12 Rounds (7 page)

I always listen to music before a fight.

It’s weird really because right before they call my name I get this vision of myself. Arms in the air. Fierce victory cry leaving my throat. And my opponent out cold on the ring floor.

It’s an exhilarating feeling.

The song switches and Invincible by MGK bounces off my ear drums.

Hometown proud, baby.

Hometown proud.

Picking up speed, I turn a corner and pass a café where a group of artsy folks are sitting outside on metal chairs, sipping iced teas that are placed on metal tables. One dude extends his fist to me and I give him a fist bump as I jog by. That’s what I love about Cleveland. And Ohio. They appreciate their own.

The small, square tan brick gym with a black and white sign hanging overhead that reads: Joe’s Boxing Gym fills my gaze and I pump my legs harder to reach it faster. That is until I notice the black Ford Crown Victoria sitting on the side of the road a few blocks ahead of it. And the moment I roll my eyes to their corners to get a look at the driver, nausea coats the lining of my stomach.

But I don’t stop running.

I can’t act like I’m nervous.

Or afraid.

Or fidget like anything is far from the norm.

The driver doesn’t even look in my direction, but I don’t need him to.

I know what he is.

I know why he’s sitting there.

Once I’m in the confined entry of the gym, complete with metal coat racks, I start to panic. I pace back and forth, hold my head in my hands and think about shoving a fist through the plaster wall.

He’s a fed.

The driver of the ford is a fucking fed!

I know how to pick those fuckers out. With their aviator sunglasses. White button downs. Tailored black pants. I’ve been involved in illegal activity long enough to have their looks memorized. And their cars. And their trying to be conspicuous ways. The thing is, they usually aren’t conspicuous, parking out in broad daylight for the whole world to see. Any member of the brotherhood that passes that black Crown Victoria would know the asshole sitting inside it was a fed.

I feel like my whole world has just gone up in flames.

Blown up like a bomb dropped on Hiroshima.

Fuck!

The last time the feds were on to the brotherhood I was the one who got arrested. I spent six months in the pen and trust me when I say this; being locked up is worse than torture. Number one, I got shanked by some Puerto Rican prick who had a personal vendetta against Connie. Connie framed one of his brothers for trafficking Oxycontin, and the bastard thought if he and his
ese’s
jumped me it might send a message.

But he was wrong.

Connie didn’t retaliate like I thought he would. Yeah that pissed me off. And I had to talk myself out of shooting the old fucker more times than I could count. Then my conscience paid a visit just like it always did.

If it wasn’t for Connie you would have lost Teagan.

If it wasn’t for Connie who knows where you’d be?

Probably dead.

It didn’t take me long to learn that the streets don’t take prisoners. They are violent. And brutal. And nine times out of ten send people to an early grave.

That’s where I would have ended up if it wasn’t for Connie.

In a shallow grave.

As much as I hate the man, I respect him too. I have to. Tee and I never wanted for anything. We never had to struggle. And she got to go out with friends, go to prom, pick the college of her choice. She got to live a normal life that every teenage girl deserves.

I owe that all to him.

I gave him my loyalty because of that.

Even though I’m sure that I paid Connie back for everything plus more on the money he makes off betting on my fights.

But that’s beside the point.

Part of me wants to go back outside and see if the pig is still sitting there, but I decide against it. That would look way too suspicious. Instead I make my way toward the locker room to change out of my wet sweat suit and take my piercing out. Joe has a sparring partner for me today and I don’t keep it in when I spar or at a match.

In the locker room, I stand at the sink, eyes cast downward as the gleaming white porcelain blurs in my vision and my stomach bottoms out. The panic is gone, but the nauseous feeling has returned. I lift my gaze, stare at myself in the mirror, and have this overwhelming urge to punch it.

I want to break it.

Watch it shatter into a million little pieces.

I want something to be as broken and as fucked up as I am.

Instead, I roll my head back, close my eyes, and breathe. Joe would be pissed if I damaged the hand that made my right hook famous. And I know breaking the mirror isn’t going to solve anything.

I’m going to wake up tomorrow.

I’m still going to be the middle weight boxing champion of the world.

I’m still going to be one of key members of the Braithreachas Don Saoul.

And I’m still going to be in the middle of a blow fest, aiding the fuckers who toss white powder around on the streets like it’s new fallen snow.

Man up, Seany
, I tell myself.

You can’t take back yesterday.

Tomorrow is only a day away.

I’ve got a sit down with the members of the brotherhood tomorrow after training and a brick sits in the pit of my stomach because I know what’s going to go down. The feds are in town because there’s a rat hiding amongst the members of the brotherhood.

And now I know that tomorrow is going to be a last day for someone.

And that Connie will pick them out because the man is like a human lie detector. He says he always knows how to smell a rat. Then he’ll put on a fake smile, walk them into the back room of the meeting spot, and a few minutes later he’ll put a bullet into their skull.

Chapter Eight

~Hadlee~

Wednesday comes and before I know it Lara is parking the car in front of the Joe’s Boxing Gym. She shoves her keys in her purse and looks at me intensely. I don't meet her gaze, but I can feel her eyes burning into my skin. “You ready for this?” she asks and her voice is laced with concern.

“Yes.” I know I need to do this. I know that taking these classes will make me feel better. Stronger. “I'm ready.”

We both get out of the car at the same time and the sidewalk is littered with people. A few are on cell phones and there are photographer's lining the door. Lara comes up on my left and holds the gym door open, and as soon as I walk inside I'm blasted with the musky scent of sweat that's permeating the moist air. There's a small reception desk off to the right and Lara walks over to sign us in for the class as I take inventory in my surroundings.

Loud chatter swells in the air and trails over to where I'm standing. There's an area with some treadmills, ellipticals, and weights where a few men and women are working out. In the far right corner there's an extremely muscular man squatting and as he dips down he grunts. My eyes center on all the weights he has stacked on each side of them dumb-bell. I wonder how heavy that is. I mean that man looking like he has mini footballs lining his tanned biceps so there has to be a lot of weight on the end of it, right?

 Suddenly I avert my attention to the left when a flash of light fills up my peripheral vision. There's another bevy of photographer's crowded around a guy who is jumping rope. He's shirtless, dripping with perspiration, his pecs bouncing as he hops up and down each time the jump rope sweeps against the hardwood floor. The muscles in his biceps are flexed and he's got a half-sleeve of tattoo's on each one of his arms. A breath catches in my throat and I can't help, but stare. He stops jumping rope and hands the rope off to a bald man next to him, and at the same time locks eyes with me.

A look of shock registers on my face and I can feel all of my blood flooding to my cheeks. He slits his eyes and clenches his jaw. I look away nervously and my heart is hammering against my ribcage. I'm having a hard time breathing and I feel like anxiety is running laps throughout my body. I've never received such an intense look from someone I don't even know. I steal a peek at him through my lashes and he's still staring, blue-green eyes blazing with a fierce hatred, and at that point I scamper off to the desk and Lara's already heading toward me.

She looks over my shoulder at the guy and a seductive smile curls on her lips. “I know. He's hot isn't he?” she sighs. “Too bad every girl on campus is trying to get on that.”

I think about looking at him again, but don't. I'm not interested in another death by stare-down moment. “Who is he?”

Lara and I take seats in a row of black folding chairs lining the entrance.  “You don't know?” I give her a look that tells her what she just asked and she exhales, “That's Sean Reilly. He’s the Middleweight Boxing Champion of the World.” I lean forward, glancing around Lara. Sean's back is to me, and my eyes sweep across his sweaty, muscled back. He steps into an area that's squared off like a boxing ring and takes a mouth guard from the same man he handed the jump rope to. I watch him, eyes filled with intrigue as he hovers over the side of the ring. His body is like an ice sculpture; carved, chiseled, and molded in all the right places. Part of me wonders what it would be like to glide my fingertips across something so rugged and perfect. Then his head snaps up and he locks eyes with me again. Another hateful glance. This time I make a mental note not to look at him again, but who knows if I'll actually follow through with that.

Lara clears her throat and glances over her shoulder before meeting my gaze. “I guess he's got a title fight or something coming up soon.” She shrugs. “Hence all the photographer's.”

“Has he ever lost a fight?” I ask, my voice filled with curiosity.

“Nope. Undefeated.”

“Wow. That's impressive.”

Lara snorts and giggles. “What's even more impressive is that his rise to fame came really fast. I'm pretty sure he's only been boxing for a couple of years.”

“What are you, his publicist?” I joke and nudge her in the shoulder.

“When you work across from a sporting goods store you get the 411 on the greats I guess. The guys are always raving about him and imitating the right-hook he's famous for. Apparently, it's lethal.”

“That's kind of frightening to think about,” I add. “The fact that a person has a punch so deadly he could kill someone with it.”

“Or,” Lara smirks, “it makes him ten times hotter.”

I shake my head, sighing. “Maybe to you.”

“Or maybe to every girl around.” Lara tilts her head to the left. “Look, he has a fan club.”

Completely disregarding the mental note I made to myself a few minutes ago I glance in his direction again. Several scantily clad women dressed in sports bras and spandex shorts are crowded around the ring whispering and giggling. Sean is aware of them and a cocky grin spreads on his lips. He nods at the tall, tan blonde in the middle of the group and winks at her. I have to admit that when first seeing him I was enthralled and swept up in his essence just like the rest of his adoring fan club, but after witnessing his flirtatious gesture, I decide it would be best that I forget I ever saw him and let him play with his cesspool of plastic blond bimbos.

“He kind of seems like a jerk,” I tell Lara, staring straight ahead.

“I mean I'm sure he's cocky,” Lara admits, “but I guess there's more to him. I mean the guy has millions of dollars. I think he got about six million for his last title fight and I heard from one the guys at the mall he's getting double for this one. And that's minus the manager's and promoter's cut. But, he does do some pretty awesome stuff with that money.”

“Like what?”

“Charity stuff I guess. I mean when Ted was telling me about all the money he wasn't that specific.”

“That probably makes the fan club even more enthralled.”

“You bet,” Lara scoffs. “Hot, rough around the edges, and loaded. One of those bimbo's is dying to be a baby mama.”

I laugh out loud and snort and earn a few stares from some of the women sitting across from us. I clamp a hand over my mouth to hold in the rest of my laughter as a tall woman, arms roped with muscle, walks toward us wearing a pleasant smile. She has a kind face and soft feminine features. “Hello ladies,” she greets us with a warm tone. “I'm Melissa Thorpe the self-defense instructor.” Lara and I stand and the rest of the ladies follow. “Now,” Melissa continues, “who's ready to learn how to kick some ass?”

Hoots and howls echo from the group and at the moment I can't find my voice so I just slowly raise my hand. Melissa guides us through the back of the gym to a small classroom and I keep my eyes on Sean as he spars with another boxer. His jaw is taught, his stance firm, he lets out a menacing growl as he pummels his opponent with blow after blow. His face is twisted and laced with such an intense rage that it takes my breath away.

Jaw clenched.

Ab muscles taut.

His opponent throws a punch and Sean manuevers out of the way, letting out a primal growl. Beads of sweat cling to both of their bodies, but drip down their ridges of muscle as they move back and forth across the ring.

The sparring partner’s punch enrages him further and he goes in for the kill, backing him up into the corner of the ring, nailing him with body shots and jabs to the face.

As the rest of the women in the class files into the room, Melissa walks up to the door and closes it, cutting Sean off from my view. In that moment I find myself thinking something I would never think of.

I think…I never knew rage could look so rapt, so daunting, yet so utterly beautiful.

~ ~ ~

There are several types of rage.

I've witnessed two of those types up close. When I was attacked I got a glimpse of psychotic rage. That kind of rage is merciless, and frightening, and doesn't relent until someone winds up dead.

The type of rage Sean just exemplified was predatory rage and it's only terrifying when you mess with something that belongs to that person. In this case the rage was aimed at Sean's opponent because in his eyes the boxing ring and title belt will always belong to him. At least that's what I got from my observance anyway.