Jax by E. M. Moore
7
I’m impressed.
The Ring looks like it belongs in a cool, suave city instead of in downtown Rawley Heights. The fight club—speaking literally because after the fights, it turns into a dance club—sits in an old, brick building that I’m positive had another life as a factory, yet it’s been given new breath with a cool, edgy vibe.
We arrive late. We don’t have pre-sale tickets, so the guy at the door tells us there’s standing room only space for twenty dollars apiece. That’s a hell of a lot for the amount of people we have. There’s at least ten of us rolling into the club but Psycho doesn’t even hesitate to pay the fee. Must be tarnishing someone’s reputation is priceless to him.
He pulls Knuckles aside almost immediately. I attempt to watch them to see what they’re up to, but I’m drawn away at the life pulsing through the building. I’m only allowed to go out when I’m on a job that requires it, so this is a treat for me. It’s as if we’re at an actual sporting event. There’s an announcer talking excitedly overhead and concession stands lining the perimeter. At the same time, the building fits this homey, rustic persona. The old brick sets off the neon signage adorning the walls well, and I’m immediately caught up in not only how nice this is but how I see elements of Jax everywhere.
I’ve been living in the Flats for so many years now that I forgot how much better things could be in the Heights. And that’s saying something. My world with Big Daddy K was fucked up but I lived in luxury. I had everything I could want. A cell phone, designer clothes, makeup, and my own room in the tower.
The only thing I wasn’t in control of was my body. Come to think of it, I’ve only ever been in control of my body when I was with Jax.
Acid sloshes around in my stomach. Soon, I’ll have to see him again, and I’m simultaneously regretting and looking forward to it. A bead of sweat drips down my back, getting lost in the waistband of my faux leather pants. An arm slinks around me and holds me possessively as we move through the crowd to find an area in the back that’s on the same floor as the octagon. We pass several stairways that lead to the second floor, and I try to get a glimpse of what the other levels look like, but the concrete ceilings and Psycho’s steady pace hinder my curiosity.
We move into a spot in the corner, and Psycho sends one of the guys to get beers. Even Knuckles, the one with the missing teeth who’s probably fighting later if all goes to plan, takes several bottles, gulping down the first like it’s nothing. I think this is an incredibly stupid move, but what do I know? Maybe he needs the liquid courage or, if he’s anything like Psycho, he probably has some ridiculous belief that alcohol makes him fight better.
So far, the best thing about the Ring is that we blend in with the crowd. No one knows us, which is refreshing. When we go out in the Flats as a group, people scatter. They respect Psycho’s reputation. It’s like that with all powerful men. They make examples out of a few people early on, and then they don’t have to work as hard for their respect. It burns my ass. He doesn’t deserve one ounce of reverence, but he gets it there, and here I am, trying to get him to deserve it in the Heights too.
I take a deep breath, letting the thick, tension-filled air fill my lungs before blowing it out. So much is riding on tonight that my stomach churns with the urge to throw up. If this doesn’t work, and I can’t convince Psycho that something else will, this job won’t end well for me. I’ve been dancing back and forth over his line for a while now, and I suspect the only reason why he hasn’t replaced me yet is that he loves to torture me.
My gaze catches on a passing girl who has her arm hitched to another. She looks so familiar that it only takes me a second to realize it’s the same girl from Jax and Finn’s house. Leenie…Finny’s girlfriend.
Sweat gathers at the base of my hair after a hot flash swamps me. Psycho and his guys will try to make asses out of Jax and Finn tonight. And I’m part of it. Hell, I came up with the idea. I close my eyes and list off every reason why I need to do this. To stay safe. To keep Psycho appeased.
Another thought squeaks in: To see Jax again. Even if it won’t be a happy meeting.
I take measured breaths, trying to make the thought pass but it only doubles when the next fighter enters the ring, accompanied by my thoughts personified. My heart skips a beat as I watch Jax’s stone-cold face approach the ring. His biceps bulge out from under his Elite Boxing shirt. He looks put together and clean...and fucking scrumptious. He’s the exact opposite of the body standing next to me now. I’ve never been the kind of girl who’s seen everything as the grass being greener on the other side, but I know damn well it is in this case.
Sorrow pangs inside my chest. Our relationship wasn’t perfect, but it was the most right thing I ever had. And here he is, only a hundred or so feet from me but we may as well be hundreds of miles apart.
“Go work your stuff,” Psycho says, patting my ass.
My hackles rise as I start forward. Psycho has the fighting part handled, now I have to see what I can drum up with Jax even though I know it will be nothing. I’m still the bad guy. I’m the girl who fucked him over, and until I’m much more than that, there’s no way he’s going to let me in again.
I shake my hands out, much like the fighters entering the ring are doing right now, while I make my way down the aisle. I don’t have tickets for this area, but I figure if I let a little thing like that stop me, I’ll be done before this night is over. Instead, I act as if I belong, walking down the pathway to the ring until I spot a cluster of empty seats that are in Jax’s line of sight.
Before I sit, I peek at the ring one more time to check my view and nearly stumble. Jax is bearing holes straight through me already. His lips move, curling as he narrows his gaze. Finn follows his line of sight and mirrors his brother’s face as soon as he sees me. I smile and wave before sitting down in the empty seats, slowly crossing my legs as my heart batters my rib cage.
So much of my life is a lie. I’m dressed like someone else. I talk like someone else. Sometimes, I worry I’ll never bring the real Sadie back.
How fucking sad is that? Mid-twenties and have no idea who I am because I’m too busy being someone else.
Maybe my concern should be that I don’t actually know the real Sadie. What if I am this person who only looks out for herself?
I swallow the immediate lump in my throat like it’s a train fitting through a stir straw. Finn’s already back down to business even though his muscles are pulled taut. Jax, though, is still glaring, eyes never leaving me as I peruse the ring like I’m just here for the Friday night fights like everyone else.
My skin burns under his scrutiny, lighting me up from the inside out. If I had one wish to be granted, it’s that Jax would no longer hate me.
I can’t take back what I did. I couldn’t even if I wanted to, but I would change the way he hates me.
I avoid his stare, partly because I can’t look at him without feeling the years of guilt settle like lead plates on my shoulders, but also because I’m playing the part I’m supposed to be playing. I’m firing him up. By the end of this fight, he’ll want to call me out and fight me himself.
It’s what I need. Somehow, someway, I have to get back into Jax’s life, even if I’m the enemy.
The announcer goes through the fighters’ stats. They’re the last bout of the night, and the two look like really heavy hitters. Like they’ve worked for months to get this final fight of the night status. If I compare them to any one of Psycho’s guys, these guys come out way ahead. They’re polished. At best, Psycho’s guys are brawlers, untamed, working on pure animalistic need to see blood and feel rage.
It was never that way for Jax and Finn. They saw the sport in fighting. They craved it. In Psycho and his guys’ cases, they enjoy the bloodshed. They love making someone suffer as much as they have.
I glance over at Jax when the fight starts, thinking he’ll be too preoccupied to worry about me. I’m right. He’s staring at the fighters, a serious expression pulling his face taut. He leans on the side of the octagon, yelling out advice and praise intermittently.
Like magnets though, his stare gets drawn back to me until our gazes meet. I’m stuck there, staring, almost like being caught up in a time loop. I can’t look away, can’t blink. Time slows. A million messages pass between us. Of sorrow, of love, of the greatest hurt imaginable.
Our stare down only ends when the bell goes off, signaling the end of the round. I jump, and the returning glare I get sours my insides. My eyes prick, threatening to spill over. I haven’t cried since the old man I’d conned died lost and alone, probably wondering where his newly found granddaughter was when he needed her the most.
I push to my feet to run away but then an image of Psycho standing over me, his features a mask of hate, pops into my head. It stays my limbs, and I slowly sit back in the seat I confiscated. If I run away now, I know Psycho’s wrath. I’m his property. I have to do what he says. If I don’t, he’ll do more than beat the shit out of me like last time.
A whole round goes by before I blink back to reality. The two fighters in the cage are bruised and bloody, giving me flashbacks to some of my own worst moments. I steel my shoulders and enjoy the fight for what it is. I used to watch Jax and Finn train—even trained with them—once upon a time. If I let myself relax, I return to the mastery of fighting, the systematic execution of well thought out plans of attack.
In the end, Jax and Finn’s fighter loses. My heart shudders as he’s submitted by a rear naked choke. The fire in his eyes dies right before he taps out, and then he stands in humiliation as the other fighter’s hand is raised in victory.
I don’t know when Psycho will make his attack as planned, but I feel worse about it now. They lost the last fight, and in a moment, they’re about to be called out again. Maybe that’s why Jax and I never worked out. I’m destined to be his antagonist, the antithesis to his stable life.
Almost immediately, club music pumps through the speakers. A team of men wearing black shirts cover the octagon. The judges’ tables, the announcer, the very seats I’m seated in get systematically folded and put away. The process is so streamline that within minutes, the only reminder that there was even a fight here is the carefully covered cage.
I move around the room, searching for my target. When I find Jax, he’s by a door in the back that the fighters were coming in and out of. He’s surrounded by a group that I imagine are members of his gym. They’re all wearing variations of Elite Boxing shirts, and a few of them boast puffed, swollen faces, indicating that they had fights today.
As I watch, another group approaches, and my heart lodges in my throat when I recognize Psycho’s blue flannel and the hard gazes of his fucked-up entourage.
I squeeze through the crowd and move toward them as they near. The differences between the two groups are vast. Psycho and his guys look like a disorderly group of heathens while Jax’s guys are uniform in their professionalism.
When I’m about to break through the last line before the two groups, I hear Psycho say, “Bet you can’t beat one of my guys with your posh gym training. My guys learned their skills on the streets.”
Finn grins at him as only Finny can do. “You fight too? Cool, man.”
He immediately turns his back to diffuse the situation, but Psycho grabs his shoulder and whips Finn back around to face him. “Did you hear what I said? I saw nothing up there, just a bunch of pansies wearing matching branding on their shorts. Real fighters don’t do that.”
I glance around. Psycho is doing exactly what he wanted. He’s starting to gain an audience.
“Chill, man,” Finn says, the still easy smile on his face. How the Heights never brought him down, I have no idea. “It’s cool. Professional fighting isn’t for everyone.”
Knuckles speaks up, tilting his chin in the air like he’s better than Finn. “No,” he growls. “It’s apparently just for pussies.”
“Fuck you,” the fighter next to Finn spits. For as calm as Finn looks, this guy—one of their fighters—is the exact opposite. His nostrils widen as he breathes deeply through his nose.
Knuckles laughs. He’s goaded him right in. “I bet you’d like a little cock, wouldn’t you, pussy?”
I’ve seen enough fights in the real world to know when one is about to erupt. The guys on Finn and Jax’s team are heated now. Psycho’s guys are always nuts and ready to show people how big their dicks are for no apparent reason. It’s like lighting a match on a bunch of bone-dry kindling.
Finn puts a hand on his guy’s chest. “It’s all good.” He turns back to Psycho and Knuckles who’ve taken front. “If you don’t like it, you don’t have to come. I’ll refund your tickets. Follow me to the bar.”
Man, I’ve never been so proud of Finny as I am right now. Not rising to the bait. Being cool and level-headed when I’m sure he wants to beat the shit out of these punks himself. I just want to ruffle his hair like I used to and watch him blush.
“What we don’t like is people like you acting like you’re so fucking tough when you’re nothing but coddled shits,” Psycho says, drawing snickers from his guys.
Jax moves to the front, and that’s when I know things are going south quick. He has a temper for the ages. “Get the fuck out of here. You’ve already been offered a refund.”
Psycho stands up to him. They’re nose-to-nose, neither one of them backing down. I can’t believe I ever looked up to Psycho like I did Jax. He’s nothing to him. Sure, he’s big and has some skill, but the differences between them are obvious and plenty.
Psycho turns to Knuckles with a smirk and then back to Jax. There’s quite a crowd observing now, everyone salivating over what’s about to happen. “Actually, I have a better idea. I think Knuckles here should teach you guys how to fight.” He roams his stare over Jax’s and Finn’s fighters. “You should see that if you were ever in a real fight, you’d get your ass handed to you.”
The angry guy next to Finn steps forward and pushes Psycho. Psycho stumbles back a few steps, a growl ripping up his throat, but Knuckles stands in the way, grabbing the gym guy by the collar to smirk down at him. “Ready to learn a lesson?”
