by R. K. Ryals
Deena burst out of the house, the door slamming behind her. Hands on hips, she glared at me. “Come on, sis. Take me to town. Throw me at people who know how to punch. I’ll practice on you first.”
She didn’t mean that. She couldn’t possibly mean that.
My face burning, and my throat tight, I brushed dirt off of my hands, gripped Hetty’s keys in my palm, and marched to the van.
Deena didn’t trail me. She rushed forward, climbing into the passenger seat and slamming her door before I’d even reached the driver’s side.
I barely got the key in the ignition before she commandeered the radio, blasting angry music at top volume.
I turned it down.
She turned it back up.
My lips pressed together.
I pulled out of the driveway. The battle over the radio continued, but I gave her the win as the town blurred past, my gaze searching the road. I’d had practice looking for places when I had no idea where I was going. From the moment I’d walked out of the DMV with my license, I’d been my dad’s chauffeur, from liquor store to liquor store, doctor to doctor … it didn’t matter. All I ever seemed to have was the name of a business and its general vicinity. I was good at asking for directions and equally good at spotting buildings from the road.
The first place I found was a gardening center, a small wooden building surrounded by a lot full of plants, flowers, trees, bird houses, and pottery. I passed it up.
Deena turned the radio down. “Didn’t you need to stop there?”
Rather than answer her, I kept driving.
“You’re that determined to pawn me off?” she asked, anger filling her voice.
“I’m not trying to do anything to you, Deena. I’m just trying to help.”
“Screw your help!” she shouted. “I know all about what your kind of help does to people!” she laughed coldly. “Your help got Dad dead.”
My foot hit the brake, my heart thudding. Tears clawed their way up my throat, my face so hot it was on fire.
To keep from sobbing, I pulled over, flagged the first pedestrian I could find, and yelled, “Do you know where I can find a boxing center around here? Like fighting kind of boxing?” As if the person didn’t know what boxing meant.
The pedestrian, a middle-aged woman with a toddler attached to her leg and a grocery bag in her hands, stopped at a mid-sized car and scanned the van curiously. She shaded her eyes. “Do you mean Rebels Boxing? It’s the only place I know around here for that.”
I smiled. “Then that would be it.”
There wasn’t much to the town my grandmother lived in. A couple of streets, a superstore, a ton of fast food places, and a historic district made up of doctors’ offices, tax collectors, and lawyers.
“Momma!” the toddler whined, her chubby arms wrapping more tightly around the woman’s leg. “Go!”
“Shush,” the lady chided. She nodded at the road. “When you get past Flowers Nails about a mile down from here on your left, take the first road to the right. Fifth Avenue, I think it’s called. Rebels is the big red building next to George’s Car Lot.”
I waved my thanks and pulled back onto the road, my gaze on the rearview mirror. The toddler had started crying, the grocery bag wavering precariously as the woman attempted to calm her and open her trunk at the same time. It reminded me of my mother.
My heart rate slowed, my tears pushed back.
“Is that why you hate me?” I asked quietly. “Because I stayed with him?”
Deena stared out the window, her brows furrowed. “No.”
Flowers Nails loomed up out of nowhere, the white building covered in glass windows on one side, a big flowered sign by the road flashing its name.
I took the turn onto Fifth Avenue too quickly, my fingers gripping the steering wheel. “Then why?” I asked.
Deena turned to look at me, eyes flashing. “Because you didn’t stop him. You didn’t make him quit. You helped him kill himself.”
My chest tightened, so tight that it took everything I had in me to pull the van over, swinging it into a parking lot just outside a red building. I couldn’t have missed the boxing club if I wanted to. Red was an understatement. The building housing Rebels Boxing was painted brick, the paint a bright crimson. It was windowless except for one large plate glass square next to a wooden door that was also painted red. Like blood. Lots and lots of blood. It hurt to look at it.
A familiar Porsche sat in the parking lot, but I barely spared it a glance.
No words escaped my mouth. My lips formed a silent O, but no matter how hard I tried to speak past it, I couldn’t.
I couldn’t speak because I knew Deena was right.
“You can’t even deny it, can you?” Deena asked, snorting. Reaching for her door, she swung it open, hopped down, and slammed it in my face.
Breathing hurt. Everything hurt.
My forehead fell against the steering wheel, my heart a steady rhythm in my chest. Ba-boom, ba-boom. Ba-boom. So loud, fast, and hard, it shook me. I wouldn’t cry. I wouldn’t! Crying didn’t fix things. It made people pity you, and I didn’t deserve pity.
“You just going to sit there?” Deena called. “Or are you going to take me into this place now?”
Sucking in a breath, I lifted my head, grabbed the door handle, and left the van, my head held high.
Anything to hide what I knew was true. I’d helped my father die.
TEN
Eli
The first thing I learned when I entered Rebels Boxing was that the owner either dreamed of being an American mobster or got a kick out of speaking like Al Capone. Maybe he’d watched The Godfather one too many times. The man looked like he’d stepped out of the prohibition era, down to his wrinkled black suit and black felt fedora. He had a face like leather and slicked back dark hair. His shoulders were broad, filling out the suit but not enough to smooth out the rumpled fabric.
“You must be Eli Lockston,” he greeted, his voice booming. It carried, slamming against the walls and echoing back at me.
I was suddenly grateful the gym was mostly empty, the exception being a scrawny teenage boy throwing punches at a red heavy bag. He was doing it wrong.
“I’m Ray Clark,” the man continued, offering me his hand. “I’ve heard about you. Not huge on the scene yet, but you’ve made some waves.” He gestured at the gym. “This is my outfit, my Borgata, my family. You can call me Boss. It’s a nickname I like to go by.” He edged into the building, gesturing for me to follow. “We’re heavy and ready to go.”
“Heavy?” I asked.
He grinned. “Armed, all equipped up.”
My brows rose. It wasn’t enough that the man was dressed like he belonged anywhere but in boxing, but he had to speak another language on top of it.
This was going to go so well.
My gaze roamed the room, landing first on the ring before hovering over the rest of the space; a myriad of punching bags, floor-to-ceiling mirrors, a workout space, and posters full of program information. The place was clean and organized. The Boss had put a lot of money and thought into the gym.
“You’ve got a nice place here,” I admitted grudgingly.
Ray Clark grinned. “And we’ve got a lot of potential boxing greats. Especially in what I like to call the reconditioning program. That’s the one you’ll be involved with. These are mostly kids and teenagers who’ve been through trauma, convicted of crimes, or dealing with behavioral issues.” He glanced at me. “They’re good kids. They just need some direction in their lives.”
“And you think the best way to give them direction is to give them a teacher like me?” I asked. “You’ve seen my record, right?”
The man nodded. “You took some heat, spent a few days in the can, some time with a shrink, and now you’re being forced to go straight. I got it, man.”
I stared. “Do you speak like this all of the time?”
“All of the time,” the scrawny teen informed me from across the gym. Pausing mid-swi
ng at the bag, he added, “I’m Mouse.”
My lips twitched, my gaze taking him in. Too skinny, a shock of mussed brown hair, wide eyes, and a shiny, pimple-dotted forehead. “Mouse? Let me guess, your mama wanted a pet instead of a son? Or you have an unhealthy obsession with rodents?”
“It’s a play on my name,” he answered seriously. “I’m Mickey by birth. People here just call me Mouse.”
“He’s my nephew,” Ray announced. “Smart as a whip. He’s going places one day.”
“In life or in boxing?” I asked, studying the boy. “Your stance is all wrong. So is your swing. Keep that up and you’re going to hurt yourself.”
Ray clapped, startling me. “I thought you might notice that.”
“What?” My head swung in his direction, my lips parting. Realization dawned. “He was doing it wrong on purpose?”
“If you hadn’t noticed, I wouldn’t have let you work here,” Ray said matter-of-factly. “As it is,” he scanned me in approval, “you’ll do.” He flicked his chin. Honest to God flicked his chin. All he needed was an expensive cigar. “You’ll make a good capo.”
Running a weary hand over my face, I watched him through my fingers. “Capo?”
“Leader,” Ray translated, grinning.
I was going to need to google mob-speak. From the way he spoke, I had a feeling he kept a list of words he simply plugged into sentences for effect, correct or no.
“What about you, Eli Lockston?” he asked suddenly. “Where do you see yourself in ten years?”
I snorted. “Thirty.”
Mouse snickered.
“A wise ass, huh?” Ray muttered. “Good luck, capo. Some of these kids can run that mouth of yours into the ground.”
“Not if I’m doing my job right,” I told him, my gaze wandering the room once more. “If they’ve got enough wind in them to speak, then I’m doing this wrong.”
“That’s the spirit!” Ray exclaimed, clapping me on the back.
“Not spirit,” I corrected. “More like the desire not to speak.”
Ray laughed, the sound echoing. “I’m not sure who’s going to be more surprised … you or the kids.”
He prattled on, sinking into a breathless monologue about the gym, its goals, the different programs, and what I was expected to do. I was one of three trainers working in the troubled youth program and the only one with a record.
“First indication you’ve been drinking and you’re out,” Ray spat out of nowhere. “These kids mean more to me than you do.”
I stared. “I’m not an alcoholic.”
“They all say that, don’t they?” Mouse threw in. He was punching the heavy bag again, but he’d altered his stance and his swing.
“Just keep your nose clean,” Ray warned.
Whatever reply I would have given was drowned out by the gym door bursting open, a group of out of breath teens skidding in.
“What the fuck, Roger?” one of them—a tall, lean, fair-skinned boy with bright red hair—roared.
“You talking to me, carrot?” a broad, olive-skinned boy bellowed in return, his open hands slapping his chest. Inviting a fight.
Five more boys followed them, their eyes hungry for action. All of them appeared somewhere between fifteen to seventeen-years-old.
“Leave the disputes outside the door!” Ray hollered, his gaze swinging to mine. “Ready for this, capo?”
I froze. “Now?”
Ray grinned. “The best way to deal with lions is to get thrown straight into the den. They’re a pretty new class, mostly beginners. Start where you feel comfortable with that.” He pointed at his eyes and then at me. “I’m watching you.”
By the play of dominance spilling into the gym—the redhead having acquired two of the boys at his back and Roger having attained three—Ray was going to be lucky if I didn’t challenge them all. By the look of things, there was too much anger and too little respect in those boys. Truth be told, there was too much of me in them.
“You going to hit each other?” I called.
Roger looked up, his chin lifting, his black hair catching the light. “Man, you don’t know nothing.”
I cringed. “Anything. What is it about the kids in this town and grammar? You think talking that way makes you sound bad ass?” I nodded at the gym. “I’m Eli. Not dude or man, and I have the unfortunate job of getting to work with you guys. So move it. Stretch first.”
“With you?” Roger asked. “What kind of shit is that?”
I smiled, flashing my teeth. “The court appointed kind.”
“You ain’t no juvenile,” Redhead said, his eyes narrowed.
My smile grew. “Aren’t a juvenile. Trust me, bad grammar doesn’t make you look cool, it makes you look ignorant. I’m here because I’ve got to be. That’s all you get, boys.”
Ray walked behind me, throwing them a look. They straightened, grumbling as they finally filed past, their anger deflating.
“It’s bad enough we’re here. Now we get a loser trainer on top of it,” Roger mumbled in passing.
My gaze trailed him, my grin never fading. First the animal rescue and now this. Group therapy at the hospital looked a lot more appealing.
ELEVEN
Tansy
“Hey!”
We were just outside the gym door when Jonathan Blackledge intercepted us. His cheeks were flushed, his breath coming in pants.
He smiled. “What are you doing here?” he asked, his eyes on me.
“She’s being a bitch,” Deena answered in my stead, shading her eyes. “Who are you?”
Jonathan’s brows rose, his gaze dropping to her face. Understanding dawned. “You must be the sister with the scratchy façade.”
Silence.
Deena glared at me. “What the hell? You said that?”
I sighed. “Deena, this is Jonathan. Eli’s brother.” My eyes found his. “You waiting on him?”
He nodded. “I guess you could call it that. I’ve mostly been hanging out in town all day, but Eli should be done,” he glanced at a white gold watch on his wrist, “in the next half hour.”
Deena laughed. “Ah, so you’re related to the alcoholic.”
More silence, the quiet full of awkward animosity.
“Watch it now,” Jonathan said finally, stiffening. His gaze passed over her slowly. “I don’t know you so I’m reserving judgement, but keep the anger to your side of the family.”
Blinking slowly, I mumbled, “I’m sorry.” The apology came too easy. I’d done way too much apologizing for my family over the past few years. Placing my hand against Deena’s back, I added, “We’ve got to go.”
Jonathan nodded. Unasked questions flooded his face, but he kept them to himself.
Stepping back, he pulled the door open for us.
I prodded Deena through it.
The boxing gym was full when we entered. Cold air slammed us in the face, the smell of leather, sweat, and disinfectant flooding our noses. The air conditioner whirred, blowing through a room drowned in fluorescent lighting. Punching bags of all shapes and sizes lined the walls. I didn’t know what any of them were called, and I didn’t care.
Noise closed us in; murmuring, yells, and a consistent thump, thump or thap, thap, thap.
Deena shivered, her attitude rapidly deflating. “This is ridiculous,” she hissed.
Maybe she was right. I’d only spotted two women and one teenage girl inside the place. The rest were male. Deena suddenly looked too small to be here. I felt too small, not because the room was full of large people—it wasn’t—but because it was full of too much energy.
An odd-looking man, his face covered in wrinkles and his body wrapped in a suit, approached us. A lopsided fedora sat on his head.
He grinned, the smile throwing webbed skin around his eyes and lips. “Welcome, ladies. I’m Ray, the owner of Rebels. Come to sightsee or are you interested in the sport?”
Deena’s head dropped.
I offered him my hand. “Tansy Griffi
n,” I greeted. “This is my sister, Deena. I heard that you might have a program for troubled youth.”
Ray’s curious gaze passed between us. “Troubled, huh?” He squinted. “Which one of you am I supposed to be interested in?”
Deena hooked her thumb at me. I ignored her.
“What makes you eligible for something like that?” I asked.
Ray studied my face. “We usually look at what kind of dough you’ve got first, then we case the possible candidate.”
I stared. “Dough? Like money?”
He winked. “That’s right. You hurting there?”
My head shook. Our grandmother had a great job, even if she did live a minimalistic lifestyle. Honestly, I preferred that.
“Got a record?” he continued. “Ever been in the joint?”
“In jail?” I asked. “Um … no?”
“Any diagnosed attention or behavioral issues?”
“No.”
He shrugged. “Then I’m not sure—”
“This is fucked up,” Deena interrupted. Her gaze found my face, her voice rising. “There isn’t a reason I should be here, and you know it! You need the help, Tansy.”
“Deena—” I began.
“Don’t Deena me!” she cried, her cheeks flushing. She was humiliated. I knew it because I was, too. This had been a very bad idea.
“Hey,” a familiar voice broke in. “Roof girl?”
My gaze rose to find Eli Lockston standing next to the man in the black suit. A triangle of sweat marred a gray, sleeveless shirt, his chest rising and falling with each panting breath. My embarrassment grew.
Ray eyed him. “You know these two?”
Eli ignored him, his narrowed gaze on me. “Hey,” he coaxed.
My eyes met his, and he inhaled. I didn’t know what he saw in my face, but it felt like he saw too much.
I looked away.
“You come to learn to box?” Eli asked my sister, his attention diverted.
“No,” she huffed. “I came because she dragged me here.”
“For the At-Risk Youth program,” Ray said quietly to himself, his gaze studying Deena. “Is there an adult to sign off on this? There’s some paperwork that would need to be filled out. We also have a work study program for those who can’t afford classes.”
