Falling for Colton (Falling #5)

by Jasinda Wilder

  The outside of the car doesn’t look like much, a little beat up, rust on the edges. The inside is comfy, that old velvety material on the seats. Custom stereo receiver and speakers, probably some big-ass woofers in back. It’s not the prettiest car on the block, but that engine snarl has the sound of some beefy power, so I’m guessing this old babe can move.

  He pulls his car down the alley, navigating without headlights until he hits the main road. The radio is silent. When we’re moving down the road, he flips on his lights, twists on the stereo. Rap thuds low, bass vibrating heavily.

  A glance at me. “I’m Eli.”

  “Colt.” I watch the buildings pass by, and we drive through the occasional intersection. It’s late, the middle of the night. I could be anywhere in New York City right now, and he could be taking me God knows where. I’m such a dumbass. “Where are we going, Eli?”

  A white-teeth grin, sidelong glance. “Why, you nervous, white boy?”

  “Hell yeah.” I say it with a laugh, but it’s true.

  “I got’chu, man. You wouldn’t be in my car if I was gonna cap you.” A pause for effect. “That shit is messy.”

  I glance at him, but this doesn’t seem to be a joke. “Right.”

  He’s still not telling me how I’ll be making this quick hundred bucks but I don’t push it. We drive for a long time, winding through one neighborhood after another, cruising slow. He seems to know exactly where he’s going, but he isn’t in a hurry to get there. He’s always watching his surroundings, eyeing the few people on the sidewalk. He watches the intersections carefully as he cruises through them.

  I’m jittery. Nervous. Scared. Knee bouncing, hands curling into fists and uncurling, palms sweaty. My stomach growls loudly.

  “Hungry?” Eli asks.

  “Been a few days,” I admit.

  “I got’chu.” This seems to be a stock response for Eli, the meaning varying by context.

  I watch the digital clock on the stereo receiver. I got in the car at 1:28 a.m.; we’ve been cruising slowly for almost an hour now. A few minutes later Eli pulls into an alley between two mammoth buildings. It’s not really an alley, I realize, so much as just a space between them. Both buildings are old warehouses made of corrugated iron walls with rust streaking down the sides. The windows up near the roof are all smashed and jagged. Glass crunches under the wheels of the Buick. Eli flicks his lights off and on twice, quickly, and then leaves them off. In the distance, the single circle of light from a flashlight winks twice in response.

  We roll forward very, very slowly. Eli reaches behind his back, wiggles the handle of his pistol, but doesn’t pull it out. My heart is in my throat. The air feels thick and tense.

  “Leave your bag. Nobody gonna mess with it in my ride.” Eli glances at me as he pulls to a stop, seemingly at random. “I got your back. Don’t talk to no one, and stick with me.”

  “A’ight.” It comes out like he’d say it, drawled urban slang.

  Eli shoots me a look, but doesn’t say anything as he climbs out of his car, tugs at the back of his shirt to keep it from tangling in the butt of his gun. He peers over the roof of his car, and I follow his gaze and see wide doors, pulled open. The doors are big enough to need two guys to open and close them. Lights glow inside, and I hear voices. Cheering, jeering. Thuds. Smacks. Oohs and curses. Through the open doors I see a huge crowd forming a ring. I see movement through the milling bodies and a flash of skin. I hear the distinctive crunch of fist meeting meat.

  This isn’t good.

  Not good at all.

  We’re barely through the doorway when a big Latino dude emerges from the shadows. He extends his fist, and he and Eli touch knuckles.

  “’Sup, Ruiz?”

  “Eli.” Ruiz glances at me. “Who’s this?”

  “Colt.” Eli tilts his head at a staircase along one wall near the open doors. “Gonna head up there for a minute.”

  “Two more ahead of you.” Ruiz says this as if Eli should know what it means, and Eli just nods as if he does.

  It’s all very vague, meaningful glances and silences are exchanged. I don’t know what to think, but I can guess.

  Two more—meaning there will be two more fights, and then I’m up, I think.

  Eli leads the way up the stairs, which level off at metal grating forming a catwalk to a large platform overlooking the warehouse. Thin railings form a fence around the perimeter of the platform, and there are couches on two sides and a few tables. People mill around, most are men, and most of them are black or Latino. There are only a few women around, and those are topless and carrying trays. This is quite a setup. Eli approaches the small crowd on the platform, maybe twenty people in total. A huge beast of a man separates from the crowd, a black guy whose overall dimensions resemble an industrial freezer. He’s got diamonds glinting in his ears and sparkling on his fingers.

  “Eli. What’s good?”

  “Found a fighter.” Eli doesn’t look at me, but he is obviously referring to me.

  “He any good?”

  “Took down Bruce over by my crib.”

  A nod. “A’ight, then.” A glance at me. “Have a seat, man.” A thick finger flicks at a couch.

  Eli nods at me, so I head toward the nearest couch, threading between the bodies. I feel stares. I seem to be the only other white person up here besides one of the girls. I watch Eli, who confers with the big dude for a minute. A crook of that forefinger, and one of the topless serving girls trots over, listens, and then nods and jiggles away.

  A few seconds later, that same girl finds me on the couch, hands me a bottle of beer and a sandwich wrapped in white butcher paper. A wink and a shimmy of her tits at me, and then she’s gone, weaving through the crowd, ignoring hands that freely grope and grab. The sandwich is the best thing I’ve ever eaten, thin sliced roast beef and cheddar cheese and mayo, lettuce, tomatoes, onions. Fuck, it’s good. I have to force myself to go slow, and to sip at the beer.

  I haven’t forgotten why I’m here.

  When I’m done, I wad up the paper and toss it onto the nearby table, then take my beer and stroll over to the railing overlooking the fight. The crowd is huge, hundreds of people. Silver duct tape forms a large square on the concrete floor, and there’s another layer of tape around that, forming a perimeter to separate the fighters from the crowd.

  One fight just ended, I think. There’s blood spattered on the floor. The people in the front row of the crowd have red spots and speckles on their shirts. Money is clutched in pumping fists. The crowd parts, and Ruiz pushes through, leading two other guys. A wiry Middle Eastern guy in his mid-twenties, and a much bigger and much younger black kid.

  Ruiz shoves them to separate corners. Points at the Arabic dude and addresses the crowd. “Ibrahim. First fight.” Points at the black kid, who’s maybe a year older than me. “Julius. Nine fights, seven wins, two losses. Julius is favored. Place your bets.”

  The fighters bounce and shake hands while the crowd shouts at Ruiz, who makes his way around the front row, collecting cash and handing out slips of paper with numbers written on them. Ones or twos, it looks like. Assuming “1” is Ibrahim, pretty much everyone expects Julius to win.

  The fight is short and brutal. Ibrahim is slow and tentative and he only gets in two good hits, right at the start. Julius allowed them, I think, just to get a feel for his opponent’s punching power. After those two initial shots, Ibrahim gets destroyed. Just…wrecked. Julius is a whirlwind of fists, going in hard and fast, all jabs like jackhammers. Ibrahim goes to his knees, coughing, spitting blood, holds up a hand; Julius lays him out anyway with a smashing left hook. Ibrahim goes down in a messy spray of sweat, saliva, and blood, a tooth clattering to the concrete.

  Nobody helps Ibrahim up. Nobody offers him anything to stop the bleeding. He has to climb to his feet on his own, spitting out red gobs. He manages to drag his carcass out of the ring, ignoring the jeers.

  Eli appears beside me. “You’re up next, Colt.”

>   “What happens if I lose?” I ask.

  “Don’t,” Eli says.

  “But if I do?”

  “Win, I’ll give you a hundred and a place to sleep, under a roof. Lose, you get nothing. You walk out of here on your own two feet, and that’s that. You’ll be lucky to walk out of here if you lose, though.” He glances at me. “Hundred is for the first fight. More you win, more you make per fight. Julius pulled down three grand for that fight.”

  “Big jumps,” I point out.

  “I don’t back Julius. He’s quick and brutal, but I think someone is gonna drop him for good sometime. He is too cocky.”

  I don’t want to know what that means. The response didn’t really answer my question, though. “So I fight once tonight, and make a hundred if I win.”

  “Yeah. You can fight more than once in a night if you win, and if you want. You win, I’ll back you for another, hundred and fifty.”

  I’m feeling good considering the circumstances. I don’t feel hungry anymore, and the beer was nice and cold. I’m wired, now. Adrenalized.

  Eli smacks me on the chest with the back of his hand. “Come on, white boy. You’re up.”

  I follow him down the stairs. Eyes follow me. Money changes hands. I’m hot, now. Sweating. Shaking. Feverish. My hands tremble.

  When I’m through the crowd, my heartbeat ratchets into a frantic pounding. All I see is eager, blood-lust gleaming eyes, and sweaty faces. Mostly men, but there are a couple of women in the crowd, as well. They’re all howling. I strip off my hoodie and hand it to Eli.

  I feel something sticky on my face, under my nose. I’d almost forgotten about the fight with Bruce, the bloody nose. I wipe at it, but it’s crusted on. I swing my arms, stretch my pectorals. Tense my abs, relax, tense. Bounce, jump. Ribs are a little tender, but nothing too bad.

  Adrenaline has me vibrating, bouncing.

  Ruiz pushes through the crowd, and the man behind him is a fucking giant. White with blond hair and brown eyes and prison tats. Six-foot-six easily, broad as a barn, shirtless, heavily muscled. Not like a body builder, but like the guys who compete in Strongest Man competitions: heavy slabs of muscle under a layer of fat. The kind of guys that are hard as fuck to hurt.

  Ruiz points at me. “Colt. First fight.” He gestures at my opponent. “Al, fifth fight. Four wins, one loss. Al is favored. Place your bets.”

  Al’s eyes are eager. He’s looking forward to this. He curls his fists, smacks them together, knuckles cracking on knuckles, then grins at me.

  Fuck me.

  Ruiz glances at each of us, and then steps back. “Fight.”

  Chapter 4: A Bed For the Night

  Al swaggers toward me. He expects to demolish me, clearly.

  And I’m not sure he’s wrong.

  I can’t think like that, though. I’mma fuck him up.

  Al swings first, a slow hard haymaker that would have taken my head off if it had connected. I see it coming a mile away, though, and duck under it. I smash my left hard as I can into his ribs, cutting the punch up and putting my weight into it, twisting into it. That hit should have at least winded him, but he just grunts and grins and lifts his knee into my chest. I stumble backward, wheezing, backpedaling as Al lunges for me.

  Okay, so he really telegraphs his shots.

  Again, I’m able to move outside the swing, and this time I land a fist on his jaw, and I know he felt that shit. Didn’t like it, either. He shakes it off, but I’m not done. I’m inside his swing, but I have to be quick. I bet this big boy could pound the life right out of me, if he got hold of me. Two jabs, right-left, quick as I can. Nose, broken; lips, split. Back up, dance back, and let him swing. Stay in range until he’s committed to the wild haymaker.

  But shit, he ain’t as stupid as I thought.

  He lets the haymaker go wild, but as I’m ducking in he rams his knee at me. I take the knee to my stomach and taste bile. I can’t breathe. Fuck. He’s got a big left hamhock of a fist whistling for me, a straight shot I can see coming but can’t quite manage to move away from. So I take it. I taste blood in my mouth and spit it out. Fuck, that hurt. But I’m blooded now, and pissed. I curl as many undercut jabs into his diaphragm as I can, as hard as I can, chain-lighting shots right where his ribcage meets in a V unshielded by muscle. That winds him and sends him stumbling. I follow, dribbling blood and saliva from my split lips. I swing my forehead at him and connect a ringer to his chin.

  Hint: head-butting someone hurts you, too.

  We both stumble back, dizzy. I recover first, but only by a matter of seconds. My right meets his cheekbone, high and hard, and his left hits my ribs, low and hard.

  Then mayhem ensues. I close in and hammer my fist without art or technique at his face. Body shots won’t do shit to take this beast down, so face shots are all I can hope for. He’s hurting, but his punches still have killing power behind them and he can take a hell of a beating. I take one to the nose and feel it break.

  But then I get in an uppercut to the jaw and he stumbles and hits his knees.

  This is not an arena in which mercy is rewarded.

  Like Julius before me, I show none. I piston my fist into his temple, and he topples over.

  The crowd, I suddenly realize, is going crazy. That was an upset. Al was favored by a fuckload, I think, and I just lost a lot of people a lot of money. I glance up, and Eli is smirking, a fat blunt in his fingers, a bottle of top-dollar brandy in his hand. A nod; I did good.

  I’m a hundred dollars richer for taking a hell of a beating.

  I spit blood onto the floor and grimace as I suck in a breath. That motherfucker could hit hard. I push through the crowd, ignoring howls and jeers and curses and insults, and go outside under the smog and into the shadows.

  The shakes hit me.

  “That was some good shit, man.” Eli has followed me out; he hands me the blunt, and I toke it long and hard. “Al was favored by a long shot.”

  “I’m guessing most don’t make it more than few seconds with him,” I say while holding the smoke in my lungs.

  “Nope. He swings wild like that, and if you don’t get out the way, you done. I seen him wreck some motherfuckers with that first hit.”

  “I believe it. I fought guys like him at school. The football jocks back home hated me. They’d sic the linebackers on me in the locker room after gym class. You gotta mash up their faces to knock ’em down.”

  “Well, you knocked his ass down.” He hands me five twenty-dollar bills. “You done, or you want to try for another hundred?”

  I eye the brandy in his hand, and he sees me looking, lets me take a swig. Burns so good, baby. Dizzy, a few aches. Still spitting blood. “How long until I’d be up again?”

  Eli turns sideways, facing the open door. “Hey, Ruiz! When’s the next opening?”

  “Julius is going again, then Hector…” a pause, “Marshawn, and two new guys. Then we got Jesus ready to go but nobody to fight him.”

  Eli glances at me. “Jesus in four rounds. Twenty minutes or so.”

  “I’ll take him.”

  Eli lifts his eyebrows. “You sure about that? You ain’t seen Jesus fight, yo. He ain’t no joke.”

  I’m money-hungry and feeling rash. “I’ll take my chances.”

  A shrug, a gleam of amusement in his eyes. “A’ight then.” He pivots to shout at Ruiz. “My boy Colt here got the spot against Jesus.”

  A bark of laughter. “Man, your boy has some cojones. Jesus is mean.”

  This talk isn’t making me feel good about my decision. They’re making Jesus out to be worse than Al. I better stay warmed up. I drop to the rough asphalt, bust out thirty pushups, slow and steady, hold ’em on the downbeat for two seconds, push back up slow. I jump up, do jumping jacks until I’m panting and sweating, then drop to the ground again and do mountain climbers until everything aches and shakes. I rest a minute and just breathe, then drop to the ground, do a single pushup, swing my torso up and plant my feet between my hands and leap as
high vertically as I can, land, and drop down to do another pushup. I repeat the sequence until I’m gasping.

  Eli watches with amusement. “What the hell is that bullshit?”

  I peel my shirt off, wipe my face with it. “It’s how you stay ripped without a gym.”

  Eli eyes my abs, which, admittedly, are pretty ripped. When you’re bored as fuck and sick of doing goddamned homework but you can’t leave your room, what do you do? Work out till you pass out. At least, that’s what I did. Got some dumbbells and installed a pull-up bar in the barn. Honed my routine so I could work on isolating parts of my physique. They were mostly all bodyweight routines since I never really had access to a proper gym with machines. I mean, there was one at school, but there was no fucking way I was gonna spend one more damn second in that hellhole than I had to, and no way I was gonna ask Dad to buy me freeweights or some shit, nor was I gonna spend my money on them.

  Pair an hour-a-day workout routine with a tendency to get in fights, multiply that by a healthy dose of rage, and what do you get?

  Me, ready to wreck some shit.

  Jumping jacks and spaceman jumps, and then Eli is handing me a bottle of water, which I down. The hit of dope and swig of brandy have been burned away for the most part, so now I’m just loose and limber, sweaty, beefed up.

  Ruiz sticks his head out. “Colt’s up next, ese.”

  “Man, I ain’t’cho fuckin’ ese, Ruiz.” Harsh words are accompanied by a grin and a slap of palms, a gesture at me. “Come on, man. Hope all that jumpin’ around got you ready for this shit.”

  Ruiz grabs me by the shoulder, shoves me forward, pauses, reaches out and takes a short, lean, wiry Hispanic dude—whom I’m assuming is Jesus—by the back of the neck, shoves us both toward the crowd, which parts to let us through. Once in the ring, Jesus does the pre-fight bouncing, fake swings and jabs. Rolls his head on his neck. He’s not ripped, but he’s lean. Hard. Ugly, beady eyes, nose too big, jutting jaw and a permanent snarl on his face. He’s fought already tonight, judging by the split lip and crusted blood under his nose.