Falling for Colton (Falling #5) (10 page)

As his fist is buried in my gut, I’m already swinging. Not for his stomach, though. Up, to his ribs. Like with Al. You gotta be tactical, sometimes, pinpoint that shit. I rock him up and back with a brutal blow to his diaphragm, another, and another. All as close to the same spot as I can get.
 

He staggers, gasping. I have to finish it. Follow through. I spit blood and step toward him. He’s too proud to lift a hand in surrender, and he knows that in this ring there is no mercy, and he wouldn’t show it to me if the tables were turned.
 

I swing my right once more. I don’t hold back. It’s not a finisher, but it’s enough to put him down.
 

The swing leaves me staggering. Drooling. Coughing, blood stringing to the floor from my lips. Julius is on the ground, on his side, face on the concrete, gasping and gagging. Spitting so he doesn’t choke.
 

I got mad respect for Julius. I drag myself step by step over to him. Stand over him. He’s wary, expecting a kick, maybe. I don’t know. I extend my hand to him, and after a suspicious, baleful stare, he raises his hand and grasps mine. I haul him to his feet, and we stand a few inches apart. Staring at each other. Assessing.
 

“You a hell of a fighter, dog,” Julius says. His voice is way deep, the sound coming from the bottom of a well.

“You too, man.” I grin. “Let’s not do this again any time soon, huh?”

He laughs and we walk—stagger, really—out of the ring. “No shit. That fuckin’ hook to the chest, man…that shit’s a killer.”
 

We leave the building together. Eli is there, peeling bills off a roll, smoking a blunt. The huge black guy from up on the catwalk platform is there too, the diamonds in his ears and on his fingers glinting in the moonlight. Huge and silent, hands in his pockets, just up to the knuckles, head tilted to the side.
 

“Ya’ll are homies, now, huh?” he asks.
 

Julius steps away. “Hell nah. Just respect, man.”

“He beat yo’ ass.” The huge man steps forward. Clearly unhappy. “You
lost
, dog. I had ten g’s on that shit.”

“Hey man, it coulda gone either way. If I’d’a gotten one more hit in, he’d be done too.”
 

“But you didn’t.”
 

Julius is nervous. The air is still, cold and hard. I don’t dare speak or move or even breathe too loudly. Eli is the same, blunt in his fingers coiling smoke up, up, up, not smoking it now, just holding it. Watching. Waiting. There’s violence in the air. Not fists and broken noses, but holes in the chest and dead eyes.
 

“Come on, man.” Julius just stands there, wiping at the blood trickling from his nose with his thumb. “I’m ten and three, Train. I won’t lose again.”
 

I swallow hard, my throat thick. I can see a similar conversation happening between Eli and me. This isn’t boxing. It’s not MMA or the UFC. It’s back alley, underground, nasty. No rules but those set in place by the dudes running it. Like Train, there. Staring at Julius, holding the younger man’s fate in his hands. You lose, you could die. Not in the ring, but outside, afterward.
 

“I back you, I expect you to win,” Train says. “I don’t back losers. I let those first two losses go since you was new. You ain’t new no more. I ain’t gonna let any more losses slide.”

“I got you.” Julius just breathes, not yet daring to relax.

Train shoots a look at Eli. Digs in his pocket, pulls out a thick stack of cash. “Guess I owe you this.”
 

“I told you he was a fighter,” Eli says, slowly taking the money from Train and tossing it into the open driver’s side window.
 

“Sho did.” Train eyes me, now. “He could go large. I’ll buy him from you.”

“Buy me?” I can’t help asking.

Eli shoots me a meaningful look. “Shut the fuck up, white boy. Lemme handle this.” His eyes move to Train. “Nah, man. I found him, I’ll back him.”
 

“Change your mind, lemme know.” Train shuffles back into the building. “Get outta here, Julius. Go see Johnny tomorrow. Learn some shit.”
 

Julius nods, backs away, shoulders sagging. When Train is out of sight, Julius pivots away, rakes his hands over his closely shaved scalp. “Shit, man. Shit. Shit. I was about to piss myself, no joke.”
 

I don’t know what to say. “Got tense there for a minute.”
 

Eli puts the blunt to his lips. Takes a long drag. “Train don’t fuck around.”
 

“So if I lose too many times, will you shoot me?” I ask Eli.

“I might, dog. I might.” He doesn’t sound like he’s joking. Doesn’t look like it, either.
 

“Guess I’d better win, then.”

Julius jerks his chin up at me. “I’ll be seeing you, Colt. Good fight.”
 

“You too, Julius.”
 

When Julius is gone, Eli shakes his head. “Man, I thought Train was gonna blast him for sure. Be a hell of a waste. That kid is quick. Loss like that one’ll make him careful, take him down a peg. Good for him.” He hands me four fifty-dollar bills. “This is yours. Four hundred in one night, your first time in the ring. Not bad, white boy.”
 

“Yeah, well, I’m not in Kansas anymore, am I?”

“You from Kansas?”
 

I’m not sure if he’s joking. “Um, no. Detroit. That was…it was from a movie.”
 

“Oh yeah, with the lion, the scarecrow, the tin dude, and that white bitch with the red shoes. The fuck’s it called?
The
Wizard of O
z, ain’t it? I seen that shit before.” He pinches the cherry off the blunt, puts the roach into a baggy and then into his pocket. “So what’s that supposed to mean, you ain’t in Kansas anymore?”

I shrug. “Just that I can’t afford to lose, can I?”

Eli laughs. “I was just fuckin’ with you, man, I wouldn’t shoot you for losing.”
 

“Good to know.” I’m not sure I believe him. “Hey, man, I’m done in. I need to crash somewhere.”
 

“I got’chu.” He glances to the side, someone in the shadows beckoning to him. “I got some business for a minute. Try not to get in trouble.”
 

Eli vanishes into the shadows, and I’m alone in the alley.
 

But not for long.
 

The girl who brought me the sandwich slinks out of the doorway, this time wearing booty shorts and a tanktop sans bra, no tray. She’s…I don’t know what she is, ethnically. Mixed, maybe. Dark curly hair, the kind of skin that could be tanned white girl, Italian, Mexican. Dark eyes with heavy makeup. A fuckin’ bangin’ body, ass that won’t quit, tits for days. Real tits, too, judging by the way they jiggle. I hold my ground, leaning back against the wall, letting the aches fade. She comes straight up to me, leans back against the wall beside me, digs a cigarette out of her cleavage.

“Got a light?” she asks, glancing at me sideways.

“Sure.” I snap open my recently-acquired Zippo, light her smoke.

“Thanks.”
 

“No problem.” I watch her smoke, watch the way her tits swell in her shirt with each breath.
 

She flaunts them to make a buck, so I’m not real concerned with getting caught staring. Besides, the looks she’s giving me, I think she’s got something in mind. And just let me say, no matter how hurt I am, I’m never too sore to get down with a sexy chick.
 

Finished with her smoke, she pushes off the wall, turns away from me, walks a few steps, then turns her head back to look at me, a playful smile on her lips, eyebrow quirked. It’s an invitation if I’ve ever seen one, so I push off, follow her. Up the stairs to the catwalk, across it to a door leading to a makeshift kitchen. Not much but a deep fryer, an industrial refrigerator, a rolling counter top, and a shelf with some dry goods. Another door leads to an office, a battered metal desk, a filing cabinet, and a leather couch new enough to look out of place.
 

She closes the door behind me, pivots around me, puts her back to the door. Looks up at me. “I don’t usually like watching the fights, but you make it sexy, somehow.” Her voice is low, sultry.

“Oh yeah?”

She reaches for my belt. “Yeah.
Real
sexy. Had me all hot and bothered, watching you fight.” She’s got my cock out, and she’s stroking it slowly; not wasting any time, clearly. “The way you took hit after hit after hit…”

She times the strokes to the rhythm of her words, has me bucking and moaning within a few seconds. I let her go to her knees, watch her wrap those plush lips around me, watch her suck. Let her suck for a minute, until I’m worked up, and then I pull away.
 

“I wasn’t done,” she protests.

“Yeah you are.” I pull her to her feet. “I’m not coming down your throat.”

She moans as I tug her tank top off, whimpers when I lick one erect nipple. “No? Where, then?”

I make quick work of her shorts, get her naked. Spin her in place, smack her ass hard enough to leave a mark, leave it quivering. “All over this.”
 

“There’s condoms in the desk.”
 

I don’t think about what the convenience of that means, because it doesn’t really matter. This girl—whose name I don’t know and won’t ask—knows what this is as well as I do. I find the stash in a drawer of the desk, all sizes, all kinds. Take one, open it, roll it on.
 

She’s been busy while I’m engaged in rolling protection on; her fingers are at her pussy, sliding in slick, quick circles, getting herself there while standing up, feet wide, shoulders back against the door. I watch for a second, because that’s fucking hot.
 

“You wanna take over, Colt?” she invites.

“Nah. Watching you is fun.”

This gets me another sexy little grin, which quickly fades as she gets closer and closer, hips starting to buck, eyes fluttering closed, thighs trembling with a nice little shake.
 

I wait until it looks like she’s gonna pop any second, and then I grab her hips. Pull her to me. Knock her fingers out of the way, take over, finish her off with a quick, harsh, rough stab of two fingers into her slit, thumb against her clit. She comes with a quiet shriek, and I slide into her while she’s coming, push in deep.
 

Fuck hard, slamming her against the door. She braces her hands on my shoulders, lifts one foot to hook her leg around my waist. I grip her under her ass, lift her off the ground, and then buck up into her, hard, so hard her head snaps back and her tits jounce beautifully.

But I’ve been through too much over the past few days to be able to sustain that for long, so I let her down, pull out. Spin her around and bend her over the arm of the couch. She puts her palms on the cushion, leans over so her face is down, ass up, lifted up on her toes. Jesus, she’s eager. I slide back in, and fuck, she may not be tight, but she’s wetter than a slip’n’slide, and doesn’t seem to mind my palm whacking across her ass cheek. I pound her like that, harder and harder and harder, until I’m close to coming.

And then I pull out, strip the condom off, and jack myself with my fist, shoot my come all over her big round ass, splatting dripping rivulets of come on her spine, her ass cheeks, and down the crack.

There’s Kleenex on the desk, so I take a moment to clean her up; I’ll take easy sex, but that doesn’t mean I’m a jackass about it.

She tugs on her clothes, eyeing me curiously, as if no hookup has ever bothered to do that before. “Didn’t have to do that,” she says.

“I make a mess, I clean it up. It’s basic decency.”

“Well, thanks.” She buckles my belt for me, almost wistfully. “You fuck even better than you fight.”
 

I give her a cocky grin. “Thanks.” A horn blares outside, Eli getting impatient, probably. “Got to go. Thanks for a good time.”
 

“Thank
you
.” She winks at me. “You want more, find me at the next fight. I might even bring a friend or two, next time.”
 

Ho-ly
shit
. “I will for sure take you up on that.”
 

“I’m Raquel, by the way.”
 

Another honk, this one longer. “Really got to go. My backer is getting antsy. Nice to meet you, Raquel.”

I duck out the door, jog through the kitchen and across the catwalk to the exit.
 

Eli is waiting in his rumbling Buick, and I join him, lowering myself into the passenger seat.
 

“Where’d you go, dog?”
 

I lean back in the seat, blowing out a breath. “Business,” I mutter.

Raquel is moseying out the exit, sees me through the open window of Eli’s Buick, waves at me, a wiggle of all five fingers.

Eli laughs. “Ohhhh,
that
business. Got all up in that, did you?” Another laugh. “You do
not
waste time, do you? Damn, son, that was quick. Raquel don’t mess around with the fighters, usually.”
 

Another long, slow cruise through the streets, a heavy bass line thudding from the woofers in the trunk. We don’t go back to the bridge where I tangled with the old homeless guy. We head somewhere else. Not sure where, but it seems familiar. Low buildings, graffiti on the walls, chain link fence around basketball courts, dilapidated tenements with crumbling brick stairs and battered intercom boxes. The highrises of Manhattan are barely visible to my left, far in the distance, tall rectangles in the early morning haze. Eli pulls to a stop in front of an apartment building. He gets out of the car and unfolds his frame, tugging at the tail of his shirt. He swaggers up to the front door and jerks it open. The intercom buzzers are all broken, no names, just graffiti in black marker.
 

There are flickering lights overhead, a battered staircase, an empty bottle of cheap malt liquor in the corner. A used condom. The foyer stinks like piss and smoke and food grease and old building. Eli hops up the stairs and up another flight to the second floor and heads to the third door on the left. 2B. He doesn’t knock, he just opens the door to reveal a smoky haze in the room. There’s a chill pebbling my skin. The place is pretty bare bones—a low table in the middle of the room, a threadbare couch under a window and another perpendicular to it. There’s a small kitchen, pots and pans on the stove, crusted and stinking, dishes in the sink, carryout containers on the counters, bottles of beer and liquor everywhere.