Never Choose Flight (A Fighter Romance Novel) (5 page)

The rest of the week drifted by. Wednesday and Thursday melted into each other, and I didn’t care about either of them. Not one bit.

The idea that Malcolm had planted in my head, the idea of a dangerous life, just wouldn’t go away. In my brain that idea shone incredibly bright, which made everything else seem dull. But there was no way for me to make it happen.

Or at least that’s what I thought, until Friday. Something occurred to me when I woke up, and by the time I got to the office I was actually excited.

I knew that if I showed up at his house, Malcolm would probably just ask me to leave. He wouldn’t want me there, putting myself in a dangerous situation. I didn’t have his number. But I did know where he worked.

I remembered that he told me he fought every Sunday at that same building. That same warehouse in the terrible neighbourhood of Terminal Island. And on Friday morning, I decided to go see his next fight.

I walked into the office with a smile on my face. I didn’t realize it was there until Samantha pointed it out. “You look chipper this morning,” she said.

The grin stayed on my face despite my best effort. “Yeah,” I said.

“Did that asshole finally call you back?”

“No,” I said, “but I have a plan now.”

“Yeah?” she asked.

“Yeah. I’ll tell you more at lunch.”

I walked off to my desk, leaving Samantha with a mystery. I didn’t care about my work at all. I got straight to googling. Trying to find any evidence of the weekly warehouse fights. Trying to find something about them. A website. Maybe a schedule.

But everything I searched turned up nothing. It was like literally no one had ever written a single sentence about them online.

It occurred to me how illegal it all probably was. Even gambling on proper, organized sports is pretty illegal. The idea of people betting cash on two men fighting was pretty out there.

And who knows what other kind of stuff must be happening down there on the island. It sure didn’t look like the fight was the only thing people had gone there for. We’d left pretty early, but I got the impression that the night was just beginning for a lot of folk standing around there.

I searched all morning, and ended up reading all about the fighting. Street fighters. Mixed martial arts. I found some videos which I played on mute. But most of them were totally amateur. Just two thugs beating on each other for no reason. No one had the skills that Malcolm did.

Then I found a thread where people talked about the business side. One man made a post asking how the money side of it worked.

From what I could gather, it paid pretty well. Some fighters got a thousand dollars every fight they were in. Some would also place bets on themselves, and make even more if they won. But I also found that a lot of owners only paid the winning fighter. If you lost, you got nothing.

And if you lost enough times in a row, or walked away from a fight that many people had bet on, you might end up blackballed - never allowed to fight in any underground club for the rest of your life.

Once lunch rolled around, Samantha walked by and tapped me on the shoulder. I followed her, and we dug into our lunches.

“I’m going to a fight,” I said, quietly.

She raised an eyebrow at me.

“He fights every Sunday. And I know where. So I’m going to go and watch.”

“So you don’t have another date planned or anything?” she asked. “Your plan is just to go and watch him get beat up.”

“He’ll do the beating,” I said. “I know that much. And who knows. Maybe I just need closure. Just need to see him one last time before saying goodbye for good.”

“Or maybe it’ll grow into something more?”

“Well of course that’s what I’m hoping for,” I said. “But either way, I think I just need the excitement. I never noticed how boring it is to sell paper.”

“I imagine an underground fight club is a lot more exciting.”

“Yep,” I said.

The rest of the day flew by, and then Saturday was just agony. I had nothing to do. No work to distract myself with. It was just a day of waiting for Sunday. I ended up staying up late reading, and then I slept in Sunday morning much longer than I normally do.

I was wired when I woke up though. Like a kid on Christmas. I was going to dive right into the dangerous world tonight. On purpose. And there was no one who could stop me. I was so wired that I didn’t even have my standard forty ounces of coffee. A glass of orange juice was enough for me.

I distracted myself with some errands during the day, made some soup that I could bring to work for the rest of the week, and it was nine o’clock in no time.

The roads are pretty empty late on a Sunday. Everyone is in bed early, getting ready for their next week of work. I cruised down the roads at a leisurely pace, and then took an exit that no one would take on a Sunday night. Especially not a woman all on her own. I turned onto Terminal Island.

I wove down the wide roads, not sure exactly where I was going. I hadn’t committed the directions to memory, but I still felt like I had a good sense of direction. I knew where I was headed. And then, before I even realized it, the warehouse rose up in front of me on the road.

The lights were on inside, and the crowd was bustling. I stepped out of my car and headed towards the entrance. I could have gone to the side of the building, where Malcolm probably was, but I’d convinced myself that I was here to see him. I was just here to watch a fight. Get out a bit. Break out of my shell.

But as I approached the doors, the two huge guys with the bats stepped into my way. They looked down at my past their bulging pectorals.

“I’m here,” I said, “I’m here for the fight.”

One of them shook his head while the other one spoke. “Sorry ma’am. We can’t let you in.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“A woman like yourself,” said the other, “here on her own. It’s for your own safety.”

“But I saw other women in there last time,” I protested. “And you let me in last time.”

“Well you were with the Beast. I wouldn’t be worried for you if you were with the Beast. But on your own-”

Suddenly I felt an arm on my shoulder and a voice in my ear. “She’s with the Beast.”

I looked over and saw a grin on Malcolm’s face.

“Right then,” said one of the bouncers, and they both stepped aside.

Malcolm led me in and said, “Fancy seeing you here.”

“I’m not here to see you,” I said. “I’m just here to watch a good fight.”

“You’re mad that I didn’t call.”

I paused. He’d read me like a book. “I know that it’s what we agreed to. I’ll get over you. It’s just tough ‘cause you’re so handsome.”

“I lit your card on fire,” he said. “The second you left my house. I don’t think I’ve ever regretted something so much in my life.”

I tilted my head.

“I am so glad you’re here. I was worried that I’d never get to see you again.”

I was dumbfounded.

He smiled at me for a moment, and then said, “I’ve gotta go get ready. Fight’s in ten. I don’t know if I’d bet on me, if I were you. I’ve heard this fight might get dirty.”

Before I could ask him what he meant by that, he was off. Gone to his side of the ring. I walked up close, and saw the man on the other side of the ring. He was sitting in one of the metal, foldable chairs, and he had a look of deep concentration in his eyes.

He was kind of scrawny, for a fighter. And he looked old. Tufts of grey hair on either side of his head. And he had scars
everywhere
. He was only wearing a pair of shorts, and I could see all over his body, marks from previous fights. He’d taken a beating in his day. And now he was back for more.

And there was something unsettling about the way he sat. Not reacting in any way to the crowd around him. Like he was worried. Or planning. Or something. Maybe he wasn’t sure if he was doing the right thing. Maybe he was scared he would get hurt. There was a man in a suit standing behind him with a hand on his shoulder. Coach, maybe? Trainer?

Malcolm looked ready. He was also topless, hands taped up. Throwing punches into the air. Back and forth. Jabbing with one hand and then the other. Quick, fast jabs. The kind he’d used to knock out the guy last time.

The announcer got into the ring and made his last call for bets, and then started the fight. The man Malcolm was fighting went by “Scrapper.” Didn’t seem like too intimidating of a name.

“Ten. Nine. Eight,” the entire audience boomed. The announcer stood with one hand between the fighters. Both stood with their hands in the air, knees bent. “Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One!”

The hand flew up, and the audience went silent. This time it lasted even longer. Neither of them moved. I could see their eyes darting around. Looking for the slightest movement on the other man’s part, something they could use to their advantage.

It went long enough that the audience started jeering. Then it got started.

Malcolm threw his first jab, but Scrapper knocked it to the side and jabbed right back. Malcolm dodged and neither of them came away harmed.

They started to circle slowly. Scrapper through the next jab three jabs, one after the other, and the final one landed on Malcolm’s chest. But I guess it was weak enough that he didn’t even seem to notice.

Then it really got to it. Malcolm ran at Scrapper, getting hit a couple times but then knocking him off his feet, pinning him to the ground. But his arms were free, and Scrapper landed several solid blows onto Malcolm’s head. Then both fists slammed into Malcolm’s shoulders and he went flying backwards. And then it happened.

The couch, trainer, whatever, folded up the chair that Scrapper had been sitting it. As Scrapper stood, the chair was tossed into his hands. And before Malcolm could stand, the chair came smashing down his back.

The sound was sickening. The whole audience flinched. Malcolm lay on the ground, head tucked under his arms for protection, as the chair lifted into the air once again and then smacked back down onto him.

It was breaking him. I could see how red his back was already. I could tell he must have had a few broken ribs. Suddenly I felt like I had come here just to watch Malcolm get beaten to death. That would not have been good for me.

But then as the third swing was coming down, Malcolm flipped onto his back and grabbed the chair tightly with both hands. He pulled hard, but Scrapper didn’t let go. He flew to the ground and Malcolm jumped to his feet. He yanked the chair away from Scrapper and tossed it behind him, then threw his hands back up.

Scrapper lay there for a frighteningly long time. Eventually he wobbled to his feet. Before he even had a chance to lift his arms back up, Malcolm went for it. A solid blow, right to the jaw. Scrapper fell like a sack of potatoes.

The crowd erupted, and the announcer got into the ring and lifted Malcolm’s hand once again. He smiled at my with wild eyes. He was breathing heavily. Something told me that he wasn’t going to need to let off any steam tonight. That fight was satisfying enough.

Then there was movement on the ground. The heap that was Scrapper clambered to its feet. A saw something glint in his hand. Then he swiped forward.

Malcolm didn’t even see it coming. The blade entered right below his shoulder blade and slid all the way down to his waist. He spun around and saw Scrapper, who’d fallen once again.

I could see the line on his back become blotted deeply with red. It ran down and began to stain his gray sweatpants.

But then, once they’d determined that Scrapper was not getting back up, they just turned back to the crowd. The applause continued and eventually Malcolm walked out of the ring. I watched, this time, as he was handed a huge stack of bills. I walked over to him through the jabbering crowd, and watched as he struggled to apply a bandage to his long back wound.

“Wow,” I said.

He just smiled at me. “Don’t worry,” he said. “It’s not deep.”

“Oh good,” I said.

He was much calmer than he’d been after his fight the week before. “So,” he said. “You got any plans for the rest of the night?”

“Well I have work in the morning.”

He laughed. I hadn’t been joking. “My place?” he asked, pulling on a shirt and a hoodie, covering up the blood soaked strip of bandage that he’d applied.

“Sure,” I said.

“I can drive,” he said, holding out his hand.

I tossed him my keys.

“So,” I asked as we walked out of the building, “why do the bouncers here have baseball bats?”

“When you’re trying to bounce people like Scrapper or me, you probably won’t succeed unless you’ve got a bat or a gun or something. And guns are too loud.”

“Do they need to keep fighters under control often?”

“Not me or Scrapper. But sometimes, yeah. Out of towners. People who come in expecting to win. Sometimes they go a bit crazy once they regain consciousness. Another reason that I like to get out as fast as possible.”

I laughed. “I saw online that you’ve never lost a fight.”

He laughed. “You looked me up?”