Chapter 3 #2
I turn to face my brother again, still in a daze that he’s dead.
It’s hard to process. Half of my brain is trying to gaslight me, telling me that what I’m looking at isn’t real.
That it’s someone else lying there dead, and not Enrique.
But if Alfonzo is right about anything, it’s that I need to take my aggression out on someone’s face.
“Adiós, ’Que,” I whisper to him. “I’ll see you in the next life.” If there even is one.
Vinny’s MMA Fighting Club isn’t just for training to fight, but it’s one of many businesses Alfonzo uses to launder his money.
Enrique first brought me here right after I aged out of the system.
He wanted me to be able to defend myself in case he wasn’t around.
Now he’s gone for good. No more sparring, talking about everything under the sun, or drinking a beer and barbecuing in the backyard.
My eyes sting with the threat of tears, but I can’t let it all out yet. Not here. Not now. I sit on the worn wooden bench and carefully wrap my hands in boxing wraps to protect them. I don’t look at my sparring partner, Manny, waiting for me in the ring.
He’s perfect for me because he can take a beating. He’s bigger too, and not an easy challenge, but Manny’s exactly who I need right now. I’ll be able to lash out without worrying about my partner.
Once I finish wrapping my hands, I tug on my boxing gloves.
I love fighting. I’ve always preferred painting and graffiti, but when I first sparred, I fell in love with it.
Eventually, I improved enough to fight in the ring for sport, making extra cash.
None of it is legal, but I don’t care. I don’t need to be some pro.
I make good money working under Alfonzo.
The gym is cold, the heaters barely sputtering out any warmth, so I’m trying not to shiver, wearing only boxing shorts. But when I spar, I’ll quickly warm up.
I walk over to the ring and slip between the ropes.
Manny is tucked in a corner with his meaty arms folded over his chest. His cold, narrowed eyes watch me carefully.
He keeps his head shaved, and his face is covered in acne scars.
Who knows how many times his nose has been broken because it’s perpetually crooked.
He ambles my way toward the center of the ring, and we fist bump our gloves.
“Sorry ’bout ’Que,” he says. I clench my jaw and give him a curt nod. “But don’t think Imma go easy on ya.”
“I wouldn’t fucking dream of it,” I reply, smacking my gloves together as we start to bouncing around one another in a circle.
My eyes never leave his, and his never leave mine, waiting for that one moment before we begin, using our peripheral vision to know when a punch or kick is coming. You take your eyes off your opponent’s face to look at a leg, and you get slammed with the fist you didn’t see coming.
The key to fighting Manny is never letting him corner you. He’ll grapple and pin you down. Once he has a hold of you, it’s over. And despite his larger size, he’s fast.
As we work out, my mind starts to clear, focused solely on my sparring partner. I keep my face calm, not showing anything that will give away my intention to attack. It’s next to impossible, though, with the rage consuming every fiber of my being.
Like a viper, I throw an uppercut, and before he can block me, I connect with his chin, knocking his head back, but he quickly recovers, bouncing lightly on his feet, looking like he isn’t affected at all.
Soon, we’re all fists, legs, and feet, lashing out, getting hits in where we can.
I spend more time dodging and blocking him than hitting him, but I manage to get some kicks and punches in.
Sometimes blocking can hurt as much as the kicks when you meet muscle against muscle, bone against bone, but you’re so high on adrenaline and endorphins, you don’t feel the pain until later.
I’m sweating, and a cut on my brow leaks blood into my eye, stinging and blinding me.
It doesn’t take me long to grow tired. Distracted from Enrique’s death and the grief, I’m letting anger rule, unable to keep a calm and focused head.
This gives Manny the upper hand, and when he gets the upper hand, it only makes me more pissed for allowing it to happen.
Eventually, he pins me to the mat, face down. His arm is around my throat, and my arm is pinned to my back.
I growl at him and struggle to get out of his vise-like hold, but I can barely move and breathe.
“Call it, Enz. You hadda ‘nough.”
I growl at him again, needing more pain and to hit something harder than Manny because I don’t fucking feel better. “No…” I wheeze through my broken nose.
He tightens his arm around my throat and growls in my ear, “Enough.”
I see spots dancing behind my eyes as he squeezes the air from my lungs. Seeing no way out, I tap my hand on the mat.
Manny releases his hold, stands, and then helps me up. I’m slightly dizzy, so I lean forward and shake my head. He grabs my face with gloved hands and looks at me. “I don’t see no concussion. How d’ya feel?”
“Like I got run over by a herd of elephants who are all named Manny.”
He grins crookedly, exposing a missing front tooth. “But do ya feel better in yer head?”
“Not really,” I sigh.
“Let’s getcha cleaned up. After that, go get drunk or somethin’, then go home and sleep fer a day.”
I want to scream at Manny that it won’t help. That I’m going to miss Enrique forever, and nothing will dull the pain, not until his killer’s head is on a fucking plate. But I say nothing. What’s the point? It won’t change a goddamn thing.
“Yeah,” is all I say.
After we unwrap our hands, Manny cleans up my face in the locker room, placing Steri-Strips on my brow and on the bridge of my nose.
When he’s finished, he claps me on the back and saunters off.
I stand and stare into the mirror, watching him go before my eyes land back on my battered face.
I should probably ice my nose, but I can’t bring myself to care.
It’s only a minor fracture anyway, but my eyes, staring back at me, are already swelling and bruising.
I want to say the sparring helped, but now, I’m not only in pain on the inside, I’m in pain on the outside. Maybe Manny’s right. I should go out and get fucking wasted. It won’t take much after that workout.
I take a quick shower to wash off the sweat and blood, and then I get dressed. Once I have my jacket on, I grab my duffel bag and toss it into my car, but I don’t drive since Frank’s Bar is walking distance from the gym. My house isn’t that far either.
The guys and I often go there after a good workout or training. Because it’s close to home, I can just leave my car and walk home if I get too drunk.
When I reach the bar, I tug on the brass handle of the old wooden door and open it. I’m blasted with dry heat, the scent of old beer, and classic rock from the 70s blasting through the speakers.
It’s not too crowded, but it’s still early, so there are plenty of seats at the bar.
As soon as Max, the bartender, sees me, he frowns and instantly pours a shot of my favorite tequila. When I sit down, he slides the glass toward me.
“Took a beating, it looks like,” he says, jutting his chin my way.
“Yeah, Manny got me.”
Max chuckles and shakes his head. “Maybe Manny isn’t the best to take your aggression out on. Anyway, I just heard, man. I’m really sorry. We’re all gonna miss Enrique around here.”
I nod, staring at my drink, not yet tossing it back. “Thanks.”
“Do they know who did it?”
I shake my head.
“Whoever did this, I hope they fucking pay.”
“Yeah…” I say as I grab the tumbler and toss the burning liquor down my throat. Max instantly pours me another. “Yeah…” I say again.