“I think it is,” he argued. “I know our methods seem … extreme. But they work and have worked for a long time. The kids we pick to be a part of our program are specifically chosen. They can handle it.”
“Curtis has a black eye! And bruises all over his body! I saw the bandage on Keith’s head. What are you doing? Building soldiers?”
Davis scoffed. “Of course not, Ms. Grant. But we teach them discipline. Control. Another way to let out the anger and the rage they have boiling inside. Better in that ring than on a cop or another kid on the outside with a gun.”
“So you teach them to fight and get out the testosterone. What then? How does that help them in the real world?”
“It’s like any other athletic program. Mental and physical. We train these kids hardcore, teach them how to eat healthy foods and give them the discipline and structure to turn that into productivity in society. We teach them to use their bodies in a positive way. Working with their natural abilities. If they can learn to trust themselves, defensively, then they feel more confident—less likely to lash out.” Davis stood and pulled a yellow sheet of paper off the table. He turned it around and handed to her. “It’s not just random fighting. We compete against other programs. That’s our next event.”
The words “Inter-Club Fight Semi-Finals” were listed across the top. The fight would be held at the GYC next week. “Curtis won’t be competing—yet,” he said. “Probably not ’til next season if he’s ready. But he’s fast, we think he may fit more into the ultimate fighting category anyway.”
“Ultimate fighting? I don’t know. All of this sounds really dangerous.”
Davis rested his elbows on his knees and leaned toward her. “Give us a chance. Come see it yourself. See if you notice a change in Curtis’ behavior over the next couple of weeks.”
“You have a lot of faith in a petty thief thug-wannabe who can run fast.”
“I have a lot of faith in a lot of things,” he said with a wink. “You’ll come?”
“I’ll come,” Ari said, standing up. She walked to the door and touched the smooth leather gloves hanging there. “These yours?”
“My father’s.” He also stood, shoving his hands in his pockets. “He taught me everything I know.”
Ari tilted her head. “You must be pretty good, then.”
Davis looked her up and down. “I can hold my own.”
Right then Ari knew he remembered her. A current ran between them and she caught a hint of mischievousness in his eye, the same one she’d seen that night across the dance floor. She almost caved and confronted him. Almost.
Instead, Ari left the room, because what would happen if she admitted it? Acknowledged it? Would he think she was some kind of skank who trolled dance clubs late at night? Did he already think that?
Davis just said he could hold his own. She knew that firsthand. On her way out the door, under her breath, where he couldn’t hear, she muttered, “I bet,” and left the building.
Chapter 7
“Maria called,” Rebecca announced, handing her a pink message slip. “She said she’ll be here by five.”
“She better be. This is her last chance to show up before I place a warrant. I don’t know why she thinks I’m playing games.”
Ari signed in and checked her mail. A lumpy manila envelope sat on top of all the paperwork. She carried it all past Stanton’s office and set it on her desk.
Ari had managed to get herself under control before she came back to the office. The panic attack had been real. Sweaty and jarring. One thing was certain though, that numbness she felt day in and day out left when she was at the GYC—or more specifically, when she was near Davis. Professionally, Davis seemed like he was on the up-and-up. Their encounter in the club threw that off. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she was missing something, like some larger picture to the Glory Youth Center. After years of placing kids in various homes and treatment programs, it all seemed a little too good to be true. All it took was a little boxing and hand-to-hand combat and all their problems were solved?
“Stanton,” she called down the hall. “You’re an athletic guy. What do you think about a program based on sports—specifically boxing—for these kids?”
Ari heard Stanton’s chair creak and he appeared in her doorway. “What are you talking about?”
“This program Judge Hatcher got Curtis into. It’s some kind of juvie-fueled fight club or something.”
Stanton leaned into the doorway and crossed his arms. “Fight club?”
“You know, Brad Pitt? Edward Norton?” He looked at her blankly. “Soap? Never mind. It’s this crazy group home with a focus on boxing and fighting and they fight other clubs or something. Davis, the director, swears it works, but when I was there today, Curtis got the snot beat out of him.”
“Curtis probably needed to get the snot beat out of him. Teach him a lesson for once.”
“Stanton!”
“I’m serious, Ari. These kids need discipline and to fully understand consequences. Sounds like a good program to me. Give it a shot.”