Fight Page 5

  “Are you still having a nice time?”

  “Nice is a good word for it.”

  “I was curious,” Aaron said, “I’ve never kissed the girl next door.”

  “I don’t live next door to you.”

  “You know what I mean. You’re not my usual type. You’re cute and bouncy and sort of a sweetheart. The kind of girl you take home to meet your parents, the kind you have to get serious about.”

  “I don’t like that rigid and archaic description of myself as a pre-feminist trope. I’ll even take you don’t go for redheads. But I’m nobody’s little angel, Aaron. I’m

  not looking for a big strong man to take care of me and give me my very own split-level house with a white picket fence.”

  “Good. Because I wasn’t offering it. So, I’m sorry I kissed you. It wasn’t meant as an insult. It was meant—”

  “As an experiment? I’m not a type. I’m a lit major with some pretty bad credit card debt and a video to edit. Thanks for walking me home. It was informative. Now that we’ve established we’re not going to sleep together, should we go back to being friends?”

  “I guess so. I’ve seen what you do to your enemies.”

  “Good luck with the video,” he said. “I’ll see you at the club.”

  “Look, I’m sorry I got weird,” she blurted out. “That was one hell of a kiss and it made me feel…possessive of you. Like I wanted to, you know, possess you. So clearly I can’t handle anything like that. I’m in no place for a relationship right now. I mean, my goldfish died because I would forget to feed it, and then I’d feel guilty and feed it too much the next time and then whoosh…down the toilet it goes. I need to concentrate on digging my way out of debt and getting my head together so I can figure out my future. I can’t go around fucking prizefighters and expect to come out of the experience wholehearted. So let’s be friends.”

  “I’m not sure. You may be too crazy to be my friend. My friends are mostly levelheaded lads who like a good fight and a beer. And you shouldn’t rule out fucking prizefighters until you’ve tried it. I get fantastic reviews.”

  “They probably feel sorry for you. Carrying the weight of that giant ego has to be hard work.”

  “Oh, I haven’t had any complaints.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure you’re delightful. However, let’s just leave it at that. It was a phenomenal kiss with awkward weirdness after. And I’m really exhausted, you know, high emotions from seeing Kyle get his nose broken and you try to kill that guy…I’m going to bed. To sleep. Good night.”

  “Come here,” he said, grinning.

  “What?”

  “Before you start talking again, come here.”

  Aaron framed her face with his hands, callouses brushing against her soft, freckled cheeks, and kissed her. He nipped at her lips. She laid one palm against his chest, feeling his heartbeat pick up even through his coat as he kissed her.

  “This is so bad,” he said. “Because you’re a total mess and I think it’s adorable. What did you do to me?”

  “I kept you from killing a guy, just like you saved me in that alley. I think we’re pretty much even.”

  “No, I don’t think we’re even at all.”

  “Is that a crack about how I’m odd?”

  “No, it’s a crack about the balance of power here.”

  “I wasn’t aware that there was one.”

  Zoe touched his face, feeling the rasp of his stubble and touching the corner of his mouth with her thumb. There was a fine pale scar just above his lip, and she traced it with her touch, transfixed.

  “I have no idea what I’m doing with you, but I’m pretty sure it’s a bad idea,” he admitted.

  “I’m inclined to agree,” she said, never looking away from his scar. “For my part, I can tell you that when you switched places with me, my panties hit the ground so hard that bystanders would’ve been injured in the aftershocks. So it can’t be a smart thing, standing around in the cold with you when I have a video to edit.”

  Aaron leaned down and kissed her forehead, making her sigh.

  “I’m trying to be a gentleman for a change. Now go inside so I don’t change my mind,” he said ruefully.

  She went upstairs, put the memory card in her computer, and started laying down a voice over.

  “They’re relics of ages past. Modern-day gladiators acting as avatars for the audience’s baser urges, providing a visceral dose of hand to hand combat that both rivets and horrifies the spectators. Bareknuckle prizefighters, heirs apparent to the old school Irish Stand Down, still roam the streets of Boston like their immigrant predecessors, haunting the back alleys and underground fight clubs of Mattapan for the lurid entertainment of the working class patrons.

  Risking pain, humiliation and grievous injury even in a fair fight, these boxers must square off with the brutal fact of their own mortality when faced with illegal equipment and underhanded tactics when a fight goes wrong.

  The November night that Kyle Dolan fought the Cambridge boy, he dominated the ring for several rounds, only to find himself lucky to emerge with his life…”

  She didn’t even notice that she was romanticizing the fight as much as Neil did, as much as Kyle did. Zoe finished cutting the video, syncing up the narration and adding a montage for the title sequence around four in the morning. She emailed it to Neil and collapsed into bed, only to shake herself awake repeatedly when she found herself in the grips of a fevered dream about a boxer with green eyes.

  CHAPTER 6: AARON

  Aaron had meant to go back to his apartment after he walked Zoe home, but he was restless and thought a drink might help him unwind. He was hopped up on the sexual tension with Zoe and wondered again why he didn’t just go for it with her. I like her, he thought ruefully. A cute blonde perched on his knee and asked him to buy her a drink. She flirted energetically but he said good night early and left by himself. He was home by one or two, which should have been fine on a normal day. He wouldn’t have gone out for a drink or three if he’d known Neil was going to call him into the club at the ungodly hour of eight in the morning. His alarm was set for nine, at which time he’d planned to work out and then shower, not find his clothes, unload last night’s girl and make his way to work.

  Soon enough, he was at Swagger, with a cup of coffee barely taking the edge off the morning light. Aaron watched Neil with narrowed eyes. He could never make up his mind whether his boss would be the making of him or the ruin.

  “I got the video footage early this morning. Last night’s fight is the talk of the town, and we have a VIP coming tonight. So your job is to go into that ring like an animal. Your little performance last night garnered some serious interest from a fight promoter who could mean a great deal for your career and your brother’s.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “One of the guys in the crowd called me late last night and said his boss is interested in bringing some bareknuckle fighters to a tournament out of state. He wanted to know if I had footage of last night’s bout. What he really wanted was video of you beating the shit out of the Cambridge boy who knucked your brother. I had some footage, on my phone but the view wasn’t good. Lucy sent me her video this morning and I forwarded it to this guy. He’s coming tonight to see your match and decide if you and your brother are what they want to add to the tournament roster.”

  “Who’s Lucy?”

  “You know, the camera girl.”

  “That’s not her name.”

  “All right, fine. Baylee is the camera girl, right?”

  “Baylee is the girl who holds the sign for the rounds. The camera girl is Zoe.”

  “Oh, what does it matter, kid? This could be a major break for the Dolan boys and if two of the Swagger fighters go to a tournament, my attendance is going to go through the roof. We’ll get better bookings, more prize money and bigger crowds which means more cover and more drinks…” Neil was practically rubbing his hands together. “So I want you to go out there and tea
r that guy apart tonight. I want Cole Saxon in the ER. I want rumors that you’re such a wild animal that the man is at death’s door by midnight.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “I know, amazing opportunity, am I right?”

  “You want me to put Cole Saxon in the hospital?” Aaron shook his head in disbelief.

  “Sure. It’s not like you boys never get carried away and someone gets a concussion or a dislocated shoulder…just make sure it’s an exciting fight that people can’t stop talking about. Let your rage show. Be ferocious.”

  “Don’t I always give you a good fight?”

  “This needs to be unforgettable. We’re looking for catharsis. You’re the meanest, maddest son of a bitch boxer I’ve got, so use that to your advantage in the ring. Go ahead and get carried away. Take out all your frustrations on this Saxon kid. You understand?”

  “I understand.”

  “This one fight can do a lot for your career and my club. Don’t let me down, or it’ll be your third demerit, Dolan.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “That’s just business. You have an opportunity here, and I value fighters who know how to make the most of their chances.”

  “So if I win the fight—”

  “If you win the fight AND make it a spectacle to remember, you stand to take home the two thousand dollar prize, minus the house cut of 15%. If you lose or your win is lackluster, you’re subject to a 50% garnishment due to accrued demerits for conduct.” Neal folded his hands on the desk decisively.

  “So I have no choice, really.”

  “So I’m asking you to do the job you were booked to do. Win the fight against Cole Saxon and put the hurt on him like he’s the one who knucked Kyle.”

  “Right,” Aaron cracked his knuckles, shifting uncomfortably in his chair.

  “We understand each other,” Neal said with satisfaction, dismissing Aaron perfunctorily.

  ***

  Kyle watched him from a ringside seat, eyes swollen nearly shut and his face discolored purple and green from the bruising. Aaron hesitated, looking at first his brother and then Neil. Baylee pivoted with the sign announcing the first round. He hadn’t told Kyle about their chance to join a tournament out of state with bigger money and bigger opportunities. He didn’t want the added pressure of Kyle’s hopes pressing on him. He pointedly avoided meeting Zoe’s eyes, wouldn’t even glance in her direction. He expected reproach from her, the sort of anxiety and disappointment that warred in his mother’s gaze when he’d visited her earlier.

  Aaron sized up Cole Saxon, bulky and pale, shorter than himself by a head. When the bell sounded, Aaron set him up immediately on the defensive by striking him with long jabs, keeping him at a distance. When Saxon tried to land a flurry of blows in an aggressive bluster, Aaron knocked him down easily. Saxon staggered back to his feet, landing a punch to Aaron’s midsection. Aaron retreated a few steps, calculated to make the match run longer.

  As the crowd leapt to their feet and shouted, the boxers traded jabs for a few rounds with Aaron still winning, having avoided any serious hits. He did something he made a habit to avoid...he fought with his head instead of his gut. Instead of a boxer, he would be a showman. He pounded three brutal punches to Saxon’s right jaw, opened up his own left side suddenly, taking a solid strike to the face that left him spitting blood. He stumbled backward and caught the ropes for support as a dramatic touch. Aaron charged back at him and threw a barrage of body punches, landing a kidney shot that sent Saxon howling to the mat.

  Zoe watched, biting her lip. This was the sort of pugilistic display she had always ridiculed—all that testosterone and all that macho posing. Now it was strangely thrilling, the sweat glistening off taut muscles, the tension and conflict, the broad power of his shoulders and back, the wet look of the blue-green ink of his tattoo. She shrugged out of her jean jacket, feeling suddenly overheated just watching him. She tried to hold the camera steady but all she could think of was climbing between the ropes and running her hands all over his bare chest and arms, licking the sweat from his neck and kissing his mouth. It was primitive and visceral, the sexual tang of battle coursing through her as she watched him fight.

  Within seconds, the opponent was back on his feet but breathing hard. Sweat and the rusty tinge of blood were thick in the air. The crowd that had been rowdy had grown more silent, hanging by the tension. Saxon circled Aaron, trying to get close enough for a hit. Aaron toyed with him in another series of long jabs, exhausting his shorter opponent. He swung at Saxon’s side and barely connected, a calculated miss that drew the man in closer. Aaron attacked him savagely, striking his eye and nose in a quick pair of hits, then landing a vicious set of body blows. Saxon fell to the mat, curling in on himself for protection as Aaron continued to pound him. He was dragged off by an official and two bouncers and declared the victor. The audience screamed wildly, and the gamblers collected their winnings on successful bets, buying rounds of drinks for the room.

  Aaron wiped his face with a towel and downed a bottle of water, reveling in the adulation of his brother, his boss, the crowd. Baylee and Mia, the ring bunnies, hung on him for a picture and people whipped out their phones to capture his victory. Zoe fought her way through the crowd to his side. Holding up her camera to indicate her need for an interview, she waited, tight-lipped, for his comment. She wanted to hit Baylee and Mia in the face with her own forehead. She didn’t like them touching Aaron, especially not when touching him was all she could think about. Her very fingertips tingled with the longing to trace the lines of his tattoo, the curve and bulge of the muscles on his chest. Chewing her lip, she stood in an agony of silence, recording.

  “It was one hell of a fight. He’s a tough guy, went down swinging,” he panted, “But I’ve watched enough tape of the greats with my brother, Kyle, to know the strategies that lead to victory in a rough bout. Mickey Ward took Gatti down with a kidney shot and I had that in mind in round seven right after I took that hit.” He grinned.

  Zoe withdrew, not saying a single word to him. Neil posed for a picture with Aaron and introduced him to Simon Hame, whose employer was the CEO of Lambert Media International, hosts of the Vegas tournament the following weekend.

  “E-mail me the footage from that bout and I’ll show it to my boss. He’s an adrenaline junkie; he’ll love it. You can expect to hear from me in the morning. Good to meet you, Aaron. Great fight,” Simon said enthusiastically.

  “What was that about?” Kyle demanded.

  “We may have a chance to go fight in Vegas, depending on that guy and his boss.”

  “Wait, what? Are you kidding me? That is the best fucking news I’ve heard in years. What do I need to do to make this happen for us?”

  “I just did it. Neil told me to win big and be as ferocious as possible, because we want this CEO guy’s attention. He’s some kind of billionaire thrill seeker who’s hosting a tournament. I don’t know his name.”

  “Archer Lambert of Lambert Media International. I’ve been reading up on out of state opportunities for bareknuckle fighters, Aaron. This guy is like the don. He’s bringing back the manly side of the sweet science. No more candy-ass boxing gloves and shiny shorts…let’s promote the real deal …”

  “So he’s a rich guy set to make more money off people beating each other up for spectacle?” Aaron said.

  “Who are you and what did you do with my brother? How are you not all in on this idea? You’re talking like a girl, and in case you failed to notice from the blood splattered on your skin, you beat people up for a living,” Kyle pointed out.

  “Fine. I’m hitting the showers. Don’t want to offend your feminine sensibilities with my blood spattered sweatiness,” Aaron said.

  ***

  The suite at the Boston Harbor Hotel was unlike anything Aaron had ever seen. It was posh in a way that made him feel hushed and restricted, like in church. Kyle cruised in, bruised face on full display with a plaster on his nose, hands stuffed in his jeans po
ckets and whistling like he owned the place. Aaron felt smaller, out of place, but his brother was unfazed by the finery. If Aaron was cocky, Kyle’s ego had wings, and the idea that he might box in Las Vegas, the prizefighter’s mecca, meant that nothing could bring him down to earth.

  Archer Lambert reclined in a tufted velvet chair, looking at perfect ease with his opulent surroundings.

  “Good morning, boys. Make yourselves at home. Coffee?” He inclined his head, and a white-gloved steward poured coffee from a silver samovar into frail china cups. Aaron took one gingerly, trying not to break it. Kyle tossed back a drink of black coffee appreciatively and nodded his thanks.

  “I’m sure Simon filled you in on my little venture. I’m bringing a bareknuckle tournament to the Vines in Las Vegas, and I’ve a few slots in the second round to fill. I’d like to include the Dolan boys on my roster. You can consider it a paid vacation; have a few days to take in the sights, show up for your training and your bouts. Perform well, and you’ve passed your audition. If either of you advances to the final round in your weight class, I’ll retain you for a year of scheduled fights. You’ll receive a bounty of a hundred thousand dollars for reaching the last round. The winner of the tournament stands to clear one million dollars.”

  He waited for these numbers to sink in with the boys from Southie.

  “Wicked,” Kyle said, a broad grin splitting his bruised face.

  Aaron hesitated, stuck on the one-year contract, the sale of the next fifty-two weeks of his life, committing to the fight. He’d chosen it himself, but thought he could walk away whenever he wanted. This would remove that element of choice, of self-determination. Kyle was firing questions at the billionaire, asking about benefits and travel expenses and whether they could be treated as a package deal. Aaron tuned back in to the conversation at Kyle’s words.