by Roxy Wilson
Riley
My next fight was in the cage, out of sight of the cameras. Not the kind that would pay off Logan’s debt entirely, though.
I didn’t know the guy’s name—Tully didn’t even bother to brief me on him, just grumbled something about how it would be a cakewalk and that I should be careful not to kill the guy. He was big, though; some Colombian dude with tattoos and scars who was too fast for his size but seemed like he was mostly show and muscle.
Even as mean as he looked, the odds were in my favor and the two grand that Logan put on me wouldn’t pay out more than five hundred bucks. Not enough.
Logan approached me before the fight, and I could see on his face what he was thinking.
“No,” I said before he spoke, “forget it.”
Logan sighed. He was worn out, his face drawn, dark circles under his eyes. He looked like he might cry about it. “Just this once, Riley,” he said. “If I put it down on the Colombian, it’ll pay out ten grand. Ten grand! That’s a dent, it’ll keep ‘em off my back for a few weeks and the next fight—”
“I said no, Logan,” I barked. “You know what happens if someone finds out I threw a fight? That’ll be the end of this. No more fights. And you think these people don’t have league connections? I’m not throwing away my career to get you, what, a few weeks?”
He plucked at his thin button up like he was too hot. He sweated when he was nervous; probably this had been hard for him to suggest. “Yeah. Okay, you’re right…be safe in there, okay?”
I wanted to say something cruel, like “Yeah, you’d hate for the money horse to break a leg and have to be put down, right?” But I didn’t. It wouldn’t make anything better and Logan knew what I was risking.
“I’ll see you after,” I said. “Don’t spend any money.”
Logan shot me a hurt look, but I ignored it and put my head in the game instead. Time to focus.
The fight was almost laughably short. This world was filthy and it had not a shred of honor in it to redeem the blood lust of the fighters or the onlookers but I’ll give it this: the lack of rules does make it a little more fun, and I could cut loose.
The Colombian wasn’t a kickboxer; he was some kind of Capoeira dancer. He did flips and cartwheels all around the cage floor, and he got a couple of kicks in before I caught on to his pattern. When I did, it was over for him. He came up from some sort of gymnastic tumble and I shot a roundhouse at his head with my right leg, twice; he blocked both times. On the third, his guard was up to catch it, probably prepared for some kind of counter.
But I hit him with the left, shin to temple, hard enough to knock him out but not hard enough to do any lasting damage. He wouldn’t have given me the same courtesy; but that’s why I didn’t let these guys lead me on. I got a few boos for ending it so early, but in my mind that was just encouragement for the ringleaders of this enterprise to dig me up someone worth fighting.
I stared at the mix of booing and cheering faces and didn’t smile like I did at my fans in the ring. These people didn’t deserve it. They didn’t like the fight. They liked the blood. And the money. If my fans saw me take another contender down like that, with such a dangerous blow, I’d be out of the league and they’d call me a monster; and I liked that about them. These people were already monsters in my book and a monster was what they wanted.
I left them there, and met Tully in the makeshift locker room.
“Too fast,” he said.
I shrugged. “Don’t care. Where’s Logan?”
“Got paid,” Tully said. He handed me a water bottle. I was barely sweating from the fight, but it was the routine.
I snorted, and drank. Of course. Logan was probably on his way to make a payment before someone came and split his kneecap. “It wasn’t enough,” I said. “You got a line on anyone yet?”
“I’m looking,” Tully assured me, though it was more grim than anything else.
I showered off, and changed into street clothes. By the time I was ready to leave, though, Logan was apparently back. He looked shaken up.
“Good job out there,” he said. His voice nearly cracked.
“Thanks,” I said. “What’s up? What happened?”
Logan ran his fingers through oily hair. He was younger than me, but his hair already had gray in it. Stress, I supposed. “Uh, Kenny wasn’t real pleased with the payment I made,” he said. “He took everything. I’m out of seed money for the next fight. And he…uh…”
I saw that Logan was keeping his hand close to his stomach. Panic dropped and I took a few steps toward him before he waved me off. “Just a finger. Broke at the knuckle. I’ll get it in a splint; it’ll be fine. He was just trying to scare me a little.” He laughed nervously. “It worked. Said next time it would be my whole hand. The carpals—he was very specific.”
“Shit,” I muttered. “It’s alright. Tully’s working on a fight that’ll pay out and—”
“It’s not alright, Riley,” Logan said, shaking his head. He was going to cry. “It’s not alright. It’s taking too long to pay ‘em off. I know how this goes. They’ll break my hand, and then an arm, and then…I’m getting down to the wire here, Riley. We gotta do something. Gotta make a lot of money, fast. I need cash for the next fight.”
Of course he did. And of course I would give it to him.
The way it worked was that Logan kept some cash for making bets. Whatever he won, he used to pay off his debt; he kept the initial investment. That way there was always money to put down. Without that, he didn’t have a way to make money.
That he was my brother was not a secret to these people. They didn’t care if I was giving him money for my own fights, but so long as Logan was able to keep paying them they’d keep him alive and leave me alone—I made them money, after all. But they considered that just due course.
“I made about fifteen hundred from the fight tonight,” I told him. I dug around in my duffel for the roll of cash I’d been handed, and tossed it to him. He fumbled it with his good hand. “Next time,” I said, “don’t take all the cash with you.”
“Yeah.” Logan stared at the roll, and sniffled to keep from coming apart at the seams. “Thanks.” He didn’t look at me when he said it, and he started to leave.
I stopped him, a hand on his shoulder, and turned him around. I hugged him, careful of his broken finger. “I’m gonna keep you safe, okay? You know that, right?”
“I know,” Logan muttered into my shoulder.
“Tully’s gonna get me in the cage with a monster,” I assured him, “somebody who’ll probably kill me, but, you know; I’ll whoop his ass.”
“Okay,” Logan mumbled. He pulled away.
Okay. Not ‘be careful’, or ‘don’t die’, just…‘okay’. I couldn’t decide if I was hurt that he didn’t care, or if I was touched he thought there was no one in the world that could beat me. But there was. There’s always someone who can beat you—Tully’d been drilling that into me since I was a kid. If they pulled some badass from some pit in Thailand who chewed steel nails for breakfast and trained on a mountain top to kill oxen with his two fingers since he was three, I’d probably be legitimately fucked.
“Go home,” I said. “Get that finger wrapped up and get some rest. I’ll see you soon.”
“Alright,” Logan said. “Good fight, Riley. And…thanks.”
I didn’t respond, just let him go.
This was my life, right? This was all there was. The fight, the money, my little brother. It hadn’t always seemed so empty, though. I hadn’t always felt so bad about it. Why did I now? Why did I stare at Logan’s back until he was out of sight, wondering whether I was doing the right thing? I was my brother’s keeper. That shit’s in the Bible; it doesn’t get more right than that, does it?
If they did put me together with some Thai beast of a killer monk, and I died, would I die feeling like I did something? Probably not.
For some reason, it made me think of Zahra. She was a fighter too, in her own way. Except her
fight meant something. If she died tomorrow, she’d leave something behind; her fight would keep on keeping on without her.
I left the complex, a shitty little warehouse tucked in the back end of nowhere that the police seemed to always conveniently forget existed, and walked out of the bad part of the neighborhood into the less bad, but still shitty part. You could tell because only half the windows in the buildings on the street were boarded over, instead of all of ‘em.
After an hour or so, I found myself looking at the DHS center where Zahra worked. She’d be pissed if I was waiting for her. She’d be pissed if she just saw me, probably. And I figured she was gone already, anyway; it was almost nine.
But just about the time I realized I shouldn’t be there, I saw her. She looked tired, but somehow more beautiful than before. She had a box under her arm, and she turned to lock the door to the office building. Probably she was the last one out for the night.
I crossed the street, and walked in her direction; but played it cool, staring at the sidewalk as I went. If she ignored me, I decided, I would keep walking.
She didn’t, though. “Riley?”
I looked up, and then at the building, playing it like I hadn’t realized where I was. “Oh, hey.”
Zahra glanced around. The street wasn’t empty but it was spare. Shit, was she worried about being alone with me? “What are you doing here, Riley?” she asked. Not angry, though… maybe a little exasperated.
“Headed to Ninety-Sixth,” I said. It wasn’t true but it wasn’t a lie—I lived off Ninety-Sixth street. Though I’d have to walk about a mile up Greene to get home from Main.
“That’s a long walk,” she said.
I shrugged. “Gotta keep in shape. I walk most of the time.”
She nodded like she understood. She wore flats, not heels—she walked, too.
“Listen,” I said, “I feel bad about what happened before.”
“Riley—” Zahra started.
“No, just…let me say this.” I took a breath and let it out slow. This was not my thing at all. “You were right about me losing my temper. I shouldn’t have. It kills me to think that I might have scared you off. What I do…it…kinda makes that trigger real sensitive. That guy talking to you like that set me off and I lost control because…you make me lose control. Will I sound like an asshole if I say that when I first saw you, you probably thought I had one thing on my mind—and that you were right?”
“A little,” she said. But she smiled, just a bit.
“Thing is,” I went on, “we went out and you’re just…more than I expected. It put me off balance and that Tyson fella pushed me a little more and I was falling over before I realized it. I should have known better, and I will next time. But I need you to know that I would never, ever lose my temper with you. I’d never hurt you.”
“I don’t think you can make a promise like that,” she said, slowly, “but I suppose I understand.”
“If you tell me to go away and stay away,” I said, “I will. What I want, though, is a second chance to show you I’m not just that.”
She watched my face, looking for something, probably to see if I was just talking a game. I let her judge me, and waited.
“Alright,” she said finally.
My stomach unclenched, and I got a racy feeling in my chest. I had to keep myself from grabbing her right there to kiss her. “That’s…that’s great,” I said. “Listen, I was thinking…why don’t you let me cook you dinner.”
She arched an eyebrow at me and then laughed. “Cook me dinner?”
“Yeah,” I said, “I’m a good cook. I’ll prove it.”
“I’d like to see that.” She didn’t believe me. That was okay. After my dad died, my mom worked three jobs to support me and Logan, and I took over most of the cooking. I got to be pretty good. My ace in the hole, all these years later. Thanks, Ma.
“I know it’s late. How about tomorrow, after work.”
“I work late most nights,” she said.
“Late is fine,” I told her.
She pursed her lips and sized me up for a moment before she caved. “Okay. It had better be good, though. I’ll be passing up some gourmet leftover Chinese.”
“Prepare yourself to be amazed,” I said. “You think I can fight—wait till you see me sear a steak.”
“Steak?” she wondered. “Oh, okay. You’re on, Dern.”
Neither one of us wanted to leave. I could feel it. She was still leaning against the door.
I almost offered to make her breakfast instead.
“Uh, you want help with that?” I asked. Better to wait, play it cool.
She glanced at the lidded box under her arm. “I got it,” she said. “It’s not heavy, it’s just the only box I could find. Files to catch up on.”
“Right,” I said. “Fighting the good fight. Well, let me at least walk you home.”
She gave me that much, and after a block she gave up the box, too. The walk was too short, and in what seemed like just a few minutes we were in front of her building and she was leaving me on the sidewalk.
“I’ll see you tomorrow night,” she said. “I like my steak well done.”
“Me too,” I said. “Bring an appetite.”
“Oh, I will,” Zahra chuckled. She let herself into the building, but turned to look at me before she went in. For a second, I thought she might ask me up. “Good night.”
I waved to her, and let her go, and watched her door for a while longer before I turned and walked home. I felt lighter, all the way there. And, for the moment, things didn’t seem quite as pointless.
Chapter Nine
Zahra
I did my best not to get my hopes up about Riley, but the offer to cook me dinner didn’t make it easy. I’d been so caught up in the moment before, however, and so focused on making sure I didn’t do something foolish like kiss him and undermine every boundary I was trying to set, that I forgot to get his number or find out where he lived.
Fortunately, Riley was there when I got off work. I left early—after the office closed, but at about seven instead of nine like I normally did. Through an effort of will that almost left me sweating…I did not take any work with me. It harangued me all the way to the door and onto the sidewalk, right up until I saw Riley waiting for me.
“You might have a problem,” I told him when he approached.
“I definitely have a problem,” he said, smiling at me like an idiot. He looked me over slowly, maybe taking in the way I filled out the skirt and blouse I’d settled on this morning. Everyone at work had been shocked and suspicious about the switch from my usual pants suit. Let them talk.
I locked the office door behind me. “You know what it is?”
“Enlighten me,” he said, coming close.
I looked up at him, at his pretty greens…I could have kissed him. I wanted to. Just to see. “You’re this close to being a stalker.” I held up my thumb and forefinger half an inch apart. “This close.”
Riley laughed and handed me a folded sticky note with digits on it. “There. Whatever happens after this, you can call me if you want to.”
“You want my number?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Yes. But, if you want to wait until you see how I cook, I’ll understand.”
“That’s a good point.”
He held his arm out for me, like before, and I took it. We walked quiet for a while.
When he talked again, I expected him to ask me something like “How was my day?” to which I could say “Oh, it was fine.” Small talk.
“Did you always want to do this?” he asked. “Social work, I mean. When you were a little girl.”
Riley Dern, king of the right hook you didn’t see coming.
I laughed. “No, I did not. I don’t think little kids look forward to growing up and being social workers.”
“So what was it then?” he asked. “Astronaut? Archaeologist?”
“You tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine,” I said.
&n
bsp; Riley chuckled, and shook his head. “You’ll think it’s silly. Laugh at me.”
“Probably. Are you embarrassed to tell me?”
He shrugged, his arm tugging mine up a little. “Yeah, but I’ll tell you anyway.”
“So?” I said. “Spill, Riley Dern.”
He paused, and glanced down at me. “You say my name funny. Riley-Dern, all one word. Um…I wanted to be a train conductor.”
“A train conductor?” I did laugh. “Okay. Why?”
“I saw an old western when I was real small, maybe four. And bandits overtook a train. The conductor helped the cowboy hero fight them off and then hit the brakes just before the girl who was, of course—”
“Tied to the tracks,” I said at the same time he did. “Naturally.”
“Naturally,” Riley agreed. “I got it into my head that being a train conductor was an adventure. Riding back and forth across the US, you know; helping out the occasional cowboy. Plus there was the hat, you know, so that seemed attractive. Gotta love a good hat.”
“That seems reasonable,” I said.
“Yeah, it was before I realized you had to be an engineer to drive a train.” He considered for a moment. “Or end up driving a subway train instead.”
“Not the same.” I chuckled.
“Nope.” He looked sideways at me. “So? What about you? Childhood dream.”
“I wanted to be a ballerina,” I admitted.
“Yeah?” Riley didn’t laugh. He nodded appreciably. “I could see that. Hard work.”
“Really hard. I took ballet for about four years from the time I was eight. Gave it a try.”
“Did you, now?” he wondered. “What made you stop?”
“Reality, pretty much. And biology.”
Riley frowned down at me, eyebrows knit with a question.
I looked down at my rather bountiful bosom. “Too top heavy. Started coming in when I was twelve, and then the instructor gave me the real talk. Ballerinas need small hips and boobs.”
“You didn’t switch to something else? Some other kind of dance?”
“No.” I sighed. “Ballet was what I wanted. That was the first time someone told me I couldn’t do what I wanted to because of how I was born. Well…because of my genes, anyway. But,” I said, holding up a finger, “it was the one time I believed anyone when they said it.”
