One
Sione
Sour sweat, musty booze, and smoke coat the air of the Basement. It’s one of the Riot’s best spots for fights in Cambridge. Housed deep within the parking garage of an old, abandoned building, very Fight Club-esque. Swinging lights flicker above while the crowd writhes like a howling beast, but the noise is drowned out by the ringing in my ears. That motherfucker got a wicked right hook in when I thought he was going for my gut.
Rocky realized I’m not as young and spry as I once was. He paired me—a two hundred and thirty pound, six-five, powerhouse—with a hundred-and-eighty-pound lightweight who’s at least seven years younger and has the spunk of a prancing filly. I prepped plenty for this fight, sparring with my coach daily, but I wasn’t prepared for this; wasn’t prepared to lose.
“You won’t fucking lose, you idiot. Just screw your head back on,” Noah snarls in my face. I barely hear him over the buzzing and the crowd. “You’re going too easy on him. I know what the fuck you’re doing. You can’t afford to.”
The rage in me rattles the bars of its cage where it will remain. Rage was never the way to win a fight, it only ever got me into trouble. Coated in sweat, breathing heavily, I stare blankly at my best friend while he works on keeping my right eye from swelling shut. Noah’s icy eyes hold mine; one of the only men I’ve encountered who doesn’t look away. He’s seen the shit inside me and hasn’t walked away yet. Only because I know how ugly his closet is too.
“Yeah,” he scoffs as if he knows what I’m thinking. “You’re thinking you let this kid make it through a couple rounds, they won’t kill him after you decimate him. You know that isn’t how it works, so get your head on and don’t let him touch you again.”
“Get the fuck out of my face, Noah,” I keep my words steady, even though my head’s spinning. It’s been years since I entered any ring. I don’t overwhelm easy, but the smells, the sounds, my fists slamming into flesh, it’s all too familiar. I never wanted to be here again, yet here I am; there’s no backing out.
He checks my taped hands, making sure they’re still intact. As he observed, I haven’t done enough damage to the kid to have ruined the tape job. They call us back. The bell rings. I shove up from my bucket, knocking it over to get past Noah.
He hollers, “Don’t let him touch you.”
I bite back my growl.
It’s ridiculous that he would catch on so easily, but then, he knows me better than anyone. He knows I could kill this kid with one swift crack to the side of his head. The problem is, I can’t bring myself to follow through. My choices boil down to dragging this on longer and further jeopardize everything I’ve worked for—everything Noah’s worked for—or end it here and now and lose all sense of self-respect and honor…
This kid’s life is about to end.
I roll my shoulders, shake out my legs, tilt my head side-to-side all while holding the gaze of the kid who reminds me so much of Noah, it might destroy me to end him. There are many things I regret but taking on this debt—these fights I agreed to after years of swearing I would never fight again—is not one of them. The Riots are the most brutal gang in Cambridge. Noah and I used to be a part of and fight for them. I recently went to them to help Noah when his girl Chora was being threatened by her reckless, abusive ex.
Noah happens to be a famous rapper, so to protect him from the bad publicity the situation could cook up, I took on the debt. Rocky demanded four fights to give me the whereabouts of Chora’s ex. The tip he gave me saved her life. Now I’m obligated to fulfill the debt, even though we ended up handing the guy over to the Riots anyway since he’d stolen from them and killed a couple of their guys. After everything I’ve done, this will only nick at what little honor I have left.
Rocky paired me with this scrawny kid to test me. To see how deep my resolve runs. See how soft I’ve grown. What he doesn’t understand is, my softness died long ago. All I have left is debts to fulfill, especially what I owe Noah. Now’s the time to fulfill them.
*****
A sticky residue coats the bar top. I ignore it and grab my fourth shot. If I weren’t in such a foul mood, the state of the bar, the floor, the whole joint would keep me from even ordering a drink. Tables and stools are scattered across the floor in an unruly manner and the food that leaves the kitchen smells of cooking oil that hasn’t been changed in months. From the looks of the hood vents behind the grill, it’s been even longer since they were cleaned. A group of bikers play pool on the other side of the room and two older, war-haggard men talk animatedly at the end of the bar.
Compared to my five-star restaurant, this place is an eyesore and potentially a hazard to their patrons. Too bad I need this drink to quiet the noise and forget that kid’s pale face.
I’m not even halfway drunk if I can still feel the sticky residue or notice the gaze of the other patrons trained on me. I slam the shot, barely registering the burn, and signal for another. Noah makes a nondescript sound next to me. I choose to ignore it before drinking my refill and asking for another. The bald barkeep with a beard that reaches his chest and shoulders broader than mine, places the next shot in front of me with two more next to it. As if he can see the pit in my soul and knows it’ll take at least a gallon of whisky to reach it and its aching depths.
Another sound escapes Noah while I stare at the glass in my hand and the busted-up fingers wrapped around it. “If you nee’ to ge’ home to pipsssqueak, I’m no’ gunna ssstop you.”
My words might be slurred, but I can still see that kid’s face when he saw me flip the switch. When he realized I couldn’t let him leave that “ring” in one piece. A few hard body shots, a jab to his nose that cracked it and sprayed blood everywhere, then one swift left hook to his head. He swayed toward me, fell flat on his stomach.
Noah says he was still breathing when we left. That doesn’t mean he ain’t in the compost pile by now. The compost pile is the Riot’s body decomposer. Ever since I was part of the Riots, I haven’t trusted anyone who has their own compost pile.
“I’m not leaving you here, jackass,” he murmurs before sipping his soda that’s probably more dangerous than the food.
He thinks I’m being a jackass when there’s much more I could be a jackass about. I down another shot then ask, “How’s the shoulder doin’?” to be an actual ass by asking about his shoulder that his psycho ex-girlfriend shot only a few months back.
Jaw clacking, his ice-blue eyes become thin slits. “You try throwing another fight like that, I’ll tell Rocky you’re out and I’m in.”
The words are a boot to my gut. I focus on my glass again before swallowing the liquid that no longer burns. “I’ve seen you fight hundreds of times, yet I’ve only ever seen you take a beating once and you didn’t throw in the towel that time; you fought like hell for your life,” he says this in a rumbled whisper, but I hear him crystal clear over the ruckus of the bar. “Tonight, you let that sorry-ass kid beat on you. I heard on our way out that Rocky won big in the bets. He banked on you being soft.”
Another punch to the gut. He’s giving me more of a beating than the kid did. Giving Rocky—our old “trainer” inside the Riots—anything was inconceivable but accepting it gladly to save my best friend’s girl was necessary. I would make the same choice again even if I lose a chip of my soul with every fight. I promised Rocky I would fight, but him making a profit off me being a pussy is intolerable. I can’t change how this first fight played out, but I can play the next ones smarter and keep my damn conscience at home.
“I’ll do better next time,” I mutter and sway.
Noah grabs my shoulder to steady me. “Time to go.”
I can’t even object before being shoved out the door into the frosty night air. The wind beats against my black leather jacket before he shoves me inside his Audi RS7.
He drives me to my modern apartment building in South Boston and leaves me there. A simple two-bedroom flat on the third floor with a miniscule modern kitchen—despite my profession. There’s a reclaimed brick wall in the living room behind my couch, much like the one behind the bar at my restaurant.
It’s just enough space for me to be comfortable when I’m here, but it’s not comfortable tonight. My bed that takes up most of the master bedroom and is covered in gray cotton sheets is enticing as hell but sleep never finds me.
By two in the morning, I end up at The Mark—my restaurant that takes up prime real estate in South Boston—drinking scotch neat and cooking to the beat of Black Sabbath. I find more comfort in this enormous commercial kitchen—grill fired up, burners lit—than in my own home. The rest of the restaurant is fine, I like the design of it, but the kitchen is all my imagining and exactly how I like it.
I make myself fried pickles, fried chicken, and French fries, even though none of these items can be found on my menu. They’re comfort foods that I might reimagine and add to the actual menu. Hair pulled back, I work in the heat, prepping and drinking straight from the bottle.
Rocky texts me at four to tell me when and where the next fight is. At least he’s giving me two weeks to recoup. I’m still not sure whether I want Noah there again. I didn’t want him there in the first place, but he insisted, and I gave in. Owing someone anything in life even if they claim you don’t, does something to your mind. Messes you up.
Noah sends a text right when I’m putting my phone away.
N: The kid was admitted to Mount Auburn @ 3am. Alive. Chance Angle.
That’s not right. The Riots usually would either kill the loser if the other fighter didn’t or have us heal up at their shop and prepare for the next fight. Since they sent him to a hospital I can check on him, see if I can help. Which is a horrible idea, but I have enough liquor in me, it seems like a good one.
A few hours later I’m standing at Mount Auburn’s reception desk, telling a young ambitious guy I’m Chance’s brother. He’s too scared to keep Chance’s room number from me even though it isn’t visiting hours yet and I look nothing like the kid. When I get to the second floor, a doctor walks past chatting with a blonde woman at his side. I’m not sure what the hell I’m doing here; might be a bit drunk still and sleep depraved, but I have to fix this somehow.
The scent of chemicals and sickness in the air makes my stomach more uneasy. Door 217 is slightly ajar, so I push it all the way open. Tawny brown hair sticking in every direction, Chance sits up in bed with gauze over one eye, a white strip over the bridge of his nose, and a black bruise under his uncovered eye. The sound of my entrance has his uncovered eye popping open as much as the swelling will allow. His head jerks back into his pillows and he scrambles to search his bed, probably for his controller to call the nurse.
Hands in the air, I tell him, “Whoa, whoa.”
“They sent you here to kill me?” he rasps, fear coating the air so thick I can taste it.
“No,” I snap. The thought of beating him rampages through my thoughts. I swallow, shake my head to get the images out. “What’s the damage?”
Blinking twice, his shoulders sag. Looking out the one small window where the glow of the rising sun leaks through, he says, “Retina’s detached, two chipped ribs, broken nose. They’re talkin’ surgery on the eye but haven’t decided. Doesn’t matter; I got no money to cover it. That’s why I agreed to fight,” he motors on, reminding me too much of my younger self running my mouth, getting into trouble.
Arms crossed, I lean against the wall. He looks me over a couple times while I remember sitting up in a hospital bed after being beaten within an inch of death. Noah had sat by my bed the whole time I was there, getting himself in danger of a beating from the Riots just for being there. We made promises to change our lives back then and we did. We did good, but now I feel like I’m digging my grave all over again.
“Those first two rounds were an act, yeah?” he asks, pulling me from the past.
“They would have ripped you apart if you lost in the first round.” I shrug a shoulder.
With a nod, he shifts. “What comes after this? Never thought they’d bring me to the hospital.”
“Likely, they plan to use you to move drugs or watch the women.”
The blood drains from his face to the point he almost matches his bandages. “Thought I’d fight… thought it would—”
“Get you out of the other shit? I know.” I press my lips together and study his bruised face. I never wanted it to be this way, but Rocky wouldn’t have helped us any other way. “Are you trying to get out?” His answer to this question might shift everything for me.
What I’m not expecting is the tears brimming his exposed eye. “Out,” he chokes as if he’s swallowing acid. “My girl’s here. She’s twelve weeks pregnant. She knows I’ve made mistakes, but I was in before I met her. They don’t know about her. They—”
“Yes, they do,” I cut him off. He loses color again. “They know everything about everyone who works for them so they can use you whenever they need. Does your lady know?”
His Adam’s apple bobs before he nods. “Had to tell her. She had to know everything about me. I… love her.”
Fuck.
I cannot feel remorse for this kid.
None whatsoever.
Then why are you here Sio?
Fuuuuuck.
“You actually want out?” I ask again before I can stop myself.
He holds my gaze, nods.
I’m silent for fifteen seconds, weighing my options. They’re all terrible, every one of them. But I can’t do nothing.
“Come by The Mark in South Boston once you’re out of here. Best time is ten-thirty in the morning…” I look him up and down wondering what the hell I’m getting myself into. “Bring your lady.”
His gaze is skeptical, but I don’t have the time to answer any questions. Either he wants my help, or he doesn’t. Before he can say anything, I leave the room. The blonde I saw earlier watches me leave while still talking to the doctor. Her eyes are rimmed in red, nose rosy. This must be Chance’s girl, but she looks way too young to be having a kid, at least by my standards. If people waited until they were farther along in life before having kids, there wouldn’t be nearly as many orphans in the world. Some can raise children that young, but it’s not the rule.
The cherry on my cigarette burns bright when I turn toward the train stop and wait for Noah to answer his phone. I exhale slowly when he picks up.
“You know it’s only six-thirty and I just barely went to sleep,” is his groggy answer.
“Yeah,” I reply.
“You’re a dick. I have to take Brax to school in two hours,” he adds, talking about Chora’s son she had with the asshole who’s responsible for me having to fight again. Luckily, from what I’ve walked through, I’m incapable of holding a child responsible for their parent’s mistakes.
“Yeah,” I say again.
“Fuck, Sio. You know me well enough you didn’t have to call. His bills are taken care of; they got an anonymous donation to move forward with the surgery.”
Even though this is why I called, the information hits me in the chest. I would’ve taken care of it myself, but my funds are tight right now since I’ve been prepping to open a new location; Noah knows this.
“Thank you,” is all I can say.
I owe him more than I can ever repay. Even in paying for this current debt I took on to help him, the scales are still unbalanced.
“Don’t thank me yet. You get to repay me by bringing by something greasy for lunch. Chora’s been sick as a dog—”
“—I’m laying right here,” Chora’s muffled voice sounds in the background.
“—Something fried will certainly help,” he continues.
“It’s just a stomach bug,” Chora grumbles.
I remember what I had for a 4am snack and get on the train that will head toward the restaurant. “I know just the thing. Be by around noon,” I tell him before clicking off.
