Chapter Twelve
Dear Grace,
It’s not that the Marines was my only option. It just seemed like the best choice at the time. My father is an a*shole. He’s kind of like your Aunt Sarah. Nothing I did was good enough for him. He has a miserable life working a number of odd jobs and getting fired for not showing up or being too hung over and making mistakes.
He wanted me to be beat-down like him. I couldn’t afford to go to college, and I didn’t want to work construction for the rest of my life. Hence, the Marines. But when I came back during my first leave, after deployment, everyone in town treated me different.
Before, I was just a punk that might knock up their girls or break into their stores. Now I wore a uniform. Old vets saluted me. People who had never said hi thanked me for my service. It was like I had leveled up. But half the time, I think folks were sorry that there wasn’t another generation of Jacksons to point to as a cautionary tale. I haven’t told Bo yet, but I’m not going back home.
I’m going to volunteer for another tour. I felt more at home at a forward base unit than back in Little Oak, Texas.
~Noah
Grace
Noah and I were eating at a dive off campus that served the best tacos, when his phone rang. He ignored it so I gestured for him to answer when it rang again.
A barrage of words sputtered out of the phone, so loud that I could even hear it. Noah drew the phone away slightly from his ear and flicked the volume down.
He listened for most of the conversation but interjected a few times with“ no” and“ not yet” and shakes of his head. Then he motioned for a pen and paper, which I dug out for him. He asked, “How much?” and jotted something down.
He terminated the connection and set the phone face down on the table. He looked upset and rubbed his hands over his face a couple times.
“What is it?”
Noah leaned back in his chair, tipping it up slightly so it rested on its back two legs, laced his fingers behind his head, and looked upward. It wasn’t a relaxed pose. He slammed down the chair and cursed.
“Nothing.”
“You almost ruined that chair. That’s a lot of anger over ‘nothing.’”
“Nothing you should be concerned about.” He turned his attention to his tacos and began sweeping up his uneaten portion.
“What is going on?” I demanded.
“Nothing,” he repeated obviously trying to turn my attention away.
“You aren’t eating. You’re abusing furniture. And you’re cursing on the phone,” I said, aggravated at his secret keeping.
Noah looked frustrated and unhappy, and I was getting worried too. His poorly-hidden anxiety was contagious. He gestured for the waitress to come over and had her bring us the check. He threw down some cash and picked up our bags. It was clear he wanted to leave. I looked at my partially eaten taco with some sadness. I was still hungry.
“I’m sorry. I’ll get you something to eat later,” he said. We walked out to the truck, or more appropriately, Noah walked quickly, and I jogged to keep up. Noah handed me in, and I kept quiet until he had started the truck.
“What’s going on? I don’t understand,” I asked again.
When he didn’t respond, I said, “Don’t shut me out, Noah.”
Instead of looking at me, he stared out the window and said, “It was the guy who owns the yogurt store. He has an offer for it, but he wanted to give me first shot at it. He’ll give me five days to raise the cash.”
“How much do you need?” This sounded like a great opportunity, not one that should evoke anger and unhappiness.
“Ten Gs.”
I coughed into my hand with shocked surprise. “God, can you get that in a fight?”
“Not a regular one,” Noah admitted reluctantly.
“I could ask Uncle Louis for an advance against my trust,” I said. “It’d be a good investment.”
“No,” Noah said with careful enunciation. “Not your problem.”
He pulled into the driveway of his house and jumped out. For once, Noah didn’t open my door. I fumbled with the latch and raced after him. He was nearly running through the house. “Where’s Mal?” he bellowed.
Finn was sitting in the great room playing a video game and jerked up at Noah’s shout. “Office,” He gestured toward the front room in the house closed off by double French doors. Mal was already at the door.
“What’s up?” Mal asked, opening the door wider for Noah to come in.
“Can you call Rickers and see if he still wants that fight?”
Mal’s expression changed from mild curiosity to concern. “What about the UFC, man?”
“I need a ten grand fight tonight, Mal. Can you make it happen?”
“If you need ten grand, I’ve got—”
“Can you set up the f*cking fight or not?” Noah interrupted, his teeth clenched.
“Yeah, no problem. Just let me make a few calls,” Mal said.
“Let me help you.” Bo, appeared behind us. The whole house was there, listening to Noah, which no doubt infuriated him. He was so private. Now all these rich kids, including me, were standing there telling him he had nothing to worry about.
Noah turned on Bo. “I’ll do it this once and be done.”
“It doesn’t work that way,” Bo said. I stood by helplessly, but silently agreed with Bo.
Noah slashed his hand through the air. “It’s my decision.” He turned and pointed to Mal. “Make it happen.” At least I wasn’t the only one he ordered around.
Bo moved to say something, maybe forestall Mal, but Mal retreated into the office. “It’s his decision, Bo. Let it be.”
Noah stormed upstairs, and I was left behind, like an extra in Noah’s life. I hated that. I ran after him.
“Who’s Rickers?” I demanded, standing inside the bedroom as Noah rooted through his drawers and threw a pair of sweatpants and shorts on the bed.
“I’m going to do an illegal fight against a former UFC boxer kicked out because of steroids,” he replied flatly.
“My God, no,” I cried.
“You wanted to know, and I’m telling you,” he said, proceeding to strip. For once the sight of his naked chest didn’t rouse my passions. I was too concerned for his safety.
“It’s not that dangerous.” Noah tried to placate me. “I’ve been working with professional trainers for over a year now. I’m a better fighter than he is.”
“This is a no-rules fight, though. You could get hurt,” I pleaded. When he remained silent and continued to ready himself, I tried a different angle.
“Yes, I know I’ve lived a fortunate life. But, Noah, if I needed the money, wouldn’t you give it to me?” I argued.
“It’s not the same.” He pulled on shorts and then sweatpants over top. “Dammit. All my wraps are at the gym.” He loped to the door and yelled downstairs. “Bo, I need some wraps.”
“It is the same thing. Do you care more about the money than me?” I asked.
“Don’t make it about you. It’s not about you,” Noah snapped.
“Don’t do this, Noah. You’ll get hurt. I have the money. ”
“I don’t want your money. Did you know that one of the most celebrated fighters in MMA history is a guy who lost by technical knockout? Helio Grace wouldn’t give up even after his opponent had broken his arm in two places. He was lionized after the fight for his refusal to submit and tap out. Finally, after his arm was broken twice, someone from his corner threw the towel in and ended the match,” Noah went on.
“What does that have to do with anything?” I cried.
“It’s about being able to hold my head up. I’ve got some skill, Grace. I can make something for me, for us, but I’m going to have to use my hands to do it. Take a few knocks. Look at your f*cking apartment, Grace, or this place here. This is where you’re comfortable, and I’m going to make this my world even if I have to break a few eye sockets to do it.”
Nothing I was going to say would penetrate his thick head. Bo appeared at the doorway and handed over some wraps to Noah. We wordlessly exchanged frustrated and worried glances, but remained silent. Noah had set his course and no one was going to deter him. Neither his best friend nor his girlfriend, if that was what I was.
Noah was dressed in sweats, a tank top, and tennis shoes. His wraps and a change of clothing were stuffed in a gym bag. Mal came up the stairs. “It’s all set up. We’ll meet in an hour at the old zipper factory building south of downtown on East Sixth.”
“I’ll drive you home,” Noah said.
“You will not.” I told him. I marched over and picked up his gym bag. “If you’re going to fight then any post-game celebrating will be with me.” My smart remark broke the tension that had built up, and everyone laughed.
“She told you,” Bo said.
“I guess she did.” Noah didn’t take his eyes off me. “Okay then, Grace, you’re with me.”
***
“Worried?” Noah asked me when we were back in his truck. He had taken the time to help me up into the cab before going around and getting in the driver’s seat, his prior lapse of manners completely unnoticed. It was a sign of how upset he was before and how calm and in control he was now.
“Yes.” I didn’t want to be, but I had never experienced this before. I didn’t want anything bad to happen to Noah.
“Don’t be. I’ll win. He’s a T-Rex.”
“What’s that?”
“He’s got short arms, short reach.”
“Nice,” I laughed as Noah had intended and then tried to return the favor. “Too bad we are on our way to have you roll around with some guy instead of back at my apartment to wrestle in bed.”
“We can wrestle later,” he said, preoccupied. He didn’t even come back with some sexual comment as he ordinarily would. I gave up.
“Tell me about the fight tonight. Maybe if you explain more, I won’t be so afraid,” I said, hoping to borrow his confidence.
“As long as everyone keeps their mouth shut, there isn’t going to be a problem.” Underground fighting, Noah explained, was done by all kinds of men of all different body shapes. He figured most of them had rage issues, and this was a safe place to let them out. One guy he knew fought regularly and did so not to win, but for the adrenaline rush from the pain. But he often won because he wouldn’t quit. This guy loved to take a punch—the more brutal, the better. Noah contemplated that it was almost a sexual thing for the guy.
“I’m not sure how he explains that at work the next day,” Noah admitted. Many of the fighters refused to get medical attention because the more injuries there were, the greater the likelihood that the underground fights would be discovered. Noah said, with a few colorful curses, that this was the dumbest f*cking thing ever.
The worst were the wannabes, he went on. There were dickhead fight clubs where people brought shit like pillowcases full of rocks and frying pans. “You’re just asking for a concussion.”
“Really? That seems kind of unfair. Are there other fights?”
“There’re all kinds. Stupid suburban kids, mostly jocks, thinking they’re the shit. Then there are the felony fights, where they pit two former felons against each other. It’s like the Christians versus the lions with the promoter acting like f*cking Cesar. Thumbs up or thumbs down. Everyone in the audience thinking they are cooler than shit,” he sneered.
“Are there rules or officials?”
“Not really. There is the promoter, who sets up the fight, like Mal, and a couple of people that monitor the bets. You can have a corner, but they can’t interfere.”
We entered downtown and pulled onto some side street, parking behind a warehouse. It was dark and quiet, but Noah made no move to exit. He leaned against his truck door and turned to me.
“Who are you fighting tonight?”
“DJ Rickers, who got kicked out of UFC for using steroids. I know he feels like he was unfairly singled out, but no one will sign him now because performance-enhancing drugs are ruining sports. He’s wanted to fight a UFC fighter for a long time and will pay a lot of money to do it.”
“You aren’t UFC,” I pointed out thinking that maybe Rickers wouldn’t even show up to fight.
“I’m an ‘up-and-comer,’” Noah said, “and that’s enough for Rickers. He knows me and my reputation.”
“You think you can win?” I asked hopeful.
“I know I can,” was his immediate and confident response.
I nodded, relieved, but still a bit upset. He opened his door and gestured for me to wait. I really disliked waiting to have my door opened, but I knew from past experience that this was important to Noah. He helped me down, but stayed my hand when I reached in for my bag. “Don’t bring anything in,” he said. “You don’t need anything.”
“What about my phone or ID?”
“No one is carding you, and I have mine.” Noah took my hand and pulled me close.
“Noah,” I tugged on his hand. “I will feel really uncomfortable without a phone in there and no cash or ID or anything.”
“Are you okay with your phone in your pocket?”
I grimaced and wondered if my pockets were even deep enough to hold a phone. He bent down so his face was close to mine. “I’ll hold it for now and then when Finn comes, he can hold it. I need your hands free. Stay with me at all times. Don’t let go of me. Grab my wrist, my pants, my shirt. It can be crowded, and the people in there will be rowdy. I don’t want you to get hurt.” He waited for me to assent. I nodded, but it wasn’t enough. He wanted oral acknowledgment.
I gave a big audible sigh so that he was aware I found this a bit tedious. “I promise I will stay with you at all times and that I will attach myself like a barnacle to some part of your body.”
“Just wanted to know we are on the same page,” he said, clucking his tongue in mock admonishment.
I handed the phone to Noah, and he tucked it into his front pocket. I tapped it with my fingers. “Isn’t it uncomfortable down there?”
“No, but if you pat me a little to the left, it might become uncomfortable.” Ah, teasing Noah was back. He wasn’t at all concerned about his fight. I hoped he wasn’t being overconfident.
“Is this the place?” I gestured toward the seemingly empty warehouse building.
“No. You can’t all park next to the building, or the cops will know what is going on. The building is five blocks from here.”
That meant walking in the darkened streets. Kind of creepy. Noah’s admonition to stay close and hold his hand really didn’t need to be repeated out here. I slid my arm around his back and tucked myself under his arm. I wasn’t so foolish as to not appreciate his protection. “This doesn’t look safe.”
“Safe places are well lit and observed by regular folks. Underground fighting kind of means unsafe and unknown.”
“I’m going to pretend we’re going to a rave, just so you know.”
“Stick close to me, and you won’t get roofied.”
“That’s a pleasant thought.”
Noah drew me close to his side and we started walking across the empty parking lot at a quick pace. Noah’s jeans rang and he pulled his phone out. “Where are you?” He barked into the phone. He listened for a moment and said, “Mulberry and East 6th. We’ll meet you at the entrance. Text me when you get there.”
Noah ended the call and tucked his phone away.
It sounded grim and dirty and not at all romantic. “Who will be here? Women?”
“You would not believe the women there,” Noah replied, rolling his eyes toward me. “From the suburban mom to the punked-out chicks. They’re turned on by the fighting, I guess.”
I clutched his hand a little tighter, which caused Noah to lean down. “I’ll take care of you.”
“I know you will,” I said with conviction. “I trust you.”
His eyes, lit by the moonlight and the stars, darkened a bit, and he stopped. We both understood I meant for more than for just this one night and one moment. With both hands on my hips, he drew me close so that we were flush from head to toe. “You won’t regret that.”
His mouth came down onto mine with almost a bruising pressure, as if he were trying to brand his message into my body. My hands clenched around his biceps, and I felt them flex slightly underneath me as his arms folded around my back and pressed me hard against him. When he lifted his head, we were both breathing heavily. Even through our two layers of denim, I could feel the outline of his hard-on against me.
“No more distracting me,” he said, his eyes glittering. His mouth tipping up at the corners.
“No sir,” I replied, cheekily. “I won’t stop you and force your arms around me again.”
“Smart ass.” He turned toward a side door of a large brick building that had a dim red bulb above it. No one was standing around outside. Noah rapped out strange pattern on the door. In response, the door opened immediately, and a large man with dirty blond dreads greeted us. “Noah Jackson, what are you doing here?”
“I’m fighting here tonight. Against Rickers.”
Dreadlocks shook his head, the tail ends of his hair swinging slightly. “That’s bad news. What about the UFC?”
“If everyone keeps their traps locked down, it will be fine. Deke, this is my girl, Grace. Keep an eye out for her. She’s precious cargo,” Noah gestured for me to enter. I stepped forward and felt my hand engulfed in Deke’s giant paw. Noah handed Deke a few bills.
“Nice to meet you, Grace,” Deke grunted. After I returned the pleasantry, he pointed down a dark hallway. “Go to the back room. No one wants you to get in trouble. You’re our hometown boy.” Before Deke could close the door, Finn rushed in.
“Great, I caught you. I can never remember the stupid knock,” he panted, clearly having run quickly to make it through before the door was closed. Finn and Deke exchanged greetings and money, and then we all left Deke at the door to venture down the dark hallway.
“I feel like I’m in some bad Halloween movie, and Freddie is going to jump out with his chainsaw at any moment.” I shivered under Noah’s arm.
“I thought the chainsaw guy was Jason.” Finn draped his arm around my back and patted my head.
“Finn, make sure no one mauls Grace tonight, okay?” Noah ordered, pushing Finn’s arm away and drawing me closer to his side.
“Will do,” he replied, unperturbed that Noah seemed to be creating a pocket of space between Finn and me—as if even his friends were not allowed within a certain distance.
At the end of the hallway, a tiny bit of light seeped out underneath a nearly hidden doorway. Noah didn’t bother to knock this time. He just opened the door. Inside were the remnants of an office. Filing cabinets were stacked on top of each other, some perpendicular to the floor, and there was a battered desk with its drawers open and askew, like a lady of the night with her heels kicked off and her pantyhose around her ankles. It was somewhat obscene. Two sofas, with cushions that were nearly flattened by use or age, were positioned opposite the desk. Next to the sofa stood Bo, Mal, and Adam. Bo held out his hand for the bag Noah carried.
He dug in and pulled out the wraps while Noah emptied the contents of his pants pockets and handed my phone to Finn. Noah held out his hands, and Bo wrapped him. “I saw Rickers earlier. He looks like he has trimmed down some, off the ‘roids.”
Noah gave a short nod. “Have you heard where he’s been training?”
“No. Maybe out of town.”
“Strategy?”
“Don’t let him punch you in the face. He was weak in the stomach before. A good kick should level him. I don’t think he’s a good grappler, but you’re on sand and cement here, not the Octagon, so you don’t want to spend too much time on the floor. If I think the fight is getting out of hand, I’m throwing in the towel,” Bo said.
“I don’t need a motherf*cking babysitter,” Noah snarled.
“Yes, you do,” Bo shot back, “or you wouldn’t even be here.”
Noah didn’t respond to this taunt. After Bo finished wrapping his hands, we went back into the hallway, and as we got close to the entrance, I saw another door that I had missed when I first walked into the building. Bo threw it open. The warehouse smelled of old wood and dust. A cluster of people maybe five or six deep stood in the center. Many held bottles or cans of beer. As we approached, the sea of people parted, and I realized it was more like ten deep.
The center wasn’t a boxing ring at all, just a crudely chalked out square. Whether from the traffic of feet or the oppression of machinery that once stood here, there was slight bowl in the dirt floor of the warehouse, creating a miniature amphitheater. It was a good setting for a fight—there were no chairs and the dip in the floor made it easier for the people in the rear to see the action.
The sea of people closed in behind us. A barrel-chested man covered in tattoos stood to one side inside the square, shifting from foot to foot and lightly punching one side of his chest and then the other with alternating hands. He looked huge. If this was trimmed down some, I wouldn’t want to see him all ‘roided up.
I stood at the very edge of the square. Noah turned and said, “Don’t move from here. Finn,” he directed, “take care of her.” Noah moved down to the corner with Bo.
A tall, gangly guy came out to the center and told the crowd they had five minutes to finish up their bets. Five minutes crawled by. Noah pulled off his sweatshirt and sweatpants. He stood with his arms crossed, staring impassively at Rickers. The gangly guy came up to Noah and handed him a white towel. Noah balled it up and threw into the middle.
“F*ck,” I heard Finn say softly.
“What’s wrong now?” I whispered to Finn.
“Rickers is a masochist. Totally gets off on getting hit and won’t stop even if he is seriously injured. He refuses to tap out, and now Noah has rejected the towel,” Finn explained. F*ck, indeed.
“This isn’t going to end well, is it,” I said. It was a statement, not a question.
Finn shook his head, “No, probably not.”
The gangly guy went to Ricker’s side and talked to him for a minute. Ricker shook his head and seemed to refuse the white towel. Finally, he turned to someone in the crowd, a woman, and gestured for her to take the towel. Part of the crowd groaned at this but most seemed to swell with excitement. From what Noah had said earlier, seeing a fight where no one tapped out was what wet dreams were made of for some of these attendees.
I felt so nervous that I wondered if I should bite my nails to alleviate my anxiety. Instead, I just shifted from side to side so much that Finn finally put both hands on my shoulders.
“Stand still,” he warned, “or I’ll tie your shoelaces together.”
Noah bent his head down slightly so his and Bo’s foreheads were almost touching. They exchanged words, serious looks on both their faces, and then Noah held out both wrapped fists. Bo crashed his hands down on top. He slapped Noah on the back and went to the corner.
The skinny guy came out and gestured for the fight to begin.
Noah
The plan was to knock Rickers down and get the hell out of there. I didn’t want Grace to see us grappling like animals, further cementing the idea that I wasn’t right for her, but damn I needed this money.
Rickers could take a punch and, despite his size, he was fairly light on his feet. But, his short arms were always going to prevent him from moving forward. No amount of steroids was going to change that.
I didn’t want to get punched in the face, so I danced backward as he advanced. I had plans with Grace later, and a broken lip would put a serious dent in them.
I could hear the crowd groaning as I ducked and weaved away, wanting more action. Few fighters enjoyed fighting backwards. I figured I’d move around for a minute, catch Rickers off balance, and then attack.
He advanced wildly, eager to make contact. Eager to show me my place. His eagerness played right into my hands. On his next advance, I shot my leg out and round-housed him in the gut. His fist caught me on the top of my head, but I barely noticed. The kick caused him to bend over slightly, and I clipped him with an uppercut. He fell like a shorn log to the ground.
I straddled his body and struck him twice more in the head. I waited for him to tap out, but he struggled upward, trying to throw me off. I held my forearm against his windpipe and waited. Nothing. F*ck this.
I pressed my forearm harder into his neck. Sweat and blood rolled down my forehead, obscuring my vision. I pretended not to notice. “Tap out,” I growled. All my energy was focused into my arm at Ricker’s windpipe.
He grunted. “Can’t. Won’t.”
This was insane. I’d never choked someone into submission before. I had knocked people out with a fist or a kick, but never deliberately choked the air out of someone’s lungs, and I didn’t want to this time. This was the motherf*cking problem with unsanctioned fighting. There wasn’t a referee who would jump in and call a halt to the stupid shit we fighters do. Left to our own devices, we’d choke each until we were all brain damaged.
“You aren’t goddamned Helios. There isn’t any honor here. This is a f*cking warehouse,” I ground out, but still he refused. His eyes stared up at me, unblinking.
“I’d take honor wherever you can get it, brother.” He raised up slightly, as if he wanted my face near his. I should’ve drawn back. A head butt would hurt like a son of a bitch. Instead, I leaned forward and heard him whisper. “It’s all good.” He cracked his head against mine and at the same time his hands on my forearm reversed pressure slightly. I don’t think anyone around us could see but he was almost pulling my arm into his throat.
Gritting my teeth, I acquiesced to his unspoken command and pressed harder. His grip went limp and the light in his eyes dimmed until they were blank and his eyelids rolled shut like a garage door. I felt his entire body go lax beneath mine. I sat up on my haunches and looked down at Ricker’s body underneath mine, laid out like a corpse on a slab.
This was the last time, I thought. The last time I’d ever do this. I had left the Marines because I was tired of the dirt and the death, and here I was, voluntarily rolling around in the dirt in a warehouse fighting some guy practically to the death. I pushed up to my feet and looked for Grace. She was what had brought me out of the war, took me away from my past. My future was with her, if she’d still have me.
Our angry words hung over me, weighing me down like a fighter on my back. I stood up, dizzy from the blow and the head butt, and stumbled toward her. I guess that was all the encouragement she needed, because I could see her run to me, her hand slightly covering her mouth. My vision was clouded, and I felt weak. I stumbled again and before I could fall, she was there, holding me up, pressing her pristine shirt into my chest and getting my blood and sweat mixed up. If I was any kind of decent human being, I’d push her away, but I couldn’t. I could never push her away again.