Page 71 of The Slayer
Chuito was off his game.
The drinking wasn’t helping, and he knew it.
He blinked, seeing that Clay now had Tino in a similar choke hold, but Tino was still fighting like Chuito was, kicking back, trying to hurt Clay bad enough to loosen his hold. Clay was the world’s greatest ground-and-pound fighter. No one broke out of his hold once he got them locked in.
Good.
Maybe the bastard would black out.
“Chuito,” Wyatt growled in his ear. “Am I gonna have to arrest you?”
“Fucking arrest me.” Chuito’s voice was a whisper rather than the growl he felt inside. “I dare you.”
“Oh my God, really?” Wyatt snapped. “’Cause he called you Mexican? That shit’s racist.”
“He is a Mexican,” Tino grunted.
“Jersey much? Keep him away from an open flame,” Chuito rasped back. “He’s got enough product in his hair to be flammable.”
“I’m starting to get a little offended, esse.”
Chuito fought to lift his head and glared at the Mexican who was leaning against the wall, bare-chested and sweaty, showing off all his tattoos without shame, as if he weren’t insulting Chuito just by sharing the same air with him.
“Fuck off, Blood,” Chuito said in Spanish. “You should be dead right now.”
“Yeah, you’ll do a good job with that.” The Mexican snorted in disbelief and then, just to add insult to injury, flashed the Latin Blood gang sign at him. He was obviously confident their conversation was private in Spanish and went on, “You got out, and now you think you’re better than me? Where do you think I come from, motherfucker? What do you think I’ve been doing while you were earning your fancy title belts? You can’t handle someone from the streets anymore. You’ve been living with the gringos too long.”
And all of a sudden, the Mexican became someone else.
Not more than twenty-one, with that hard, angry look Chuito had known so well because it glared back at him every time he looked in the mirror. He didn’t want to, but he saw himself, and that sucked all the anger right out of him.
It wasn’t this guy’s fault Latin Bloods had killed Chuito’s brother and aunt.
He’d been a kid when it happened.
Chuito stopped fighting and went back to just trying to breathe past the tight hold Wyatt had on him.
“What’d y’all say?” Wyatt asked, obviously knowing he wasn’t holding Chuito back anymore.
“Nothing,” Chuito whispered; then he met the younger fighter’s gaze that was narrowed in defensiveness. Chuito knew he was waiting to be sold out for the criminal he was, when he’d probably come here to escape gang life. “I won’t say anything,” he said in Spanish. “It’s not you. It’s me. I had some issue with Latin Bloods in Miami.” Then he went on in English, “I’m sorry. I’m having a bad day.”
“No shit, you’re having a bad day.” Wyatt still sounded completely incredulous. “I might have to actually arrest you for this, Chuito. You got into this fight in broad daylight, outside the cage with everyone looking.”
Chuito understood.
If Wyatt didn’t arrest him, he was going to get accused of playing favorites, and that shit was probably illegal as hell.
“Arrest me,” Chuito said without hesitation. He did kill two motherfuckers to keep Wyatt out of jail. Getting arrested was small-time after that. “Really, Wyatt. You got to arrest me. I know you do.”
“Jesus.” Wyatt groaned, making it obvious he didn’t want to.
That was something.
“Arrest me too.” Tino wasn’t being choked by Clay anymore. Now he was sprawled out on the cement with a look of intensity on his face. “I’m half-guilty.”
“I hit you first,” Chuito argued, because he certainly didn’t want Tino to get arrested with him.
Tinowasthe best friend Chuito had in this town.
