by Cara Nelson
“God, do you have a tracking device in my molar or something?” Aaron shot back, landing a left jab on his brother.
“Nah, I don’t want to pay for a molar monitor when I’m gonna knock your teeth out anyway,” Kyle teased good-naturedly, landing a few body blows.
“I’ve got Cole Saxon tomorrow. He’s fought in Vegas,” Aaron said.
“Are you scared?”
“No. I’m wishing I had a payday like that set up. Why would he come back here if he did any good in Vegas?”
“He wouldn’t, plain and simple. That’s where the money is. So you got nothing to worry about. He did a few years in Philly, got his break and blew it. No sweat,” Kyle said, choking as Aaron struck him in the solar plexus.
“I’m going to see Mom after this.”
“I saw her yesterday.”
“How is she? I mean, she says she’s fine on the phone, but…”
“She’s on dialysis. How you think she is?” Kyle said grimly.
“That’s what I figured. She doesn’t complain, and that way, I never know how bad it is,” Aaron dodged a right cross from Kyle.
“She’s lost more weight,” Kyle warned.
“Does she look that bad?”
Kyle dropped his fists, signaling the end of their sparring. “Little brother, it ain’t good.”
Aaron backed out of the ring, cutting their match short to go shower. If she was losing weight, he’d bring her an old favorite…a bucket of extra crispy. Growing up, they didn’t have money for treats like that very much. He knew she loved some spicy crunchy goodness. He’d make sure she got all the chicken legs. He remembered how he and Kyle used to fight over the drumsticks on the rare occasion they got a bucket, and their mom had made do with a thigh or a wing. He was going to start taking better care of his mother, and this was the first step.
He stopped for the chicken and splurged on a bundle of white and yellow daisies wrapped in shiny pink paper, thinking happily how surprised she’d be to see him turn up with gifts. Kyle was the big brother who looked out for everyone, and Aaron was just going to have to step up his game. He came to the ugly square building where they’d grown up and climbed the stairs, stepping around beer cans and a few discarded syringes on his way to the fifth floor. He beat on the door, let himself in when no one answered.
Carla Dolan was lying in a ratty recliner with a blanket over her, staring at the TV. The blank screen stared back at her. She looked up to see her younger son’s bulky frame fill the doorway, the green scarf she’d made him looped around his neck.
Shifting the lever to lower the footrest on the chair, Carla got to her feet, determined not to show how poorly she felt in front of her youngest boy. She had stood between him and his father’s belt many a time. She would stand between him and her suffering, her mortality with the same resolve.
“It’s surprised I am to see you this day, Aaron,” she managed brightly. “What a lovely bunch of flowers. Were you under the impression from your brother that I’d passed on and you needed daisies for the grave and chicken for the wake?” she teased.
“Of course not,” he blustered, embarrassed.
“Calm yourself, boy.” She smiled, taking the flowers from him and settling them in a jar with some water, “There, now don’t they look nice?”
“I’d have been by sooner, but I’ve got a big match coming up,” he faltered.
“Living by your fists still, I see.” She touched his split knuckles softly.
“I’m good, Ma. Even Kyle says so. I stand to win a lot of money if I can beat Cole Saxon…”
“Cole Saxon? He’s a drunk like his father. Just ask him how many fingers you’re holding up . While he’s trying to steady his vision, knock him down,” she said with a sharp laugh.
“How do you know Cole Saxon?”
“His father was my boss at the plant for years until he wrapped his car around a pole and did the world a favor, God rest his soul.”
“I’m not sure ‘God rest his soul’ works in that sentence, Ma. I thought you might like something to eat?”
“I can’t have salty foods. I’m living on dry toast mostly these days anyhow. But it’ll do my heart good to see you eat. I always did love to see my growing boys put away food.” She smiled sadly.
Aaron sat down at the familiar kitchen table, pulling a chair out for his mother to sit in.
“I’m not going to break, Aaron,” She promised, chiding him for trying to pamper her. Carla had been a big woman at one time, working the line in a poultry processing plant with the fortitude of the toughest man. Since her kidneys started to fail, though, she had seemed to waste away, now nearly skeletal in the vast folds of clothes.
“But if a woman’s got to get sick to get some attention from her grown sons…” She trailed off mischievously. “You could find the remote while you’re here. I lost it two days ago and I’m far too frail and pitiful to be getting up and down to change the channel.”
Aaron got plates out of the cabinet and popped two slices of bread in the toaster. Taking provisions from the cupboard, he made a sloppy version of slightly overcooked cinnamon toast. He served the toast and poured her a glass of milk before tucking in to the bucket of chicken with eagerness.
Carla sat staring at the plate of crookedly-cut toast triangles globbed with margarine and sugar, blinking back tears. She raised a bite to her lips and had to swallow hard before she tasted it.
“Is there anything I can do for you?” he asked diffidently.
“You being here is more than enough.” She took his hand and held it. “You were always enough, you know. Growing up, you wanted to be just like your brother. I should have stopped it then before you got so stubborn. Fighting isn’t always the answer, boy.” Her voice broke as she held his scarred and scraped hand.
“Don’t you know you have to fight to survive, Ma?” he said. “Nothing in this life comes easy, at least not to me.”
“Is this a pity party because your brother knocked up that floozy from down the hall ten years ago? I’ll never hear the end of how you couldn’t get a date in high school…” She chuckled, “Wasn’t even his kid, it turned out—”
“But everyone was convinced it was his! It’s a wonder I ever got anyone to come near me with his notorious fertility in this neighborhood.” He bit into the chicken leg almost vengefully.
“I wouldn’t say the Hathaway girl was a slut, but she wasn’t at all particular in her choice of gentleman callers, from what I hear. There was no way to pin that pregnancy on Kyle.”
“DNA don’t lie, Ma. It wasn’t his, but the damage was done. Every door was closed to me.”
“Every set of knees, you mean, was closed to you in high school,” Carla grinned as she took a bite of toast. “Now you go out there on Friday and knock that boy on his ass once and for all. Win your money and use it to go to school. Get a real job where you don’t risk a concussion every time you go to work. Get yourself an apprenticeship. You could be an electrician…that’s good money, Aaron.”
“Thanks, Ma. I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, dropping an awkward kiss on her head as he left.
***
Aaron checked the text from his brother and pulled a clean sweater out of the laundry basket. He combed his hair, annoyed by its persistent curling up at the ends. It was time for another haircut. He shrugged on his coat but left the long, green scarf at home. He could brazen it out on the street or at work, but it wasn’t great for picking up women and a woman was just what he wanted to find.
The bar was already packed, the interior as loud and overheated as the outside world was frigid. Country music fought for primacy with the volume of the Patriots game. Aaron elbowed his way to the bar and found Kyle already two beers in and knee deep in blondes.
Kyle was a slightly older, leaner version of himself—wiry where Aaron was bulky, his brown hair shaved down to a mere shadow, but the square jaw, the narrowed eyes were the same. A white crescent-shaped scar from a run in with a jackass w
ho had a broken beer bottle ran from his right temple to his cheekbone. Kyle introduced him to the women, whom Aaron instantly renamed Blonde and Blonder, and resumed his dramatic retelling of the fight he won last week.
They scarfed chicken wings and cheered for the Patriots. Kyle attempted a two-step with Blonder to some old Dolly Parton tune. Aaron ordered another round for the table. Blonde cozied up to him while her friend danced with his brother. He found out that she was a waitress and had pictures of her cats on her phone, which she produced so he could admire them. She thought Kyle was funny, she said, but wasn’t into fighters because she hated violence and men with big egos.
“Then I’m pretty sure you’re at the wrong table,” Aaron said smoothly, finishing his beer. “If you want a pacifist, don’t hang out in a sports bar.”
She frowned a little, but recovered quickly by showing him a video of her cats playing with some kind of string. He started to wish his beer was something stronger or that someone would pull the fire alarm so he could escape Crazy Cat Blonde.
“Look! This one is where Chester thinks that it’s just a toy snowman, but then he bats at it and it starts to sing. It’s hilarious!”
She started another video on her phone and he pushed away from the table.
“Really, that’s all the cat I can take for tonight. Have a nice evening.” He stood, but she reached for his arm.
“Look, I think you’re really cute. I don’t usually go for the beefy types. Maybe it’s time to try one out. Want to come home with me?”
“To meet the cats?”
“I’ll put them in the bathroom,” she offered.
He paused and looked her over. Might as well. “Okay. I’ll go tell Kyle I’m taking off.”
Kyle was making out with Blonder up against a wall. Shaking his head, Aaron headed up to pay his tab. Lacey was there, staring him down over her drink. An ex-girlfriend. Great. The night couldn’t get better.
“Hi,” she said, smiling sweetly. “Been so long! Have you met my fiancé, Chris?”
“Yeah, table over there,” Aaron said to the bartender. He looked back at her. “Oh, um, congratulations.”
“Yeah, I really oughta thank you. I guess maybe it’s the steroids affecting your performance. When Lacey and I got together, she really appreciated a man with some real stamina in bed,” Chris chuckled.
Aaron narrowed his eyes, fists clenching reflexively. “What the hell?”
“Do the ‘roids affect your brains, too, big guy? I said, my lady likes a man who can keep it up more than two minutes, that’s all. No hard feelings,” Chris laughed again.
Lacey tugged at her fiancé’s arm, to no avail. “I didn’t say nothing like that to him, Aaron,” she began, but it was too late.
Aaron felt his face go hot with rage and embarrassment. He pushed his hand through his hair, tried to focus and not let the red fury take him. He didn’t want the anger to take him; he tried to fight it down. Everything in the room went unnaturally bright. His focus narrowed to Chris and his smug laughter. He wanted to inflict pain, to make him feel small and worthless.
He saw it distantly, the way he did in the ring. Aaron’s right hook connected with Chris’s jaw. He heard the telltale crack, felt the bone snap beneath his blow. Chris fell off his stool to the floor, screaming, and Aaron stood over him, debating whether he was worth kicking in the kidneys. His anger, his humiliation receded, giving way to disgust.
Lacey crouched over her fiancé, sobbing. “You didn’t have hurt him!” she wailed, cradling Chris’s head in her lap.
The bartender came out with a Louisville Slugger and a scowl. “Out,” he said. “No fighting in here. Get out.”
Aaron heard the sirens and headed out. He popped the collar on his coat against the wind, wishing for the scarf. Since he wasn’t going to get laid anyway, at least he could have been warm enough. He looked back in the window and he could see Kyle and Blonder still pressed against the jukebox. Aaron started home through the icy night, kicking a broken beer bottle ahead of him for a few blocks.
He thought about one of the country songs he’d half-listened to in that bar…I guess my daddy would be proud/but my mama, she’s ashamed. It cut him to think how his mother would react if she’d seen him knock that asshole off his stool and break his jaw with one hit. She would have cried harder than Lacey did, he knew. She also would have grabbed him by the ear in that particular mother-hold that hurt like a bitch, dragged him straight to confession. The priest couldn’t have dealt out any penance worse than seeing his mother cry, though.
Aaron was glad she hadn’t seen it. He hoped word wouldn’t get back to her. He wished so hard that there was another way, something between allowing Chris to talk shit about him for a laugh and breaking his mother’s heart. But Aaron knew there wasn’t. There was fighting, or there was unchecked disrespect and sarcasm and people acting like they were better than him. Violence solved everything. It still left a bad taste in his mouth, bitter as blood and strong as poison.
CHAPTER 4: ZOE
Zoe turned up at Swagger an hour before her time, hoping to get her hands on the camera equipment and try it out before the fighters started to arrive. She stuffed her coat behind the bar and debated whether to untuck her oversized Patriots jersey…it was huge and it was sort of bulky tucked into her jeans. If she left it out, she looked about eight years old. Amy came out front and looked her up and down.
“The boys’ll love you,” She snorted. “You’re cute. If you want to blend in and film, you’re going to have to avoid attention.”
“What? I’m wearing jeans!”
“I see that. You look like every guy’s perky cheerleader fantasy. I guarantee they’ll want to take you tailgating, but you’re not going to get much serious talk out of them.”
“Really? I went for tomboy. Like I’d blend in—”
“With a rack like that, you don’t blend in easily.”
“You’re not exactly inconspicuous yourself,” Zoe teased, indicating Amy’s low-cut top.
“No, but I’m working for tips, honey,”
Within minutes, too soon it seemed, Neil came to take her into the fight room—that broad space with the ropes and chairs she’d dashed through on Wednesday night. There were six guys lined up, slumping and glaring.
“Zoe, these are the boys in my stable. They fight for me every week. Sometimes they match each other, but most of the time I bring in guys from other clubs to spar with them for Saturday nights. Boys, this is Zoe Daniels. She’s going to put you on film and we’re going to sell the videos. You’ll answer her questions and cooperate with the filming. Understood?” Neil raised an eyebrow that seemed to go halfway up his bald head. The men nodded and mumbled.
“Neil began introducing her at one end of the line and she shook hands with a big blond guy who looked barely eighteen, “This is Jay O’Rourke, Charlie Peters, Donny Samms, Stu Shaughnessy, Kyle Dolan, and his baby brother Aaron. Now, my boys stay out of trouble, but Aaron here got into a scuffle last night. He and I need to have a discussion. If you’ll excuse us?”
She smiled gamely and met the eyes of the taciturn fighters who muttered hello. Her gaze fell on Kyle, who looked familiar, but too small. Then Aaron came into view: massive and surly, with gorgeous black curls. The man who’d saved her.
“Aaron,” She repeated his name and took his hand.
All their hands were roughed and calloused and scarred all over, with strong grips. When Aaron shook her hand, she felt a sizzle of recognition, of something more than simple attraction, that made her hold his hand a beat longer than necessary. He met her eyes but said nothing other than hello. Disappointed, she stood back and watched him leave with Neil.
The men sat down in a row of chairs obediently. She fired questions at them, camera in hand. “How long have you been fighting professionally?” she asked.
“Two months,” Jay grinned.
“Four years,” said Charlie and Stu.
“This is my second year,” Donny s
aid.
“Six years,” Kyle said proudly. “Longer than anyone’s lasted here on record, and the place has been open since the seventies.”
“Is this a career for all of you, or a stepping stone to something else?”
“Career!” Jay and Kyle announced. The others shifted in their seats and didn’t answer.
“Okay, what made you choose bareknuckle prizefighting? Is it the fame and prestige? The money? The free beer? What?”
“First off, there is no free beer,” Kyle said, “and prestige is bullshit. Fighters aren’t respected, not in the boxing world, even less than those clowns in wrestling. The cops think we’re thugs. Even though it’s the purest form of strength contest, the Olympics and other athletic organizations refuse to acknowledge us. Also it’s racial—it’s always been a lot of ignorant Micks beating each other’s heads in.”
“Yeah, I get a lot of crap at church about beating people up for a living,” Stu said.
“Is this your full time job, then?”
“Yeah. Except Charlie. Charlie works at the car wash, too.”
“I got a kid,” Charlie explained.
“So what’s the deal with Aaron?” she teased. “Is he just a bloodthirsty Mick like you lot?”
“Aaron’s got a temper. Always has,” Charlie said.
“Eh, we were at a bar and some asshole was talking shit about him, pardon my salty language,” Kyle said with a mischievous grin. “Aaron shut his mouth for him, is all.”
“Is that a problem for Neil?”
“Neil likes to keep things on the up and up here. Doesn’t want police involvement or anything like that,” Stu supplied.
Zoe lowered the camera and switched it off.
“Just one more thing. How much do you hate the idea of me being here on a scale of one to five, five being hatred with the force of a thousand fiery suns?”
“It’s annoying, all the questions, but you’re hot, so I’ll put up with it,” Stu said, elbowing Charlie.
“I like redheads. I like the Patriots. I’m happy.” Jay said, looking her up and down.
