Falling for Colton (Falling #5) (14 page)

I take beatings, of course. I go home bloody, nose broken, ribs sore. But I always win. Always.
 

And then I get stupid. I get cocky.
 

It’s late, early, whatever, I don’t really remember. I think it’s close to three a.m., maybe near four. I’ve already fought once and made an easy ten grand. Beat the poor asshole six ways to Sunday. I’m feeling good, feeling unstoppable. Guys who go into the ring with me are shaking, afraid. They know what my fists can do, they’ve watched me wreck fighter after fighter, tearing them apart like goddamn rice paper.
 

Whatever. About three in the morning, Eli slides in beside me where I’m buried in the crowd, watching the fight. Bodies are sweaty and stinking around me, shouts echo in the warehouse, fists smack on flesh.
 

Eli elbows me. “Got a proposition for you.”

I glance at him. “You know I’m up for a fight.”
 

He shakes his head. “Naw, man. It ain’t like that. It’s a challenge. Two mid-level fighters want to take you on. Both of ’em at once. Never been done before, but Train and I are both willing to put money on you. Top dollar. But you gotta be sure, ’cause these two guys are good. One on one, you’d fuck ’em up no problem. But both of ’em at once? Could be trouble. Deal is, you take this challenge, we’ll deal you in from what we bank on the win. You lose, you pay us. Either way, it’s gonna put the hurt on you. These boys are no joke.”

My chest swells. Pride—stupid, foolish hubris—fills my skull. “Fuck ’em. I’ll take them both on.”

Eli squints at me. “You sure, dog? You double sure? Because we’re talking…a hundred G’s at least. To you, or you owe us. If you lose, you’ll have to fight for free till we got our bank back.”

I do have fifty grand, but that’s every penny I have stashed back at Rhino’s. Every damn penny. But a hundred grand…? That’s a stake in an auto shop. I know a guy near Rhino’s gym that has an auto shop, but he’s struggling. He needs a fresh infusion of cash for new equipment, and he needs another mechanic to take clients. I’ve already proven my skill by disassembling and reassembling an engine for him, so it’s an in. But Diego needs a hundred and fifty grand minimum stake. This one fight could get me there, whereas I’d have to fight twenty more times to make that.

Plus, I’m cocky.

“I got ’em, Eli. No sweat.”
 

Eli smacks me on the back. “A’ight, dog. But you better fuckin’ win. This is big time.”
 

“You guys always say that to me.” I roll my shoulders and glance at Eli. “When’s the fight?”
 

Eli gestures to the ring, which has been cleared of the previous fighters, and I watch as two massive black guys swagger in, both shirtless and boasting ripped physiques, gang tats, and scars. They both have matching green bandanas tied to their belt loops, professing affiliation to a particular gang. I’m not sure which one, but I don’t care. Eli wasn’t joking. These boys are big, and tough looking. The only reason they’re considered mid-level is because they’re relatively new with less than ten fights under their belts. Plenty of blood shed for both out on the streets, no question.

I feel a twitch of doubt.
 

Fuck that.
 

I push through the crowd, and they part as they realize it’s me. Once I’m in the ring, I strip off my shirt and kick off my shoes and socks. I still have my hands taped. I do some jumping jacks to get my blood pumping. I jump using only my feet and calves, then I stretch my hams and quads. The two fighters watch, smirking. They’re motionless, side by side, arms crossed over their massive chests. Their knuckles are scarred. One has a cut over his eyebrow, the other a swollen lip; they’ve both fought tonight.

Ruiz is in the center of the ring. He’s eyeing me, shaking his head. “Bad idea,
ese
. I seen these dudes fight. They nasty.”
 

“I got it.”

“Your funeral.” He addresses the crowd. “We got something new tonight. A two-on-one. The one, the only…COLT! Over a hundred fights, and he remains undefeated. Trying to take him down are Irving and Jermaine, eight fights each, no losses for either fighter. Odds? That’s tricky. One on one, Colt is heavily favored. Two on one like this? His odds drop by a lot. I’d call it evenly matched at best.”
 

Shit shit shit shit.
 

Now that I’m in a ring with these guys, I’m starting to feel the slightest hint of fear. This is a bad idea. A really bad idea.

Can’t back down now. The only thing to do is grab on to the fear. Let it crystallize and harden inside me. Fear is what keeps you careful. Fear makes you a survivor. I’m afraid, and I’m going to win.

A hundred grand in hand. Let me get my hands on some Craftsman tools, get some grease under my nails again. Engine oil in my nostrils, the rumble of a finely tuned engine.
 

“Ready?” Ruiz looks at Irving and Jermaine, who simply stare impassively.
 

He looks at me, and I nod. I smack my fists together. The sting of bone on bone zings though me.
 

“Fight!” Ruiz steps back, dropping his hand between us.
 

Jermaine and Irving—I have no idea which is which, as they’re similar enough in appearance that they very well might be brothers—split apart, circle in opposite directions so I have no way of keeping them both in front of me. Goddamn, I’m a dumbass. Fucking arrogant dumbass. I’m gonna get my ass kicked. One of them swings, a loose, lazy swipe. They have to have seen me fight; they have to know that shit won’t fly. I dodge it, and that’s when I, too late, recognize the tactic. I dodge…right into a hook from the guy behind me. Take it to the kidney. I grunt through it, dance backward, pivot, swing, make contact with a ribcage, plow forward and swing again. I put all my power into each hit, and now chaos is in my blood, the world is pain and suffering and punches thrown, punches taken.
 

Blood haze fills my vision. My eyebrow is split open. Lip cut. Gash on my ribs. I’m dishing it out, though. They’re bloody, hurting, keeping their distance when they’re not attacking. Tactical, those two motherfuckers. Never together, never where I can see them both. Hammer at one, the other is behind me, slamming a fist into my ribs, my back.
 

It’s a knock-down, drag-out brawl, a brutal thrashing for all three of us. Me, mostly.
 

I have to end it.
 

I dodge one uppercut, dance and pivot, duck and weave and deliver a hammering blow to a diaphragm. The other one is behind me, battering at me mercilessly, but I call on all my will, all my determination, and gut through the pain. The diaphragm blow creates a momentary opening, a torso exposed as he gasps for breath. I rocket my fist straight in, my knuckles hit throat and he’s down, gurgling, gasping and gagging, rolling away. I spin, in a clinch with the other one, long enough to catch my breath, and then shove him away and hook a fist to his gut to buy myself more time. The other one is still down, still gagging. I move for him, stand over him, meet his gaze. He’s wide-eyed, terrified that he’ll asphyxiate. Shakes his head, holds up a hand—
no more; I’m out
.
 

One on one, now.

I spit out a gobbet of bloody saliva as I face my remaining opponent. He’s an enraged beast, breathing hard, one hand on his knee, drooling blood. Eyeing me with hate as he catches his breath. I stride in, straight on, chin high, chest swelling with vengeful breath. Two on one?
 

I fuckin’ got this.

But he’s fast. Faster than I thought. So fucking fast. Lunges under my swing and buries his fist in my gut, doubling me over with a hit so powerful I nearly vomit. Head-butts me, breaking my nose. Hammers three lightning punches to my liver.
 

I’m dizzy, reeling, sagging. He’s on me, feral and frightening, brutalizing me until I’m ready to beg for him to stop, but I don’t, I stay on my feet through sheer force of will. I stagger, then fall to one knee.

I’m done.

He’s over me, a position I know too well, prepared to deliver the finisher, that angling downward fist of fury, to end me. Crush me.

I’ve got one chance left, one last burst of power, maybe.

I wait for it.

He eyes the crowd, smelling victory. I’m gagging on my snot and saliva and blood, and every fiber of my being hurts. I can barely breathe. My ribs are damn near broken again, I think, bruised from endless battering. My legs are weak and my heart is pounding from over-exertion. Vomit pools in my throat, hot and burning, acidic, bile behind my teeth. Sweat pours, blood coats my face and my chest and my fists. The crowd is screaming, they are wild, and hoping for my downfall.
 

He swings, a vicious arcing blow meant for my skull.

I hurl myself forward, feel the rough concrete under my shoulder shred my skin as I roll. I dive for him, catch him at the knees with my shoulder. He’s barreled off his feet, and I hear his head crack on the ground. He’s dazed, but not down. Taken harder knocks, I’m sure, a tough-ass motherfucker like this don’t go down easy. No fucking way.

I haul myself onto him and straddle his chest, batter his face with both fists, one-two, one-two, to the shrill manic wild howling of the crowd, and then Ruiz and Eli and Rhino are pulling me away, and the moment I’m off him, I go limp.
 

They release me, and I sag to my knees, vomit bile and blood. I spit and cough and sob. Unable to get up, I collapse forward and feel the cold concrete smash my face, but I don’t care. I can’t breathe, can’t move.
 

“Gotta be on your feet to win, Colt.” Ruiz, as always. Calm.

I can’t stand up. I’m drooling and there’s a pool of blood under my face. I cough again, tasting bile and the metallic tang of blood. I get my knees under me, and then scramble with my palms on the gritty cement floor. It’s messy and sloppy and undignified, but I’m fucking hamburger. I make it to hands and knees. Breathing hard, I struggle to get a foot planted on the floor. I have to groan and pull deep, as if I’m trying to power that last rep on the bench press. No one will help me. They can’t, they won’t, and I wouldn’t let them. I have to stand up on my own, or it doesn’t count.
 

Eli watches, Rhino watches. Ruiz waits. No counting, just the wait.

The crowd has quieted.
 

I sag back to my hands and knees. I can’t fucking do it. I hurt too badly. I fucking hurt. I want to cry, it hurts so bad. I’m screaming through clenched teeth as I strain, push…

“COLT! COLT! COLT!” The crowd is chanting, pumping their fists in the air. They want this.
 

“Get on your fucking feet, white boy,” Rhino grumbles.
 

“C’mon, man,” Eli says. “Don’t puss out on me now, dog.”
 

“Fuck…you…” I gag, though drool and blood and sobs of effort.
 

One foot.

I shove myself back onto my knee with both hands, shaking, grunting as if I’m lifting the world onto my shoulders.
 

My second foot plants on concrete, and I’m up.

Fuck yes, hell yes, I’m up.

A hundred fucking grand, baby.

I stagger backward, bounce off Rhino, who grabs onto my bicep and holds me in place. I’m woozy, dizzy, seeing double, barely staying on my feet.

“Colt wins,” Ruiz says. “Pay up, losers.”
 

Jermaine and Irving are still on the ground. I push off Rhino and stumble over to them. Lean down and extend my hand to the one whose throat I crushed. He claps a hand to mine, and I haul him up. He doesn’t say anything, and even if he could, what do you say? There was no beef between us, this is just what we do: hammer the shit out of each other for money. Crazy motherfuckers, we are. I lurch unsteadily to the other one, and he’s blinking up at me through bloodshot, swelling eyes, drools through puffy, split lips. I extend my hand to him.
 

He hesitates. Doesn’t want to take my hand or accept my help to get to his feet. There is enmity here, because you can’t fight and not feel the rage burn through you. It’s how you win, that rage. It’s what we all have in common, a baseline rage that fuels us. But in the end, his eyes search mine. Palm slaps palm, and I haul him to his feet. He pushes me away, wraps an arm around his friend or brother, and they stagger away together. Leaning on each other, muttering to each other.

I watch their easy, familiar camaraderie with envy.

Eli and Rhino are pulling me away. They’ve both got stacks of rubber-banded bundles of cash in their hands. They banked huge on my win.

They leave me leaning against the front quarter panel of Rhino’s black Escalade, stack their winnings on the hood and count through it, always with an eye for their surroundings. Wouldn’t put it past someone to make a play for it. It’s a hell of a lot of money.

“That was a close one, dog,” Eli says.

And in that moment, I realize something: Eli feels zero loyalty to me. I’m a cash cow for him. He makes tens of thousands of dollars on me every fight, every week, and I’m his boy as long as I win. The moment I lose, he’ll ditch me.

I see Rhino eyeing me, eyeing Eli.
 

He sees it, sees me realize it.
 

Shakes his head:
not here, not now.

I say nothing to Eli for a few minutes, gathering my sense so I don’t spit out something reckless. “But I won, though,” is what I say.

“Barely.” He hands me ten bundles of cash. There’s at least twenty left, maybe even more. If each bundle is ten grand, he made easily two hundred grand off me, and is giving me less than half, which is a much larger percentage than normal.

I made a hundred grand off this fight, which is just my take from what Eli and Rhino netted. I’ve got a hundred and eighty grand banked, now. That’s a hell of a lot of money; I could probably get that stake in Diego’s garage, but then I’d be working for him, and that’s not what I want. I need my
own
place. I’ll keep banking every cent until I can afford more than a stake in someone else’s shop. Not much else to do with the money, anyway.