"He a fighter?" Rhino asks.
"Yeah. On the come-up. Needs somewhere to crash, and some technique."
"Looks like you just lost a fight."
"There were six of them," I say.
A nod, understanding. Six-on-one is nasty odds for anyone. "You in trouble?" he asks, his eye on me, on my bruises and cuts.
"No."
"Nobody looking for you?"
I shake my head. "Nope."
That's the sad truth, too. There isn't anyone looking for me. They just let me go. Because I couldn't meet their standards.
The door closes, a chain slides, unhooks, and the door opens again. "C'mon in, y'all."
Holy fucking hell. I see why he's called Rhino. Six-seven at least, probably close to four hundred pounds. Huge motherfucker. Scalp shaved bald, goatee scruff, gold chains around his neck, rings on his fingers. He's wearing a pair of gym shorts and nothing else, displaying a physique that scares me a little. Or a lot. A layer of fat, but under that is enough muscle to deadlift a car off the ground. Tattoos, a dragon on his right arm, skulls, lettering, a face and "RIP" in tag lettering. Bullet hole scars, knife scars and a burn scar on his left forearm.
Rhino settles into a sagging La-Z-Boy recliner, the hinges and springs squeaking. There's a brown couch, fuzzy and scratchy, the fabric pilling, cushions faded and dented by decades of butts. Eli and I sit down. A blunt the size of a stogie smolders in an ashtray on the battered coffee table, and Rhino lifts it, takes a drag. Extends it to Eli, who smokes it and hands it to me.
"So why you stashin' your boy here, Eli?" Rhino asks.
"Gotta go somewhere. Tried him at Maisy's, but she back to hoein' herself out again, so that ain't gonna work."
I really don't know why Eli is doing this. Or why he cares.
"I just need somewhere to crash for a few nights. A couple fights, I'll have enough for my own place." I take the blunt as it circles back to me.
Rhino chuckles. "Couple fights and you done, huh?"
"That's the plan."
"That's a stupid-ass plan." He laughs again. "That ain't how this game works, man. You don't just quit. Especially not once the money starts addin' up."
Eli seems fidgety, nervous. "So, you in?"
Rhino lets the smoke roll out of his mouth in a thick cloud. He squints at Eli through the pall. "He wins, I get a cut. Fifteen percent."
"Five."
"Fuck you and yo' cheap ass. Twelve." Rhino passes the blunt to Eli.
Eli stares at the cherry, thinking. "Ten."
"A'ight. Ten." A glance at me. "You better fuckin' win, white boy."
Why do I keep hearing that? "I will."
He palms his knees, pushes his bulk upright. "Best hit the gym, then. See what you got." A glance at Eli. "He's fighting tonight?"
"Yeah. He's fighting Julio Moreno."
Rhino just nods. "After the stomping you just took, that's gonna be a bitch of a fight."
"I'll be fine."
"You haven't fought Moreno, yet." A wicked grin. "You won't be fine when that's over with."
"Very inspiring."
Rhino chuckles. "You funny." He extends his hand to Eli, and they slap palms, bump shoulders. "I'll work with him. He can crash on the couch for a minute. I'll bring him to the fight tonight."
Eli nods. "Don't get in any more fights unless you're getting' paid for it, you got it?" He points at me with his index finger, his expression serious. "I'm for real, man. You got a knack for finding trouble."
"Hear you."
Eli leaves, then, and Rhino vanishes, reappearing wearing a T-shirt with sleeves that have been ripped off. "Let's head down to the gym."
"You own the gym?" I ask, following him.
"Yeah."
The place is in darkness; the shadows of weight machines are barely visible, but I can see a boxing ring, a speed bag setup, and a heavy bag. Rhino flips a few light switches and fluorescent lights hum and flicker on. It's a small space, but all the equipment is newer and well maintained, the floors are clean and the walls have been recently painted.
He circles the ring and stops near the heavy bag. "Work the bag, lemme see what you got."
I just stand there for a second, feeling awkward. "I've never worked in a gym before. I just...got in a lot of fights."
He nods. "Which means you probably got no technique, and that's what I want to see. Just hit the bag hard as you can."
I go into a fighting stance, haul back and hit the bag with my right fist as hard as I muster. The thwack is loud, and the bag jumps back, wobbles and swings. My fist stings.
"Again. Just keep hitting it. Move around it."
So I hit the bag. Left, right, cross, hook, uppercut. I throw everything I've got at it, moving in circles. I find a rhythm in it, and let myself flow. I duck, weave, bob and use my torso for momentum until I'm sweating and the bag is circling and swaying and bobbing.
"A'ight. Hold up." Rhino assumes a loose approximation of a boxer's stance. "You like this. Fists low, body facing straight on, almost standing, head up." He pivots so his body is edge-on, puts his fists closer up near his face, crouches. Chin tucked, knees bent. "Gotta get low. Give 'em less to hit, and tuck your chin in so it don't get clipped. That's the fastest way to get knocked out."
He moves closer to the bag and jabs. Just a light jab, but the bag is rocked farther back than I managed with my hardest punch. He glances at me, makes sure I'm watching him. "You're using your body, you got that much right. But you ain't using your legs. A good punch starts in your feet, way down in your motherfuckin' toes, man. Push off with your foot, let that move in a line up through your hips, out through your arm." He moves in a sideways crab walk, ducks low as if to dodge a swing, and then brings his fist around in a whistling arc. He hits the bag so fucking hard I think for a minute he's split it open. "With a hit like that, you twist and, like I said, it's gotta come from your feet. This may sound stupid, but I try to pretend I got the whole earth pushing up with me, twisting with me when I punch. Like the power is coming up from the ground and moving through me. Know what I'm sayin'?"
I nod. "Yeah, I get it."
I crouch, twist sideways, tuck my chin in and try the jab. I push through my toes. My whole body moves forward with the punch. I feel the difference immediately, feel it in the way my body moves, in the way the punch feels, in the way the heavy bag is knocked backward. I let the bag swing, move away, circle around, duck under an imaginary punch and try to summon the power of the earth through my feet. I twist, push through my feet, push with my stomach and my shoulders and my knees and my elbow, and the impact is like a clap of thunder.
"You gettin' it." Rhino hits the bag with a flurry of punches, high and low, and cross and hook, and I realize how devastating it must be to fight a massive bruiser like him, especially with the speed and skill he's showing. "Now you just gotta practice it until that kind of motion is automatic. Second nature, na'mean? Every hit, it comes way down low. You can take a hell of a beating, and you got naturally good technique, which is prolly how you won so far. Little bitta skill, little bitta natural ability, and lotta will to just stay on your feet, am I right?"
I nod. "You're not wrong."
"Well, you want to win regular, you gotta add a lot more skill. Fighting a mothafucka like Moreno, luck ain't gonna cut it. Moreno is good. He's got a rep as a winner, so if you can beat him, it'll take you places. Get you big money fights. And that's what you want. Big money fights bought me this gym."
"You don't fight anymore?"
He just laughs. "Hell nah. I got my gym, don't need to fight no more."
"So you quit, then."
"I fought for four years before I quit. Saved all the money I won. Spent money on food and smoke, and that was about it. Saved it until I had enough to buy this place up with cash. You wanna get out, you gotta pay your dues. You don't get out quick." His expression is serious, hard. "You're just gettin' in, Colt. You got a lot of fighting ahead of you."
That's a sob
ering thought.
Chapter 6: Bad Shit
I dance and bounce around on the balls of my feet. I shake my fists and roll my shoulders and I wonder what in the ever-loving fuck I've gotten myself into. The man facing me is a predator. Lean, all sharp edges and hard muscles, cold dead eyes and a slight grin. Six feet tall, same as me, but probably ten pounds lighter. Long arms, quick feet. His fists are taped up to his forearms, and it's clear he's already fought at least once tonight, judging by the split, puffy lip and the tiny butterfly bandage over the bridge of his nose. He's wearing a pair of loose shorts and nothing else, no socks or shoes, no shirt.
Ruiz is between us, stuffing cash from the bets into the back pocket of his loose, low-hanging khakis.
He glances at each of us. "No biting, no gouging."
We're facing each other now, standing up straight, both of us taking slow, even breaths, pushing all thoughts away, summoning the coldness necessary to beat the hell out of a stranger against whom you have no grudge. Julio smirks and says something in Spanish, something insulting, if the cackles and howls of the Spanish-speakers in the crowd is any indication.
"Insults work better if the person understands them," I say.
He juts his chin at me. "You sure you wanna fight, gringo? Looks like somebody already wrecked you up."
There's nothing to say to that, so I just smack my fists together, knuckle on knuckle and spit on the floor. Truth is, I don't want to fight. I want to lie down and go to sleep and not wake up for a week. I'm hurting. My ribs ache from taking those kicks, my jaw aches, a tooth is loose and my eyes are both black and yellow.
But I never back down. Not from anyone.
So I hold my chin up, work on looking aloof and arrogant. I ignore the pounding in my chest, the thrum of adrenaline and fear in my bloodstream, the slight shake to my hands as I clench them into fists.
Ruiz steps back, drops his arm between us. "Fight."
Moreno is like greased goddamn lightning. He's on me and hammering his fists into my gut with machine gun rapidity before I have a chance to even set my feet. And then he's dancing back and weaving, feet working him around me like a dancer. A bob, a weave, a feint, and then he's hooking a vicious right into my ribs and I'm gasping and seeing stars, and it hasn't been six seconds yet. Goddamn.
Fuck this.
I curl down, root my feet in the earth, feel the ground under me like an anchor, and feel the blood haze settle over my brain.
Moreno ducks in, expecting to land another flurry of wicked slugs, but I'm faster than he is this time. He's mid-punch, committed. I pivot, and his torso is wide open. I twist with the power of the rotating earth, grunt as I put all my force into it. I swing my arm, twist my hips, curl my torso around, haul my fist like a motherfucking freight train into Moreno's liver.
He's staggering backwards, stunned breathless by the raw, bone-crushing fury of the hit. No fucking mercy. I'm on him like a mauling bear, settling down into each punch and drawing colossal, primal vigor from the ground under my feet.
To his credit, he endures the battering I give him, and manages to deliver an elbow to my throat.
I gasp, and we're both tottering backward, taking a breath.
And that's when he changes shit on me. Instead of coming at me like I expect, fists flying, he darts forward, hops, and sends the ball of his left foot into my chest. I can't breathe, and he's spinning like a cyclone, and I can see the next kick coming but I can't get out of the way. I manage to throw up a forearm, intercepting the kick; I'll have a hell of a bruise there, that's for damn sure.
The next minute or so is a wicked, vicious blur of kicks, knees, punches, elbows, body blows and hammering hits to the face. He's bleeding and so am I. The crowd is wild, as if they can't believe the fight they're witnessing.
I have to end this.
I'm hurting so bad I can't see, can't breathe, can't think. I can barely move.
Moreno launches another flying sidekick at me, and I don't think, don't plan, just react. I catch his ankle in the crook of my elbow, pivot over him and pressure the joint hard in the wrong direction, swinging the flat of my fist down onto his knee like a jackhammer.
CRACK.
He screams.
He drops.
I stagger backward into the silenced crowd. I sag, then I'm hurled forward, and I fall on the ground beside Moreno.
I vomit and gasp.
Moreno is on the ground a foot away. Tears gleam in his eyes, and he's screaming, clutching at his knee as three Hispanic dudes rush toward him, shouting in Spanish.
"I'm sorry...I'm sorry--" I'm gasping it as I retch from exhaustion and agony.
Ruiz is in the ring. Staring down at me. "You only win if you're on your feet, Colt."
"Get up, motherfucker," Moreno snarls at me through clenched teeth. "Stand your ass up or you a dead man."
I roll to my back, gasp, spit and feel it land on my cheek, on the side of my neck. I taste blood and bile. I roll to my side and lever my feet under me, plant my palms on the cold, gritty, greasy concrete and grunt with the effort of holding my weight up.
I can't breathe. Each inflation of my lungs sends a spear of agony through me, each motion is utterly excruciating: broken ribs. I don't remember that happening.
The crowd is still and silent. Latinos stand in a protective circle around Moreno, and more than one is wielding a knife. Shit is about to go down, for real.
The tension is so thick it's like a fog in the room. No one even dares breathe. Apparently it's fine to beat a dude to a bloody pulp, but it's not okay to cripple him. Who knew?
"Winner, Colt." Ruiz shoves me unceremoniously through the crowd and outside.
The warehouse is on a wharf, water lapping gently against the pylons. The moon is full overhead, illuminating shapes in the water, evidence of a pier that had once stood here. Manhattan is a gleaming, twinkling vista across the water. We might be in New Jersey, I don't know.
"Jesus goddamn, Colt!" Rhino is there, suddenly, whacking me on the back. "You crushed his ass, man. I can't believe that shit. You fucked him up!"
Eli is on my other side. "That was fuckin' brutal, my man."
I keep feeling his knee crunch under my fist. I could be sick again from the memory. "I didn't mean to--"
"But you did it. Can't take that shit back, now." Rhino is standing in front of me, prodding my torso with thick fingers, nodding when I wince and groan at his touch. "Broke some ribs. You done fightin' for a minute, son. Come on."
I have to walk on my own. I refuse to lean on him, or anyone. It's a battle, though, just to make it the hundred yards up the wharf to Rhino's car, a big Escalade with shiny spinner rims and ground effects. Climbing into the smooth leather saps me of everything I've got left.
I see Eli's car ahead of us, and then he's gone and Rhino is bobbing his head to the thudding bass of the hip-hop coming from the speakers.
"Nothin' to be done for broke ribs but let 'em heal on they own," he says. "But I got some shit that'll take the edge off."
I just groan and collapse against the window. Yellow-orange lights brighten overhead and recede, and then there's the buzz of the tunnel and the occasional wash of oncoming headlights, and I have to fight for each breath.
"That was a hell of a fight," Rhino says. "You made a name for yourself with that one. The big dogs will want a piece of you, now. Big money comin' your way."
"I can't...I can't breathe..." I gasp.
Rhino just chuckles, a sound like an avalanche. "Busted ribs'll do that. Straighten up, lean the seat back. Don't stress them fractures an' it'll feel better. Still hurts like a mo-fo, but not as bad if your torso weren't twisted."
I lever the seat backward until I feel the tugging tension lessen, and then I can suddenly breathe a little easier. The lance of agony recedes just a bit, enough that I can draw a shallow breath. Not too deep, or the pain hits likes a gunshot.
Miles and minutes pass in silence. Rhino glances at me. "I saw a guy get killed in the ri
ng, once. Just a freak fuckin' accident. Took a hit to the skull, fell, cracked his head open. We was miles from any doctors, so he just...bled out. Twitched and bled until he wasn't breathin' no more."
"Jesus."
"It's underground fighting, dog. Bad shit is gonna happen." He twists his fist on the steering wheel. "I wrecked a few people in my time. Broke a guy's jaw so bad he needed reconstructive surgery, wires and screws and shit. Put another guy in traction for a month. Broke legs, knocked out teeth. It ain't pretty. You don't fight in those rings and not dish out pain, just like you don't fight in those rings and not take pain. You gonna hurt, and you gonna get hurt. Can't pussy out now. Just gotta deal with it."
Chapter 7: Split; the Drive-by
Five months later
After my ribs finally healed, Rhino worked me like a fucking dog. Hours and hours and hours in the gym, to where I couldn't fucking move afterward. He forced me to choke down protein shakes and protein bars, forced me to eat fish like I'm a goddamned penguin. I'd eat two steaks at a time, half a dozen eggs every morning. He made me run five miles every morning and pushed me to lift, lift, lift, deadlifts and dips and all sorts of fancy shit all day long. No fights, no girls, just endless hours in the gym, technique lessons and hours working the bag and the speedball and sparring with Rhino. Rest on Sundays, smoke weed until I'm floating in outer space, drink a forty, listen to hip-hop, cruise the streets in Rhino's Escalade.
He introduced me to hundreds of people. He knows everyone in his neighborhood, old and young, male and female. Everyone. Kids, old folks, hard-as-fuck OGs, little babies. They all hug him, clap him on his burly shoulder and are happy to pass the time. They eye me warily at first, but eventually they accept me.
By the time the fifth month has passed, I've put on fifty pounds of solid muscle. If I was a beefcake before, I'm a fucking monster now. We never skipped leg day, either, so I'm light on my feet. There were entire days when I'd do nothing but practice footwork, hop the tires like you see on football camp news clips, do explosive jumps onto platforms three and four feet high. I'd shred my legs until I was jelly from the waist down, barely able to put one foot in front of the other.
I didn't see Eli once in that time. Rhino says he told Eli I needed time before my next fight to heal my ribs and get conditioned. In return for food and board and conditioning, Rhino has me help run his gym. I clean the machines, stack the weights at the end of the day, spot on the bench press, restock the drinks cooler, spar with training fighters in the ring. I do anything and everything, and I don't mind it. I've always relished the burn of a killer workout, but the difference between the bodyweight workouts I did in my bedroom and the targeted muscle training and bulking possible with specialized equipment is amazing. I'm not lean and muscular, now, I'm honestly ripped. Bulked out, padded with layers of muscle, low body fat. But quick, and my fists are lightning.
Falling for Colton Page 9
