Christina (Daughters #1) (18 page)

“No, it’s not. I just think you’d be better off going home. Good luck, whatever you choose.” She surprises me when she passes around me and seems to leave without further admonishment. She simply keeps going down the hall.

I turn from staring after her leotard-clad ass. Okay, she’s like, dominatrix hot. She’s probably five-foot-ten and a hundred and fifty pounds of pure muscle. She’s impressive and it kills me to think Max would want her. I shut my eyes in total humiliation. Then the crowd’s roar turns to ear-piercing screams. I come out of my shock.  I put my hand to the door that separates me from whatever is out there. My stomach jitters. I am scared. I taste bile in my throat. I want to turn and run down the slightly quieter hallway that, at least, lets me retain my ignorance. But the energy, the noise, the whatever, is calling me. I have to know.

I push on the door and it opens.

I don’t know what to expect.

It’s a dark cavernous room lit only with spotlights down towards the center. The smell of sweat is thick in the air. It reeks and hangs over my head like a fine mist. The crowd is standing around. People from all walks of life and every age group fill the immediate area. Finally, I spot a break in the throng of people and see what they are gathered around. A ring. A small, slightly raised ring used for boxing with ropes, the spongy kind that people can bounce off.

Fight club. I’m at an illegal fight club! I know it the second I see the ring before I even witness the people inside it. Two girls circle each other, wearing only bikinis and a sheen of sweat. They are both slick and shiny with it. Blood is dripping from one girl’s mouth. They headlock and go after each other as the crowd goes nuts. I stand there, completely stunned. I don’t know what to do. A weird panic climbs up my spine. Why does anyone like this stuff? It makes my stomach turn as one woman gets the upper hand. She slams the other one down and holds her, immobilized. No referee and apparently, no rules. Loud smacking and grunts and blood. Blood smears the ring. My stomach turns in revulsion. It is sick entertainment for me. I don’t even get real boxing or wrestling, the kind with strict rules and safety equipment and officials. I mean, that’s bad enough, why would anyone willingly want to get hurt even worse? And do it like that? A free-for-all for a bloodthirsty crowd’s entertainment? The spectators seem rabid to me. They’re all jacked up on others’ spilt blood, sweat, and pain, as if they aren’t members of the human race.

Max likes this stuff. I know that. I’ve seen him. But I just can’t believe he’d be involved in
watching
it
.
It’s so off-putting to me. I’m disgusted. One girl finally assumes she’s won and jumps off the other before she starts circling the ring. Throwing her hands in the air, she acts as if she’s a beauty pageant winner, making her rounds. The crowd is cheering louder and catcalling the woman, as if she’s hot. As if her dripping sweat is sexy. I am totally repulsed.

Yet, I am ashamed to admit my attention is riveted. I can’t take my eyes off it. I just can’t believe people are willing to do this and others are willing to watch it.

Then… I almost fall backwards. A wave of dizziness overtakes me and my breathing grows rapid. So rapid, it hurts. I press a hand to my chest.
No. No. No way
. But it is. Max is standing there at the side of the ropes and about to go in. In there. That disgusting enclosure of debauchery, depravity and revulsion.

I’m not a fan. But Max? My heart leaps from my chest. I feel like it’s getting punched.
Please, no
. He’s so far above this. I look around, totally grossed out and appalled to find so many deplorable people there. So many cheering it on. So many bloodthirsty, awful people.

And Max is going to perform for them.

He found the perfect outlet, I realize in that moment as surely as I know my name. This is what he’s done all summer. This is why he pulled away from me. This is what Max really wants to do. This is the part of Max I could never understand.

He enters the ring. I make my legs move forward. I have to stop him. I’m panicked. I’ll do anything to stop it. I can’t have Max doing this. Not in front of these people. I scream his name, but it’s lost in the roar of the crowd and loud music that drones on and on, spiking the high energy and amping up the eager onlookers. The music beats and slams in rhythm with the fighting. Like the crowd. Like my heart.

I’m dizzy. I can’t see clearly. My eyes are stinging with hot tears. Yes, the tears are flowing down my cheeks and the top of my head feels like it could spin off. I become light-headed and worry that I’ll faint. I feel odd. I can’t believe this. Now someone is entering the ring with Max.
My Max
. Oh my God. A whimper escapes my lips, unheard in this angry, belligerent place. The guy is huge and white and, no doubt, ready to rip Max apart. Or… well, fuck, I know that’s not true. Max might rip him apart. I can’t stand it. I can’t stand to know this is what Max has chosen.

A bell dings. That’s about as professional as this set-to can be, as far as I can judge. Max is wearing loose gym shorts with some kind of Spandex under them that reaches his knees. He’s barefoot, and has on nothing else. No gloves. No headguard. No mouthguard. I’ve watched boxing matches with him, and there is always a referee standing next to the fighters, and stopping the fight if it goes too far. To prevent anyone from being hurt or killed. I get some comfort thinking most likely, no one will die in those fights. But this one? Who’s going to stop it if it turns deadly? The crowd would simply cheer harder, in my opinion. I have no doubts of that.

I scream his name. Then I scream it again. My throat is burning from the effort. I do it over and over and over again. But no one even turns around. My voice is lost in the cacophony and chaos of the crowd. Max goes straight in for the guy, headbutting him right in the stomach and plowing him to the edge of the ring. The crowd goes nuts, but I go nuttier.

I try to get closer, but can’t. The mass of bodies prevents me. There is too much noise. I finally stop screaming his name and just stand there, watching him.

Things are okay until something suddenly shifts between Max and his white opponent. Somehow, the other guy has the advantage and starts pummeling Max’s chest and face with his knuckles. Sweat and blood fly off them like a wet dog shaking to dispel the water. There’s a weird, little spray of body fluids, blood and sweat, around them. I can hear Max’s grunts somehow over the clamor of the crowd. They love this part. I figured that out, just like in the last fight, they love the ending. The beaten loser falling down. The blood and gore of the defeated. Max finally falls onto his knees. I can’t stop crying as I watch him getting kneed in the face before dropping forward. I scream his name and try to push through the swelling crowd, but they only contract closer and more tightly around the ring. I can’t get to him. My heart is swelling and nearly pushing into my ribs. I don’t care what he’s done or what was said; I just need to get to him. I have never felt like I needed to get to anyone so much in my entire life. I cannot stand it. I am losing it now. People push me back, but I claw and scrabble around them, while my tears fall all over my face. It’s horrifying. Max’s prone body is being pulled up before they slide him off the ring as if he’s no more than a rag doll. They don’t even try to take care of him. He could have a concussion, or a broken nose, or who knows what? Not one of them cares if their clumsy jostling as they nearly throw him out of the way will cause permanent damage. I follow, albeit from a distance, watching them drag his inert body past the crowd. A few glance down at him as he passes, but instantly turn back to the noise of the next two fighters. I stop when I see them entering the men’s locker room. I stay back and wait. Finally, the guys who took Max inside the locker room exit. Rushing forward, I back into the darkened hallway. It has a weird, echoing affect that dims the noise of the loud crowd.

I enter the room, which is freakishly quiet after the mind-numbing jeers and yells. I pass the freestanding locker rows. I hear water running. My breath is caught in my throat. I dread passing the last set of lockers. I slow my feet. What will I see?

There he is. My heart plummets into my stomach. He’s lying on the fucking floor! They’ve literally thrown him in there on the floor. He’s on his back. One leg is bent towards the other, and one arm is over his chest while the other is bent near his head. His mashed face is wet and bloody. It all congeals in an angry pink as the shower hisses down on him. He’s not moving.

I whimper, unable to contain my shock. I mean, it’s more than horrifying to me. I rush forward and land next to him on my knees. Instantly, my jeans are soaked with the puddling water. More water falls over me. I push my hair back and touch Max’s chest.

I pause and stare at my hands on his dark skin. He’s out cold. He doesn’t know I’m next to him. He doesn’t even know I’m touching him. I can’t stand it. I lean forward and gently take his head in my hands. His breathing sounds regular, but I don’t know. I don’t know anything. I don’t know if I should move him. I don’t know if I should call the police. I think he needs an ambulance. I just don’t know. I am crying. I mutter his name over and over. “Max? Max? Come on, Max! Answer me.” I lean down and kiss his lips while pushing the hair off his bloody forehead. No, this can’t be. I quickly stand up and shut the water off. Why would they do that? It’s inhumane. The frigid water is showering over him, despite his unconscious state. Jesus. They are monsters. Why? Why would Max sign up for that? Or do that to himself?

Pulling out my cell phone from my purse, I’m glad it was protected and stayed dry. My hands are wet and shaking, but I start to dial.

“Put the phone down.”

I whip around, hearing a quiet voice from behind me. There is a big man there, watching me. I didn’t hear him enter. I take a step back. He seems… I don’t even know how to describe the man. He’s wearing a suit. His hair is blond and combed, all neat and tidy. He looks like a typical businessman, going off to sit in a cubicle, but something doesn’t click. Something I can’t explain. It’s his eyes. They are so cold. Lifeless. Now, I realize Max doesn’t get like that. His gaze when he chooses, can be vacant, and kind of distant, but not like this guy’s. I’m feeling chills going down my arms and spine before they settle in my neck. What have I walked into?

I slowly lower my hand away from my ear. The man nods. “Who are you? Who are you to him?”

“His cousin. Max is my cousin.”

“I’m the owner here. Max fights for me. Who were you calling, little girl?”

“N—No one. Just my mom,” I finish lamely. I know enough not to admit I was calling an ambulance. I feel dizzy again, as if I’m about to crumble to the ground and another chill travels through me. Oh my God, I’m scared. I’m really, really scared. I take another step back and my feet are in the puddle of water. I glance down, Max is still out. I want him to come to. I’m terrified he’s seriously hurt. What if he’s really hurt? I also need Max to explain what this is, and if I need to be afraid.

He makes a tsking sound. “Now, I don’t believe you. I saw you out there. Max means something else to you.”

Shouldn’t anyone who gets beaten unconscious be taken care of? I have to care about him to want to bother? I am chilled to the bone by this man, and this place, and being caught in the men’s shower, essentially alone and helpless. I want my dad. Suddenly caught in this strange staring contest with this man, I want nothing less than my dad to save me.

“We don’t involve the cops… or paramedics either. Max knows that. He wouldn’t want you to call anyone. We like to handle our own, in-house.”

My anger builds. “By throwing him unconscious into a shower stall and spraying cold water on him? You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I shout as my hands fold over my middle. The man’s face tightens. I realize I said that out loud and step back again.

“No, I’m not kidding you.” The man’s voice is even and cool, almost as if he’s offering me a glass of lemonade in his parlor, and not staring at me across an empty locker room. The weird echo effect of the outside drama keeps rising and falling.

I glance down. “I’ll just ah, you know, wait for him to wake up and we’ll leave.”

A weird smile twists the man’s mouth. “You’re not going anywhere.”

My mouth drops open. I step back again and my butt hits the tiled shower wall. I am literally trapped in there with Max bleeding and unconscious at my feet. This man’s silky, cool voice and threat finally dawn on me.

I realize I’m in the kind of trouble I never pictured. Not in our small town. I’ve always been a naive, fucking fool; I finally, realize that. Only it’s too late.

~Max~

I FEEL THE PAIN in my face first. Groaning, I try to take stock of where I am. I recognize the freezing cold of the tiles in the locker room. I lost, I realize and start to fully feel the pain engulfing my body, but mostly in my head. Third damn time. I hate losing. My heart sinks as I swear through clenched teeth. God. Damn. My nose hurts.  A pain I can’t explain hurts my face. But no water. I crack an eyelid open. It’s hard to see because it’s so swollen, and so is the other one. The shower isn’t running. That’s unusual. I finally manage to see the top of a head from the corner of my eye. I turn my head slowly, and my stomach pitches and rolls like I’m about to be sick.  But it all fades. Everything fades as I finally turn onto my side and see to whom the dark head belongs.

Christina?
I blink. But she’s still there. I’m not hallucinating. She is there. But she’s not even looking towards me. She’s staring off and her eyes are huge with fear. I glance to where she’s looking.
Fuck!
Simon. He’s standing there, staring at Christina with a weird smirk on his face. Simon owns the gym, so he hosts and sponsors these lovely events. Bruce gets a cut for bringing in fresh meat; and the fresh meat? They get a teeny, weeny cut of that. It’s a strange cash cow comprised of entrance fees and betting in its own underground ring. Surprisingly, they do well away from the cities and in small spots like this, where people aren’t looking for or expecting it. In places where gyms like this one are all but left alone. You’d think they’d prefer a much more nefarious location than the local gym where kids learn karate or taekwondo and stay-at-home mothers take their Pilates classes. That’s all during the daytime, however. Nighttime brings out the snakes, like me.

I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know why Christina came here. I am so confused. What is this? And why does she look so terrified of Simon? Tilting my head, I moan as the pain shoots through me again. Christina hears me. I see the moment she realizes I’m conscious, her eyes always tell her story.
Relief.
There is so much relief in her eyes when she looks at me, along with apprehension and worry and anger; but when she glances at Simon, the fear in her expression returns.

“Tell your girlfriend why we don’t call the cops.”

Oh shit. That’s what’s up Simon’s ass. I lay my head flat to minimize the misery and mumble at Simon, “She won’t call the cops. She just didn’t know… Anything, actually. She didn’t know I fought here. Just leave, Simon, I’ll handle this.”

Simon is a petty criminal and I really detest him. He doesn’t care about anyone’s safety, not his fighters, nor his teachers, nor the little kids that take the classes the gym provides. He cares exclusively about making money. But he is a small town criminal in
Nowheresville.
I find him laughable compared to the real criminals I dealt with back in California. And that was when I was a freaking kid! Those were the real shit. Those were the ones that broke your legs, or worse, when you fucked them over, or for any reason, accidental, or on purpose; they didn’t distinguish between the two.

I turn slightly at Christina’s muted whimper. She is really terrified, standing there huddled against the shower. What happened while I was out? The anger, so basic a part of me, starts to percolate in my gut. “What did you say to her?”

Simon shrugs. “She had her phone out and was ready to dial. Not good business, Salazar. Any idea how much I don’t need the sheriff showing up here? Why must I always stress that you have to keep your damn girlfriends out of this?”

He’d just pay the cops off. I know he has at least one on his payroll; otherwise, how could they run these midnight activities? Still, I don’t like hearing he scared Christina. He’s harmless. Like a cockroach. No one likes them; they always scurry into the darkest spaces.

I put my arm under me and kind of crawl and pull myself up to lean against the wall. Christ, my face hurts. My side hurts. My stomach hurts. I’m a mess. “Well you’ve succeeded in scaring the shit out of her. Now leave.”

Simon turns with a last leer towards Christina and walks out. Her shoulders fall like she’s about to pass out. She stares after him as if she’s unconvinced he’s not going to harm her. It stabs my heart to see her so scared, so worried, so terrified because of this place, that I exposed her to. I can’t fathom how she got here. Here, as in this gym, this fight, and most incredibly, this shower. She turns towards me with huge eyes and a trembling mouth. Her tears are real and they fall over her already reddened eyes.

She suddenly lets out a kind of moan and almost throws herself at me. I’m lying against the wall with my feet in front of me. She’s beside me, on her knees, getting wet, and her arms are around me, her face is pressed on my chest as she sobs against me. Her entire torso shakes as she cries and her arms are holding me, her fingers digging into my skin. I’m shirtless, I feel every spot that her skin touches mine. She’s crying so hard, she’s nearly hyperventilating for air. I don’t think she even realizes she’s holding onto me. She’s completely out of it. I hurt, but it’s even more painful to have her clinging to me this way.

I start to push her off me and my skin begins to tighten over my body like it’s shrinking and I’m about to simply explode. It makes me claustrophobic, like I’m trapped in my own body. I want nothing more than to eject her off me. But I don’t think she knows she’s grabbing onto me. She needs me. I know that as much as I need to breathe; she needs to hold onto me. I’ve traumatized her. Finding me here, like this, and hearing whatever Simon said to her has literally traumatized her. She’s shaking and gulping for air.

I finally, for the first time maybe ever, have to put someone else’s needs before mine. I clamp down on my discomfort and let her stay against me. I wrap my arms around her and rest my hands on her small, shaking back. She feels so tiny against me. I guess I probably don’t know since I’ve never hugged her. Or held her. I’ve never been this close to her for this long. And yet, I’ve had sex with her.

I center my breathing and try to let this be okay. Pressing my lips to her hair, I try shushing her, but it only makes her fingers grip more tightly into my skin.

Blood is still dripping from my nose and smearing in her hair now. I need to clean up. I need ice. But I know she needs my comfort more.

“It’s okay, Tiny, I’m okay,” I mumble over and over again. She shakes her head and it makes her cry harder.

“You are not okay. There is nothing okay about this. About wanting to do
this
.”

I rub her back and she finally, slowly, starts to calm down until she’s lying nearly limp against me. Tilting back enough so she can look at me, I imagine I must appear to her like a deformed monster. I can feel the swelling around my eyes and nose. Bruises that I won’t be able to explain so easily away. Her fingers leave my shoulders and come to my face. I brace myself, determined to let her have this; my penance for what I’ve done to her and made her feel like today.

Her fingers start at my forehead and oh-so-gently glide down the side of my face, past my temple and cheek, and down my neck. Her eyes ache as she studies me. She finally asks, “Why?”

“Why what, exactly, Christina?” I know there are about fifty questions on her mind.

“Why can I touch you now?” I close my eyes at her soft tone. Her gentleness. Everything that shines for me in her eyes.

“Not easily. I owe you. For this.”

She shudders. “I thought he was going to hurt me… us.”

“Who? Simon? No. He’s a joke. He just doesn’t know it. This whole place is a joke. It’s nothing like where I grew up. Or what I came from.”

“You’ve done all this before?”

I shrug. “Yeah. Only then, it was harder because I was younger. This is me. This is more who I am than all the other things I’ve done while living here.”

“Then the life you had with me,” she states after a long pause, during which we stare at each other in profound silence. Her gaze leaves mine and travels over me. Every time she looks at me, her body trembles. She’s afraid. Of this. Of me. Of what I do and who I am.

“I’m sorry,” I finally whisper when I can’t think of what else to say. I don’t know how to ease the moment for her.

She stares up at me and I’m shocked when she lifts her head and her lips touch mine. They are soft and sweet at first. Just the touch of her turns my entire body to fire. It’s about the only touch that feels good to me. Her lips on mine. The tip of her tongue oh-so-softly outlines my lips and barely enters my mouth. I want to inhale her. I want her to know I am here. I want to be with her. Even if I can’t be a normal boyfriend. I literally don’t know how to accomplish that. I can’t touch her. I can’t be how she is. I can’t even talk the way she needs me to. Still, her comfort means everything to me.

She finally lets me go and scoots back to sit on her knees. “How badly are you hurt?”

“Not too. Can you grab me a towel?”

She stands. Her knees and shins are all wet. Her hair has fallen from the low ponytail she had it in. She changed from her pretty sundress and now has on jeans and a t-shirt. I close my eyes, suddenly exhausted. I feel too exhausted to talk about this. Or face what I do and why I do it. To even go back home. How do I handle Christina telling everyone? How do I face everyone after that?

She comes back and falls to her knees, heedless of the damp floor. She gently wipes my face and chest with a warm, wet towel. Then she comes back with a cold, damp one, which she leaves softly on my face. Her hands are cool and soothing. I want to lean into her. But I’m too focused on staring into her eyes and remembering it’s Christina, and I’ve hurt her. She can touch me. Nothing will actually happen to me. I need to let her do that. I need to do it for her… and maybe more so, I need to do it for me.

I finally lift my hand to hers, which is holding the towel to my face. I clasp her hand in mine and thread our fingers together. Her eyes fill with trepidation and concern, I know she gets what this means for me. “I am sorry.”

“I want to say, ‘fuck you’ again,” she says, her voice kind of raspy. “But my heart is screaming the opposite.”

“You shouldn’t have come here.”

“You shouldn’t fight here.”

I smile a little through my swollen face. Her counter remark is always that quick and dry. “How did you know where to come?”

“I took a guess; but I didn’t really think I’d find anything. Nothing like this.”

“No, there was no preparing you for something like this.”

She leans back and hovers near me, sitting on her knees. Biting her lip, her eyes fill with emotion. “I should have listened,” she mumbles as I wipe my nose.

I lower the towel. She winces before assessing the damage to my face. “To who?”

“The body builder woman who told me I should go home.”

Tanya.
Somehow, I’m sure of it. I don’t answer. Christina finally says, “Is she your girlfriend?”

“No.” I try to hold her gaze, but the guilt gets to me, and I can’t do it. I drop my eyes to my lap.

She sighs. “I see. What is her name?”

“Tanya.”

“And Tanya doesn’t want things from you? Well, some things, but not the things that involve feelings and expectations and… love. She doesn’t want those things from you?”

“No. She doesn’t.”

“And that’s what you want?” Christina shuts her eyes. I can’t help watching her. Her face is pale, and she flinches. “You want this,” she spreads her hands out as if encompassing all that is on my face and in the shower, and her voice cracks when she adds, “over me?”

“No. Of course not. It’s not like that.”

“It kind of is. You want to fight and get all bloodied. I saw you taking those punches, I don’t think it was any accident you lost. I think you let them do that to you. I can’t imagine what could possibly motivate anyone to do that.”

I guess I underestimated her. She even knows this side of me. “Money.”

“And you let it happen?”

“Yes. This time. I had no choice.”

Sharpening her gaze on my face, her anger quickly snaps and dissolves all of her former sympathy and care. “You have every choice! You could decide to be with me. You could decide to take a chance with me. You could decide to make better choices that won’t end up with you getting physically hurt, or even killed. You could decide to find a far better and healthier way to vent all that anger inside you. You could do anything different. Anything at all. And you choose this! You choose to end up here? Lying unconscious with your face bashed in before getting thrown into a cold shower? You want that more than you want to be with me! Really, Max, your message could not be any clearer.”

I want to argue. I want to deny it. I want to tell her,
no, no I love you. I love you and only you. I want to be your boyfriend.
I want to find a way to let out all this stuff inside my chest that doesn’t include blood and bruises, my own, or other people’s. I want to talk to her. I want to hold her. I want to be her boyfriend. I want her to stay. I want to go with her. I want to be the son Noah and Lindsey were hoping for when they adopted me. The son who gets good grades and treats everyone with kindness and friendliness. I want to be all those things. So badly, I almost crawl towards her and beg her to help me do that.