Page 42 of Love Bleeds Red
“He wants me to fight?” I don’t know why I didn’t realize what he was saying sooner.
Another drag on his cigarette. “Exactly. Not only fight, but you’ve gotta win.”
I close my eyes, remembering the last time I was in that basement. The bitter scent of sweat and blood, the ferocity of the crowd, sometimes more violent than the fighters, how my knuckles and jaw ached for days, and that was only after I came to. “It’s been years, Cruz.”
He chuckles. “You’ve got this. It’s like riding a bike. A massive bike that fights back.”
“Thanks for that image.”
“Listen, I saw you. You’ve filled out. You’re not the same kid that got his ass kicked week after week trying to earn an extra buck. You can do this.”
A part of me has been considering going back to blow off steam anyway. I think I’ve been talking myself out of it, trying to keep my composure, but now, with this new development… it’s the perfect opportunity to get what I need, maybe some intel too, and work out some anger in the process.
I think about Bailey, somewhere out there in the darkness. About how I’ll stop at nothing to find her. “I’ll do it.”
“Alright then. I’ll let them know. Starts at eleven. Side entrance on Magnolia Street, same as always. And Leon?”
“Yeah?”
“Be smart. You’ve got nothing to prove to these blokes. Talk to Knapp, get your opponent, and win. Wife’s going to rip my balls off… but I’ll be there. I’ve got your back.”
“Thanks, Cruz. I mean it.”
“Don’t thank me yet. Save that for after you’ve still got all your teeth.” He blows out a stream of smoke, and when hespeaks again, his voice is quieter. “Leon... whatever mess you’ve gotten yourself into, just promise me you’ll come back in one piece, yeah? I don’t want to be the one explaining to your mum why her boy didn’t make it home.”
My throat tightens, but I manage to thank him.
“I’ll see you tonight,” he says. “And don’t forget to wear something you don’t mind getting bloodied up.”
The line goes dead, leaving me leaning against my bike on the quiet street, already feeling the familiar pang of anticipation mixed with dread. I pocket the phone and look up at the full moon, peeking out behind a cloud. Maybe Bailey’s looking out at the same moon nearby. I silently send a message.I’m coming for you.
Mum’s silhouette crosses the window as she tidies the living room, no doubt in anticipation of our soon to be guests. I should go get that milk she asked for, and maybe pick up some ice while I’m at it. I’m going to need it tomorrow morning.
The side entranceon Magnolia Street hasn’t changed in the three years since I’ve been. Still just a nondescript black door situated between a run down newsagent and a gyro shop that’s seen better days. No sign, no hint of what lies beneath except the slight vibration of bass coming from underground.
I park my bike around the corner, attaching my helmet to the lock on my handlebars before checking that everything’s secure. It gives me a moment to find my center, to push down the nerves that are trying to force their way to the surface.
A heavy mix of nervous excitement and fear has every step toward the entrance feeling like an out of body experience. It’s a familiar feeling from my teenage years. Back then, I’d beendriven by anger and the desperate need to prove myself, to release the rage and the hurt and the abandonment. Tonight, it’s different. Tonight, I have purpose.
The bouncer is new, a beast of a man with arms like tree trunks and a callous, scarred face. His eyes rake over me, taking in my leather jacket, the way I carry myself. I’m not the scrawny, desperate kid who used to stumble down these steps anymore.
“Knapp sent me,” I say, meeting his stare.
He nods once and steps aside, revealing the dimly lit staircase that descends into the belly of the beast. The air grows thicker with each step, the scent of sweat and smoke heavy in the air. I’ve never liked this part. The before. It’s not that I’m usually an anxious person. I haven’t felt this way while working with the guys, but here… waiting for my name to be called, for the violence and pain that follows, it’s like holding your breath underwater.
The door at the end of the stairs opens up into a massive space lit by rows of fluorescent lights, some of them flickering, in need of a new bulb. Concrete pillars covered in graffiti tags and stickers support the low ceiling, and old metal bleachers rise in tiers around a central ring marked out in yellow tape on the concrete floor. Rusted iron beams stretch across the ceiling like skeletal remains of the old ironworks this place used to be, back when honest men earned honest wages forging steel instead of spilling blood for entertainment.
One look at the crowd and I can see what Cruz meant. The place looks exactly the same, yet completely different. There’s still the mix of desperate kids looking to earn a few pounds, but now they’re surrounded by men in gang colors, businessmen in expensive suits, and a handful of average looking blokes. They have one thing in common, money riding on the fights in one way or another.
I spot Cruz near the back wall, cap pulled low, clutching a pint close to his chest. He’s the picture of uncomfortable. Our eyes meet and he gestures with his chin toward the betting table where a small group of men have their wallets out and eyes sharp.
For Bailey.
I straighten my spine and walk right up to the biggest one. From Cruz’s description, this must be Knapp. Middle-aged, six-foot-five easily, solid muscle, with slicked back hair and a bushy mustache. He narrows his gaze.
“You the American?” he asks, staring me up and down.
I can’t help but smirk. “Hardly,” I reply, raising my voice to be heard over the bellowing in the room. “You Knapp?”
