Page 67 of Invisible String
“Hey, boss.” Leo juts his chin.
“How’s it going?” I mutter, walking toward my office. He follows me. Like always.
“So, how was the fight last night?” Leo’s a twenty-year-old guy with energy that can take out the Energizer bunny. He bounces on his heels. “Did you win?”
I scratch my chin, insulted by his question. “Of course, I won.” Opening the blinds and powering my computer on, I twist to see Leo grinning like an idiot.
“I knew it. The Cobra has nothing on you.” He rolls his eyes. “Cobra? What kind of name is that? I’m sure they thought it would scare fighters away. But not you. Never you.”
My lips twitch. The guy knows how to stroke your ego. When I stopped at the Need for Teens to make my monthly donation to Mrs. Debbie, I ran into Leo, who was in the same shoes I was in at his age, having nothing for myself. He was in the foster system for most of his life. I gave him a job and money for an apartment to get him started. “I’ll give you a pass for next week’s fight.”
“Bro, that’s going to be sick,” he says, pulling out a chair and making himself comfortable with his feet on my desk. “When are you going to go pro? You have so many wins, Max.” He picks at the lint on his sweater. “I overheard you and Carlos talking.”
I raise a brow at the nosey ass.
“He said you need to quit the underground fighting. And fight legally. You’re a machine.”
I sigh, leaning back in my chair. “Your nosey ass should have been training, not eavesdropping. What’s Xander teaching you?”
However, he’s right; I need to stop underground fighting. At first, it started as a way to make easy money. When I knocked fuckers out cold, the bidding for me to win increased with a large sum of cash. The pent-up rage I’ve had did me good.
“Sorry, it’s just that when I see the fights on TV, I picture you there because you’re that good. Those Underground fighters play dirty.”
“Alright, Leo, back to work. Any new service orders?”
“Yup, I emailed it to you.”
“Shoes off my desk now. Out.”
“Later’s boss,” he hollers, shutting the door behind him.
While scrolling through my emails, I found Leo’s email about new work orders for security surveillance cameras that we need to install. Titty Bar, Sandy Bay Saloon, Bare Back Hustle, Shimmy Shine Clothing, Sunshine Bakery Café, Office Supply,and Delrio Casino. Some need to be serviced, and some need new work orders and a new security system installed.
After preparing the work orders for my guys to install, reviewing the paperwork, and meeting with the employees, I packed up for the day.
With the windows down and the music blazing, I take a joint between my lips. It’s soothing. It’s relaxing. “Fast Car”by Tracy Chapman plays, a song that reminds me of her. Rain and of us driving up the hills. Like the lyrics say, it felt like my decision was to live and die this way. I chose the latter. To die without the woman, I realized I loved, without even knowing.
As the car rolls down the familiar street, the engine’s rumble vibrates through my seat. Finally, I arrive at my dad’s three-bedroom house in the suburbs just south of bustling Las Vegas. I had contracted roofers to fix it, which was in a state of disrepair. My father might be a bastard who left me for dead, but I’m not him. The only reason I’m where I am is because of the little flame in me, holding me together and encouraging me to be better. I’ll fight to keep that flame going.
Unlocking the front door, it slams behind me, and the stench of alcohol and rotten food hits me on repeat. “Hey, Pops,” I shout at the old man rocking in the chair with a bottle in his hand, watching a cowboy movie.
He slightly turns his head. “What are you doing here? Didn’t I tell you not to come around, you fucking idiot?”
“Well, asshole. I’m all you’ve got. So, if you want, I can take you to assisted living where you’ll rot, but you know what? You’re already doing that. The only difference is that they’ll take the bottle out of your hand.” It has crossed my mind to take him, but I can’t force a grown man to change if he’s unwilling to.
He grumbles something, but I pay him no attention. It’s the same battle with him every time I come to do a welfare check on him. Before I begin, I unfasten my dress shirt, revealing awhite undershirt underneath. I take a trash bag from beneath the sink and dispose of the bottles of beer and liquor from the counter, emptying them first before throwing them into the bag. On the kitchen counter, bowls crusted with dried food wait to be washed, so I tackle those next. Then, I move on to the living room. I stop when I notice my dad passed out on his chair, covered in piss.
“Fuck, Pops,” I mutter to myself. The bottle in his hand dangles, seconds from spilling. Honestly, I don’t know how he makes it to work or how he’s still alive.
“Maribel,” he whimpers in his sleep.
After everything he’s done to me, I still pity him. He loved his wife and his family, but in the end, he loved the bottle more than his son. He couldn’t see past the blame for accusing me of my mother’s death. Years later, he still cries for her.
Taking the beer bottle from his hand and placing it on the wooden floor, I lift him up and carry him to his bathroom. Leaning him on the floor up against the wall, I turn the water on. The old, rusted faucet squeaks with each turn.
He doesn’t move when I undress him. Only a groan leaves his lips.
“What the fuck?” he shouts when the lukewarm water hits his face. “Goddamn you.Lárgate,” he shouts incoherently, telling me to get out in our native tongue.
