Uncaged Love: Volume 6 (Uncaged Love #6)

by J J Knight

  Hudson climbs in. I clutch the duffel bag with a towel and medical supplies for cuts and swelling. Despite the fact that I do this sort of thing as my career, I’m anxious watching my own flesh and blood walk into the ring. He seems so young, so inexperienced.

  The other trainer climbs up on the ropes by his corner, so I drop my bag to the floor and do the same. No official rules here. But then, boxers don’t get quite as wild as MMA fighters, who throw kicks and toss each other around. You don’t really want to hang on to the side of the cage.

  I can feel the confused and scornful stares of the crowd as I smack the edges of my hands against Hudson’s tense shoulders. “Loosen up,” I tell him. “Tension steals energy.”

  He nods.

  Big Daddy announces Hudson as “The Contender” and his opponent as “Exterminator.” They both move to the center of the ring.

  “I’d say give us a good clean fight,” the man shouts. “But we all know that’s not what we’re here for.”

  I clamp my jaw. I really wish Hudson had gone about this a different way, but we’re committed now. I know what it’s like to be young and foolish. I just hope this plays out in a way that doesn’t cost him too much recovery time from his training.

  Big Daddy backs away from the boys and ducks through the ropes. There isn’t a buzzer or a bell, because this fight apparently won’t have rounds. Just nonstop hits.

  Exterminator jumps forward to land a punch, but Hudson easily dodges the blow. The other trainer is screaming already, shouting a steady stream of commands and curse words.

  I just watch. Exterminator better be in serious shape, because the way he is feinting and punching air, he’s going to tire quickly.

  “Save your tank,” I tell Hudson in a loud, low voice that cuts through the shouting and cheers. “Save your tank.”

  Hudson moves only as he needs to. He’s got a good pattern, and the next time Exterminator goes for a punch, Hudson takes it so he can land an even harder one to Exterminator’s unprotected jaw.

  “Nice!” I shout. “Nailed it.”

  Exterminator seems pissed that Hudson managed to strike a blow and goes in with a round of fast punishing hits, about half of which actually land.

  Hudson takes the chin jabs while hitting Exterminator at the gut level. But this is no good, because his face can’t take near the force that ribs can.

  “Back off and hit clean,” I tell him, again in the voice I think he can separate from the crowd.

  He must be plugged in to my sound, as he does what I say, hopping backward out of range of Exterminator.

  The crowd dislikes this, shouting, “Pussy” and “Baby Tender.”

  Hudson doesn’t seem to notice, keeping his pattern, protecting his jaw.

  I wish I’d known this was a knockout match regardless of length, as I would have gone over with Hudson how to strike those kind of blows. I hope Akoni has taught him. It should be Boxing 101. But I haven’t been there. I don’t know.

  Exterminator steps into a hard uppercut and lands it solid. Hudson stumbles back.

  Like that, I think, wishing Hudson had been on the delivering end, not the receiving one, of that hit.

  I hold my breath as Hudson tries to shake it off. The side of his face near his eye is already red. He’s not going to escape this unscathed. I wonder if he’s thought this through. Akoni is going to know. I guess he won’t refuse to train him anymore, since The Cure is paying the bill. But what Hudson is doing is not a good plan.

  All I can do is keep coaching him. “Forget about the hit,” I tell him. “Keep your guard. Look for openings.”

  But he’s learning what it’s like to get hurt now. It’s new. It’s his first time. He’s not like me, I can see that, not in this key way. When someone comes after me, I become this force, this hurricane, where there’s no sound, no thought, nothing but sheer will and flying fists.

  At least there used to be.

  I’m not seeing this in Hudson. It’s like he’s realizing for the first time, this is hard. It hurts. It’s exactly what Akoni recognized. Hudson isn’t mature enough in his game for a fight.

  I want him out of there. Exterminator feeds on Hudson’s reluctance and comes for another punishing set of blows. This time Hudson puts his gloves to his face. The crowd wants blood and their screams hit a fever pitch.

  Then Hudson seems to snap out of it and strikes back. Exterminator is caught off guard, thinking he had him. Hudson gets several hard blows in, and I’m shouting with the crowd. Everybody wants a good fight, a solid fight. Nobody wants to watch a one-sided match.

  Exterminator takes some hits, but I know when he steps back, he’s got something Hudson doesn’t — he wants it. He wants the win. He sweeps into the next blows, and I see it, that snap of the chin that means a concussion. Hudson’s going to go down.

  Most refs, when they see this blow, are right there. They block the other fighter and wait to see if he’s going to recover.

  But as Hudson goes down, Exterminator gets more manic. He rains blows on Hudson.

  My brother hits the mat, crumpled. But he’s not out. So Exterminator keeps on him.

  In any ordinary fight, MMA or boxing or kickboxing or anything, this match would be over. I’m angry and worried and now I find that the force that drove my hurricane must still whirl within me, because I jump over the entire set of ropes in a single shot. Before I even realize it, I’m on Exterminator, knees locked around his waist, my arms pinning his head.

  He tries to buck me off, but I’m good. Submission pins are a specialty in women’s MMA. When he tries to swivel to get me off, I get him in a headlock. He can’t really fight me in his bulky gloves.

  I don’t hear or see anything. All I see is this smug jerk’s body, the side of his head. My arms are a vise and his gloves pull on them without effect.

  I’m pure fury. How dare he pummel a fighter who’s down? What sort of screwed-up person does that? This sort of fighting isn’t sport. It’s bloodshed.

  Then he’s falling, and I’m going with him. The world starts to penetrate. There are arms on me, pulling at me, lots of them. I can’t fight them all, and have to let go of Exterminator. I realize there’s lots of people in the ring.

  I reel and struggle and punch at anything that gets near. I’m back, I can feel it, pure hurricane, pure action. They back away as my fists and elbows and legs land in soft places. More than one spurts red as I hit a nose or mouth.

  Finally everyone backs away, and I’m in the center of the ring. Hudson is still on the ground. I dive for him, slapping his cheeks. “Come around, Hudson,” I say. “Wake up.”

  He groans and rolls over.

  My relief is so intense, I actually see stars for a moment, as if all the blood has rushed from my head to my heart. I look around at the stunned faces, quiet now. A few people are holding their injured faces or hands, angry.

  “How was THAT for a bonus round?!” Big Daddy shouts. “Look at that girl!”

  But the crowd isn’t feeling it. I help Hudson to his feet. We duck through the ropes. The crowd parts. I don’t bother to grab the duffel. All the supplies are replaceable. We’re almost to the door when a voice shouts from the ring, “Hey, sister!”

  I stupidly look back. Exterminator is leaning on the ropes, his face mottled and red. I don’t answer.

  “Get the hell off my island,” he says. “We don’t need your kind around here.”

  I wonder what “kind” he means. They’re not all islanders. But I ignore him and push out the door.

  I’m used to enemies. They’re what keep me going.

  Chapter Seven

  I keep Hudson at my house, letting my mother know he’s staying over. She’ll freak if she sees him bloody and bruised.

  I check his pupils and wake him every few hours to make sure he’s all right. I wish Doc were with us. Hudson refuses to get checked out at the island hospital, because then Mom will know. All night I feel this terrible tug between what Hudson wants and what I thin
k is the right thing to do.

  But I’ve been on the wrong side of the right thing for most of my life, so I don’t rat him out or haul him to the medics. I’ve seen fighters hurt way worse than him get back in the ring for another round. Heck, I have gone into a fight with more injuries than his.

  But this is my baby brother.

  He crashes out on the red sofa. I prop my feet up on the coffee table. I didn’t sleep well in the big bed without Colt, so the overstuffed armchair is fine by me.

  Daybreak on Oahu is different from LA. The colors are warm and golden. I sit by the window, waiting for Hudson to wake up. I don’t feel tired. I’ve had too much adrenaline in too short a period. It will take some time to come down.

  I don’t know what this fight means for Hudson’s career. What his trainer Akoni will say. Or Mom. We can’t hide this. In the light of morning, the scrapes and bruises are obvious. I can get the swelling down, but we’ll have to keep working on it. As soon as we take the ice off, it will puff out again as it heals.

  He’s going to have to own up to what he’s done.

  I decide to tell the only person I trust. Colt. I pick up my phone and text a quick note that Hudson held an off-the-books fight against the wishes of his trainer and got pummeled.

  It’s a couple hours later there, but he has the day off from training since his match is in two days. He’ll only do light afternoon workouts until the big day. I feel a small stab that I will miss the challenge match. I know every ritual, every step he’ll take. He seems so far away.

  I have a response within minutes.

  Whew. Is it bad? You need an off-the-books doc?

  I hadn’t even thought of that. I tap back a quick yes and take note of the name and number he produces. I remember this doctor from when Colt was in rehab.

  I am grateful and relieved. I’ll call his office the minute it’s a decent hour and arrange an appointment. I assume both of us will skip training.

  Hudson stirs, and I sit on the coffee table to wait for him to wake.

  He groans as he comes around. When he sees me, he covers his eyes with his hands. “Tell me we just got drunk on bad liquor,” he says.

  “You’re underage,” I tell him. “No chance.”

  “Great,” he says. “How bad do I look?”

  “Bad enough,” I say, standing. “I’m going to make you some breakfast. You’re going to need to heal.”

  He fumbles as he tries to sit up. I know he’s hurting.

  “You can cook?” he asks.

  “Not really, but I make a mean smoothie and I can boil an egg.”

  He nods, then winces at the motion. “I think I need some painkillers.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “I think you need to feel every bruise. Then you’ll know what you didn’t protect.”

  He sits with his elbows braced on his knees, his head bowed low, like he can barely hold it up. “I sucked in there, didn’t I?”

  I’m not sure what to say. I don’t want to discourage him. He’s just got a long way to go. Finally, I tell him one simple fact: “You didn’t protect your jaw under pressure.”

  He opens his mouth and pushes against his chin. “Yeah, I’m figuring that out.”

  “This is what sparring is for,” I say. “You learn what you need to work on before somebody clobbers you over it.”

  “I’ve been sparring,” Hudson grumbles.

  I don’t say any more. I’m sure Hudson’s progress in sparring matches is what led Akoni to tell him he wasn’t ready for an official fight. But Hudson is hopefully realizing this for himself.

  He doesn’t mention my attack on all the spectators who came into the ring, or what Exterminator said as we left. I figure he may not remember. The first few minutes after a hard lick often get lost in the trauma of the injury.

  I push it from my mind. It was just a few cocky adrenaline-fueled fight junkies spouting off.

  But as I go into the kitchen to make a post-match breakfast for Hudson, my sense of unease is on alert. I’ve seen what fighters are capable of. When we pick this way of life, and particularly if we’re any good at it, it tends to go hand and hand with turf wars and aggression.

  Chapter Eight

  The doctor Colt told me about looks Hudson over and proclaims that he will live. No serious concussion. Just an assortment of contusions that vary in intensity and will take some time to heal.

  We head to Mom’s house first. She’s off today, and we figure we might as well start facing the music.

  My mother lives in a tiny house a few blocks away from the ocean. The neighborhood is modest and nondescript, clapboard houses with weedy yards and a broken asphalt street.

  Hudson and I stand on her weathered porch, neither of us wanting to go in. I realize that this is what my life might have been like if she had found me when she went looking. Normal siblings. Getting in trouble like an ordinary family.

  It’s still hard for me to grasp. I can remember my stepmother’s rages, how I locked myself in my room, sliding the bolt that she had forbidden me to install but I did anyway.

  But now I’m here. In trouble but not the least bit worried that anything dramatic will go down. A lecture, maybe. I give Hudson one more sympathetic look, then he opens the door.

  The house is colorful and kitschy, full of pottery and local crafty art, painted wood carvings and woven baskets. Mom is in the kitchen rinsing carrots. She’s wearing a flowy dress that hides how tiny she is. Her hair is all tied up in a complicated twist with some fabric.

  When she sees Hudson she lets out a little yelp and runs over without shutting off the water. While she holds his face in her hands, I head over to the sink and turn off the faucet. Nobody says anything at first.

  Mom realizes she’s gotten Hudson’s face wet, so she wipes it with her dish towel. Finally she says, “This didn’t happen at the gym, did it?”

  Hudson shakes his head slowly.

  Mom sinks into a chair at her formica-topped dining table. “What happened?”

  Hudson looks over at me with a pleading expression.

  I stand behind him. “Hudson decided to do his first boxing match. His opponent won.”

  Mom wrings the towel in her hands. “Did you see a doctor?” She reaches out for his face again, then pulls back.

  “I took him to one of the doctors who helped Colt in his recovery,” I say. “He wasn’t worried about any of the injuries. He’ll just need to heal up before any more fights.”

  “More…fights…” Mom holds the towel to her chest. “You’re still going to do this?”

  “Of course I am,” Hudson says. “You can’t win them all.”

  Mom looks up at me. “Is this how it goes?”

  I sit in a chair opposite her. “You will definitely win some and lose some.”

  “What does Akoni say?” she asks.

  Hudson and I glance at each other. She must have some motherly sixth sense, because she immediately says, “He doesn’t know, does he?” She stands up. “That’s why you’re not with him right now.”

  She goes back to the sink and turns on the water. She scrubs the carrots vigorously. They are going to be substantially skinnier than they were originally.

  I’ve said as much as I’m going to. It’s up to Hudson now to placate her. He gets up stiffly. I’m sure he’s feeling worse as the day goes on and his muscles tighten up from last night’s hard work. It takes a good twenty-four hours before the pain completely kicks in.

  He stands next to her and pulls the tops off carrots, handing them to her to scrub.

  I puzzle at this. I’ve never really seen mothers and kids interact like this. If I had come in with a situation like this to my stepmother Retta, she would have screamed and thrown things and told me to leave the house.

  Despite the fact that my mother felt she couldn’t raise me, and had a lot of missteps along the way with my brother, she seems to have turned out to be a decent mom. Maybe there’s hope for me.

  My breath catches as I realize I
’ve let this wayward thought enter my mind. Kids. A family of my own. I can’t really see that future. I picture a miniature Colt running around, and I swing between adoration and pure panic. I have zero experience with small children. I would never figure it out.

  Mom stops washing carrots and shuts off the water. She turns to Hudson and folds him into her. It’s awkward as he stands a solid foot taller than her, dwarfing her petite frame. But she’s sturdy somehow in a way that he is not, not yet. Despite his height and his muscles, he’s vulnerable next to her calm strength.

  She pulls back and wipes her eyes with a dishcloth. “I guess you two kids are probably hungry,” she says. “I’ll make a salad.”

  And just like that, the whole episode is over. Hudson sits back at the table. I reach over and squeeze his wrist. “I don’t think Akoni is going to take it quite as well,” I whisper.

  Hudson’s wide eyes tell me he knows it too.

  A crashing sound outside makes us all jump.

  “What in the world?” Mom says.

  We all head to the living room at the front of the house. This time we hear the ring of metal on metal, then a crack, then another crash.

  Hudson lunges for the door, but Mom holds him back. “The window,” she says.

  Both Hudson and I jump on the sofa to look out the window behind it. The curtains frame the glass, and we can see a rusting truck parked behind Hudson’s old car. Two boys are on the street, one holding a tire iron.

  For a second, I flash to that night when Colt and I were shot. One of the men slammed a tire iron across Colt’s shin, but Colt simply took it away and threw it over a fence.

  But my breathing comes rapidly anyway. Mom puts her hand on my back.

  One of the boys smashes a taillight. The headlights are already broken, the bits scattered on the road.

  “I’m going out there,” Hudson says, and leaps up from the sofa.

  But our mother stands in front of the door. “Oh, no, you’re not,” she says. “Those boys have a weapon.”