Authors: A.J. Sand
“You should let go of her now,” I warn the security guard, though, my eyes never leave Carlos. “
And tell him we know who he is, and we’re still gonna leave.” Carlos gives me a trivial glance before he speaks directly to Drew again.
“‘So then you know I won tonight. Th
at party upstairs is for me, and Enrique only invites the most beautiful women in the club,’” the security guard says, still translating Carlos’s words. “‘I want you up there with me.’”
“I don’t care what you want,” Drew says in a firm tone, staring him down.
“‘I think you should stay.’”
“And
I
think you should go fuck yourself,” I reply. I see the security guard’s hesitation to translate, but it doesn’t matter because my message registers with Carlos anyway as a uniform response of “Oooh” breaks out across the patrons. A menacing grin slowly spreads on Carlos’s face. “Let’s go,” I say to my friends. I put my hand on Drew’s back, preparing to lead her down the stairs, but Carlos grabs her shoulder.
“Don’t fucking
touch me!” she spits. As soon as she yanks her arm away, I rush him, sending us both flying across the room, over a table, and straight into the wall near the bar. I take several steps back and get into fighting stance. A group of security guards starts closing in, but as Carlos gets up he raises one of his colossal arms and they all stop.
“‘You can walk out of here right now. Without the woman. I’ll even give you a head start before I come after you,’” the security guard closest to Carlos shouts to me, interpreting his words.
“Come after me now,” I say, smiling, and the crowd bursts into cheers. Even Carlos laughs. I’m not surprised that he’s not angry. He
wants
me to stay. Because he wants to fight. We both do. I have something in common with this guy and I get a dull, distant pang of discomfort about it. It’s not enough to stop me, though.
“Jess,” Drew calls out and I turn around. “You don’t have to do
this.” But even she doesn’t sound convinced that I can just back out of this situation now, especially when Carlos gestures for the door to be shut. Then he says something in Spanish that makes the people around us laugh.
A
security guard smirks when he turns to Drew. “He said, ‘I can’t wait to see the look on your face when I rip off your boyfriend’s balls and shove them down his throat.’” Carlos whips his tongue at Drew; she gives him the finger.
There’s a flare in his eyes when they’re on me again, and it’s one that I recognize from earlier—
a hunger to cause devastation. He takes on a fighting stance, too, and we make a slow circle on the floor. Carlos throws the first punch, at my face, and I block the hit with my raised crossed arms. The impact fucking hurts like shit. I push him back with a powerful kick in the stomach. Cocodrilo isn’t soft so it’s like kicking concrete. Thankfully, it still stuns him. He recovers quickly and dives for me, but I jump out of the way. Before I can catch my balance, though, he seizes my ankle and I fall to the ground, just narrowly avoiding hitting my head on a chair.
“Jess!” Drew shouts over the noise. “You’ll never beat him on the ground. You need to get back on your feet! You’re way faster than he is. He’s strong but slow. Use that.”
Carlos straddles me, his massive weight crushing my internal organs. He grips my neck and lands a blow to my upper chest. It’s so hard I don’t feel anything right away; it knocks all sensation right out of me. Then the wave of shocking pain comes and it overwhelms my body, sending severe, involuntary shivers to my nerve endings. A right hook crashes into my chin. Then another to my ear. And yet another at my temple. Carlos bares his teeth and tightens the hand on my neck. I panic as pressure builds in my head. The room blurs. His other hand comes down, too, and when he squeezes at full power, my air supply diminishes rapidly. I hear my name but it sounds miles away, like someone has shoved cotton in my ears.
I’m blacking out.
Fighting through hot, blinding agony, I jab my fist into his eye three times, as hard as my fading strength will allow. Getting hit in the eye hurts like a bitch, enough for you to release your hold on anything, and the instinct is to cover your face right away. So, I scramble out from under him and ram my elbow into the bridge of his nose then follow up with an uppercut to the chin.
“You’re not the only one who bites, crocodile,” I say once I catch my breath and shake off my
panic. Carlos actually retreats across the floor, and his shoulders quiver from the pain. The place is going crazy with excitement. I bet no one gets up from Cocodrilo. Maybe I’m the first.
“
El Americano
!” Miguel yells out and the people respond by chanting it. I get back into fighting stance as a boost of adrenaline torpedoes into me. Would it be wrong to admit how fucking amazing I feel right now?
Carlos’s anger
has reached optimal level by the time he’s on his feet again, and he takes in the crowd with narrowed eyes, apparently baffled that their admiration isn’t for him. He’s growling and heaving, and I don’t feel even a pinch of worry. All I have is renewed will to kick his ass all over this nightclub.
He charges me
and delivers sloppy punches, driven by pure rage and not calculation. Swiveling around him, I dodge each one. Without my fear to feed on, Carlos is just a big ass, bumbling guy with a penchant for violence. No real skill. All I have to do is wait out his energy, and as he slows, it gets even easier to evade him. Once he’s down to vapors, I go into attack mode—a full-on assault—and he can’t protect himself from any of my hits. When he’s too tired to even keep defending himself at a bare minimum, I strike him with a hard kick to the stomach, as quick as a bullet. It sends Carlos staggering backward into the wall, and then he tumbles to the ground.
He
slides back up the wall, forced to use it for balance. When he looks at me, I see the fatigue sinking into his features and the frustration filling his eyes. I bounce on my toes, grin, and gesture at him with both hands. “Come on.” I relish the surge of delight I get from the crowd’s cheers.
Just
as Carlos comes toward me, a man emerges from the shadows of the third floor landing, quickly positioning himself between us. He’s a Hispanic guy, in a gray suit, white shirt, blue tie, and a blue polka-dotted pocket square. Security guards use the opportunity to pounce while I’m distracted, and they take a few swings at me before tackling me to the ground. One of them stomps a boot into my spine then further immobilizes me by bending both my arms behind my back.
“My apologies, but this floor is now closed to
patrons,” the well-dressed man says in a courteous tone as the music fades. “Please feel free to enjoy your night downstairs. Drinks are on the house for everyone up here. Someone will stamp your hand at the bottom of the stairs. Thank you.”
An American?
One of the guards is holding my neck so I can’t move my head much, but I do notice that the man’s shoes are made of reptile. Alligator probably. So, club owner definitely.
“
We’ll meet you outside,” I hear Drew yell to me as she and the others are ushered out. One thunderous shuffle of footsteps later, the place is quiet except for the bouncers’ conversation and soft trance music.
“Get off me!” I say, trying to break free. “I can leave on my own.” The security guards yank
me up, and as we walk by I get a better look at the man who came from upstairs. He’s thin but not skinny, clean shaven, probably mid-thirties, fair-skinned with thick black eyebrows, and a tapered haircut at the sides and back, but the hair on the top of his head is longer, heavily gelled, and slicked back. And he has neck tattoos.
Neck tattoos.
I can just make out one of them, a name: Elena.
I
know
him.
“
Pinche pendejo
, you do
not
fight for free!” he barks as he shoves Carlos. He doesn’t move at all, but I can tell from his body language that he’s scared. Another man hurries down the steps from the third floor and wraps his arms around the shoulders of the angry guy, whispering into his ear as he rubs his neck, but he just shrugs him off. “You never fucking fight for free.
Pedazo de mierda
,” the man continues, screaming in Carlos’s face with spittle flying, and with a look that says,
Remember who the fuck I am to you
. The steel will of the giant melts, his head drops forward, and he folds in on himself. It’s as if he’s regressing to a scolded child right before my eyes.
“
Lo siento
,” Carlos whispers. His voice is so small and weak, all traces of the fight leave my body, pity replacing it. After a few days of hanging out with Miguel, I’ve picked up a few insults, so I know the man called Carlos a piece of shit and a fucking asshole. Carlos is towering over him, and he weighs a lot more than he does, too. He could probably put him in a coma if he hit him. Yet he controls him with just a raised voice. I should’ve known that someone made Carlos this way. He’s trained to be as brutal as possible and to probably fear nothing, except for the people he works for. The whack-jobs behind the whack-jobs are usually far more dangerous.
“
Lo siento
, Señor Vega. I am very sorry.”
Señor fuckin’ Vega. The memories crash in—the night of my last fight in Perry’s barn. The men with Henry. That’s how I know him. “
Ramón
?” I say. “
Ramón Vega?”
When Ramón
turns, there’s a huge smile on his face and his eyes widen, the recognition registering. “Jesse Chance?” He steps away from Carlos. “Is that you? It is! On my turf this time, huh?” He signals the security guards who are holding me. “Let him go,” he says, then he shakes my hand. “It is good to see you! What the hell are you doing here? I mean, besides fighting in my
nightclub.”
I gulp down the flames of embarrassment blazing in my throat. “It’s a long story…” I say. Behin
d him, Carlos’s fear evaporates and anger supplants it, all of which is directed at me. Again.
“Oh
, give me a hint. Wait. Is it possible that
you’re
the American I was hearing about? Who won all his matches tonight at the old market? I still remember your fight from five years ago. It’s a shame you never took Cisco up on his offer.”
Right. So I could end up like Carlos.
“Real shame,” I say with mild sarcasm.
“Tell me,” he whispers, growing excited. “How did you like
the fights? They are something to behold, no?”
“Oh,
they’re
something
…”
“And
that
was just child’s play. Although he got paid, truthfully, Carlos did that for fun. You should see what he can
really
do. What
all
my elite fighters can really do on a real fight night at
The Cull
. You know, most people who fight Cocodrilo…well, we don’t see too much of them after, if you know what I mean.” He looks around at the guards and they all laugh on cue. “You fight clean but you’re good. You, I bet, could be top tier Cull if you wanted.”
I don’t.
“What transpired between you two tonight?” Ramón snaps his fingers at the bartender, motioning for him to make drinks.
Something’s different. I don’t remember much about him, except that he see
med more like a protégé than a boss. Now he’s clearly the one in charge, and I try not to dwell on how power shifts happen around here.
“Your fighter was bothering my friend,” I explain, apologetic. “Wouldn’t leave her alone. So things
escalated.
I was just defending her.”
“I’m sure it
was quite a treat for everyone. No harm, no foul. All is forgiven. You were protecting your friend.” He breaks into a small, curious smile. “Say, she wouldn’t happen to be the same girl from that night in Glory, would she? Is she here?” When I nod, a gleeful expression appears, and he snaps at a security guard. “Go find the woman he was with. Bring her here. Do you remember her? She’s black. Beautiful. Feisty. She’ll say no. But tell her the only way her boyfriend comes down is if she comes up.”
A few minutes later, Drew is back on the second floor, her lips pursed in apprehension as she
walks over to my side. Ramón’s eyes glow with happiness, his anger at Carlos completely forgotten, and he gestures at the man who came downstairs to comfort him.
“
Gabe, come meet Jesse Chance and his lovely companion.” Ramón kisses Drew’s hand twice. Gabe walks over and slides his hand across Ramón’s back before he strums his fingers up and down the length of it
. “
Yes, the one who told Henry Chance, ‘Fuck you.’ I never got your name that night.”
A deep frown hardens Drew’s face
. “Why do you need to know my name?”
“Well, my dear, it would be the
most polite way to address you, and I would like to know who I’m about to apologize to.”
“Fine. I’m Drew.”
“Drew.
Drew
.” Her name takes on a melodic quality when he says it, and his eyes are twinkling so brightly I expect him to cry diamonds any second. “Is that short for something?”