by Silva Hart
Chapter 35
Thursday morning, when Lexi bumps up against me in the hall, I put my arm around her, pull her close, and kiss her forehead as we walk to class. She looks surprised and pleased.
“I know your fight is tomorrow night, so I’m not even going to ask. You’re not going to the game. But can you do something afterward?”
“Yeah, I’ll text you when it’s over.”
Her face positively glows. God, she’s stunning. And she wants me out of everyone. Me, Jett-low-class-loner-Dixon. It’s still hard for me to believe. But, hey, I’m not fighting it anymore.
It’s weird to let my guard down. It goes against everything life has ever taught me. I can’t shake the sensation that a giant fist is about to come out of nowhere and crush into my face at any moment. But Lexi’s had every opportunity to walk away or do me wrong up until now and never has. She’s seen everything and still wants me. So I’ve decided to trust her.
Can I ever truly feel safe? I don’t know. Anna said love is the only thing worth living for. I don’t know if this is love, but it’s starting to feel like something I might call love and I need to start somewhere.
I’m sick of barricading myself behind a wall all the time, always being suspicious of anything good that happens to me. I want to be able to relax and enjoy the hell out of this for as long as it lasts. And I hope it lasts a good, long time.
We reach her class, and she turns to go in. I stop her, cup her face in my hands, and kiss her deeply, right there in the middle of the hall in front of the entire student body that’s streaming around us and turning us into an island of two. Lexi and me. We’re all that matters.
She steps away, breathless and flushed. Carlton pushes past us and looks back at me, his face twisted in hatred. I can’t help myself and throw him a victorious wink over Lexi’s head. His scowl deepens. I have to admit, it feels damn good.
Lexi steps across the threshold with the late bell. Guess that makes me late, but oh well. Hackenburg doesn’t do anything more than give me an eyeroll as I stroll to my seat.
It’s Friday, and I’m flying high. At school, Lexi and I take every possible moment to be together. I haven’t come out and said I’ve committed to her, but she seems to have sensed a shift in me.
I’ve been training hard. The mild concussion that Galloway’s gang gave me has healed, and Lexi Moore, the hottest most amazing girl in our high school–hell, probably the whole state–is mine.
During the day’s stale routine, I find my mind wandering to Lexi in the shower. She’s really an incredible person. I almost wish I didn’t have to fight tonight, didn’t need the money so badly that missing the football game isn’t an option.
I wish I could watch her cheer. I bet seeing the whole routine is an experience. Catching myself, I snort. Jett Dixon at a high school football game mooning over some cheerleader. Who would have thought that day would ever come?
That evening, I’m warming-up and stretching when One-Eyed Mike approaches me.
“You’re looking good, kid,” he says.
“Thanks.”
“You’re up fifth tonight.”
Dead center. It’s a good place to be. I nod my appreciation, and he moves on.
Fight time rolls around, and the basement is buzzing with activity. I take up a vantage point where I can see everything. Knowing how your opponent fights before getting into the ring with him is always the best strategy.
“I’m betting on you, Jett,” Dair says. “Don’t let me down, bro.”
“Just a warning, I’m up fifth. No one has ever gotten through five guys before, let alone six.”
“Out of everyone I know, you can do it. I have faith in you.”
He has faith in me. The words are nice to hear. Ever since he reconnected with Mia, he’s stopped asking me if I’ve met her. They must be doing well. I’m happy for him. He deserves it.
The first couple of rounds go by quickly. A guy who looks like the hard-as-nails biker sort wins two in a row, and now it’s my turn to get in the ring with him. I can tell that the guy harbors a deep, internal rage. Rage is a difficult thing to overcome. I know from experience. But I’m not feeling any tonight. If anything, I’m feeling … content. And content is not a good thing to feel when you’re getting into a bare-knuckle betting round across from rage.
I take my stance, hoping he’s at least somewhat winded from the two prior fights. I need to win more than one round if I hope to keep gas in the Mustang for the next two weeks.
The bell rings and he rushes me immediately, catching me off-guard. Pain explodes in my skull as his fist connects with my left cheekbone. He dances back and smirks. That smirk is the same one Galloway and his goons gave me as I was being cuffed. That smirk is all I need.
I lunge forward, swinging, and connect with his rib cage. My left swings around and catches him in the gut. I follow my advantage with a few knocks to the face. He’s staggering now. I’m a charging bull. I’m a hummingbird. He can’t touch me. He goes down. One-Eyed Mike signals the end. Someone helps him up, and he spits a wad of blood at my feet before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
I get sixty seconds before One-Eyed Mike signals round six. I don’t need it. I can’t wait to get through this guy to the next and the next and all the way to becoming the last man standing.
A guy I’ve never seen before enters the ring. He has thinning, brown hair and looks like a dad. There’s an uncertainty in his eyes that tells me he’s mine. I almost feel bad for knocking him down inside of sixty seconds. He taps out fast. He didn’t stand a chance. What the hell is he even doing here? Why isn’t he home with his family?
Round seven and my third match is a lithe Asian with fancy footwork. The guy is fast and hits like a train. I watch his feet, timing, counting, pacing, then smash my fist into the air where I expect him to be from the pattern he’s established and, sure enough, connect with his jaw. He’s as light as a bird under my fist and drops to the ground upon contact. I have to remember to thank Ivan for teaching me how much patterns matter.
That guy could really hit though, and I took a few more of his punches than I would have liked. I’m feeling it going into the next round. Round eight. If I get through this one, I’ll tie my personal record of winning four matches in a row.
This one is huge but more blubber than muscle. He smacks his belly with his palms, sending it rippling, before getting into some ridiculous sumo stance. At the bell, he rushes me, lifts me up, and slams me to the ground, knocking the air out of me. I jump back to my feet wishing I’d given the guy more credit.
It won’t do any good to target his thickly padded mid-section, so I crack him a few in the face and dance around behind him to get a few good shots at his kidneys. He falters. I keep it up, and he finally falls. I’m winded. That guy took a lot of my stamina.
Round nine. I’m breathing hard. Sweat is running off me, and I wipe a trickle of blood from my right eye. The next contestant steps into the ring. He’s short and squat with bulging muscles but zero confidence. I tower over him, and he looks nervous. Using this to my advantage, I scream as I rush him, striking out as hard as I can. His muscles act like armor, and I wonder if he’ll ever fall. By now, my split and swollen knuckles throb with my heartbeat.
After a few exhausting, uncertain minutes, I make a lucky connection directly under his jaw and he finally drops. I will him to stay down, but he lumbers to his feet. I’m getting too spent. My arms feel like anchors. He still has that uncertainty in his eyes.
Feeling some hope, I take a clumsy swing and somehow connect again. He staggers and falls. If he gets up, I’m done. I can barely stand. Mustering everything I have, I raise my fists at him and strike my ready stance as if I could go for another few minutes. He signals he’s done. All he had to do was get back up one more time. If only he’d had the confidence to succeed, he would have won.
I’ve done it. I’ve beaten my personal record of staying in four rounds. Hell, I think I’ve set a new recor
d for these Friday night fights.
I’m sucking air, and sixty seconds doesn’t seem like much time now. Looking up, I inwardly groan. Mac is facing me. Wiry, scrappy, dirty-fighting Mac. What the hell is One-Eyed Mike trying to do to me? Punching Mac is like trying to punch a rubber band, and that’s the last thing I need right now.
One-Eyed Mike signals the start, and we dance around each other. Weighing. Strategizing. He darts in, and I meet him. We’re evenly matched on a good day. After having fought through five men to get here and him being fresh, my confidence slips. That’s pretty much the kiss of defeat. Hell, I just witnessed it with the last guy.
I peer at him closely, searching for something, anything.
There it is.
He looks like a skinnier version of the cop who threw me into the clink without due process. Are they related?
My determination to not go down under him builds. A second wind rushes into my lungs like a sweet Bali breeze, and I go at Mac with everything I have left. For a hair’s breadth of a second, I think I see a flash of fear in his eyes and that’s all I need.
My legs are steel pistons. My fists are jackhammers. My body is a sponge. Mac goes down but rebounds to his feet. He looks pissed. I go at him again. Just a little longer. Just a little more effort. That’s all I need. Quitting isn’t an option. I will not lose against Mac.
He goes down again. As soon as he’s back up, I’m on him. Relentless. Driving. Never giving him a moment to think or breathe. He goes down a third time and stays down.
One-Eyed Mike comes into the ring and raises my sweaty, leaden arm over my mashed-up face. I’m gasping for air, my chest heaving. The crowd roars. My legs become soggy, and Mike supports me out of the ring to one of the closet-sized ready-rooms.
“That was one hell of a streak, kid,” he says with an approving pat on my shoulder before leaving to wrangle the bets.
With this, I am the king of the world. One-Eyed Mike’s compliments are as scarce as popsicles in hell. I climb to my feet and walk to the sink to examine my face in the mirror. It’s not as bad as I thought it would be. It could definitely be worse for the number of rounds I made it through.
A throat clears in the doorway. I glance over my shoulder and am surprised to see an exotic looking Asian woman leaning against the doorjamb with her arms folded.
“You did really well tonight,” she says. Her accent is thick.
“Thanks,” I say, turning back to the mirror to tend the cuts on my face.
“Here, let me help you with that,” she says, coming to my side and picking up the tube of antibiotic cream.
“I got it.”
“No, really,” she insists, smearing a dollop onto her long, slender finger that ends in a shiny, ruby nail.
She waits as I wet a towel and wipe the dirt and blood off my face and neck. When it doesn’t seem like she’s going to get the hint, I turn to her. Although she applies the cream with a gentle touch, I wince at the contact.
“You’re too pretty for this,” she says, her voice low and husky. At my silence, her cupid’s bow mouth smiles ever so slightly. “But I’m sure you’ve been told that before.”
She opens a butterfly bandage and places it on my left cheekbone. A second one goes above my right eyebrow. A third is stretched across the bridge of my nose. When she’s done, her fingers linger over my face and move to brush dripping strands of hair from my eyes.
She steps closer, so close I can smell the jasmine she’s wearing. Both her scent and her beauty are stimulating to say the least, but my mind goes to Lexi and I know this woman is not getting what she wants. I grab her wrist and pull her hand away.
She gives a breathy laugh before leaning her full weight against me, pressing her body into mine, her almond, upturned-eyes flashing wickedly. She gives me a sultry smile as her hands move to my waistband. She’s entrancing, and my senses roil.
I give my head a shake to clear it. “No, this isn’t–”
“What the hell is going on in here?” Mac is standing in the doorway, his face twisted in rage and humiliation. He storms over to us, wraps a hand around the woman’s wrist, and yanks her out of the room.
Jesus Christ. What the hell was she doing in here if she was with Mac? And why did it have to be Mac out of all the people here tonight?
Chapter 36
One-Eyed Mike appears in the doorway. “My office.”
An icy fingernail trails up my spine. I follow him.
“Close the door.”
This is bad. This is very bad.
He sits behind his desk with a heavy sigh. “Take a seat, Jett.”
I sit on the hard, straight-backed chair in front of his desk.
“What’s rule number six?” he asks patiently.
“Don’t mess with anyone’s lady, but–”
“You know we have rules around here. A certain code of ethics. We have those for a reason.”
I nod, swallowing hard.
“If someone breaks those rules, goes against that code, we need to take action.”
“I wasn’t—”
He holds up a hand. “I don’t know what you were or weren’t doing. I just know what it looked like. And it’s Mac.”
“I promise you—”
He throws a few stacks of bound bills on the desk. “You’ve won more here tonight than anyone ever has. This should hold you over for a good while. I took out for the loan, so we’re even.”
Fear pounds through me, more painful than the blows I just endured. I want to get up and run out the door, so I don’t have to hear what’s coming next.
“I need you to pack your things. Your membership is revoked.”
My mouth drops open. I knew it would be bad, but not this bad, this final. This was my safe place. The only place in the world where I felt like I belonged. The only place people had my back. Now that’s all gone. I’m as hollow and fragile as a dried cornhusk.
Mike sighs heavily. “I’m sorry, Jett,” he says. And I can tell he truly means it.
My heart is disintegrating into ash. I thought Mom’s rejection was bad, but comparing that to this is like comparing a mosquito bite to an amputation. This place is my life, my home, my family, and my income all in one.
I stand on unsteady legs and pick up the pile of bills. There must be thousands here. In the tiny room I’ve called home, I get out the duffel bag and pack what few things I have. One-Eyed Mike gives me a brief wave as I pass his office door and head for the front doors for the last time.
I stop and turn back. I can’t just leave. I can’t. Standing in his office doorway, not wanting to piss him off but needing him to hear what I have to say, I clutch the straps of my duffel in front of me until my bruised and abused knuckles protest. He leans back in his chair, looking both pained and patient.
Struggling to keep my emotions in check, I manage, “This is my home. Everyone here is my family. You’re the dad I never had. I’d never do anything to mess that up. Ever. I know it’s Mac. I’ll stay away.” The lump in my throat grows, suffocating me until the last sentence is only a whisper. “I need this place.”
As if embarrassed, he looks down at his desk and nods. “I know, son.”
Hearing him call me son nearly undoes me completely, and I rush for the doors.
After throwing my bag in the back seat of the Mustang, I get into the driver’s seat and light a cigarette with shaking hands. Where the hell am I going to go? I rev the engine to life and see the clock on the dash reads 11:52. It’s probably too late to call Lexi.
Driving aimlessly, I find myself at the Quickie Mart where I last ran into her by chance. As if part of me is hoping that happens again. I don’t see her car. Parking, I consider going in for cigarettes but lean back in the seat for a moment.
What’s life without the gym going to be like? Life without the gym. The words don’t seem real. I start replaying how it even happened when my pummeled mind and body give in to an exhausted sleep.
A tap at my window startles me awa
ke. I’m cold and stiff. Shielding my eyes from the storefront’s neon lights, I peer out to see who it is. It’s Mac’s busted up face. Jesus H. Christ. He’s the last person I want to see right now. I’d rather it be Galloway with ten of his friends this time than Mac.
Mac waves a bottle of beer at me. What could he possibly want? I roll down the window and see he’s holding a six-pack in his other hand.
“Hey.” He hands me the beer, taking in the duffel on the passenger seat. “You sleeping in your car?”
“I was tired,” I mumble, cracking the beer open and taking a chug of the cold liquid.
“You got someplace to stay?”
What business is it of his? “What do you want?”
A blast of frigid air rocks the car. Mac hugs himself. “Damn, it’s freezing out here. Can I sit in there? I just want to talk to you.”
Of course he wants to talk. That’s what he does best. But do I want to hear it? Sighing, I reluctantly heave the duffel into the backseat and unlock the door.
Mac gets in, sets the six-pack on the floor, and opens a bottle. “This thing have heat?”
I turn the car on and blast the heater.
“I saw you sleeping here, and I owe you a thanks so figured I’d buy you a beer.”
What the hell did he just say?
“Yeah, you know, I thought Ki was so great. I wanted to marry her and shit. But, boy, you really saved me. I bet that bitch woulda said yes then divorced me just to take my money.”
I take a long swig.
“I couldn’t believe how she came onto you. I mean, I could, ‘cause I see how all the women look at you. But Ki, now she was something different. I thought she loved me. I was so angry, I coulda killed you.”
“Nothing happened.”
“What?”
