Page 7 of Twice as Twisted

“Dukey,” yells Olive, running over and launching herself at me with complete confidence that I’ll catch her.

I do. I lift her off her feet, this scrawny little bundle of knobby knees and gap teeth and ratty hair who filled in a tiny bit of the empty hole that was torn in our lives when Dad died and Baron skipped town. He just came back last week for graduation, and he doesn’t quite get it, why she’s here and what she means, how much everything changed. He was off grieving Dad inhis own way, alone, while the rest of us huddled together like refugees and rebuilt what we could in the aftermath. The bonds we formed aren’t something that makes sense, even to us.

“You sure they let kids in here?” I ask.

“They let me in,” Olive says with a cheeky little grin, picking up a duffle she dropped when she ran to me. “I made us all shirts. Look!”

She unzips the bag and hands white t-shirts to me, Baron, and Royal, tucking the rest of the bundle back in before standing to hold up a shirt against her skinny frame. A red apple is printed on the front, with the word “Teeny” written across it.

“Gotta represent the home team,” I say, peeling off my shirt and tugging on the tee, which is at least a size too small. It hugs my torso, straining over my muscles. I see a MILF eye-fucking me on her way in and shoot her a wink. Harper rolls her eyes, and I hold out a fist to give her knuckles. “Dab me up, Appleteeny. Looks like you got yourself a cheering squad.”

“I’m not wearing that,” Baron says, staring incredulously at Royal as he pulls on the shirt Olive gave him.

“I think you are,” Royal says. “Or you’re leaving.”

“Is she wearing your balls on a chain around her neck?” Baron demands.

“Only a man with no balls would be threatened by people seeing him supporting his girlfriend,” Harper says.

“You’re not my girlfriend,” Baron points out, then smirks. “Though I did fuck you.”

Royal tenses, his muscles flexing so big inside the shirt I’m surprised it doesn’t rip right off him like The Hulk. “Say another word, and the only blood you’ll be seeing tonight is your own,” he grits out.

“If I recall, your ass wasn’t good enough to wear a shirt like your little bitch,” Baron says, tossing the shirt at Harper’s feet. “So you must have his balls.”

Royal takes a step toward him, but Baron just holds up a hand, unfazed. “I’m out,” he says. “Come on, Duke.”

“I want to see the chicks fight,” I protest. “At least stay until Harper’s done.”

“I’m bored of this town,” Baron says. “We should have left last weekend.”

“I’m not ready to leave,” I say. “Just a few more days.”

“I’ll be at home,” he says, turning away.

Something pulls tight inside me when he walks away, back out the gate, alone again. The bigger part of me wants to follow, to be by his side like I always was, our whole lives. But he left. He didn’t take me with him, not even to tag along like a sidekick. He left me adrift, purposeless, the Joker without Batman. He doesn’t need me the way I need him. He made that much clear.

So when Olive slips her tiny hand into mine, her skinny fingers clutching my thick ones, and tugs at my arm to get my attention, I give it to her.

“You’re not leaving, right?” she asks, bouncing up and down on her toes. “You’ll stay and watch with me?”

“Sure, kid,” I say, sparing a glance at the parking lot. Baron’s already behind the wheel of his Lotus, pulling out of his spot. “You got it.”

“Yay!” Olive says. “I made twenty shirts. Let’s find more people for Harper’s cheering squad.”

At least someone wants me around, even if she doesn’t need me either.

*

The first time I came to one of Harper’s fights, I thought it would be lame. All the girls I know are obsessed with their looks, so I figured the girls at Femme Fight Friday would take it easyon each other. When Harper told me they didn’t fight in their underwear, I was even less interested.

Now I know it’s not like the fights you see on TV. The girls aren’t trying to be hot. And they’re not afraid to get dirty or bloody. I thought Royal would go apeshit the first time a girl landed a punch in Harper’s nose and blood went flying in an arc, something that should have been captured in slow-motion for instant replay. But there are no cameras here except phones, and it’s hard to get a good shot in the shadowy dirt pit where, what seems like a lifetime ago, Harper burned her brass knuckles into me and gave me a brand that made me look like a traitor to my family.

Royal gritted his teeth and clenched his fists, but he didn’t jump down there and haul her ass out. He let the other fighter hand it to her, and when she climbed out, bloody and grinning, he just said, “Tough loss.”

She’s doing better tonight.

“Yes!” Olive screams, dancing up and down on the precarious edge of a chunk of cement, one of many that surround the pit where the bloody fighters beat the shit out of each other with bare knuckles. She totters, and I grab her arm before she can pitch in.

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