Knockout

by J.C. Valentine

  The house, though old, was large. Just not large enough. With a total of six bedrooms, a living room, and a large den, it was bursting at the seams with six families complete with more than a dozen kids ranging from infancy to preteen and now that Victoria and her son, Miles, were here, that included teens, too.

  The home buzzed with energy as Alyson made her way through the first floor. In the kitchen, she passed by a sheet of paper with a list of names and chores outlined for each day of the week. She had to give the resident advisor her dues. She was a tough old broad to be able to manage a home this crazy without going crazy herself.

  Alyson stepped into the den and immediately plastered her back to the wall as a train of little kids raced by her followed up by a couple of frazzled, but happy looking young mothers. Inside the den were seated two older women at a small, plastic folding table combing over that week’s newspaper. Knowing what she did about the rules of the house, she assumed that they were job hunting, which was good. These women needed to learn how to get on their feet and regain some independence.

  All around her she saw signs of women doing all they could do to get a fresh start at life. Some of them bore fresh scars of their ordeal visible to the naked eyes while others wore their scars in the hard, skeptical, and oftentimes, fearful look in their eyes—a look she was far too familiar with and would recognize anywhere.

  Any time Alyson glimpsed that look of cautious terror in a brief look over one woman’s shoulder, or the moment she stepped outside, or each time the phone rang, it struck anger in her bones. While the safe house was designed to protect these women and their children, she, just like every woman there, knew that their peace was as fragile as an autumn leaf. All it would take would be for one husband to track down his wife, and everything they had worked so hard to build here would crumble.

  Still no sign of the Michael duo, Alyson ventured to the second floor. There she found the doors marked with the names of the families who occupied the rooms. Victoria and her son Miles were closest to the stairs, which she should have expected. As the newest residents, they got the room closest to all the noise.

  The door stood open, but Alyson knocked anyway, careful not to intrude on their personal space.

  “Ms. Blake, so nice to see you again!” Victoria said cheerily, as she dropped a shirt she had been folding back into the laundry basket at the foot of her bed. “I wasn’t expecting you. Come in, come in.” Her face still bore the worst of the bruising Alyson had seen upon their first meeting, but she was glad to see that they were beginning to fade.

  Alyson smiled widely as she stepped inside. The room was just large enough to house two of her kitchens, which was saying something. Two single beds taking up the far end of the two main walls, and a tall chest of drawers were the only pieces of furniture in the room. Not that it could have fit much more. What personal effects didn’t fit into the dresser was piled up on the available floor space.

  Lifting arms that had long ago lost all of their strength, Alyson presented the handful of bags. “I brought some things I thought you two might use.”

  Victoria’s face lit up at the same time Alyson saw shame spark in her eyes. “Thank you, Ms. Blake, but you didn’t have to do that. Miles and I have everything we need here.”

  Apparently, Miles didn’t see it the same way. Bolting off his bed, he relieved her of the bags and began to tear through them.

  “I wanted to,” Alyson told Victoria. “I always like to check in and make sure that my clients have everything they need.” To Miles she said, “I didn’t know what you liked, but I bought some jerky, chips, pop, candy….” She trailed off, a pleased smile on her face as Miles tore open a candy bar and bit off half of it. He grinned at her and shot her a thumbs-up.

  “Well, I appreciate the gesture,” Victoria said, watching with love in her eyes as her young son devoured his treat.

  “Oh, I got you some things, too,” Alyson said, going to the bags. “I picked up a couple of different shampoos and conditioners, some body wash, brushes. The essentials.”

  Running her fingers through her hair, Victoria laughed. “You have no idea how happy a simple bottle of conditioner just made me. My hair has been a tangled mess since I got here.”

  Pulling out the same bottle of conditioner that she used at home, Alyson handed it off. “Then I’m glad I got here when I did. A woman’s hair is her deadliest weapon, and therefore, must be taken care of properly.”

  “Thank you,” Victoria said emphatically. “Really, thank you. As soon as I get a job and have some money, I’ll pay you back—”

  Alyson held up her hand, stopping her from saying anything more. “You just get you and your son on your feet and safe. That’ll be payment enough.” Catching her by surprise, Victoria threw her arms around Alyson and hugged her tight. Alyson patted her on the back, unused to such open affection. After a few moments passed, she pulled back and surveyed the room.

  “So, they gave you your own room, huh?” she marveled, making it sound like a big deal. And it was. This was the only room in the house that wasn’t being shared among the families. The Michaels were fortunate to be bunking alone.

  “They did,” Victoria said pleasantly as she stood at Alyson’s side to look with her. “It’s not much, but it’s ours. Miles hates it, though,” she confided. “I think he misses his old room.”

  “That’s understandable,” Alyson agreed, glancing at the boy who currently had his nose buried in a book and was pretending not to notice their existence.

  “I can hear you talking about me,” he muttered. “I don’t care about my old room. I just hate all the noise here and there’s no freedom to do anything. I can’t go down to grab a snack in the middle of the night because all of the meals are planned, and Ms. Hardy will know if a grain of rice goes missing. I can’t even hang out with my friends. It’s like I’m in prison all over again, and with my mom, no less!” He pegged her with a hard, defiant look. “Do you know what it’s like to sleep in the same room with your mother? I’ve seen her underwear, for crying out loud.”

  Alyson laughed despite herself. “Oh, Miles, I hear you. The hardships young men face these days. Am I right, Mom?” she said, touching Victoria’s shoulder.

  “Will Smith was right,” Miles grumbled as he turned onto his side, giving them his back. “Parents just don’t understand.”

  Despite their shared laughter at Miles’ expense, Alyson still felt bad for the situation he was in. Like a lot of kids his age, she could see him withdrawing into himself, and it made her want to reach out and to do everything in her power to fix it, to make his life better. But she couldn’t. The only thing she could do is try to make their path a little smoother while teaching them how to fix it on their own.

  Making a list of the things they still needed, Alyson promised them she would check in again by the end of the week. “In the meantime,” digging in her purse, she pulled out a white business card and handed it to Victoria, “I want you to call me, day or night, if there is anything you need. Anything at all, even if it’s just to talk,” she said, looking back and forth between Victoria and Miles.

  After getting Victoria’s assurance that she would call if she thought of anything, Alyson headed back to the office.

  ***

  “Do you want it?” Don shouted from one corner of the ring. “I said do you fucking want it?”

  “Hell, yeah!” Jami ducked under the long reach of his sparring partner, Brad, narrowly escaping a black eye. Stepping forward with his right foot, he faked left, and when his partner moved to block him, Jami came back with a hard right that landed high on his left temple.

  “What was that, boy?”

  “I want it!” Jami shouted, dancing back and to the side to avoid a kick to the thigh.

  “It doesn’t sound like you want it,” Don returned forcefully. “Let me hear how bad you want it!”

  As Brad advanced on him, Jami held up his fists and planted his feet wide, ready to receive him. Brad threw
out his left arm, aiming for Jami’s right temple. Throwing up his arm, Jami blocked the hit and came back with a series of rapid punches that forced Brad back, roaring as he pushed until he pinned Brad’s back against the ropes.

  Arms locked around each other, Jami used all the power he had left in his legs to bring the man to the mat. There they struggled, each one vying for top position.

  “Come on, boy, how do you expect to take on the big guns if you can’t make Brad “‘The Beanpole”’ submit? Get your legs up!”

  Sweat slicked his body and dripped into his eyes as Jami struggled to pull Brad onto his back. He wanted to laugh because Brad was anything but a bean pole. Although Jami was taller by two inches, Brad outweighed him by twenty-seven pounds—a significant difference in their league. On top of that, what the man lacked in boxing skills, he made up for in grappling. Jami, on the other hand, was a mix of everything. He was a heavy hitter and able to use the weight of his body to take a man down in a heartbeat, but once he was on the mats, he had to work harder to get the win. It’d never been an issue before when he was one of the biggest in his class, but now every little bit mattered. Once he qualified for the heavyweights, he needed to be prepared to do it all if he wanted to win.

  After five long, agonizing minutes of rolling around, trading punches, knees, and elbows, Coach finally had enough. “Time! Get the fuck outta the ring before you embarrass yourself any further.”

  Breathing heavily, both men disengaged, nodded to one another, and jumped down from the ring. He caught the bottle of water Coach slammed against his chest with a gloved hand and sucked it down. Coach twisted the cap off another one and handed it off, his face more relaxed than a moment ago. When Jami was through with the water, he toweled off his face and chest while he waited for Don to direct him.

  “You sure you wanna do this?”

  Jami bit back the smartass retort hovering on the tip of his tongue. He cast a look at his Coach and mentor, and said tersely, “Absolutely.”

  That seemed to be all he needed to hear. They spent the next several hours beating his body into shape. Needing to break down the muscle before it could grow, Don directed Jami to the speed bag. Jami’s fists moved fast and fluid, finding a rhythm that created a blur of movement. Then they moved on to the treadmill, followed by jumping rope. He hit the weights last, strengthening his arms, back, abs, and thighs with flys, deadlifts, and so many squats that by the time he was finished with his workout, every muscle in Jami’s body felt like limp noodles.

  Just to prove what a sadistic bastard Coach was, he sent him back into the ring to give his submission technique another shot.

  It sucked balls, but in order to succeed, Jami knew he had to push his boundaries. Like everything Don did, he came at him hard, throwing everything he had in his arsenal at him, forcing Jami to step up his game. Jami knew that it was Don’s way of making him rethink his decision, but what Don didn’t understand was that on this one thing, Jami would never change his mind. When he said that he needed to be challenged, he meant it. He intended to be the best, and in order to accomplish that, he had to become the best fighter out there. As far as Jami was concerned, all the best fighters were at the top, and that’s where he intended to be—top of his weight class, top fighter, top everything.

  Word came in that morning who Jami would be up against if he succeeded in getting his weight up, qualified for the heavyweights, and made it to the end for the championship round. The guy was no slouch. Weighing in at two-fifty of solid muscle and covered in tattoos, the guy would be tough to forget. Jami had watched a few of his fights when he’d first entered the competitions. Known as Tony “‘The Killer’” Michaels, the man fought with an intensity that amazed and stunned everyone who watched him, and to date, he couldn’t be matched. Until now, but it was going to take a lot of work to reach him.

  Known to be a fitness-aholic, Michaels easily benched twice his weight and was rumored to have once hit a guy so hard, that he turned his brain to mush.

  Intimidated? No.

  Impressed? Yep.

  The reason Jami wasn’t more concerned with the prospect of going up against such a seasoned and brutal fighter was because they had a few things in common. Both of them were driven. Both stronger and faster than any other man who had stepped into the ring with them. Both had lethal fists and both of them were so determined to win that they stood undefeated. So far, no man had been able to take either of them down.

  Just as the cocky, self-assured thought ran through his head, Jami felt the hard, unforgiving blast of Brad’s gloved fist connect with his head, and the next thing he knew, he was kissing canvas.

  Quick to react, Jami fought through the fog and grabbed hold of Brad’s waist as the man came down on top of him. Remembering Coach’s earlier words, he kicked at Brad’s thighs until he gained enough of an opening to bring his legs up around his waist and tie them tight at the ankles.

  While Jami struggled to get the upper hand, Coach was shouting and cursing up a storm at him. “Is this a humping match or are you going to kick his ass?”

  Each time Don yelled at him like that, Jami’s anger spiked higher. He knew he could do it. It shouldn’t be this difficult. But for some reason, he couldn’t seem to shake Brad long enough to pin him. No matter how much they twisted and turned, rolled and flipped, Brad always ended up back on top. In the end, Jami couldn’t stop from getting pinned. The defeat struck him down deep, and as soon as Brad rolled off him, Jami jumped to his feet and parted the ropes.

  Hopping to the floor, Jami cut a scathing look at Don, who wore a shit-eating grin on his aged face. “Don’t look so thrilled,” he snapped as he snatched up a bottle of water.

  “Thrilled?” Don asked, his eyes dancing with laughter as he walked up to him. “I’m more than thrilled. I’m pleased as fucking punch.”

  What a coincidence, because that was exactly what Jami felt like doing to him.

  Coach followed him back to the locker room. “What happened back there? That’s what you have to look forward to when you get in that ring. You may be a badass now, but as it stands, you’re going to get your ass kicked.”

  “Thanks for the pep talk, but I know what I’m up against.” Uncaring of his audience, Jami stripped down and turned on the shower.

  Releasing a heavy breath, Don shoved his hands into the pockets of his track pants and called over the hiss of rushing water. “You think I’m busting your balls? I just want to make sure you understand what you’re getting yourself into. If you want to roll with the big dogs, then you have some serious work ahead of you.”

  Don’s words stuck with Jami long after he’d gone. As Jami tossed his bag over his shoulder and stormed out of the gym, he was shaking with a level of anger that he hadn’t known since the day he’d first met the man. His anger wasn’t with anyone but himself. He was pissed that he’d failed himself. He knew it was stupid. Rome wasn’t built in a day. Yet, he knew, all his irritation and irrational fury would serve him well. It filled him with determination. The next time he walked through those doors, he was going to bring it, hard. He was going to prove to himself, and to Don, that he was every bit the badass he claimed to be, and the next time he entered that ring, his opponent wouldn’t know what hit him.

  A determined smile spread across his face as Jami crossed the tattered parking lot to his car and it grew wider still as he pulled out his phone and typed out a quick text to Alyson.

  I need to see you. Come over xx

  TWELVE

  Careful to keep her head down, Alyson peered through her lashes at Jami as she sliced cherry tomatoes in half and added them to the pasta salad they would be having with their dinner. Jami, looking incredible in a pair of old sweats and a tight-fitting white undershirt, stood at the stove creating his “specialty.” As far as she could tell, it consisted of seasoned chicken and vegetables that he was doing questionable things to.

  Was it normal to add brown sugar to carrots?

  She loved watching
him cook. It was so domestic, especially since he was such a big guy. Ever since he sent her that text two weeks ago telling her to come over, they had been spending nearly every spare moment they had together.

  If she left out the sounds of fighting and crying in the background, and the heartache in her chest, it almost felt like old times. Except now, it was so much more.

  How could being adults change the dynamic so much?

  She was enjoying Jami in ways that she never thought she’d get the chance to do, but always dreamed she would. They’d spent quiet nights in watching movies. They had gone out for simple walks. She even went to watch him train at the gym a couple times after work.

  What she’d learned about Jami was that he was a fierce man by nature. He was easily angered and frustrated with himself when he thought he had failed, but what impressed her most was that he never directed that intensity at anyone else. In her line of work, men didn’t often hold back. When they erupted, anyone too close felt the blast.

  It was clear to Alyson that Jami was passionate about his craft, that fighting was something he lived and breathed. And he was so dedicated, too. Even now, that he was so at home in the kitchen, was a testament to how hard he worked to achieve his goals. While he indulged in certain foods, like pizza, he was still a remarkably clean eater. Apparently, he had a personal chef while on the road, but now that he was home, he was taking care of himself. It was impressive for someone like her, who survived off of microwave dinners most days.

  They hadn’t eaten out since the first time. Two weeks ago, when she’d shown up at his and Don’s house, he had begun his cooking lessons. She didn’t have the willpower to cook the way he did, every night, all on her own. But with Jami it was different. She liked being in the kitchen with him, sharing the load. Even if he did do most of the work. Now, she was treated to nightly dinners that were deceptively plain in appearance but packed a punch when it came to flavor. It was a far cry from her usual mac and cheese, and dare she think it? She was beginning to develop a case of the blue box blues. Sometimes food was overrated and a woman just needed her go-to, completely-bad-for-her-thighs foods.