Fight

by Cara Nelson

  “Let’s check out the rock climbing wall downstairs,” she said.

  “You’re suddenly into climbing, or you want to get out of my hotel room now that I’m in it?”

  “Both; well, the last one mainly. I need to film you doing stuff for Neal. Even though it’s not at Swagger, he wants footage of the Dolan boys going to the big time. So I thought climbing rocks was more manly-man than playing with the espresso maker. Not a real bare-knuckle vibe there.”

  “Boxing is very subtle, very strategic. You have to have deftness as well as brute strength.” His voice was low and smoky, and she wanted to hand him her panties.

  “Whatever that thing is you’re doing with your voice, quit it now.”

  “Why? Are you being seduced?”

  “It’s making me queasy. You need a wax mustache to twirl if you’re going for smarmy. Go climb something. Do something impressive. I have a memory card to fill.”

  Down in the gym, he stripped off his shirt and grabbed the chin-up bar for a series of pull-up drills. She watched his bare back flexing as he lifted his body weight, the broadness of his shoulders and the deep green ink of the Celtic cross tattooed on his back. He had done nine before she remembered to get out her video camera. Scolding herself for ogling instead of filming, she squinted through the viewfinder, jaw clenched. He dropped to the floor and did push-ups. She was biting her lip way too hard by the seventh push-up, and he went to a hundred and fifty.

  He switched to the hamstring curl. Zoe’s eyes widened as his calves bulged with the effort of the eighty-pound load he’d selected.

  “I didn’t think combat athletes did weight training…doesn’t bodybuilding bulk you up?”

  “It’s strength training, and the fast-twitch muscle fibers have to be maximized.” Zoe had to restrain herself from making an indecent comment about fast twitching muscles. She found she had all the self-control of a teenager around him. She blamed the testosterone in the air.

  “Okay. I’ll take your word for it. Any words of wisdom on training?”

  “Yeah, sure. Use the heavy bag, do pull-ups, don’t let your brother junk-punch you when you’re sparring; that should about cover it.” He grinned winningly at the camera.

  “Where is your brother?”

  “Drinking and picking up women, I expect. He lacks my discipline and piety.”

  “Awesome. So what are you doing when you’re not training or, you know, praying the rosary?”

  “The usual. Practicing the violin. Working at the soup kitchen. Doing my part to make Boston a more beautiful city by walking from place to place.”

  “To save the environment?”

  “No, to add my natural appeal to the cityscape.”

  “Ah, I see. So, spiritual practice, neighborhood beautification, and Boston’s reigning bareknuckle prizefighter. A true Renaissance man. What are your future plans?”

  “To win.”

  “That’s it? ‘To win’? Anything more specific?”

  “To win big. To defeat any challengers. To get the prize.”

  “The money?”

  “Of course, the money. I’ve been a good fighter since I was a kid getting in dust-ups on the sidewalks. I’ve trained seriously since I was sixteen years old. I came to win, but it’s not just for love of the game, as they say.”

  “How do you see yourself? Are you an athlete or a warrior?”

  “Me? I’m just a working stiff, doing my job and trying to make a buck.” He flashed his million-dollar grin and sat up on the bench.

  “I don’t believe that for a second. Guys who want to make a buck go wait tables or do enough push-ups to pass the state test and be a prison guard. Guys who lift their own body weight for fun and put their pretty faces out there for other men to take a swing at are made of a different mettle. So what’s your motivation? White knight? Superhero? Pick your poison. What’s the particular image that propels your ego, your urge to dominate?”

  “Father,” he blurted out.

  “What?”

  “Every guy out there that I hit, I’m seeing my dad. Specifically I see my dad knocking out my mom’s teeth, jerking Kyle’s arm out of the socket, kicking me hard in the stomach after he’s knocked me down.”

  “Shit,” Zoe breathed, switching off the camera.

  His hands were shaking, his pupils were dilated, and his lips were going white. For a split second, she thought he was going to start throwing things, turning over weight benches, tearing up the place. She watched, breathless, as he set his jaw, clenched his fists and took a long breath, raking a hand through his hair and mastering his anger with visible effort.

  Zoe squatted down in front of him and took his hands in hers. With the pad of her thumb, she brushed the network of scars across his knuckles, the wraithlike lines where his hands had healed. Dropping her head, she kissed his hand once softly.

  “I get it now. But you don’t have keep punishing yourself.”

  “I’m not punishing myself, it’s my way of punishing him.”

  “But you’re the one it’s hurting.”

  “I used to let Kyle take hits for me, take blame for me. I can take my own hits now and give them back with interest.”

  “Men don’t have to fight. Not to prove their toughness, not to beat down a demon.”

  “You don’t know one goddamned thing about it. You walked in with a camera about a week ago. I’ve been living this all my life. So don’t come in here and tell me how.”

  He pushed up off the bench and stormed out without looking back. She ran the scene back on her camera and deleted the last forty seconds of film. What kind of pain could make a man submit to a physical beating every week for six, eight years? What sort of man did that make him? Broken or just plain dangerous?

  She went down to the casino and followed Kyle around for a while. The elder Dolan was more than happy to provide her with sound bites about their shot at glory, what an unbelievable opportunity this was and how they were sure to dominate. His reasons seemed to have more to do with karma and being Irish Catholic (seemingly contradictory as it might be) than with any concrete knowledge of the odds against either of them or the fight records of their respective opponents. He was full of hubris and hope, the bright and bulletproof side to the coin, a stark contrast to the damaged warrior who’d just walked away from her.

  Kyle lounged with a glass of whiskey, going on about the earthy peat undertones that spoke to him of the Irish hills of his home (never mind that this was his first trip out of Boston) and selected a cigar from the humidor thoughtfully. The waitress changed the music from Dean Martin to Johnny Cash at his request. He winked at the camera, clearly enjoying his holiday as a VIP.

  ***

  Zoe knocked on Aaron’s hotel room door. She stared at the shards of her own reflection in the brass numbers on the door as she counted slowly, giving him to the count of four hundred to answer the door. If he was with someone, with a woman, she thought she might die. But she had to face him sooner or later. She steeled herself to see him with a stripper or maybe two strippers, tall sexy ones who made her look like someone’s annoying little sister by comparison. She was practicing a gracious look of resignation when he opened the door, dark curls messy.

  He leaned against the doorway, wearing only his boxers. She licked her lips twice before she could speak.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “What?”

  “I said hi. What I mean is, are you okay? That was pretty heavy earlier. I know you were mad that I said you don’t have to fight and…I’m just making it worse now, right? I suck at apologies. Especially when I’m not actually sorry like now. I deleted the video back to before you mentioned your dad. It won’t be in the film Neal sees. I needed you to know that, to know I deleted it. I wasn’t telling you how to live earlier, I was telling you that you have a choice. Now I see you’re fine and you know that Neal won’t be exploiting any childhood trauma, I’ll just say good night,” she said.

  Aaron reached out one long arm
and dragged her against him. Zoe wished she weren’t so overdressed so she could feel his warm smooth chest against her skin. He rubbed his mouth against hers, parting her lips and claiming her mouth slowly with his tongue. She put her hands in his hair and felt the silkiness of those springy curls, gripping them hard. She kissed him back with all the desire that had been building since she saw him doing push-ups the first time.

  She dragged herself back from him and got on the elevator alone. She had spent too many years being catcalled and hit on for being cute and curvy to have a great deal of respect for men and their honorable intentions. No matter what this one said about his John Wayne code of ethics, she wasn’t about to be the flavor of the day. She was too restless to sleep, so she edited video and sent the rough cut to Neal. At least now he knew he was getting his money’s worth sending her to Vegas. He was paying at least thirty-nine dollars a night to put her up in this pit; she might as well make all that luxury productive.

  CHAPTER 9: AARON

  Zoe was waiting outside Aaron’s room when he got back from breakfast.

  “I was thinking last night…”

  “Of me?”

  “Yeah but not how you think. I bet your mom’s proud of you. You didn’t grow up like your dad, punching women and being a douchebag. So how does she feel about the tournament?”

  “She doesn’t know. She’d skin me alive. And, no, she would not be proud of me. You don’t know my ma.”

  “She deserves to know. This is an honor, and plus, she’d want to know you’re fighting so she can…”

  “Pray the rosary?”

  “Probably,” Zoe said.

  “Fine. I’ll call her. But she’s just going to give me hell, and it might put me off my game, coach.”

  “I think we can risk it. I’ll make sure you do extra push-ups later.”

  “Actually I’m going to go to the gym now. Want to tag along and ogle?”

  “I do not ogle. I film. And I could use some shots of the brothers Dolan training together. Call your mother.”

  “I swear, you’re a nun underneath that plucky exterior.”

  Aaron left her out in the hall and dialed Carla’s number. She picked up on the first ring.

  “How are you?” He asked.

  “I’m hanging in there. Everything okay?”

  “I’m going to be in a big fight tomorrow.”

  “I thought you were in Las Vegas with your brother.”

  “I am. We’re both fighting in a tournament for Archer Lambert at the Vines. It’s going to be on pay-per-view and we’re staying at the hotel and it’s unreal. So fancy. I just, I’ve worked real hard to get here and I wanted to tell you.”

  “Bullshit, Aaron. Who made you call? Did you lose the coin toss with Kyle?”

  “Okay, the camera girl made me.”

  “Who’s she? Wait. Do you have a girlfriend?”

  “No way.”

  “Bring her to Mass next week. I want to meet her. She sounds like wife material.”

  “Because she’s on your side. And no, I am not marrying her.”

  “You may not mean to now, but she got you to call me. The woman has influence over you,” she teased.

  “Take care, Ma. I’ll call you tomorrow after the fight.”

  “I’ll pray for you. For safety.”

  “You won’t pray that I win?”

  “That’s for the Lord to decide, son.”

  “Oh, get your Bible study class praying for a knock-out.”

  “Goodbye.”

  “Wait, Ma? You still there? I just—you know I love you, right?”

  “I know, Aaron,” She said, her voice sad, “As I love you, my boy,”

  “Kyle and I have a plan. Things are going to work out now. We’re—we’re going to get you some help. You don’t have to worry,”

  “I always worry. I’m your mother,”

  “Yeah, so it’s about time I took care of you for a change. I’m going to make this okay, Ma,” He said, his voice breaking. She clicked off.

  He should have felt better, less ashamed, that his mom was grudgingly hopeful for him despite her disappointment. Instead, he felt dirty, embarrassed, like he’d just confessed something awful. He should be proud, he told himself, but he felt more conflicted than ever. Telling her had made it more real somehow, and it made him feel pissed at Zoe that she put him up to calling.

  She was a bad influence, making him unhappy with his biggest success yet. Instead of rejoicing that he was fighting on TV in Vegas, he kept thinking about when Zoe asked if he was ever good at anything besides fighting. He had told her the truth when he said he wasn’t. He had always been proud of it, especially when he’d stuck up for kids being bullied in school. He even taught a few of them to throw a punch. That had made him feel good, but it was still fighting, still the only thing he excelled at. Damn that camera girl for making him think about old times and how limited his talents were. Now he felt like shit.

  He rode the elevator down with Zoe and Kyle. He glowered at his sneakers and wouldn’t talk, just stood there cracking his knuckles like a sullen fourteen-year-old. She filmed their accustomed routine of jumping rope, sparring, working over the heavy bag and doing pull ups. After a while she turned off the camera and left without a word.

  “You got to get that stick out of your butt, man,” Kyle said. “We’re golden. We’re winning this thing. Quit moping.”

  “Is there any basis for why you think we’ll win our weight divisions, besides the fact that you want us to?”

  “Sure. We train hard, we kick ass all the time, we pray. The other guys, they probably ain’t even Catholic, bro.”

  “I am so afraid that you’re not joking right now. Don’t even tell me if you’re serious.”

  “Right.”

  “Right? What does that mean? Does that mean you actually believe you can win a fight by being Catholic? Like, you went to Mass, the other guy slept in on Sundays so he automatically loses. Cursed by God?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “You are so kidding right now. No one is that—wait, never mind. I don’t want to know if I’ve spent my life following in the footsteps of someone so totally insane. I need to shower.”

  “Tell her I said hi.”

  “What?”

  “Zoe. When you catch up with her, tell her hi from me.” Kyle grinned. “I have some more whiskey to sweat out. Go have fun.”

  She wasn’t outside his room. She wasn’t outside Kyle’s room. He looked up and down the empty hallway wondering why he was so sure she’d be hanging out in hopes of seeing him. She had the training footage she needed, why should she stay after the way he was acting? He reached in his pocket for the keycard but it wasn’t there. He checked both pockets and the pocket of his tee shirt. Scanning the figured carpet for any sign of his lost key, he muttered to himself and turned to go back to the gym and look for it. His hotel room door swung open.

  “Okay, that was fun. Now you can come in,” Zoe said.

  “How’d you get in my room?”

  “I took your key.”

  “You picked my pocket?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  “I figured if I got you alone I could make you talk.”

  “That sounds very Law & Order.”

  “Not what I had in mind. But neither is your bullshit silent treatment.”

  “You are the second woman today to call bullshit on me.”

  “Okay?”

  “My mom,” he said, pushing past her into the room. “Now what are we talking about?”

  “This.”

  Zoe caught his face in her hands and kissed him hard and fast. His arms were around her, dragging her against him. She pulled back and licked her lips.

  “I’m attracted to you,” she said.

  “I got that.”

  “That’s not all.”

  “I was afraid there was more. What?”

  “I’m more than a piece of ass, Aaron.”

  “I know
that.”

  “What am I then?”

  “You’re scrappy. You tried to fight those muggers even though you were outnumbered. You did that all wrong, though. When the first one grabbed you, you should’ve hit him with your forehead. Like slam your head into his face. It works. Sends them reeling back and it horrifies people who aren’t expecting it.”

  “I just asked you how I’m more than a piece of ass to you, and you tell me to hit people in the face with my head? How is that a thing? Like I’m in line at Starbucks and the line is moving slow because someone can’t decide between a tall and a grande and I’ll be like ‘bitch, get the tall’ and then smash my head into her nose? I’m not even sure why I’m talking to you right now.” Zoe shook her head.

  “Are you through?”

  “I have no idea. You’re confusing at times.”

  “You stopped me after I broke that punk’s collarbone. Then, when you hugged me the first time in the alley, you did this thing where you play with the hair at the back of my neck.”

  “I kept you from committing felony murder and I play with your hair,” she said flatly.

  “That about covers it. Also you’re cute, but that probably falls under the piece-of-ass category so I didn’t mention it earlier.”

  “Okay, so we’ve established that I am, for odd and varied reasons, not a piece of ass. Which I, unlike you, already realized.”

  “Not true. Give me credit. I knew you were more than that already.”

  “Clarification: you don’t seem to realize that YOU are more than a piece of ass. A strong and attractive body. You have more to offer than that.”

  “Really,” he said, looking annoyed.

  “You have such a good heart, Aaron Dolan,” her voice broke. “You want to fight for your family, to make your brother proud of you and save your mom’s life. You put your scarf around me and blocked the bad guys in the alleys and you told me that you were done being my friend. You left the strippers and went with me when I asked you to. You told me Irish men are lovers and fighters both. You told me the truth about why you fight, even though it’s pretty obvious you didn’t want to. You do things every goddamned day to make me fall for you—” She sniffed, blinking hard.