Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
Josue
“Ah, Josue. ?Qué bola*?”
“Aqui en la luchita*,” I answered back in a hug. Laz had been the owner of this place most my life, especially when I’d grown up in Union City.
This place hadn't raised me, per se, but when I was a knucklehead, considering a path to the streets, Laz been the one that convinced me to go into boxing.
Muay Thai and Taekwondo, I acquired on my own path, but I would have never gone into fighting had not been for the only gym in the neighborhood.
?Es tu novia*?”
“No, she's my fighter. I'm training her,” I clarified in English, not wanting to be rude. “She won her first fight with me, and the woman's never had authentic Cuban or Jersey food. So, let's set her straight,” I teased, letting Laz lead us to a booth.
She had really outdone herself. I was gonna either be fighting or icing my dick all night, because Sierra was sporting a simple two-piece crop top and side slit dress that highlighted those delectably strong thighs and calves of hers.
You couldn't take a girl like this in public without having people stare.
I wasn’t a fan of long nails, but they surprisingly flattered her. They were doing a lot, a different design on each nail representing something from Puerto Rican culture, but she’d only have a few more days with them, so it hurt no one to admit it complimented her round-the-way look.
“Ready to order?”
“I know what I want. Just give us a second to go through the menu. I want her to see all the options,” dismissing Laz, letting Sierra eye all the entire menu.
“What are you getting?”
“I can't tell you.”
“Why not?”
“Because it'll affect what you're getting. By the end of the night, I want you to have had at least one drink, one meal, and one dessert that's distinctively Cuban.”
She studied the menu, pointing out the first thing she saw. “What about disco fries? Is that distinctively Cuban?”
“The way they make them is,” I winked.
“It says I can order it with pernil*.”
“No, no, no,” I wagged a finger. “Con ropa vieja o nada*,” I argued, affectionately tapping her thigh before withdrawing my hand. Had to stop being so comfortable doing that.
Her attention was split from the menu and the posters and decorations of the place, that I knew when her wondering eyes stopped, she’d bring up the familiar face on the wall. “I'm assuming all the pictures of you on the wall means you're originally from here,” she observed.
“Havana on the Hudson, born and raised. I may live a bit far out, but I don't forget where I come from. Especially with my last fight. Got a humbling welcome back. You would’ve never known I’d lost with how much they embraced me. I don't take that shit for granted, so I hope you don’t either.”
Sierra couldn't decide on what to order, but Laz hooked us up, sending a complimentary drink that I didn’t hesitate to sip. “?Cono! ?Qué fue loque le echaron a esto?* This shit it strong, I gotta drive,” as for the moment I put it down, convinced that was all I was having for the rest of the night.
“Damn, mami, you burning a hole through that menu?” wondering what was taking her so long to decide.
“I'm tempted to just try the flan, since there's familiarity there.”
“You'd like the pastelitos*,” I offered, knowing she’d never make up her mind.
“I could have that at a Puerto Rican spot,” she argued.
“But you wouldn't have it like here.” Given her lack of urgency, I got up and purchased some outright, as they’d just put out some fresh ones on the bakery counter.
When I returned, I directed one of the treats toward her mouth, as at first, she hesitated, claiming it looked different than what she was used to.
“Wait, there's no powdered sugar on it. How will I know it'll be sweet?”
“By putting it in your mouth, Medina. It's not rocket science.” Eventually she caved, finally taking a small bite before plucking it from my hand.
“After eating to train for so long, it feels indulgent to have something made with dough,” she blushed.
“Enjoy it. You probably won't taste it again until after your next fight,” I taunted.
“Which will be?” she inquired.
“Patience, Sierra. I want to pick the right fights. Sometimes it can take a few weeks. Sometimes it might be months,” knowing I already had an idea of who I wanted lined up.
“I can't afford not to fight for months—”
“And you can't afford not to be fully healed either. Relax.” She took another bite of a pastelito*, surprising herself when the filling was gooier than she expected, as half the guava paste spilled on the area just above her breastplate.
That was the host of most of her tattoos, and given a chance, I would have licked every last one of them just to make sure the jelly was gone. She managed to clean herself up, but didn't realize the corner of her mouth still hosted remnants of the dessert.
“Here, let me get that for you,” I offered, taking one of the handkerchiefs on the table, doing away with the schmer on her lip. Typically, I ignored them, since they were always flapping, but Sierra did have amazingly kissable lips.
“Thanks for treating me.”
“Don’t mention it. I should have taken you the day you won, but I wasn’t sure how sensitive your mouth would be, so be on the safe side, I avoided citrus, but you really can’t avoid it at a Cuban spot. Trust me, it’s hard to enjoy with a busted lip.”
“I think I’m going to go with the disco fries.”
“Jersey staple. Can’t go wrong with that.” While she was still deciding, I called over waitstaff to order a cubano*, and requested a light on the rum mojito, for her.
“What do you think I can't handle my liquor?” she blushed.
“It ain't about what you can and can't handle. I'm treating you to a winner's banquet, and winners don't drink until they pass out.”
“So, you're treating me like a winner, not your fighter?”
“Won't even call you kid. But be careful what you wish for. You may find you prefer the Josue you know.” I fear that opened the floor for questions, which when she opened her mouth, I was sadly proven right.
“Can I ask you things?”
“Sure.”
“Personal things?”
“Where are you getting at, Medina?”
“I feel like I don’t know anything about you,” she admitted, folding the corner of the menu.
“That’s not a bad thing, Sierra,” I warned.
“But you know everything bad about me. You think I like you knowing I'm a survivor of domestic violence? I don’t feel any sense of pride admitting that.”
“Honestly, you fucking should. Being a survivor means you got out. The start of my story, not everyone can say the same,” a drop in my stomach weighing me down at even having to recall it.
“Does it have to do with why you ended up in foster care?” hoping I would fill in the missing blanks.
“Sierra, just know, that I’m only telling you this because it explains why I initially didn’t like the idea of training female fighters.
I don’t like normalizing women getting hit in the face, or even getting hit at all.
It’s just…gosh, I didn’t know how hard it would be saying it out loud,” I spoke with hesitation.
“You don’t have to share it if you don’t want to,” she reassured.
“It gives context, so, fuck it. When I was five, I witnessed my mother brutally raped and murdered right in front of me,” I confessed, the color slowly draining from her face like she saw a ghost.
“That’s…” she stammered, instant regret for having even asked. “I’m so sorry for asking you to relive that.”
“Don’t be. It was so long ago, a part of me can barely remember her face. To be honest, she wasn’t much older than you,” thinking about how she had barely reached any milestones.
“I think at the time, I didn’t fully know what was happening. It wasn’t honestly not that rare of an occurrence in the household. The only difference being that…well, she didn’t wake up this time.” It was like the light left my voice, even though I’d thought I came at peace with it.
“Did your mother ever get justice?” she wondered out loud.
“If you consider serving three counts of manslaughter, justice. My pops is serving them consecutively, with possibility of parole, but honestly, I don’t even think he’s gonna live that long.”
The subject of my parents was both a desensitized and a touchy one. On one hand, I was orphaned at such a young age, that I'd learned to live without them. But I only had lived without them because of the actions of an extremely insecure man.
“Have you talked to him after he went to prison?” she asked quietly.
“I visited him once. When I was just coming up. Maybe at about nineteen, when I was still questioning things about myself. Honestly, I was just trying to prove to myself I was even strong enough to face him.”
“Were you?”
“I’ll admit, at first I wasn't. He didn't really have much to say about my mother, just that he was glad that I came. Then he was glad to hear I was doing something with my life. Meanwhile, I'm staring at the sole reason I’d never felt stability in my life. Bounced from home to home with people who didn’t give a fuck about me. That really does something to you, ya know? I don’t know how that man fucking lives with himself, meanwhile I’m drenched in guilt for not even trying to step in,” rubbing my palm across my face, trying to erase the image of her lifeless body out my head.
“It was like staring at an empty shell. And I fucking came from that. Growing up, I never really had a sense of self, and the only thing I know about myself is this shit? I don’t know, I was just…hollow. I don’t even know if it helped or made things worse.”
“Did you ask him why he did it?”