by Vi Carter
Wrapping the warm, fluffy towel around me, I wiped the steam away from the bathroom mirror and stared at my reflection. My hair hung down my back. I had bags under my eyes. I touched my cheeks; they looked shallower. The steam started to fog the mirror back up, and this time I left it there and got dressed in my new clothes. After putting on some makeup and drying my hair, I checked my suitcase and found what I was looking for: my car keys. It was playing on my mind. I had left it parked behind my apartment building. I just hoped my landlord Miss Krinkley, the old bag, hadn’t got it towed away.
I lay on the bed with my new phone. In the contacts, I smiled as I scrolled through my three numbers. One was Grace, who I programmed in. The other my parents, who I also programmed in, and the third was Emmett, who I didn’t program in. I dialed his number and got his voicemail. I kept it brief, telling him to hurry up. I didn’t really expect him to.
Ten minutes after the phone call, a knock came to the door. Surprised, I stuffed my phone and keys into my pocket, while grabbing my key card for the room.
“Miss Green.” The disappointment I felt at seeing Michael standing at the door must have been visible on my face as he smiled knowingly. “Not who you were expecting?”
I shrugged it off. “I wasn’t expecting anyone.” Which was kind of true. I folded my arms and gave him a look that said what-do-you-want.
“Mr. Harrington is caught up, so I have to take you where-ever you want to go.”
I let the door close behind me. “Good, I’m ready.” We rode the elevator in silence. Joe sat outside, waiting for us. It didn’t take long to reach my old apartment block, and lord, after the time I had spent in the compound, it made me realize that it looked so rundown. “Wait here, I’m just heading out the back to see if my car is still here." I reached for the door handle, but it wouldn’t open. I wiggled it in rising anger. “What the hell?” I looked at Michael and Joe, my heart pounding.
“I’m coming with you,” Michael said, and Joe unlocked the door. I don’t know why I was reacting so badly—maybe the fact that these men were gangsters, and I was driving around with them. I got out feeling lightheaded, sweat coated my forehead, and I had to ask Michael to give me a moment. He did, standing beside me like a god damn bouncer. People were staring at me curiously, and I was feeling uncomfortable with the attention. I sucked it up and headed out back. I think when the door was locked I had assumed the worst: that they were going to hurt me, just as Matthew had planned. I didn’t really know these people, and I normally wasn’t so trusting. I needed to keep my wits about me.
“So where is Emmett, anyway?” I asked as I scanned the parking lot.
“In a meeting.” I could hear the ‘full stop’ and ‘mind your own business’ in Michael’s words.
“Shit.” I did another three hundred and sixty-degree circle. My car wasn’t here. My heart sank, and my throat burned. My reaction surprised me. Why the hell was I feeling emotional? My car was a piece of shit, but it was also the last thing that connected me to my old life, the life before Emmett Harrington walked into the police station. “My car isn’t here,” I told Michael, who didn't seem to really care. That annoyed me. I was just someone to cart around. I marched away, feeling overly irritated.
“Where to next?” he asked as we made our way back to the building. I rang the bell for Miss Krinkley’s apartment. After keeping my finger on the buzzer for a good twenty seconds she finally answered.
“Where’s my car?” I asked through the monitor.
“Who is this?” She sounded as crappy as she always did.
“Amber Green.” I snarled.
Her sneer was heard loud and clear. “Have you got my money?”
“You kicked me out, illegally may I add.” Silence followed my accusation. She knew the shit she did was illegal.
“It was impounded.” I seethed. The bitch sounded happy.
“Where?” I was trying to keep calm.
“Overflow central," she answered.
“It’s a good job you’re eighty-seven, because if you weren’t I would kick down this door and kick your ass.” I didn’t wait for a response, but marched back to the car. I couldn’t talk—I was that angry, so Michael told Joe where to go. I flexed my hands a few times; this was going to cost me a fortune. She was a nasty old woman.
The closer we got to the impound, the more I felt embarrassed about threatening an eighty-seven-year-old. “She’s really mean,” I said, to no one in particular. I just felt like I needed to defend myself. No one spoke. I looked at Michael. “Like, she packed my suitcase and changed the locks while I was out, and I came home to find myself evicted, no warning. Crazy bitch," I added. Michael remained silent, just nodding a reply–his nod was filled with ‘I don’t really give a shit.’ And why would he? He was a gangster, after all. Hell, he had probably done worse and smiled about it. Giving up, I sat back and tried to calm down.
I still wasn’t over it when we pulled up to the compound. Once again, I couldn’t get out of the car, but my body didn’t react like it had the first time. With a raised, impatient eyebrow, I turned to Michael for an explanation as to the locked doors and he smiled. “I don’t mind you threating little old ladies…” I tried to defend myself, but he silenced me. “…but the men at this compound aren’t little old ladies, so let me do the talking."
“Fine.” He narrowed his eyes at my response, as if weighing up my answer.
“Open the door, Joe.” I had faced the door and felt a slight amount of satisfaction when the lock popped, and I was free to leave the vehicle. I did, indeed, let Michael do all the talking. I just had to give the registration of my 96 VW Beetle. The tapping on the computer sounded like he was slapping anything, just to look like he was looking something up. The guy’s brown hair kept falling into his eyes, which he flicked away several times.
“Fifteen hundred release fee.” His monotone didn’t help my growing annoyance.
“It’s hasn’t been that long.” I rattled my keys at him in frustration. This was extortion.
“That’s what the computer says.” I looked at the nametag on his shirt. ‘Ed.’
“Ed, do your little typey thing again. There has to be some kind of mistake.”
He glanced at Michael, as if I was being unstable. “I’m not sure what your friend wants here,” he told Michael.
“My car, I want my car.” I leaned in close to the window, and Ed stood and told me to step back. This was pointless. The car wasn’t even worth fifteen hundred. “Okay, fine. Ed, I just want to retrieve some of my belongings from it.” Finally, the gate that separated me from all the cars buzzed.
“That’s no problem,” Ed sounded reasonable.
I got my license, a bottle of perfume, and my umbrella. You never know when you need one; it always seemed to rain every time I was walking somewhere. Opening the boot, I found a pair of work shoes, which was next on my agenda–to find a job. Closing the boot, I gave my old faithful car one last look before I walked out of the compound and back to the car I had arrived in, with Michael in tow.
We returned to the hotel. Michael didn’t follow me up to the room, something that I was grateful for. I found an envelope on the dresser, with my name scrolled across it. It was filled with cash and a small note.
Your week’s wages.
I fell back on the bed, letting out a deep breath. The money was silly, there was at least a thousand in it. I had worked for one day. I sat up and took out a hundred; I did—after all—work for a day. I stuffed it into my purse, then thought again and took another hundred; I did have a call out. I put that in my purse too and left, heading downstairs for food.
While I ate the best steak and chips I’d had in a long time, I watched people through the wall of mirrors that coated the side wall of the restaurant. It was something Grace and I often did in college. We would lie out on the grass, watching the world go by. Somewhere behind me, a man in his sixties maybe seventies, felt up a young woman’s leg. She smiled at him, flicking her hai
r over her shoulder. She was definitely forty years younger than him. I could never understand women sleeping with older men for money. There was no way she loved him or was attracted to him. He reminded me of the Penguin from Batman. So, he was no oil painting.
I finished my meal and paid the eighty-eight dollars. Daylight robbery. I shook my head as I handed the money to the cashier. Just scandalous, but delicious. A far cry to the canned tuna I’d had the first night I was here.
As I was leaving the restaurant, I spotted Emmett as he moved just outside the lobby doors. Without noticing me, he made his way to the front of the building, so I followed him.
After his no-show today, the gym bag he held in one hand had me curious. I counted to twenty as he disappeared around the back of the hotel before I followed. I looked at all the parked cars, no sign of Emmett. I had lost him already; I wouldn’t make it as a spy.
Then, the noise of a gate closing at the end of the parking lot had me smiling, and I made my way to it. I once again counted to twenty before opening it. A wide expanse of cracked tarmac and run-down buildings sat in the carpark. Emmett was far enough away that I wasn’t able to make out his features, but I knew it was him. He entered one of the buildings through a side door with the gym bag still in hand.
Turn back now, I told myself as I walked to the building. I was facing the side. The door that Emmett had gone in through wouldn’t open, so I made my way to the front of the building. The closer I got, the better I could make out music, loud voices, and laughter. When I rounded the corner, two men took money from each person as they made their way into the building. I slipped into line beside what I could only describe as two hookers. Both looked at me from the corner of their eyes; one stopped chewing gum and then resumed as she faced away. I was next; the bouncer had his hand out for money. “How much?” I asked.
People behind me laughed, and the bouncer smiled. “You in the wrong place, sweetheart.” I wasn’t going to stand here like prey. I took out a fifty and placed it in his hand.
“No, I’m not.” I walked past, but he grabbed my arm roughly, his face and tone now serious.
“We don’t want any trouble,” he said, and I smiled, blinking my eyes innocently.
“What, from little old me?” He let me go, and I entered the building.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
AMBER
THE SMELL OF sweat and the heat was overpowering from the tightly packed crowd. Following everyone's focused attention had me walking towards the center of the room and the closer I got, the hotter it seemed. I felt sweat prickle my neck. As the crowd thickened, I stood on a few toes and took a few elbows as I pushed forward, but finally I could see what everyone was here for. Two men circled each other, their fists raised. Fresh blood splattered the floor. It wasn’t just from these men–there was too much blood. Men must have been fighting here all day. My stomach squirmed. What was Emmett doing here?
The crowd screamed their winner's name, and in their excitement, the crowd would swell and then sink back. Speakers attached to large pillars boomed with the voice of the entertainer. “Last chance to place your bets,” he said. I looked at the queue of men who took money for the bets, their bags bulging. A lot of muscle surrounded them, keeping a tight, protective band around them. A few men in suits sat on large wooden benches placed higher than the rest of us. They looked like kings. One, in particular, had my stomach tighten. His eyes, the same distinct blue as Emmett's, scanned the crowd. He took no notice of the fight below him. He looked like an older version of Emmett, but a colder and harder one. Something about him didn’t feel right.
I got pushed closer towards the fight as the crowd roared, my attention drawn away from the man and back to the fight. I moved myself a row back, afraid of getting hit. The heat left my skin itchy with sweat. Watching two men beat the crap out of each other had me wanting to step away in disgust, yet I had never felt more alive.
One of the guys wore red shorts, and whenever he threw a punch, the crowd roared louder for him than the one in the black shorts. I, for one, always loved an underdog, so I started to cheer on Max, joining in with his supporters. Shouting so loudly in a room had my adrenaline pumping, and I found myself back at the front. Max’s face was a bloody mess. A part of me wanted to yell out to stop the fight but I wasn’t stupid, and these men had signed up for this, so they knew what they were getting into.
When Max grabbed Dan the Dog–not kidding that’s what everyone chanted-, around the waist and slammed him into the ground, the crowd grew mostly quiet while I hollered for Max. My yelling caused most people to look at me. Maybe they thought I was his woman? But I didn’t care. I loved the underdog. The host spoke into the mic when Dan the Dog didn’t move, ending the fight and giving Max his title as the winner.
I cheered, as did others, but most people cursed. Max's swollen face bled, his eyes sealed shut from all the swelling. Music blared over the speakers and the crowd loosened up slightly. No one came to wash the blood away as the next fight was announced. ‘Bulldog’ against ‘The Devil’s Son.’
Everyone seemed to go wild in the room, and bets were being made with assurance. Everyone was betting on ‘The Devil’s Son.’ The men taking the bets did so with unhappy faces. I waited until the crowd thinned out slightly before I placed a bet myself. “Twenty on The Bulldog.”
The man taking my money smirked at me. “No problem.” He handed me a slip.
“See you after the match,” I told him, and he laughed while looking at me like I might be crazy. I moved back to where the crowd once again gathered for the next fight. The excitement building up to the fight had me bouncing. Everyone talked about how ‘The Devil’s Son’ was undefeated. That’s when I lost some of my excitement. No, I backed the right dog, I told myself and smiled at my accidental joke. He was called the Bulldog, after all, and I hoped he tore the Devil's Son a new asshole. The hype vibrated through the crowd and rubbed off on me as sweat trickled down the back of my neck and under my jumper, where no doubt a wet patch formed.
Bulldog, a huge and muscular man, arrived first. His muscles bulged from everywhere. Only a small gold and black pair of shorts covered him. His grin split his face; a gap between his teeth made him look charming and boyish. He held both fists in the air, and a small percentage of the crowd cheered. I wolf-whistled from the front and got the Bulldog’s attention. He winked at me and I couldn’t help but smile back.
“And now for the undefeated champion, the one and only. Give it up folks for ‘The Devil’s Son!” The crowd went wild, and it took all my might to stay upright while being shoved, elbowed, and at one point, nearly pushed into the fighting ring. ‘Devil’s Son’ entered, wearing only what reminded me of black karate pants. His bare feet padded on the concrete surface, his back faced me, and I had to admire the view.
He wasn’t a large man, but lean and muscular, a black jaguar popped into my head, as his shoulder blades moved up and down as he walked, even as impressive as he was, it didn’t hold my attention like the tattoo that covered most of his back did. It was a tree, its leaves vibrant, green, red, yellow, oranges all lush, and full of life. The colors the tattoo artist had painted on looked more like a photo than ink. The trunk of the tree was brown but as my eyes moved down the tattoo, the bark started to rot until the roots were black, charred, rotten away. They looked like one touch and the bark would dissolve and float to the bloody concrete floor.
My heart skipped a beat as my eyes moved back up to the man’s dark hair; I wanted to see his face. Something about him felt so familiar. He moved his head from side to side and flexed his hands at the same time, all the while the Bulldog stood, still smiling like he had it in the bag. I hoped he was right, but I had a feeling that the underdog was not going to come out on top this time.
Waiting for the first punch was like being on a rollercoaster–at the very top, you can see the drop coming, you're right there, heart pounding, stomach lurching.
“Fight.” The command was met with hysteria as i
t began. The first punch was quick and precise, given by The Devil’s Son. It was the first draw of blood. Bulldog wiped it away from the smile that he had held. Now it was gone from his face as he launched himself at the favorite, who sidestepped easily, causing Bulldog to nearly run into the crowd. I wanted to see his face, yet still he faced away from me. Then, The Devil’s Son turned, and I could see his face, and everything stopped.
Emmett. My legs turned to jelly, and the roars seemed to mash together like someone had stuffed my ears with cotton buds. Sweat filled my palms, and I tightened my hands. The paper that I held brought me back, and the screams resumed. Bulldog charged again, and Emmett didn’t even flinch until Bulldog was within an inch of him. He kicked out, slamming into his stomach and sending him to the ground.
I stared at him, uncomprehending. It was Emmett, but it wasn’t. I couldn’t point out why this all felt disturbing. Why would he be fighting for money? He didn’t need it. Was it pleasure? Did he like hurting people? He was good at it; that was evident as he repeatedly hit Bulldog in the face. Emmett's punches were quick and vicious. Violent.
Sadness filled me as I watched him. He was so filled with anger that I wondered who had placed it there. Bulldog got up, wiping the blood from a deep cut over his eye, but the blood continued to flow. I looked at the stage, where the men in suits sat. Someone should have stopped the fight, but they all looked on with greed and violence on their faces. It was definitely Emmett’s father I had identified earlier; he held that look in his eyes that Emmett wore now. Empty, yet so full of hate.
As Bulldog moved to Emmett, I wanted to scream at Emmett to stop, to leave him alone. This wasn’t a fight; it wasn't fair. But I didn’t have to, Bulldog got his first hit in, then another and another. He punched with speed in Emmett’s sides. Emmett’s hands protected his face and head, leaving his sides wide open, and Bulldog took full advantage, but then Emmett finally got a moment and pushed Bulldog away. Bruises already began forming on his skin. His chest rose and fell fast, sweat coated his defined torso. My heart sank at the marks on his sides. Seeing those marks ignited a fury inside of me, but it was no longer aimed at Emmett. Instead, it was aimed at the man who dared hurt him. I wanted Emmett to show him no mercy. The intensity of my feelings startled me.
