by Amarie Avant
Nestor grits his teeth.
“Tap the fuck out, brah!” I tell him.
His hand slaps down on the canvas.
“Vassili, come see me before you leave.” Vadim cocks his head to his office. He doesn’t offer a chance for me to respond because he’s already heading to the dog-face looking motherfucker, Rhy. The two of us mix like oil and water. I think Nestor put him in rotation with Vadim after me in order to screw us both because either I’m late or Rhy’s early, and my sparring mate loves to fuck with me.
As Rhy glares at me like we’re two gangbangers on the opposite side of the street, Vadim gestures toward the conditioning ropes. I grin and nod. Those ropes that Zariah can hardly lift up is something that we usually do in our spare time before Vadim works with us. Apparently, Vadim is cutting into his time for not being prepared.
“You did this?” I ask Nestor as we both take our stand.
He shakes out his leg and offers a lazy smile. “Yup. Keep you on your toes, Vassili.”
I chuckle, open the door to the cage, and saunter down the steps.
“What does Vadim want with me?” I glare at my cousin, who is shaking a few more Cheetos, from the chip bag onto the table top in front of Natasha’s stroller.
“The fuck would I know, kazen?” He shrugs.
“You know.” I glare him down hard. My cousin’s gaze never wavers, but instinct warns that Yuri is more aware than he’s letting on. “Okay, come,” I tell him while getting behind Natasha’s stroller to steer.
“Follow you to Vadim’s office?” Yuri moves like an old ass man, as if he’s unsure about what I asked.
“Dah, you make a lot of money off me. It’s all fun, fighting. Now, join in on the other shit,” I toss over my shoulder, moving along, aware that Vadim has intentions to give me grief. Natasha’s mini Jordan goes flying. I continue to cart her along, she looks back at me in confusion. My little girl is fucking with me, too. She loves to keep me running after her shoes.
“Oh, this is fun to you?” I tell her, although Yuri catches up to get the flyaway tennis shoe. “Maybe you should wear the old lady walking shoes your mom likes.”
Her face falls into a frown since she doesn’t notice my cousin toss the damn shoe into the undercarriage of her stroller.
We head into the elevator and up to the second floor to Vadim’s office. The place I cornered Zariah during our first encounter. MMA memorabilia still clutter each wall. And even more statues, that reach almost as tall as my own height, are placed around, making it an effort to squeeze Natasha’s stroller inside. Retired belts are even on the wall. I glance at a place where my belt will be in the future, once I’m ready to call it a day.
Yuri stuffs in his stomach and moves around me to another seat. I choose to stand.
My coach is seated in his chair, scrawny white legs crossed at the ankles and propped up on the edge of his table. “Oh great, Yuri, you and Natasha can get the truth out of ‘em.”
Yuri grunts. There’s more of a flicker of something in his eyes. One that reads he was previously aware of what Vadim has cornered me for and didn’t want to be a part of telling me so.
“How’s your fucking knee, Vassili?” Vadim asks. “And look at cutie pie before you answer anything other than the truth.”
My eyebrow cocks. I glance over at Natasha, who rarely has an attitude with me, but the foul with her Jordan must’ve dug under her skin. Her pretty brown eyes seem to narrow in understanding. Don’t lie to me, my child is saying.
Fuck.
I rub a hand over my face. “Khorosho. Khorosho—Good. Good… Nyet.” I take it back. Using my hand as a lever, I gesture and add, “Okay.”
“Okay?” Vadim’s wrinkly face is spread into a frown.
“Okay as in you’ll fight Rhy in October or okay as in surgery should be in the cards, first?” Yuri inquires.
My head tilts as I toss a glare in his direction. Rhy? The dog-faced fucker whose body conditioning at this very second? “What do you mean, I’ll fight Rhy? He’s nobody. And fuck no, no surgery necessary here, brat.”
“Rhy’s making a name for himself in this world,” Vadim sits up. “He fought Laquerre.”
“Fuck Laquerrre, Kong is my next sub!”
“Like I just said, Rhy fought Laquerre, don’t be so fucking cocky, Vassili. Laquerre and Kong are almost where you once were. And by process of elimination, Rhy might just very well put his paws on your belt before you do.” He takes a deep breath. “You are both on my team. I talked with him about it first. You’re money, Vassili. Fighting you puts money into his pockets while he guns for the belt.”
I slam a closed paw against my chest. “And what the fuck does it do for me? I don’t give a damn how many cocks he’s sucked in the cage! My target is Gotti.” And you were my coach before you were his, so fuck that cunt! Okay, dah, it’s a little too much like a bitch for me to actually say that out loud. My coach and mentor continues to keep his cool. Due to my outburst, he’s content with making me wait a few moments before responding.
“Gotti will be out before you know it, Vassili.” Vadim clucks. “Speaking of sucking cocks to get by, Rhy doesn’t have as many decisions as you think. He’s got Subs and TKO’s. And if you close your cunt long enough to think, you’d realize this sport is like a game of chess. Any sudden movement can take the queen. In your instance, you did it to yourself. Your knee screwed you. So, can you fight Rhy or should I hold your fucking hand, call your doctor, schedule an appointment regarding your motherfucking knee, and shit, I’ll even pay for the Uber on surgery day.”
“You done?” I gesture.
He grunts.
“Kazen, are you okay?” Yuri stands up. His concern for me makes me glare hard back at him. “Vassili, you are as much my brat—brother as Igor. Sometimes you say I make money off ya—”
I hold up a hand to cut off his need for an emotional moment. “I’m just fucking with you, Yuri.”
“But are you good, as in you can fight Rhy? Or are you good, as in you’re capable of fighting Kong in Australia in six weeks?”
I glare at him. “I’m good enough.”
“Gotti isn’t shit. He fought a nobody after grabbing your belt. His fans are gonna call foul soon if he keeps it in the clutch. But tell me, should we set everything aside right now and have you visit the doctors? That’s not the manager in me talking but blood.”
Zariah
Two weeks later…
August sweeps in, bringing with it drier heat and mounds of luggage as I help my mother settle her items in the bedroom she’s claimed since we bought our home.
“It’s my birthday weekend, baby girl,” she tells me, pulling out dresses and skirts from her rollaway.
“Move over Tina Knowles, Zamora Haskins is in town!” I rub a hand over a sequence dress with the tags still on it.
“Patience is a virtue, my dear daughter. Thanks to your father, it only took me two and a half alimony checks to purchase that dress.” She chuckles.
“Mama, where and the heck did you get this dress?”
“Just kidding, it was on the clearance rack. Saks Fifth Avenue. So yes, it was a scary price, but I clicked my heels together and scoured the store top to bottom for my birthday.”
I smile. The chat Martin and I had with her seems to have penetrated because I took a deep breath and gave her the once over when picking her up from LAX. Martin and his wife are also more available than they were in the past. And we almost have her agreement to attend counseling. Almost.
We head down stairs and outside to the outdoor kitchen where Vassili is grilling salmon and asparagus.
“Let’s go see Maxwell tonight,” my mother is all smiles as she holds Natasha on her hip.
With my mind still on Mrs. Noriega and being half a month into a rather extensive immigration process, I am confused as to why she’d like to see my father. “Mom, what exactly are you asking me?”
“Not your daddy, girl, the singer Maxwell. I got us tickets.”
/> “Mom, I have to work in the morning.” In actuality, I finally secured a spot on my father Maxwell’s busy schedule. The issue of Mr. Noriega still needs to be addressed.
“But you want me to be happy, don’t you?”
I groan.
“Ascension will make me happy. Bad Habits, Stop the doggone World, This Woman’s Work, hell, everything Maxwell will make me happy. And when you get home, Vassili will be willing and waiting for you to make him happy.”
“Dah, Zamora, good looking out.” Vassili grunts turning the asparagus on a Himalayan salt block.
“Yuck, mom.” I shake my head. My mom and I will never have what Taryn and Mrs. Takahashi have. So, I excuse myself. “Um, let me go see if those potatoes are soft enough to mash.”
“Girl, we’re all well aware of Maxwell’s magic.” She fans the tickets in her hands.
***
Later in the evening, while Vassili is studying his MMA textbooks and my mother spoils Natasha rotten with baby massage oil she purchased for the trip, I head upstairs and slip out my phone to call my new partner in crime.
“I expected more checking in,” Tyrese flirts. There’s mariachi music in the background, and I close my eyes considering how much I owe this man.
We’ve decided to move Felicidad and her children to a home Samuel suggested. He believes the case belongs to Tyrese for now, and I have yet to have a real conversation with my father about Mr. Noriega, but the paranoia of some imaginary entity tracking our calls causes me to forgo saying San Francisco when asking, “Humph, I believe in you. Are you almost there?”
“About an hour away. Did you finally buy your mother something for her birthday?”
I pause for a moment. The two of us have worked in tandem for almost a month in order to help secure a safe place for the Noriega family. He had insisted on facilitating their move, U-Haul and all. Although, I agreed that it would keep my family safe—namely my daughter and my husband’s frame of mind—it took serious convincing with Felicidad to allow Tyrese to make the move instead of myself. She still has a distrust of men, but seems to be warming up to him. When Tyrese took the reins on their move to San Francisco, my mentor mentioned that I needed to get ready for my mother’s birthday. Good ol’ Sammy even made impeccably good gift suggestions for my mother. I have yet to ask him why he’s still so afraid to try her Georgia Peach—just kidding, that’s some crap my mother would say.
“Yes, I bought her a gift,” I answer Tyrese.
“What did you get?”
“Let’s keep this strictly business, counsellor.”
“C’mon, this drive was… almost double the time it should’ve been, traffic.”
“Hmmm,” I note that Tyrese isn’t using time frames either. Damn, I must seek out my father soon, regardless of what’s new on his plate. “Okay, I purchased the most expensive pair of ostrich cowboy boots I could find. Although, I’m not sure what possessed my mother to ask for them.”
“You got the photo album as well, didn’t you?” He seems to smile through the receiver.
I feel uncomfortable chuckling. “Yeah, the silver one, engraved and all. I highly suspect that Sammy knows my mother more than she knows herself.”
“What’s the deal with those two?”
“Good evening, Mr. Nicks.” I hang up the phone. There will be no crossing the line because I understand there is such a thing as an emotional affair, and that is not allowed either.
Dear Lord, keep Felicidad and her family safe during this rough time….
***
“Wait a minute, wait a doggone minute, mama.” I glance my mother up and down as she saunters down the steps. I’m wearing a gold-toned, sequined body-skimming dress that loves each and every one of my curves, but my mother takes the cake! “Place your hands at your sides.”
Her head is held high. The shimmery eyeshadow brings out the hazel flecks in her orbs, so I can’t address her age in this regard. But, I’ll be damned if my mother is stepping out of my house in a skirt shorter than mine.
“What, why?” She does a 360 spin, in distressed denim jeans, a silk camisole and the boots I bought for her birthday. Lord knows she looks fit for a country concert, heck maybe even to see that Trace Adkins instead of Maxwell.
“Place your hands at your sides, mama! When I attended Pressley Preparatory Academy as an overprivileged wayward teenager, we not only outdid each other in the latest couture fashion, but we modified our checkered uniform skirts. If the tips of your fingers don’t exceed the hem of your skirt, it’s out!”
“Oh, hell, no,” she chuckles. “You have that shape. Heck, if we want to be square, give me half your booty and I’ll exchange my skirt for a pair of jeans.”
I laugh, and it takes energy for me to force her arms down at her sides. We’re almost in tears with chuckles as I get her to do what I told her to. True to form, her skirt is so short, it stops at her wrists.
“Mama! Go change, now,” I halfheartedly gesture for her to head back upstairs.
It’s a feat for Zamora to shake her head as she’s in tears from laughter.
Vassili comes to the top of the landing. My mom shouts up at him. “Look, son, she’s even more of a bully than cutie pie, or you.”
“You both look very nice,” Vassili tells her. It’s hard as hell to get him to laugh, but that sinful gaze of his is twinkling with laughter. “If any man touches either one of you inappropriately let me know, I’ll have it handled.”
“Nope, because I wanna be touched inappropriately,” My mother giggles.
“Vassili, you’ve learned well not to respond to my mom. I’m sure she’s snuck a box of wine into her bedroom. Goodnight, baby,” I blow a kiss to him.
“Oh, you think that’s enough?” Vassili’s bulky frame moves down the left side of the staircase, like a lion on the prowl. His gaze locks me down like a shiny new toy. “Zamora, please turn your head.”
His joke brings much more needed laughter to my mother. She’s such a beautiful woman when she’s happy.
My husband clutches me around the waist, his hand grabs for my ass, squeezing all the thickness.
“Will you be up when I return?” I cock a brow and lick my lips.
“If I’m not, kick me.”
Vassili is reluctant to let my hand go. I reach to my tippy toes, even in six-inch heels, and taste his lips again. “I’ll be thinking of you all night long,” I whisper, my lips a fraction of a second away from his. He has an impending match with a fellow fighter at Vadim’s Gym. He’s being trained by Nestor, and the other guy has their coach, Vadim’s attention. Needless, to say, I’ve juggled my ‘secret’ case and his dwindling time before we head to Australia. I need a resolution for Noriega first, or I may not be able to attend the fight.
On my heels, I go, turning around.
“Zar, call me when you’re on your way home,” he says.
“Okay, baby.”
“Alright you two,” My mom huffs. “Don’t make me miss the comfort of a man’s arms. Besides, this will be the best night of both your lives. I’m the one who has to return to a vibra—”
“MAMA!” I shout.
She stifles a giggle, and I swear I smell white zinfandel on her as we head out to the garage. Although I’m ecstatic about going to a Maxwell’s concert, an unsettled feeling coils around and makes itself at home in my abdomen. I attempt to tell myself that growing up in the middle of the warzone, that was my parents’ home, is what makes me so pessimistic. There’s a saying that troubles don’t last always.
Where I’m from, the opposite is true.
Vassili
I’m in a dead sleep when my cell phone rings. I left the damn thing on because Zariah was supposed to call me when they headed home. It’s a little after ten pm, it can’t be them. The concert doesn’t end for another hour at the very least. Placing the pillow over my head, I groan and try to reclaim the sleep I had going. Then my cell phone goes off for a second time.
“Fuck, I am going to murder wh
oever this is,” I grumble to myself. Blind to the night, I reach over and feel for my cell phone, snatch it up, and answer.
“Vassili, come over now!” It’s Anna, Igor’s wife. Her voice is heavy with anxiety. I can hear Malich shouting in the background.
Before my fucking brain can catch up, I’m out of the bed, tripping over the discarded high heels Zariah was unable to choose from for the concert. “What the fuck is going on, Anna?”
There’s lots of sniffling and her voice breaks with each syllable, “They shot up the house.”
Lightning streaks through my veins, and I stumble, losing my balance while shrugging into a pair of jeans. “What? Who the fuck shot up the house?”
“Please come. Your uncle is talking to the cops. Oh shit, they’re putting him in the back of the squad car. Vassili, we need you.”
“Why are the cops taking Malich?” I shout. The phone goes dead. My uncle may have done bad things in his day, but he knows when to play by the rules. I dial Zariah. It rings and rings.
“Fuck,” I hang up and dial her number again. What can I do with Natasha?
My baby starts crying the second I turn the light on to the nursery.
“I’m so fucking sorry, baby girl. Daddy’s sorry,” I grumble while picking her up. She’s in some cotton footie pajamas. With the hot summer nights, I forgo a jacket for her, and shuffle down the stairs with her in my arms. When I put her in the car, I tell myself to drive safely while Natasha silently sobs, a desperate, sleepy cry.
“Everything will be okay,” I tell her.
***
Twenty minutes later, I see the blue and red lights before I even hit the corner where my uncle’s mansion is. The police cruisers line the entire block. Shit, I wonder if it’s half the damn police force here tonight.
Anna is in a robe, with big curlers in her hair, talking to a uniformed cop. With nowhere else to park, I stop in the middle of the street, get out. I make a mad dash to the backseat, and scoop Natasha up. She offers a desperate little whimper. Before I can apologize again, a Mexican cop is shouting at me.
