A Fighting Chance (17 page)

“Who’s he fighting?” I ask Miguel.

“Who else?” he yells back. When the lights snap on, the place is transformed, going haywire as a hulking beast of a dude lurches through a crowd that parts for him in a biblical way. Everyone’s hands are cupped at their mouths, and they have to be shredding his eardrums right now, but his eyes are glued to Arturo.

“Whoa…” I recognize him immediately, before the announcer confirms it.
Cocodrilo.
Even with his pockmarked skin and scar running diagonally from his hairline to his chin, women are pleading for his attention as he walks into the cage. One of them even grabs a chunk of his long black hair before he yanks his head away. The guy is a fucking brick wall. No, fuck that. An entire block of brick buildings. He reminds me of Duke, tall and wide, but I bet the similarities stop there.

He’s wearing his signature green fighting shorts and gloves, and when he flexes his abnormally bulbous muscles, there’s an interstate highway map of veins all over them.
The sight of him has me edgy. He wears his danger like skin. He goes to all eight sides of the cage and rattles the chain-links. The audience loves it, of course. When he snaps his teeth at Arturo, I see how he got his name. Almost every one of them is triangular, like they were filed into shape, and they are razor sharp at the points.

“That’s Carlos Garcia,” I
tell Drew. “He was pretty famous in underground circles when I was fighting. Still is, obviously. He’s a legend here in Mexico.” I’d heard one guy is paralyzed now from a kick that shattered part of his spine. And then Cocodrilo kept kicking.

Drew’s hand bumps mine before her nails dig into my palm.
“He’s scary-looking.” She’s right. Carlos is really fucking frightening, and in that way your instincts sense, when the hairs are standing on the back of your neck and chills are rushing down your spine. As he’s moving past our side of the cage, I notice the intricate web of tattoos covering his entire back. There’s the Grim Reaper, gray spirit-like figures floating up from dismembered body parts, and skeletal hands clawing up from underground.

Totally fucking normal.

A bikini-clad ring card girl takes a twirl around the cage with a ROUND ONE sign before she scrapes her fingers along Cocodrilo’s shoulder as she exits.

“How much would Arturo get if he won?” I shout to Miguel over the blood thirst.

He laughs awkwardly. “He’s not going to win, Jesse…”

“Okay, how much would he win in theory?”

“For beating Cocodrilo? A lot. Probably ends up being fifteen or twenty grand, U.S.” Wow, that would put us really far ahead. My wheels are spinning, rather recklessly I admit. Carlos weighs a whole other person more than I do, but a guy that big can’t be fast. It would be like boxing a Redwood. Okay, a Redwood that could snap my neck. Still, I think I could maneuver around him, deliver an unpredictable combo of hits, and get him in a painful hold to clinch the win. A theory. Just a theory. And theory and practice are two different things. But as I watch them touch gloves, I know I will never be able to convince myself not to fight him after tonight. Is it crazy to think I can beat him, though? Without the whole permanent injury thing?

“Drew, can you watch him? Study him?” I ask.

“Arturo?”

“No. Cocodrilo.”

She cinches her brows together. “Are you insane?” The bell dings before I can respond that I probably am. Both of us turn to the cage and see Arturo go from
fine
to
fucked
before I can blink. Carlos grabs him by the neck and slams his head into his left knee, sending a wave of blood flying. Arturo tries to protect his face but he gets Carlos’s knee again, several times. Carlos growls as he chucks him against the cage, and the impact is so hard it dents the shape of the chains.

His reach
is his strength. His arms are long, so the trick is to either fight him up close or not get caught. I guess no one told Arturo that because he is already trapped, and Carlos is ruthless in his attack. He’s not fast at all, so I’m right about that, but what he lacks in speed he makes up for in brutality. He cranks Arturo’s arm behind his back and roughly wrenches a few of his fingers. I can’t hear the bones cracking but I know they’re broken from the look of agony on Arturo’s face. Then Carlos pounds his head against the cage with one hand and slugs him in the back with a deluge of punches. Everyone is cheering, except for the sullen men on the opposite side. A stocky Hispanic man is screaming into the face of another man and gesturing at Arturo. I get the feeling that one way or another, Arturo is not going to be okay tomorrow.

When Drew squeezes my hand and gasps, I turn my eyes back to the fight, which isn’t really much of one. Carlos releases Arturo, but it’s clear
that he’s just doing it because he’s bored. The entertainment needs entertainment, too. Arturo collapses onto all fours, crawling with an anguished expression as he tries to get to the other side of the cage. He grips his side, where a large purple splotch has formed. I stare at Carlos, catch the amusement on his face, and I wonder if that’s how I used to look. The thought rakes my insides. Carlos is like some kind of inescapable nightmare come to life. My stomach bottoms out and my breaths quicken when he starts a slow walk toward Arturo. But instead of just cutting across the floor, he strolls around the edge of the cage, snapping his teeth and dragging his hand along the chain-links. As excruciating as it is for me to watch, I can’t grasp the situation from Arturo’s perspective, but I see the fear blazing in his eyes. Carlos bursts into laughter as Arturo, who is bleeding from multiple wounds on his face, scurries to another spot the closer he gets to him. Cocodrilo keeps his same pace the entire time, and Arturo just looks more desperate and terrified with each step.

“Oh my God,” Drew whispers in a hoarse tone
, “he’s…he’s…”

“Hunting him,” I say, filling in. I gulp down and my mouth is so dry it hurts
to swallow. “He’s hunting him.”

Even though he’s not fast, f
or someone his size, Carlos’s movements aren’t lumbering. They’re actually smooth and slithery like a snake’s. When he suddenly switches directions and catches the unsuspecting Arturo, I suck in a sympathy breath, my heart ready to leap from my chest. Cocodrilo tosses him, and Arturo rolls to a stop onto his stomach. He stays flat and he looks dazed, while Carlos leans against the cage with the cruelest smile plastered on his face. The clock is counting down the round, but it feels like everything is happening in slow motion.
Anywhere else, this would have been a knockout, but this isn’t anywhere else.

I
clench my trembling hands into fists. “Get up, Arturo. Get up!” I don’t even realize I’ve said it out loud until Drew turns her head. “Get up!” He’s just so helpless all I want to do is fight for him, because he won’t or can’t do it himself. I’m pretty sure he can’t hear me, but whatever is motivating him pushes him up to his elbows. Hope swells in my chest and I clap, wholly invested in his recovery. “Get! Up! Get up! Get the fuck up! Move, Arturo!” He pushes up again, to his knees this time, but dread as cold as ice seeps into my blood when Carlos takes his first step toward him.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuuuuck.

“Oh my God!” Drew slaps her palms over her eyes—something I’ve never seen her do during a fight before—and mine just won’t shut. The burn of a
brewing panic attack steals air from my lungs when Carlos kicks Arturo back down.

He’s tracking him all over the place again and kicking him in the ribs every time he tries to get up. There’s really no fight left in Arturo, just flight
, and an escape is exactly what he won’t get. Carlos crushes Arturo’s injured hand under his heel. Each time he lifts his foot I get a glimpse of the bent, bleeding mess underneath. A knot of despair constricts my heart. As the crowd’s noise roars to the highest decibels I think it can reach before our eardrums explode, Carlos plants a knee on Arturo’s back and smashes his head into the canvas until I lose count. When Carlos bends one of his massive arms around Arturo’s neck, anxiety slashes my insides, and I feel like I’m ripping apart. Cocodrilo’s muscles relax as he eases up for just a second, but he tightens his hold again. He repeats this move over and over. Each time, Arturo struggles and sheer terror washes his skin pale. I have no doubt in my mind that Carlos could crack Arturo’s windpipe with barely a squeeze, and he’d enjoy it, but he likes Arturo’s fright much more. He likes taking him to that place where he almost blacks out, where he almost gives up hope. Carlos’s wide brown eyes whip around, and when they land on me, they’re blank. Not that they are simply empty of emotion but actually seem incapable of it.

Just your run-of-the-
mill psychopath.

But something else shakes me, too
. The last night I fought in Glory…I could’ve hurt Kerr like this. And maybe the reason I can’t really process what Arturo’s experiencing is because deep down I know I can relate to Carlos more. I know what holding power over another man feels like. I know how to drink his fear of you in. I know how a crowd’s electrifying praise becomes your heartbeat.

Carlos’s gaze
slams into Drew and a chill rolls down my spine, even though he looks at someone else right away. I still feel the need to lean her against me and fold my arms around her. “He’s torturing him and he’s going to kill him. I can’t watch anymore,” she says, with a sickened look. “I can’t. I…”

“Me
, neither.” I tap Miguel, refusing to look into that cage again. “We’re gonna go hang out in the back.” Drew and I are already moving, and I keep my focus on Miguel, afraid my eyes will stray back to the carnage.

“Okay.
Good. Me, too.” Miguel is sweating and red in the face, swamped by the same fear we are, so the three of us leave Arturo behind to fend for himself. Even though I doubt he’ll be able to do much more fending.

Drew pokes her head out from around the flimsy shower curtain in our hotel room. She pull
s the curtain a little too far and her wet shoulder, side boob, and hip are exposed.
Damn.
I jerk my eyes away and turn on the faucet to wash my hands, trying to pretend I haven’t been staring as she showers. Sometimes what you can’t see, touch…
fuck…
is as enticing as what you can, and the visual of us against that tile wall has been plaguing me since I walked in here.

“Jesse?”

“Huh?”

“Can you grab my razor and shaving cream?” She points to a plastic bag
on the floor below the towel rack. I take out what she wants and walk to the tub.

“
Sorry, I was
way
in my thoughts…” I lick my lips as my gaze trails the little streams of water sliding down the curve of her waist and then her hip. I want to lick the drops off her stomach and her inner thighs. I don’t give a fuck how dangerous the water is here. My ex is gorgeous. And really sweet and caring. But, holy shit, she’s naked a foot away from me.
And engaged. Engaaaaaged.
I drag the word out in my head.
Eyes up. Eyes up. Eyes up.
Fuck.
They don’t even make it past the part of her boob that’s visible.

“Can’t get that fight out of your head, either?” Drew draws the curtain
closed, but I’m glued to where I’m standing. She smoothes her hair back under the falling water then hikes her leg up onto the edge of the tub to shave. A hot tingle starts at the back of my neck and lands in my pants.

“Yeah…” I say, but it’s more like I can’t get
her
out of my head. She let me in here to take a piss earlier, but I saw the curves of that body I don’t know anymore and then leaving became impossible.

Sh
e has been in there for a while, like it’s hard to wash away what we saw tonight. When I was in there, I certainly couldn’t get clean enough. I already know that Kerr, José and the others I fought—their voices, their faces—are embedded too far down in me to reach anyway, but I don’t think you can ever
really
cleanse yourself of the destruction you wreak on other people.

“Hey, let’s go out tonight,” I say loud enough for Miguel to hear out in the room
. “We’re in Mexico City, and Miguel drove a long way to get here.” We’re on a tough mission, and tonight we have seen how bad it can get. It will probably get worse, and I need an outlet. I also want us to go out because I feel terrible for rejecting her sightseeing idea earlier. Drew could be a million other places right now, but she’s here helping me.

She
sticks her head out again—just her head—eyeing me suspiciously. “You don’t need to convince me. I heard a place called
Las Sirenas
is really good.”

“Drew’s in. Miguel?” I yell out. “What about you?” Like I really
have to ask.

“
I was hopeful! Got my clothes in my car!” Miguel shouts back.

An hour later, we head to Polanco, a ritzy area with glimmering high-rise hotels and ornamental mansions, and
go to
Las Sirenas
. We join a long line of diverse, chattering people at the entrance: stunning women in high heels and short sparkling dresses, guys in blazers and jeans checking them out, a group of literal new adults showing off their dance moves to each other, and even an older couple counting out the cover charge between them from their fanny packs. The various languages interweave, and I can barely pick out my own. If you ever want to see global unity in action, head to a nightclub in any big city.