Christina (Daughters #1) (11 page)

Emily’s easy to watch because she’s always done the right thing and for every moment of her life. She’s wiry, athletic and lithe, which makes her crazy good at any sport she attempts. From track to basketball, softball to gymnastics, you name it, and she’s done it, or trained in it, or wants to. She takes private swim and tennis lessons. Why? No reason, other than, she loves to. She’s my dad: anal, perfectionist, accomplished, and a master at everything.

Her summers are spent playing and participating in anything she can sign up for. And of course, being the best on the team/club/association, or whatever it is, she’s grown accustomed to her superior status. Melissa, on the other hand, is the exact opposite. No sports for her. She’s always off with the farm animals. Although friendly, she often gets into trouble for not paying attention to what she’s doing, or where she’s at, or she forgets to do what she should be doing, or go where she should be going. Emily is the absolute salt of the earth when it comes to being reliable. Swear to God, she could take care of me. Smart and quick and funny, she is also intense and sometimes forgets to act her age.

During the summer mornings and afternoons, the three of us rule the house. We bicker and fight, staging epic battles we usually don’t tell our parents about… But there are times when I feel a sharp pang in my chest and realize how much I will miss them, and this, our squabbling, when I leave for college. We’re sisters, friends, enemies, and blood. Forever. It’s not confusing; it’s just how it is. I’d do anything for either of them, and they both worship me. No kidding. My parents require a lot from me. The reason for half of it, I know, is because of my little sisters, who still look up to me.

Many Saturday nights, my aunt and uncle come over with Max. They lounge on the back deck, taking in the views. Whether my dad barbecues, or my mom pushes us toward her vegetarian salads, trying to make us turn us away from the hamburgers my dad cooks, she rarely succeeds, however; Max comes with them, of course. He and I sit together with my sisters and it’s fun. We’ve spent the last five years doing that… being friends, but more like family. Shooting hoops, playing horse with Emily, or venturing out to the barn with Melissa and coddling whatever new baby animals she discovered or helped birth or simply wants us to visit, we all trail around together, just doing stuff.

My dad has a motorcycle track on our property and we all love to ride. I enjoy it particularly, and Max often uses my bike. He goes way crazier than I do off the jumps that he and my dad have set up. They are way too high for the rest of us. It drives my poor mother nuts as she clucks and coddles, fussing about as we all lean or sit on the fence rails beside the pasture, taking turns riding. My dad and Max get way too crazy and often challenge each other in break-neck races that make my mom and aunt freak out. Emily and I just tootle around, not even at half speed, and never do I jump. We all have full riding gear and helmets, but after Melissa took it up, it was much to Mom’s chagrin. She is even crazier and faster than Max! Strangely enough, despite her usual lack of coordination for anything, she is fast and sharp when riding the tracks. It’s the one thing she and my dad love to do together. They often haul their bikes up to trails around the mountains and ride. Luckily, none of us go with them, or witness their daredevil acts. Mom worries the entire time they are gone, and only breathes freely again when she hears Dad’s truck roaring up the driveway.

My aunt and uncle occupy the spot, I believe, most grandparents would fill. Since we have none, they have always acted like my second parents. I absolutely adore them. My sisters and I often spent nights there on the weekends, or hung out there after school if Mom had to work. And since Max joined the family, I think I must spend half my life there. They truly are my second home. We are a good family. A strong family. A family that hangs together even when we don’t have to. Those Saturday nights, especially during the summers, when the light lingers forever, and the adults sit around drinking beer and relaxing while we kids just play are the best memories of my childhood. So now, on the cusp of leaving home, and leaving this life, to find a new one, it means so much more to me than ever before.

Except, Max rarely comes anymore. He’s always at the gym, or hanging with his new friends from the gym, whom I’ve yet to meet. I don’t know what to do with that. Max has his own life now, and for the first time perhaps, his own
friends,
so he has way less to do with me.

I try to be cool with it. I smile and say
okay, fine, great, see you next time.
We don’t talk on the phone like we used to either; and now that school’s over, we only see each other in the evenings when we’re hanging on the beach with a big group of friends. We don’t go off alone to talk like before. It’s like Max is always triply sure not to ever be alone with me.

I have no idea what happened to us.

~Max~

AS SUMMER WEARS ON, Tanya pushes me to enroll in some of the classes the gym offers. Most of the martial arts stuff is taught in the evenings, except for the random, little-kid class here or there. I am awful. Having no training, I’ve never even watched anything beyond the old movies like
Karate Kid.
That’s all I can imagine. Me, raising my arms, then my knee, and balancing, the perfect chop of my legs in the crane. I still don’t know what the actual move is called. Anyway, I spend a lot of time mimicking that in the mirror and around the gym, pissing a few people off. Some get a laugh off me. A few of the gym fighters, however, take all this shit
seriously
. I mean, you better watch your back if you try to have a little fun with them. I start to get known, since I’m there every day. As Noah pointed out, I’ve nothing else to do, and Christina is busy at the vet office. So I fill the hours with sweat, both from the gym and from Tanya. It’s not a bad way to spend the summer. Noah and Lindsey are happy. They think, hell, the entire family believes, I’m channeling my shit in a healthy way… finally. And the random bruises? They can now be explained by what I do at the gym. Perfect cover. Perfect excuse.

I don’t really fight much there, however. They have all these rules and safety gear to wear. Even mouthguards. It makes my mouth feel weird, and the headguards make my hair itch. I hate all the safety precautions.

After being there in some capacity or another for several weeks, Tanya introduces me to Bruce. Bruce is exactly like his name sounds, big, beefy, with a neck as thick as a log. He is the typical brute you’d see in a wrestling promo. Taking one look at me, he laughs when Tanya introduces us. “What the crap do I do with this?” Bruce waves his hand with disdain at me. I grin. Bruce doesn’t seem to find anything funny.

“He likes to fight.”

“Where do you fight?”

“Streets. I don’t know any of the shit you guys teach here,” I reply. Tanya doesn’t need to speak for me. I’m not her bitch.

“Are you any good at it?”

“Here? No. I suck. But fighting for real? Yeah, I can do that.” I shrug. No, I’m not cocky, I just don’t lose very often.

“You,” Bruce points right at me, “show me.”

I don’t see why I should do that. Why should I try to impress Bruce? I’m getting in shape like I’ve never been before, and getting my rocks off with Tanya. I’m learning a shitload from her too. It’s a win-win as far as I can see.

“Why?” I glance at Tanya. Tanya eyes Bruce and nods to a silent question.

Tanya says, “He’s solid, Bruce. I’m sure.”

“I like fights. For real. No rules. No sissy aids. No headgear. Man fighting against man, like God intended,” Bruce says.

“I do too.” I’ve never thought about it that hard before, however, nor that passionately.

“You look like a scrawny, little shit.”

“I am. I’m also not what anyone expects.”

“Ah. Surprise.”

I shrug. “What does all this have to do with me? I’m taking classes, and you can see I’m many years from being as good as your best fighters here.” I spend a lot of time watching the sparring there. Boxers, wrestlers, and several of the mixed martial artists practice regularly in some of the rings.

“How can someone so short ever win?”

“I only win when I stay on the offensive. If they get me on the defensive? It’s pretty much guaranteed I’m done. I get beaten up.” I shrug as if it is what it is. No one my size could be in fights without expecting to take some hits. It just isn’t possible.

“How do you stay on the offensive?”

“Mostly by placing myself really close to them. You know, like they step back, I step forward. I try to make it so they can’t get their arms out, or fully swing, thereby reducing their range of motion and power. But my only real chance of winning is by bringing them down to the ground; that’s where I stand the best chance. I kick their thighs, knees, shins… and stomp on their feet, whatever is necessary to drop them to their knees.  I’m not above any of it. Then I try to end it any way I can.”

“You seem to speak from experience.”

“Yeah. Lots of it.”

“I’ll pay you. You fight for me, and I’ll make sure you get plenty of fights, as well as a cut of whatever we charge at the entrance.”

I am startled. I raise my head in a sharp jerk and stare, first at Bruce and then at Tanya. She nods and gives me a weak smile, like she is sorry.

“Why would you do that? I don’t know all that shit. I’ve seen the guys training here. Some of the fourteen-year-olds know ten times more than what I do!”

“They, over there,” Bruce points at some of the diligently working athletes, “they like rules. They like fighting with honor. Fuck that! I want down and dirty. You got that? Dirty fighting?”

“You mean, just regular fighting? I don’t care what you call it; you guys are putting way too much thought into it.” Now he’s speaking my language. “I know how to pick a fight even with the farm boys, and college preppies around here. Why would I need you?”

“Because I know real fighters. Real big betters, too. There is real money to be made.”

Walk away.
I know I should. Right here. Right now. I should turn my back on Bruce and walk right out of that gym. Away from Tanya and Bruce and whatever they are suggesting. It has illegal undertones; otherwise, why all the secrecy? Why spend all that time waiting for Tanya to trust me? I wonder if she approached me for only that reason. Not that it matters really, if that was her true motive. I just wanted a good lay and she’s certainly given me that. So what if her motives run deeper and darker? What do I care?

Still, I don’t walk away. Something about it calls to me, like a wolf, when it’s lost from the pack, hearing the pack’s howls… these two were calling me. I spend my life looking for fights. Hell, they were the only thing that kept me fed and clothed for several months when I was a teen and Mom ran off. I liked it then, and I like it now. It is in my blood, far more than sitting through high school classes, or filling the role of prodigal son to the nice family that adopted me. I know I don’t deserve them… or Christina. I know who I am. In my heart. Deep down. I am this shit. I long to make others bruise and bleed. I find it rewarding. And getting paid? To win? Fuck! There is no better paycheck I could imagine! So… I raise my head with a nod and say, “What do you have in mind?”

“You show me your stuff. Then, we talk.”

“When?”

“This weekend. Fight here, after hours. Show me. Then we’ll talk.”

“All right.” What do I have to lose? If he’s just blowing shit up my ass, so what? I’ll get the fight. And vent some of the steam that’s been building up.

“You’re not worried? Are you kind of crazy? Those guys will crush you! You’re a runt.”

I shake my head. My smile isn’t nice. “I am crazy.” I’m crazy because I can’t wait for Saturday night. Nothing piques my interest as much as this since I’ve been in Washington state. Well, except, of course, the one girl I can never allow myself to have.

I meet Tanya and Bruce at the back door, per their directions. The place is crowded. Music pounds and bangs through the building, amping up the entire scene and the audience. One of the fight rings has a crowd around it and two guys are already going at it. The crowd is loud and bloodthirsty, as indicated by their chants and frenzy. One of the fighters gets knocked down with a vicious kick to the abdomen, and then to the head. As the poor guy doubles over, he gets kicked again in the face. Yes, a sane person would simply walk out. A sane person would not stand beside Tanya as a strange strum goes through his body of total exhilaration. Instead of disdain, or even empathy, towards the guy who’s knocked out, I savor the rush of pure adrenaline. My fists start clenching as my heart beats faster; I’m getting pumped up.

Bruce nods at me. “You ready?”

I put my hands out and nod.

“You’re next. Show me the good stuff.”

I don’t know at this point who my opponent is. I don’t care. I am purely fueled by the energy of the crowd. Half of them are high or drunk. I see money exchanging hands after the last fight ends and the guy is carried off, still unconscious. I wonder if they’ll drop him off out the back. I wonder if he’ll die and just get tossed inside a dumpster. I wonder… what the hell is wrong with me to like this sport? I don’t feel shocked and sickened, but rather, almost turned on by the dark, murky club and the gory things I see going on. It smells like sweat, blood, and vomit, and what is even sicker still? I
like
it.

I jump around. Shaking my shoulders out, I slip my shirt off and wear only loose shorts. Tanya’s eyes rake over me and I can feel her lust building. She steps forward and crushes her boobs against me, keeping her hands to her sides. She licks my ear. Smiling, she lifts her face off mine, saying, “Do well.”

Stepping through the thick, loud crowd that courteously parts for me, they must realize I’m next. I climb in between the ropes of what is usually a legitimate boxing ring. Now? Now, it’s anything but legitimate. It’s a brutal, dirty fight with someone I don’t know and have no quarrel with. But still, my heart starts hammering with eager anticipation I glance around, searching for my competition. He’s large, maybe six feet or so. His sleek muscles are bigger than mine. Suddenly, a sense of trepidation fills me. I’m not trained, and just barely starting to get anywhere with it. I should not be doing this, not yet. But the crowd lets out a roar as he slips through the ropes. I feel their energy and it surges through me, bolting inside my limbs. I start to feel weightless, energized, primed. I ignore the boos directed my way. Whoever this guy is, he seems to be the crowd favorite. Usually, my audience is a college crowd, or a random mob of barflies, after sneaking in and prodding one of the patrons into fighting me. Usually, there is no real plan to any of my fights.

This reminds me of years ago when, for six months, I fought for Quentrell. He set the fights up, just like this. He’d take all the bets and set me up against guys who were eighteen or nineteen. At the time, I was only twelve and thirteen, so of course, it never ended well for me. Yet the crowd always ate it up. The worse the beating I took, the louder they clamored for more. It was all fixed, of course. Quentrell told me to win a few, or lose a few, depending on his wagers. If I lost, however, I invariably took a more severe beating than if I won, but that was only to make it look more legit.

I did that until Derek found out and took me away from Quentrell. He erroneously thought that would stop my fighting career. Within days, I was delivered to Ellensburg, and met Lindsey, Noah, and best of all, Christina.

Now? I remember the buzz and energy that radiates from the bloodthirsty crowd. This kind of live or die, primal simplicity. There is no thinking involved or required. This is all instinct.
Basic
instinct. The survival instinct. And, for some reason, nothing else makes me feel more alive, or primed, or thrilled. 

Stepping forward, we both start dancing in this kind of stupid circle around each other. We appear almost choreographed as we hop and skip, each slinging a test shot out, but hitting air. My opponent is good. He’s big, but quick. His arms are like two steel bands. I can’t beat him with my strength, but maybe my agility. I’m pretty light and quick on my feet. Beyond that? It looks pretty grim, like a joke. Me versus him. The crowd laughs harder as they hurl more jeers at me. But that just primes me more.

I let him attack me. He steps forward and his fist connects with my shoulder. Off we go. I bounce, he plods. If he hits me, I’ll be dying and burning with bruises. I throw a few punches any chance I get.

Halfway turning my shoulder, I jump right onto him. I do that a lot. I climb onto the backs of the big guys, who find it hard to shake me. I stand half a chance then at least. I mean, come on, comparing sheer brawn and force, I don’t have what it takes. I gotta use whatever I got. I’m fast, limber, and flexible, and I don’t mind using dirty tricks. So I do. I finally have to resort to nearly suffocating him. It’s soon over, but only because he’s on the verge of blacking out. I should probably feel something, but I don’t. I’m on the guy’s back when he falls flat to the mat. I straddle him. He’s bloody, but so am I. Sweat pours off both of us. My knuckles are scraped. I see blood smeared all over my body. I slowly rise onto my now shaking legs. The adrenaline has all been used up, and I feel totally spent. I can barely stand. The crowd goes batshit in their applause for me. I make it out of the ring, and again, wonder what happens to the guy who gets knocked out. I make a note to be sure it’s never me. I wonder if anyone cares about fighters being knocked out. I doubt there’s any sports coach, or therapist, checking for concussions, or even imminent death. Over my shoulder, I see two guys dressed as bouncers dragging the inert, prone body off toward the locker area.

It’s chilling. Yet, still, I don’t start running. I’m not horrified by the scene. I’m not even all that shocked. I’m actually pretty psyched right now. I won and proved myself to Bruce. Why the hell I care, I don’t have a clue. I don’t even know the man. Yet, here I am, so proud to show him I don’t suck.

Tanya finds me and makes the mistake of pressing her tits against me when she half hugs me. I almost throw her off. She stumbles back, but a smile still plays on her lips. She likes it kind of rough. Her eyes burn with lust as they take in my skin, glistening with a colorful blood-and-sweat sheen.