Falling for Colton (Falling #5) (9 page)

I peel my shirt off, wipe my face with it. “It’s how you stay ripped without a gym.”

Eli eyes my abs, which, admittedly, are pretty ripped. When you’re bored as fuck and sick of doing goddamned homework but you can’t leave your room, what do you do? Work out till you pass out. At least, that’s what I did. Got some dumbbells and installed a pull-up bar in the barn. Honed my routine so I could work on isolating parts of my physique. They were mostly all bodyweight routines since I never really had access to a proper gym with machines. I mean, there was one at school, but there was no fucking way I was gonna spend one more damn second in that hellhole than I had to, and no way I was gonna ask Dad to buy me freeweights or some shit, nor was I gonna spend my money on them.
 

Pair an hour-a-day workout routine with a tendency to get in fights, multiply that by a healthy dose of rage, and what do you get?
 

Me, ready to wreck some shit.

Jumping jacks and spaceman jumps, and then Eli is handing me a bottle of water, which I down. The hit of dope and swig of brandy have been burned away for the most part, so now I’m just loose and limber, sweaty, beefed up.
 

Ruiz sticks his head out. “Colt’s up next,
ese
.”
 

“Man, I ain’t’cho fuckin’
ese
, Ruiz.” Harsh words are accompanied by a grin and a slap of palms, a gesture at me. “Come on, man. Hope all that jumpin’ around got you ready for this shit.”
 

Ruiz grabs me by the shoulder, shoves me forward, pauses, reaches out and takes a short, lean, wiry Hispanic dude—whom I’m assuming is Jesus—by the back of the neck, shoves us both toward the crowd, which parts to let us through. Once in the ring, Jesus does the pre-fight bouncing, fake swings and jabs. Rolls his head on his neck. He’s not ripped, but he’s lean. Hard. Ugly, beady eyes, nose too big, jutting jaw and a permanent snarl on his face. He’s fought already tonight, judging by the split lip and crusted blood under his nose.
 

I don’t bother bouncing or jumping, this time. I simply roll my shoulders, spit pink, flex my fists. Eye my opponent.
 

This is going to be nasty.

Ruiz is between us. He gestures at Jesus. “Jesus, fifteen fights. No losses. Heavily favored.” Motherfucking shit—not good at all. “Colt, one fight, one win.”
 

He glances at both of us. No mention of rules, now that I think of it. “Fight.” He steps back.
 

Jesus is on me before the word has left Ruiz’s lips, before he’s even stepped back all the way. Hands wrapped around the back of my neck, knee flashing like a jackhammer, bashing into my stomach—one, two, three times. Steps back, launches a straight right rocket that catches me on the chin, sends me backward.
 

Fucking hell. Can’t breathe, and that chin-shot was a bitch.

But I ain’t one.

Let him come at me, step inside his next punch, wrap my right arm around his left elbow and under his armpit, lock it out. Step sideways, lifting up. Right hand is a wrecking ball on Jesus’s ribcage, battering, battering, battering. He’s in agony, but takes it without a sound. Makes like he’s gonna punch me with his right hand, but switches tactics at the last second, jabs his thumb at my eye. I manage to turn my head aside at last second and merely get the skin under my eye socket ripped open by his thumb. Blood sluices freely and hot down my face, and I curse in surprise. This lets him jag his knee into my kidney, which forces me to let him go. He doesn’t back off, doesn’t take a second to catch his breath. Just comes right at me, snarling, grinning, and punching like a machine gun. Hard and fast. Most land on my stomach and sides, which I can take for a good bit. Tense, backpedal, curl in, feel his skinny bony fists hammering at my abdomen without letup.
 

I time my hit between punches, twist away, feel his fist smack against my back, and then I’m pivoting on my heel, swinging my fist around in an arc, putting momentum and all my weight into the swing. My fist lands on his liver like a fucking Mack truck, and he gasps breathlessly, curses in Spanish, lurches forward. I follow in, growling, grunting as I land blow after blow to the same spot. Liver, liver, liver, until I’m sure he’ll be pissing blood for a week. When he staggers, finally, I swagger in, smash my forehead right near my hairline onto the bridge of his nose.
 

I feel a crack and then I see stars.
 

Jesus goes limp and collapses to the ground, bleeding from both nostrils.
 

I’m hurting, now. Bad.

I back away, chin lifted high, watching as Jesus writhes on the floor.
 

The crowd is silent, now. Or nearly so, silent but for murmurs of shock.
 

I’m gonna feel this tomorrow.

But then I’m out of the ring and Eli is handing me an old ratty blue hand towel and another bottle of water.
 

I hold the towel against my cheek. “He tried to gouge my fuckin’ eye out.”

“Ain’t no rules in here, man. In big money prize fights Ruiz might tell you no biting and no gouging, but that’s about it.”
 

“How much is big money?” I ask, pacing in circles outside the warehouse.

Eli eyes me, passing me another roll of twenty-dollar bills. “About two months ago we had a big-ass prize fight. Sleek Zeke versus Lil Nasty. Over a mil exchanged hands in that fight. Both fighters took a base of twenty k, and Nasty won so he got the prize, another eighty grand.”

“No shit. A hundred grand?”
 

“Nasty quit fighting after that. He was the best I ever seen, that mothafucka. He probably cleared a good half-a-million in prize money over his career. A hundred fights, only lost once, and that was to Sleek. It was a rematch. Hell of a fight. I pulled in a good quarter-mil myself, betting on Nasty.”

“A quarter of a million dollars? You shittin’ me?”
 

“Hell nah, man. I don’t joke about money.”
 

“But you drive a Buick and live in the ghetto?”
 

“A fast as hell Buick, and you ain’t seen my crib.” His voice is hard. “And if you think that’s the ghetto, son, you don’t know shit. I’d watch your ass, talking that shit, white boy.”

“That’s just a lot of money, you know? That’s get-the-fuck-out-of-here money.”

“Fuck that, dog. I’m a New Yorker, born and bred. I’ll live and die up this bitch. I don’t want out, I just want
up
. Na’mean? Uptown, son. A big ol’ mothafuckin’ pad with some sexy-ass bitches to go in it.”
 

“Hear that, man.”
 

Fist on flesh, shouts.
 

Ruiz appears, a pinner joint between thumb and forefinger. “Puff on that shit,
ese
.” He hands it to Eli, who inhales deeply, and then hands it to me. Ruiz watches me smoke. “You up for one more?”

“Another fight?” I ask, stupidly.

Ruiz takes the joint back from me and tokes on it, laughing. “Yeah, man. Another fight. Julius wants another one. He owes somebody money, I think. Needs quick cash.”

Julius. That’d be a pretty brutal fight, and I’m already hurting. But fuck it. “Two hundred and I’m in.”
 

Eli bobs his head side to side. “I dunno, man. Julius might have your number.”
 

“Fuck that. I can take him.”
 

“You better win, then, I’m putting two hundred down.”
 

“How much you win off me so far?”
 

A smirk and a laugh and a nod. “Five large.”
 

“Exactly.” I dab at my face with my thumb, and note that blood is still trickling from the gash in my cheek. “And I’m the one fighting.”
 

Eli just shrugs. “A’ight then. But you better win.”
 

“I will. And when I do, I get five hundred for my next fight.”
 

“You ain’t fighting again tonight. You and Julius are the big finale, dog.”
 

“I wouldn’t fight again tonight anyway. I think Julius is going to put the hurt down. I’ll take him, but it’ll hurt.”
 

Eli eyes me with something very much like respect. “You crazy, white boy. Bruce, Al, Jesus, and now Julius?”
 

“Got nothin’ to lose,” I say. It’s the damn truth. What else am I going to do? Walk aimlessly around New York?

“You fightin’ Crazy Bruce for somewhere to sleep, you’re probably right.” He extends his hand, thumb pointing up, and I slap my palm against it. “You got a deal. You win against Julius, I’ll put five hundred down for your next fight.”
 

This is pushing it, even for me. I’m exhausted. I haven’t slept in I don’t even know how long. I’ve got a broken nose, throbbing ribs, a cut cheek, and bloody knuckles. And I’m going in for another fight with a known bruiser. I really must be crazy. Fuck, I
know
I am. I’m hurting bad, man.

It keeps me from contemplating my existence, at least.
 

I lean back against the rear quarter panel of Eli’s car, spit blood, lean over and blow blood and mucus out of my nose. I spit some more. I bridge my fingers over my nose and bring my palms together. I take a deep breath, hesitate; this shit does
not
feel good
.
Pull my hands downward slowly toward my chin, groaning, dizzy from boiling pain as the broken cartilage realigns. I have to sink to the ground, sitting on my haunches until the dizziness passes.

“Didn’t get blood on my ride, did you?” Eli asks. I don’t think he’s joking.
 

“No,” I grunt. “How long do I have?”
 

Ruiz vanished at some point, but now he reappears. “You’re up, Colt.”
 

No time at all, apparently.

I push up, bounce on the balls of my feet and shake my hands, roll my head on my neck. “Lead the way, Ruiz.”
 

Julius is already waiting in the ring, flexing his fists. He’s got puffy eyes, split lips, bloody knuckles and a deep gash over his eyebrow. He’s lost his shirt, too. We’re evenly matched, I think, just in terms of size. He might be a few pounds heavier in muscle, but I’m pretty sure I’ve got a longer reach. He’s got the experience on me, though. And I doubt he’s missed any meals recently.
 

I’m running on rage, determination and desperation now.
 

Ruiz steps between Julius and me. “Keep your teeth in your mouths, the both of you. This is the last fight of the night, so make it good.” He addresses the crowd. “You know who’s who by now. Julius has twelve fights, ten wins and two losses. Colt has two fights, no losses. Julius is favored. Place your bets.” He finishes collecting the money, twists a rubber band around the stack of cash and shoves it in his back pocket, and then steps between us again. Glances at each of us. Steps back. “Fight!”
 

Julius is careful. He doesn’t come out swinging at me, just edges forward, head down, fists up. The crowd is crazed, and I hear my name called a few times. Not everyone is betting on Julius, then. That makes me feel a little better.
 

We circle a few times, and then I lead in, left jab. Quick and dirty, a feeler. It glances off Julius’s barred forearms, and I follow it with another, and a right cross. The cross connects, reopening his eyebrow. Pisses him off. He abandons his careful approach and charges in, blood-frenzied. I tuck my chin against my chest and bring my fists over my face, backpedaling and ducking and weaving under the barrage of blows. Most batter against my forearms, one grazes the top of my head, another finds its way to my side. He doesn’t quit, though, just keeps hammering blow after blow on me, punching like a madman, and some of them connect painfully.
 

Enough is enough.

I duck my head and lunge for him, knock his fist aside and crush both my fists at once into his chest. My head cracks against his, but my fists meet his chest, and he’s toppling backward, both of us shaking our heads. Julius recovers first and gets in a full, hard hook to my eyebrow, splitting it. An uppercut to the jaw, knocking me backward, cracking my teeth together. He follows through, the bastard, hooking a fist into my gut. Fucker is tough, and he hits hard.
 

I’m dizzy, I ache. I hurt. I can’t take another hard hit or I’ll fall, and once that happens, I’m done. So I don’t let it happen. I dance back out of range, blink against the dizziness of the pain and breathe through it. I’m growling through it, snarling like a bear, chest heaving, shaking my head to clear my vision, all but foaming at the mouth. Julius is charging for me, a bull on the loose. I swivel aside at the last second, sucker-punch him in the back of the head, send him sprawling. Leap on him, straddle him, turn him over and crash my fist against his face again and again, feeling his knee bludgeoning my spine, his fists battering against my sides.
 

I get in half a dozen good hits before he bucks me off, rolls away, and lurches to his feet. I power up and forward, going after him, refusing to let him get away, refusing to go on the defense. He’s bloody, wobbly, but still fierce. I go in with fists and knees, bashing and driving him to the edge of the ring. He’s edging away, trying to buy time to shake off the damage. I see nothing but Julius, hear nothing but my own ragged breathing. He’s backing away from me, wiping at his face, trying to clear his vision, and holy fuck is this guy a hard-ass motherfucker. Not many guys can take this kind of beating and stay upright.
 

I have a vision of me, bloody, the loser, rattling around the city alone, hurting, hungry, exhausted, money stolen. I have a vision of sleeping under bridges, stealing scraps from rats and pigeons. Fuck that.

We close in together, almost clenching one another, both of us bleeding like stuck pigs. He hooks another hard left into my gut, and that’s his undoing. I intentionally accept the gut-shot, tense and wince at the smack of his fist into my abdomen. It was a gambit, taking that hit. I’m about done in, but if I can take one more gut-punch, if I can get close enough, inside his wicked fists, and pummel him, I think I have a chance to end this.