A tall, broad-shouldered man stepped out of the driver’s seat and rounded the vehicle. He halted once he had both feet firmly planted on the sidewalk. His jaw turned hard enough to cut titanium and his expression was less than inviting. The strong-lined features, the heavily structured nose, deep set eyes, the sharp angled jaw, broad chin, and stark gaunt in his cheeks could’ve deemed him unattractive. It worked to put together a man I would’ve looked forward to waking up to in the morning.
Blue eyes with a violet hue were shaded by the shadow cast from his dense eyelashes. He glanced down either sides of the street like a smart man should have. Not a single stitch of fear marred his face; he surveyed the block as though he owned it.
A prominently veined hand combed through the front of his widow’s peak and raked through hair dark enough to be considered off-black, styled in a grown-out undercut, to manipulate the unkempt style away from his forehead.
Dressed in all black—a T-shirt, a butter soft motorcycle jacket, and straight-legged jeans—he could’ve easily fit in on the corner as a criminal with temporary business in the neighborhood. The shoes and the watch screamed the truth; whoever he was, he came from smart money. A dark branch-like tattoo peeked out of the open lapel of his black jacket and a dark V-neck shirt.
He walked past me, only glancing at me briefly with a hint of a smile prior to disappearing inside the store.
Settling back into my staked spot on the sidewalk, I studied the stranger inside the store through the window. He traveled straight toward the register and pointed to the cigarettes in the back.
I questioned why he’d come all this way for cigarettes.
The man exited the store, blowing past me swiftly, sending my hair, made frizzy by the drizzle, flying into my face.
A sudden need to gain his attention coaxed me into reacting. “Hey?” I flipped up my hair from my face with my palm.
He paused but didn’t fully turn around. From over his shoulder, he squinted at me, studying me as though I was an apparition.
I gave him a constipated smile while running my fingers through my hair in the midst of reverting from straight to curly, admitting without a word that he’d caught me on a bad day for good appearances.
I shoved my hand back in my pocket and checked either sides of the street. “Can I bum one?” I asked of the black pack of cigarettes clutched in his hand. “I’ll pay you.”
He held up a pack, revealing a box of e-cig refills. “I doubt you have a stem.” The lilt in his voice held strongly to disinterest and was deep, husky, and methodic. “And I doubt”—his gaze skirted over my clothes—“you can afford the refills.”
My hazel eyes rolled in their sockets. “Judgmental dick,” I muttered.
A dark shadow draped over me calling my attention to the man who now stood in front of me, gazing down at me from his taller height. “You like attention, do you?” he goaded me in a low register. The command fogging his eyes said he meant business. “You’re going about gaining it the wrong way.”
“Looks like I went about it the right way,” I rebuffed with a grin, pretending his eyes didn’t threaten to unwind me. “I have your attention. So what now? Do you want to hit me for calling you a dick?” I pointed to my split lip nearing the final stages of healing. “I’ve had my share of men beating my face—or try to. You don’t fucking scare me. You were rude, and therefore, a dick. Don’t worry about the strange girl on the block who called you out on the truth.” I pointed inwardly. “Go back to your safe, cushy penthouse and forget all about it, because I’ve taken down assholes bigger than you.”
His soft, contagious laugh reverberated through our dissipating personal space. I caught the sight of gleaming white teeth that lifted the years from his face and took him from intimidating into pretty-for-a-man territory. A pretense of innocence eased into his features, catapulting into another category; he could’ve been the hot boy next door who bent over backward to help anyone in need. Somehow, his ability to look completely disarming one minute and formidable the next sent a jolt of unease to my core.
“You won’t last long on this corner with your mouth. How long have you been out here?”
“I’ve been out here longer than you think.” I bit into my smile, reveling in the art of fucking with him.
No longer smiling, he readopted an intimidating expression. An invisible cloud of darkness dimmed the lightness in his face. “You don’t know what I think.” The shadow over his eyes made them appear a darker shade of violet. “Whom do you work for?”
The question mildly shocked me. Did he think I was a prostitute? “Myself,” I replied curtly.
“Doubtful.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “What’s your name?”
“Sugar, and if you want more than that you’re going to have to pay me.” I held up my hand and rubbed my fingers together, half-joking and half-serious.
He reached into his pocket and retrieved an object, cleverly hidden by his slight of palm. Holding up his hand, he inched closer to me. He rolled his fingers, revealing a hundred-dollar bill.
My surprise was a streaming ticker tape across my hazel eyes. A man willing to extend cash because I asked piqued my interest. Sweeping it away, I found my composure. “That’s more than enough. Do you want change?”
“No.”
“Doesn’t matter. He”—I jerked my head back to the store—“won’t let me go in there.”
“Brand?” He asked it in such a low voice, I wasn't sure whom he was speaking to.
“Doesn’t matter.”
Taking his marching orders, he disappeared inside.
The hundred-dollar bill cut into my hand with the force at which I balled it in my fist. I studied the man in the store, wondering what his angle could’ve been.
He was young, maybe mid to late twenties. He was well groomed. His choice of clothing was simple in its sophistication. If he wasn’t in the neighborhood for casual business, he was there for a far more shady reason.
From inside the store, he held my attention through the window as strongly as I held his. Unlike most men I’d met, he wasn’t boldly undressing me with every small glimmer of his eyes. If I hadn’t known any better, I could’ve sworn he was looking for someone, and he’d found her.
“Here.” Stuck in my own world, I snapped out of it when he exited the store and shoved a box of cigarettes in my hand. “There’s a man on the corner who could use them more than you.” With a curled lip smile pressed into his pout—a prelude to things he knew and wasn’t going to share—he was gone.
I stared at the empty spot long after the car had left the curb.
Examining the box of cigarettes in my hand, I exhaled, “I don’t even smoke.”
I glanced around the block, finding a man hunting through a garbage bin. I trotted over to him and stuffed the small box into his hand. He gave me a thankful nod and went about his day.
“Temple busted your lip pretty good,” guffawed Honey. She stood on the curb next to one of the other girls who worked for Temple. They were both wearing miniskirts and bikini tops with sky-high heels and matching goose-down bubble jackets. “You’re one hard-headed little bitch. How many times does he have to tell you to get off our block?”
“He doesn’t own a foot of property here,” I said to her.
“Oh, yes, he does.” Honey stepped forward and tried to touch my hair.
My shoulder darted up, deflecting her hand previous to stepping back to ensure she couldn’t lay a finger on me.
She played off the complete miss and ran a finger through blonde hair that wasn’t her own and didn’t match the color nor texture of her natural hair. “He owns you, too,” she added.
Clenching my hands, the muscles in my arms tightening, I stepped forward. “I’ll never work for him and do what you do.”
Honey shook her head, blonde barrel curls bounced over her shoulder. She cast a sour look to her friend, and they both erupted in laughter at a private joke. “It wasn’t nice knowing you. I’ll be glad when
Temple finally kills your ass.”
They huddled together a few feet away from the store and worked the curb, waving down the cars driving by. If the vehicle slowed down, they’d shout out lewd statements, explicitly expressing what they would do to the drivers, and exposed parts of their bodies—an ass cheek or a nipple, depending.
My phone buzzed in my hand. Blaring across the screen of the old flip phone was an address and a time. Oddly, it was the address to the building not far from the convenience store.
I circled the block toward a parking area enclosed in security gates. The caliber of the vehicles signaled I had landed in the right place. At an inconspicuous door, a bear of a man stood watch while touching his earpiece every now and again.
I gave him my pass—the phone. He looked it over and opened the door for me. I was welcomed by a narrow and short hall painted in black high-gloss paint. The small space hummed with a preamble to the activity inside the main area.
A second guard stood watch at the entryway. He looked me over when I approached and opened the heavy metal door.
Formal tables lined the grand room, surrounding the fight cage. The men and women in business suits sipped wine or communed with their table mates as they kept a stray eye on the match already in progress.
As I made my way to the cage, the man I saw earlier caught my eye. He was alone with only an ornate glass of white liquor to keep him company in the VIP section—a platform located close to the cage, offering the best view of the matches.
Considering me, he lolled back in his quilted red leather chair with his arms resting over the back of it. In a silent gesture of good luck, he tipped his head toward me with a tame grin.
I approached the man at the opening of the cage after the fight previously in progress had ended. The opponent of an undefeated champion lay lifeless on the floor. The cleanup crew entered the cage, dragging the limp man away.
There was only one unwritten rule for women’s matches: no deaths. You fought—dirty or clean—and you fought to win. If you were the victor, you cashed out and were sent on your way.
I whipped off my jacket and hung it on a protruding metal piece in the gate. My opponent entered the other side of the cage, holding a lead pipe in her hand. From the scars on her face and arms, she’d been in her fair share of fights.
Taking the rubber band from around my wrist, I styled my hair into a messy chignon to keep it up and away from my face during the fight. Flexing my almost nonexistent muscles, I entered the cage. Eager to approach her, I readied myself to engage until she was joined by two other women.
Underneath the steady din of the crowd, Temple shouted indiscernible threats toward me from outside the cage, claiming the responsibility for stacking the odds, ensuring the match would no longer be in my favor.
The women charged after me all at once, nearing me at variant speeds. I reached inside my mouth, retrieving the blade from the hiding spot between my gums and the flesh of my cheek, and pinched it between my fingers.
I swung my arm out and slid the razor down the face of the first woman to reach me. Her mouth opened to express a squeak of agony. A line of blood began to thicken and trickle down her cheek. The creamy brown flesh split open, bleeding profusely. She released another sound falling somewhere between a squeal and a shout.
A blow hit me in the back of my head and sent me flying into my third opponent’s arms. She reached out, holding me in preparation to take me down. I used her hold as leverage. Staggering violently, I forced her to lose her grip and balance. I grabbed her flailing arm and flipped my body, sending her hurtling to the floor.
Keeping a grip on her arm, I squeezed it between my legs as she grappled to stand. I turned my lower body sharply, a crackling sound emanated from her forearm. She screamed and wailed in pain. I scattered away, leaving her on the ground, nursing her arm.
The woman with a bleeding cheek grabbed my shoulders and raised her leg to kick me. I bobbed my head forward, hitting the softest part of her face with the hardest part of my forehead, preventing her foot from making contact. She loosened her hold on me and fell to the ground disoriented.
The third woman, who I hadn’t subdued yet, approached me with her spine curved. A lead pipe was held tightly in her grip.
Using momentum, I spun, kicking up one leg and the other in rapid succession. The ball of my foot hit the throat of the woman approaching me. She woofed and swung her arm out at me prior to hitting the ground. The lead pipe bit nastily at my ankle. A blast of pain reverberated up my leg leaving me immobile for an instant.
The woman with a bleeding cheek wobbled and struggled to reach behind her. The sight of the black gun in her hand alarmed me.
In the five fights I had engaged in, no one ever brought a gun. It was too easy, and the evasive boss of the arena didn’t like the use of lethal weapons in either the women’s or men’s matches. If a gun was used, the person was never seen in the ring again.
I scanned the crowd for someone to call the fight. Two men dressed in black moved between the tables, approaching the cage while touching what I assumed were earpieces. They unholstered their guns when their steps fell a few feet shy of the cage’s entry door.
Across the way, the man in the VIP section was no longer at ease. He leaned forward with his hands clasped tensely over his open lap. His plump lips moved as though he was speaking to someone.
I shoved my mind back in the fight and flung my arm out, hitting her in the throat before she could get a good handle on the gun. She fell to the ground, coughing and wheezing. I grabbed the gun and fiddled with it, failing to unload it fast enough.
The crowd began to chant. “Kill her,” in a chaotic harmony.
I discharged the clip and tossed the gun up and out of the tall enclosure of the cage. The two men in black suits, once on a mission, halted their steps. My opponents remained grounded behind me, unable to move. I stepped over to the gate and snapped at the guard, “What are you waiting for? Let me out.”
The guard glanced nervously back at the two men in suits and sent a furtive glance toward the VIP section. “Kill or be killed.”
“Since when?” Trepidation and surprise raised the tone of my voice. “Only knockouts are allowed in women’s matches.”
He moved his head from left to right as though he was going to shake his head again. Pausing, he pressed his finger to his earpiece, creasing his features as he did. “Yes, sir,” he said to whomever was on the other line. He opened the cage for the two men in suits. They brushed past me, avoiding me on their way in, and raised their guns.
The words “What the fuck are you doing?” slipped out of my mouth too late. The guard grabbed me, hauling me away from the entrance to the ring.
In the midst of being lugged away, I twisted my neck to see the scene unfold in the ring. All three women were executed, a bullet between the eyes, by the men in suits. Temple had hightailed it some time ago; he was nowhere to be found ringside.
I wrestled out of the guard’s stocky arms, intending to leave the building.
The guard seized my arm, pulling my reluctant feet toward the back area of the grand space. “Stop struggling. Someone wants to see you.”
I slithered out of his hold and gave him a tepid nod when he shot a look back at me, telling him I would follow without his unnecessary assistance.
I was directed toward the shadowed corridor at the back of the grand room. Spectators lined the walls and crudely shared their thoughts on my match. A few expressed their disappointment because I hadn’t behaved like their obedient windup toy and killed the women. Never had I taken a life, and I never would. Everyone who fought with me lived to see another day.
The guard opened the only door on the left side of the corridor and ushered me into a room that looked similar to a swanky green room of a big production television show.
Another man was in the room and stood with his broad back to me as he faced the glass bar. The man simply stated, “Sugar.” He poured a little clear liquid in a g
lass and downed it in a few swallows. Flexing his back with heavy breaths and stretching the shirt across his sinewy shoulders, he set the glass down on the bar counter and turned around to greet me. Mr. VIP. “Leave,” he said to the guard behind me.
“Yes, sir.” Turning swiftly, the guard exited, leaving the door ajar.
“Sir?” I asked of the name the guard called him. “Do you own this place?”
“Today I do.” Moving at a leisure pace, he sat on the arm of the couch. He pulled an e-cig from his pocket and held it to his mouth; a vapor mushroomed from between his succulent pink lips. Tangled and winding black branches extended down his shapely arms, the roadmap of his veins protruded and receded with every movement of his arm.
“Thank you, and no thank you.”
He lifted a thick, almost perfectly straight brow, releasing the shadow from his blue eyes.
“That’s all I can give you. Whatever you want to offer me because you think I owe you since you saved my ass back there, gave me a box of cigarettes, and a hundred bucks isn’t going to happen. I’m good and far from desperate.” I shifted my hips and settled my weight mostly on one leg, but thought better of it. The adrenaline was so high I hadn’t registered the pain in my ankle fully.
He took another puff on the cigarette. Vapor shrouded his face in a white mist. “Did you give the cigarettes to the transient on the curb?”
I gave him a shrug.
He titled his head back. A crooked grin pulled at the corner of his mouth. “You did. You definitely did.”
A collection of drinks in the large ice bucket standing on a pedestal at the back of the room drew my eye. I approached the table and poured myself a two-finger width portion of whiskey in a tumbler. I brought it to my lips.
Mr. VIP reached out from his position on the couch and clamped his hand around the glass, forcing me to put it down. “By all means, don’t help yourself.” His gravelly voice expelled the words with sarcasm and a pinch of annoyance.
Receding with caution, thanks to feeling every bit of pain in my body, I halfway limped to the other side of the room and whirled around to face him. “Is there something you wanted?”
Lies & Lullabies Page 2
