by Paige Notaro
The referee whispered to both men¸ then rushed to the edge of the ring. The fighters faced each other like in a silent conversation. The bell clanged and they dropped to lean stances.
I'd only seen a couple of fights in my life - all at the bar from my time in New York. Something would go crashing and then the crowd would ripple like water hit by a pebble. A space would form and the guys would tear and swing and swear at each other until our security could rush in and clear them out. I had watched from the edge of the kitchens, only peeking out even though I was way out of trouble. Seeing that raw anger, that desire to hurt and dominate was terrifying even from a distance. It was like someone peeled the human back and left only the animal inside.
Of course I'd seen Father like that too, but you couldn’t have a fight when it was just one person doing the hitting. He called it being possessed by "the wrath of the holy spirit." Time away had taught me his rage was no more special than any other violence.
What happened in the arena was like neither of those. The men circled each other, probing with short punches and ducking out of reach. The Black Death circled into view. His eyes were ducked away from me, but I could see the wheels turning behind them. He wanted to take down this man, he wanted to win, but he didn't have the need to hurt someone else. It was just a path to victory.
The Mexican faked him out and managed to jab a fist at the Black Death's face faster than I could even see. Even faster yet though was how the Black Death's hands popped up to shield him. He staggered back but when his face emerged, it had the faintest twitch of a smile.
"He's something, huh?" Mr. Tarly asked. "You see it too."
I realized my own mouth had turned up to match his. I hid it quickly, but the Black Death blocked another throw, then managed to get a few body blows in and I felt my lips moving without my control.
"Boy can take a drubbing and stay up," Mr. Tarly was saying, shaking his head.
Stop calling him a boy. That was a man in there. From his face, I knew The Black Death couldn't be much older than me, but there was a confidence to him that I’d never seen before. He took another solid blow to the face, but came back swinging and when his flurry hit the hard stop of the Mexican's blocks, he pulled back and grinned. Not an insane grin, but a broad cheerful one that made his caramel eyes twinkle. It was as if he could see something coming that no one else could.
The two erupted at each other, and then they were writhing through the dust, swirling up a storm. The arena was on its feet roaring as the figures grew murky. I could still see clearly from my seat, but I couldn't tell who was winning. I almost tapped Mr. Tarly to ask, before catching myself.
Each seemed to be trying to keep the other from getting up. A strange tug was pulling at my stomach at the sight of their bodies twisting. I could only see flashes of dark skin slick and glowing white under the lights. It felt flush with heat. I must be really worried about this guy.
The referee rushed in and screamed into the dust. The fighters separated. The Black Death had his arms pumping in victory. The crowd roared its joy and I clapped softly into my lap.
The men squared off and were at it again. I found myself staring squarely at The Black Death's face. It seemed formed out of sharp edges and lines: a square jaw, high cheekbones, a broad forehead and a sharp dome up top. He looked like the tip of a missile, pent up with power, but there was always that glint in his eye, that slight tug of his lips, like his sculpted body was a punchline to a joke.
The Mexican swung only for the face. I could see his veneer breaking - his fight becoming less a sport and more about the desire to hurt. The Black Death weaved in and out, jabbing at his opponent's body, but eventually one of the angry fists found his face. I winced as he snapped back. I could almost feel the impact. But because my eyes were already there, already in sync with him, I saw his head twist just so slightly before the fist hit. Just enough to keep the blow safe.
He did it one more time and this time I saw it even clearer, as he turned a knockout into something more like a strong shove. When he grinned, I grinned right along.
He wasn't just good because he could take a beating. He was strong because he could take a beating and turn it into something he could survive.
A flush went over my body. I didn't know muscles could reveal so much about a person, but I also knew that I wasn't imagining. We had different fights, him and me, but we fought them the same way.
The Mexican came back with another vicious blow and after taking a fraction of it, the Black Death popped back up without a smile. His hand sailed right through his opponent’s block. He locked the guy's face and drove his free fist into it over and over. He let go and the Mexican tumbled to the floor, barely able to prop himself up. The bell clanged and the referee ran over to consult with fallen man. The Black Death paced the edges of the cage, pumping his arms and raising the crowd to a whole other level.
My heart seized as he edged toward me, but right before he got there, the referee pulled him back to the center. The Mexican wobbled across from him, blood streaking his face as red as a barn. The Black Death said something and the man wobbled his head ridiculously.
The fight was already over. The Mexican came swinging as hard as before, but I could actually see his hands move now. He was going way too slow. The Black Death danced around his swings. He no longer smiled, just moved his lips gently. I got the idea he must be counting. Maybe giving the guy enough time to lose without looking embarrassed.
"Mmm, I love this part," Mr. Tarly said. "The culmination. That man knows how to bide his time. Makes the end all that more delicious."
His hand caressed my knee.
My mind receded from the fight, the lights, the noise. I remembered where I really was. I remembered who had brought me here.
I remembered what he planned to do when he had me alone tonight.
The crowd roared and freed me from the horror of my future. The Black Death had counted enough. He battered the Mexican back, hard and fast. The guy couldn't even block anymore. He shook like he was being shot over and over. Finally he slumped to the floor.
The bell clanged and clanged. Men rose to their feet and clapped and whooped - even Mr. Tarly and the bosses around us.
The Black Death circled the cage again. His hands weren't raised. The victory had happened a long time ago. His eyes looked defiant, proud.
And then they were proudly and defiantly on me. I seared under his gaze - there was no doubt it was meant for me. He had even stopped moving.
I watched the warm brown orbs swell with question, his hard brow soften. He was talking to me. Asking me a question. I thought I knew what it was.
What are you doing here?
The strength of the question passed from him into me, and all lightness left me. Something hardened at my center. Yes, I was like him. I could roll with what fate dealt me. But eventually that man fought back. He defied his attackers and he won.
I wouldn't submit either. Mr. Tarly had seated his ugly body back down and I knew I had to get away from it.
The referee was helping the Mexican to his feet. He shoved him off and hugged his hands together. Suddenly he was rushing towards the Black Death. Something glinted in his fists: a knife.
The moment went still. I needed to tell him somehow, but my lips wouldn't move. I wouldn't be loud enough anyway. But just as I had read him, he read me. He spun around and dodged the stab as it came for his neck.
They fought a moment more and the knife switched hands. The crowd was back on his feet. Mr. Tarly was screaming his lungs out.
The Black Death smashed the Mexican in the face and he went staggering back.
I let out my breath. He was ok.
But I wasn't.
Without even thinking, I slipped off the edge of the chair and began crawling up the bleachers. I waited for hands to grab me, for someone to scream out, but the air was a cloud of noise already. No one was paying attention.
I crawled to the top of the bleachers and hopped m
y way around the back edge of the arena. No one was seated this far away. The light from the exit door beckoned. I was just at the edge when the crowd cheered and people started to sit again. I rushed out through the swinging doors.
The guards outside all stared as I burst into the hallway. The ugly noses of their weapons stayed pointed away, but I pictured them shifting my way. The stairs leading up were right ahead, but if the guards stopped me, I knew I would break.
I went around the hall instead, following the circle it traced and passing door after door. I would hide behind one. Eventually this place would be empty. Then I could leave.
A few hushed conversations were happening in the halls, but I looked busy and strode right past. I passed another set of stairs and heard women's voices below. I could fit in better there, so I hustled down.
The women were those bikinied cheerleaders from before. They looked wide-eyed at me, and one asked something in Spanish, but I waved her away, and moved down another hall. This must be where the fighters had come from. I could hear the commotion of the arena behind me and had the sudden panic that Mr. Tarly could see me here, could recognize my form even in shadow. I started sprinting.
Where was I going? What happened to my plan? With a sudden surge of fear I saw I was headed to a wall. This was not an escape. I had trapped myself in a cage and I was going to be found and locked up again.
I looked around for a bathroom. A closet. Anything. There was a door nearby labeled with a man's name: Andre Jones. The light underneath was off and that was enough for me. The handle twisted in my grip and I rushed in and shut the door behind.
I was in a dressing room. It had just a small cot, a medical kit and a table with a mirror and chair, but there was another door off in the corner. I yanked it open and saw a long line clothes and gear. It stretched back a few feet. More than enough space to hide in.
I sat in the dark under the leaves of clothing and wondered what exactly I was headed to. If this worked, I would still have to hope they didn't lock the whole place up. If they didn’t I would still need to sneak out and crawl through a desert to a city where I didn't speak a word of the language. That was the good option.
The bad option: if Mr. Tarly found me, he would take me back. But he wouldn't beat me. He would just leave me and unplug the power. He would take the books. He would starve my mind and maybe even my body until I begged for him back. He would break me and make me his pet. I only had enough brains to see it coming, not stop it.
Voices and footsteps began booming on the other side of the wall. I heard angry Spanish, packs of men searching. The closet door was shut but I could hear an argument just outside the room. It broke off and then the room door open and shut.
One set of footsteps came in and I held my breath. Just one man. I could hide if I stayed in the corner.
The footsteps moved on the far side of the room. I heard the chair scrape back and someone sigh heavily. A voice started to hum. Not a Spanish tune, but a song that I used to listen to back in New York. My coworkers had called it pop, called me silly for liking it. But it was sweet and romantic and compared to the hymns that I'd been forced to grow up with, it was sparklingly complex.
The artist singing had been a man, but this voice that hummed was so much deeper and richer, it rumbled the door. My curiosity got the best of me. I carefully crept open the closet.
It was him, The Black Death. No, Andre Jones– that’s who this room belong to. His back was mostly to me, as he wiped himself down with a towel and daubed ointment on an angry red slice on his face. All the rage and pride and humor I'd seen in the ring was gone, just a calm appraisal of his victory. His deep voice sang through my body and I lost myself in him for a moment.
Then the room door slammed open. Andre whipped around and everything startled me so much I slammed my own door shut. I huddled in a throbbing silence as a voice yelled at Andre in Spanish. He waved it off. Someone came in the room but his voice rose and they walked backed out. The door shut.
Maybe he hadn't seen me. I only had time to fool myself for a second. Footsteps approached the closet door. Very slowly, it opened. I tried to still myself behind the cloth as I saw muscular shoulders move along on the other side.
"Hey," Andre said. "Are you in here? It's ok, I'm not here to hurt you."
In the darkness the voice poured over me like a warm shower. I wanted to believe, but I was a silly ignorant hick girl, so I couldn't trust my instincts. They were the reason I was trapped in this room.
"Listen, I know you’re in here," he said. "I don't believe in ghosts." I heard him fiddle with the gear on the end of the closet. He turned around and came back. I tried to huddle deeper into the shadows of the closet. He seemed about to leave but he stopped at the entrance. He turned directly to me and thrust his arms through the hangars.
I screamed as he pulled me out, but he covered my mouth and held my face to his.
"Easy," he said. "Easy. They'll hear you."
His hand lifted off and I took trembling breaths. His face was so hard, his body so vast. What could I do against it? Only pray.
"Please," I whispered. "Don't let him take me back. Please help me.”
2
Revelation
“Not until we are lost do we begin to understand ourselves.” - Henry David Thoreau
CHAPTER EIGHT
Andre
I brought the girl out to my chair then double-checked the lock on my room. Her eyes followed me as I turned back, bright and green and nervous. Her face didn’t show any of it though and that was even worse – as if she was preparing to accept the worst.
I’d known there’d be trouble in that closet. Some thief looking to steal all the dope clothes and shoes I had inside. Or maybe some rabid fan. Given the sort of guys who attended these fights, that would have been more terrifying than the thief.
This, this was worst of all. A girl who was being hunted – a girl now looking to me to decide her fate.
I turned away, unable to think in the light of her.
Think? What was there to think? I’d seen the men searching outside and the anger of the one who’d tried storming in here. I’d heard them talking about someone’s missing girl. This wasn’t Madison State Garden; they weren’t fucking talking about someone’s lost daughter.
I’d known this sort of shit happened here. Hell, compared to the public executions and torture plaguing Juarez it was downright tame. But that business had been outside my cage and off in the dark minds of the people who watched. As long as the filth stayed out of view I didn’t have to think about how my paychecks were stained with blood and misery. I could even, in some way, feel like I fit into this place. El Muerte Negro, that’s who I was right?
But now, with her staring at me with that pale face, now that I knew she was the girl who had caught my breath even far away in the dim arena? No, I didn’t have choice. I didn’t want to try to even see one.
“Who are you?” I asked, still not looking back at her.
“I was kidnapped,” she said.
Well, no shit. I was gonna ask from where, but then I realized how smooth her English sounded. It reminded me of home. I turned to her. “You’re American.”
She nodded furiously, like she’d just remembered herself. “Yes. I am. They kidnapped me from Texas, I think. They drugged me and took me to Mexico.”
“That’s not right.” The Cartel kidnapping a US citizen from US soil? Not just a citizen, but a blonde white girl. That’s the sort of stuff that would get the US military involved.
But she took a different meaning. Her look fell somewhere to the past.
“It’s terrible. I’ve been…”
Her words dropped off into a shudder. She buried her face in her hand, and I watched her weep silently. She didn’t look all that bad off, pretty even, but that could all be make up. Who knew what they had done to her?
I wanted to calm her down, but fuck why should she be calm? She’d said enough. I needed to stop trying to figure h
er out and figure out how to get her the hell out of here.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “It’s over now, ok? You’re safe.”
Neither of us said anything. Footsteps thumped past on the other side of the door in a hurry. The girl cowered into her chair and looked up with those pleading eyes again.
“Ok,” I said, searching my room. “Ok, we gotta hide you.”
“I don’t fit in at all.”
“No you do not.” I stopped on a pink hoodie lying on my couch. “But that can be fixed.”
“I don’t know Spanish. I don’t know anything. I can’t be fixed. I can’t…”
Her eyes were lost again on something unseen. She was going into shock.
“Hey, it’s ok,” I said. “You don’t need to know a damn thing, alright?”
I squeezed her shoulders, which was a dumb move. She nearly jumped out of the chair. She turned, saw me and breathed out a long shuddering breath. “Sorry.”
“No, that’s on me.”
What the hell had they done to her? Another set of boots clipped off outside and now I was angry. I crushed my hands to fists. Did the men looking know what they were sending her back to? I sure didn’t but I could see the scars it had left on her mind.
Call me what I am, but I wasn’t anywhere in the league of a guy who could do that. Or guys who would return a broken girl to him without a care.
“Come on,” I said. “We’re gonna get you right on out from this place.”
I gave her the hoodie from the bed. It smelled dank with sweat and beer but the girl put it on without even scrunching her nose. One of the dancers had left it in my room. It was strange to think how long ago my only plan for the evening was to get another one back in here before heading out on the town. That lust, that ego - it had all drowned under the sight of this girl’s face.
She zipped up and I pulled the hood around her long hair. She trembled under my fingers, but she finally seemed to notice what she’d been putting on.
“Is this enough to hide me?” she asked.
