Page 5 of Crazy In Love
“They fight for the money and belt. I fight for the chance to see those girls in their booty shorts.” His lips curl into a long, arrogant grin. “Maybe they’re married up and happy, but their booties are booties worth looking at, ya know? The Rollers have got way more girl fighters than we do. You could do with a little diversity, Coach. The War Room’s looking a little ‘Ol Boys Clubright now.”
“We have Eliza.” Tommy gestures toward the boxing bag currently being decimated by Eliza Darling—not a darling in any sense of the word. She may be small, but she’s strong as an ox, and her roundhouse kick will knock even the fiercest competitor down a notch.
“Sure. We have Eliza.” Cliff twitches at every blow Eliza slams against the bag, a sprinkle of sand hitting the mats after every strike until it becomes the playlist to today’s sweat session. “But we don’t watchherbooty if we wanna keep our insidesinside. Feel like we learned that lesson a long time ago.”
“And here I thought you were a decent, respectful ally to womankind. Turns out you’re a secret perv looking to scam on girls.”
“Nah.” Re-energized, he pops to his feet and wanders to the cage. “I’m allowed to appreciate so long as I’m not a dick about it. But not Eliza. I’ve known her since she was a kid, so it feels weird checking out her bum.”
“Check out my bum, and I’ll gut you.” Eliza rotates into a ferocious spinning kick, stabbing the bag with her heel and knocking a heap more sand to the floor. She lowers her hands and folds at the hips, panting past her mouthguard. But she hits us with a heated glare.A warning most others know to heed. “Stop talking about me while I’m training. It’s rude.”
“Was just trying to make a point, Ms. Darling.” Blowing an obnoxious kiss, Cliff turns his back to the best chick fighter in this town and the next, too oblivious to be afraid. Then he leans against the cage and stares at me square on. “I live in Plainview. I train in Plainview. My allegiances belong to this gym, this family, and this shitty town that doesn’t even have a decent strip club to relax in after a long day of work. But a little skippity-hop a couple states over once a year makes for a nice vacation. I’m not there for the belt, Coach. And if that bothers you, then I guess that’s gonna be a you-problem.”
Hisnon-desire for a win irks me on a soul-deep level, since we train for a purpose, and entering a tournamentshouldcome with the intention ofwinning. But I clamp my lips shut and save myself from their mocking barbs.
Something about routine and being highly strung.
“Somebody help me.”
Ready for war, Tommy’s eyes swing toward the door, his shoulders coming up defensively. Then Alana waddles through with her nine-month-pregnant belly and a groan. Her face is red with exertion, and her bow lips move into a pout. “I’m begging you. Get a steak knife and put me out of my misery.”
“Not really something you should say in public.” Tommy pops to his feet and tosses his water bottle, then he bursts through the cage door in three long strides, wrapping himself around her exhausted body and placing his hand under her belly. “You’re almost done, baby.” He presses a kiss on her cheek. Then the other. Her lips. Her forehead. “We already hit forty weeks. We’re just waiting for her to decide she’s ready to come out.”
“I don’t want to do this anymore.” She drapes her arms over his shoulders, giving him her weight to hold. “I can’t sleep. I can’t hardly eat.” She pulls back and growls. “I can’t breathe! She’s crushing my lungsandbladder at the same damn time.”
Franky meanders through the door with his nose hidden behind a book and his blue-framed glasses slipping along his nose. He doesn’t watch where he’s walking, which, for a clumsy kid, makes for a treacherous trek, but muscle memory allows him to walk past his mother, scowl as he passes Tommy—that bastard stole his mom—and come all the way to the cage door without stumbling.
Finally, he brings his eyes up and blinks until they focus on me.
“Hey, little dude.” Playful, Cliff strolls across the canvas and peels his fingerless gloves off his hands. “How was school? Make new friends? Beat anyone up?”
Franky merely stares. He’s got this savage ability to look straight through a man and keep his mouth shut, and though society says heshouldspeak, and most others will toss out a ‘hey’ just to appease the masses, Franky merely shrugs and brings his eyes back to mine.
He’smybuddy. Not Cliff’s.
“How was school? Molly still causing a ruckus in class?”
He closes his book and sets it on the step, then he toes his shoes off and carefully sets his glasses inside one for safekeeping. “Molly makes a ruckus every single day. But I kinda like it because then everyone pays attention to her and leaves me alone.”
“Wow.” Cliff rolls his eyes—and his head for extra emphasis—beforestepping through the cage door. “I’ll get you someday, little dude. I’ll secure thathelloand finally become one of the cool crowd.”
Franky watches him in silence, eyes narrowed and breaths measured. And only when Cliff passes into the hall does he bring his gaze back to me. “He’s loud, too. He doesn’t care about my day. He just wants me to talk to him.”
I lower to my knees, a muscle memory I’m not sure I remember creating, and offer my fist for him to tap. Then I grin and slowly circle.Fight. “Cliff is a pretty nice guy, so if he’s asking about your day, I reckon he cares. But he’s also a showoff and loud as hell, so I believe him when he says he’s aiming for thathello. Doesn’t mean he’s an ass for it. He’s just a friendly type.”
“Christian Watkins!” Alana snaps. “Don’t say ass while talking with my son.”
“Yeah. Don’t say ass to me.” Taking his chance, Franky superman jumps and snakes around my arm, throwing his weight backward in what I know he means to be an arm-bar. I outweigh him by a long shot, so he couldn’tactuallypull me down, but he’s learning, so I fall to the ground and give him a chance to inch closer to my shoulder.
“I’m getting better at this, don’t you think?”
Better?Sure.
Good?Not really.
“You sure are. Move closer on this side.” I grab his leg to show him. “You wanna have your butt touching me,” then I tap his ankle, “and lock these in. You gotta cross your feet.”
He unhooks his ankles, then re-links them again and scoots toward my shoulder. In a competition, he would’ve already lost his position. But this is practice, so I become one with the floor.
