you’re down here now.”
I nod. “I know we have stuff to do, but I’m not ready.”
He takes a step closer, giving me a jerk of his chin. “I love you, Layla,” he speaks in Spanish.
“Love you too, old man.”
He walks behind the desk and takes a seat, picking up the papers I messed up. He grunts, showing his disapproval, but I know deep down it makes him happy having me here. I’ve always despised the gym, associating it with him getting hurt when I was a little girl. Growing up with a father who lived to fight was scary as hell.
I never attended a single fight and hated seeing him come home after one with bruises and swollen eyes. He was unbeatable but had an addiction to being hit and hurt before unleashing his own brutality on his opponents.
“Hey.” I look up to see Cruz, all sweaty with his hands perched low on his hips.
“Hi.” I glance down into my empty coffee cup.
“How are you feeling this morning, champ?”
“I’ve been better. Moving a bit slow.”
My dad’s demanding and deep voice booms from behind me. “What is this shit about you taking my baby out last night?”
“Sorry, Boss. I was trying to help out.”
All the fighters call him “Boss”; it was his ring name back in the day. The Boss was an icon in the fighting world and still is on the outside of the ring.
“Ignore his grumpy ass.” I wave off my dad.
“You eat yet?”
I shake my head and feel dizzy. My stomach churns and I’m not even sure I could eat.
“You need to soak up some of that alcohol.”
“Wait.” Dad rounds the desk. “You took her out and got her wasted?”
I smile, loving seeing my dad get all broody and protective over me. Some things will never change.
“And he took my V-card in the back of your Escalade, Dad.”
Cruz goes pale white. The massive beast of a man sways from side to side. The nervousness floating off him is evident. He fights to clear his throat but fails miserably.
“Dad.” I grab his shoulder. “Jesus, settle your testicles. He took me to a bar and was a total gentleman. I couldn’t go to the house and see the kitchen without Abuela. Same reason you didn’t come home last night.”
“So you still have that card thing?”
Now I flush with embarrassment, having my own words backfire. “Dad!”
“Well, do you?”
“Cruz didn’t take any card. He was a total gentleman.”
“Fine.” He finally grunts and turns away, giving up on the subject.
There are a few awkward moments before Cruz talks again.
“Breakfast?” he asks with a raised eyebrow.
“Sure.”
“I love to eat doughnuts after training hard in the morning.” He winks at me, showing me a bit of his playful side.
“Jesus, take the wheel.” I bury my face in my palms, remembering how explicitly I explained to him about losing my virginity in a doughnut shop, including the powder doughnut smashed to my ass cheeks.
Chapter 4
Layla
“Thanks. I didn’t want to go home and start making plans.”
Cruz takes a significant bite out of a chocolate glazed doughnut. “No worries.”
I twirl the coffee in front of me. “How did you do it?”
“The funeral?”
I nod.
“I was numb. Drank a lot. Actually, it got me into more trouble than I’d like to acknowledge.”
“Yeah, I think my one drunken binge was enough of that.”
“You were quite entertaining last night.”
“I talk and laugh way too much with liquid courage.”
“It was cute.”
I wrinkle my nose. “I don’t think anything about me last night was cute, but rather a hot mess.”
“We’re a lot alike.” He grabs his glass of water, bringing it to his lips.
“I don’t think so. I hate fighting, and you’re a fighter.”
“I was raised by my dad.”
“No mom?”
He shakes his head with every one of his features morphing into sorrow. “Nope. I’m a product of a one-sided love affair.”
“So you hate Mother’s Day too?” I ask.
“Despise it.”
“We may have more in common than I thought.”
“Yeah, my dad knocked up a gal in college. She had her eyes set on bigger things such as social class, money, and power. She wanted to put the baby up for adoption, but my dad fought for me.”
“Sounds like a great guy.”
“Your dad and mine are very similar.”
“How did you end up here?”
“Our dads were good friends back in the day, even though they took the championship belt from each other a few times.” He takes the last bite of his doughnut. “My dad told me to come here right before he died.”
I reach over and grab his hand, seeing the pain still evident on
his face. “I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah, never thought I’d sell his gym and leave behind his legacy, but I couldn’t handle all of it. I think he knew I’d be that way. Took me a handful of years to get up the courage to do so.”
“Funny how dads can be so right sometimes.”
He rolls over his palm and laces our fingers. “Yes, it is.”
“How did you get through burying him and all that?”
“Lots of booze, heartache, and going through the motions.”
I feel the tears threatening. “They’re all I have. Sacrificed everything for me. Abuela made sure I went to college and lived out all my dreams.”
“Hold onto that. Don’t fall off the edge or all their hard work and belief in you means nothing.”
“It hurts,” I admit, letting the tears fall.
“It does, and people will say the dumbest things. I’m warning you now.”
I use the back of my hand to wipe away the tears rolling down my cheeks.
“And people will say it gets easier with time, but it doesn’t at all. I’m finding it gets harder as each day passes. I want to call him at least ten times a day to let him know about training and my next opponent.”
“I talked to her each night before going to bed no matter the time,” I offer.
“I still look around the gym for him every morning even though I’m here in Washington and not at our gym in Texas. Doesn’t matter the number of months that go by.”
We go back and forth like this talking to each other, spilling our guts about our own situations. A dozen doughnuts later and lots of stories, Cruz pays the bill. I’m not ready to go home yet. I’ve heard of the stages of grief and am now wondering if avoiding is a part of it.
“So, sounds like we will be celebrating Mother’s Day together this year?” I offer.
His broad smile is the only answer I need from him.
“What do you do the rest of the day?” I ask.
