19. I am Jack’s lingering aggression
I AM JACK’S LINGERING AGGRESSION
Ross and I rolled up to the fight in his silver Prius; it was in a sketchy-as-fuck empty warehouse in South San Francisco.
Even the parking lot gave me the heebies.
Originally, Ross had been excited to show off his new “butch” motorcycle boots and jeans he’d found on our shopping date. The enthusiasm faded with the venue.
I clung to Ross’s arm, since he had five inches and probably a hundred pounds on me. He looked like he was all fluff, but he worked out, and there was strength in those arms. He’d claimed it was for fending off all the hot men who wanted him.
“Are we about to get axe murdered?” he muttered through his teeth.
“You know, that has been a theme.”
The bouncer was a big brute who looked like he’d been dragged across concrete face-first more than once in his life. Recognition and, weirdly, a hint of respect lit his otherwise flat eyes when he checked our IDs. “Oh, you’re with Nazim? Yeah, go on in.”
“Oh my god, girl,” Ross whispered harshly in my ear. “I wanted to see hot men tussle, not watch them literally kill each other. This is like a legit Fight Club moment.”
I only nodded. We sidled through a crowd of mostly men, speckled with a few tatted, very busty, scantily clad women.
Lots of metal and gym t-shirts, cauliflower ears, and badly healed broken noses.
Several burly bikers clustered together off to one side of the ring—which was really more of a cage with its chain link sides.
Their leather-clad backs proudly displayed their motorcycle club logo.
“Aww, look, they’re all matching,” I whispered to Ross. “That’s so cute.”
Ross snorted. “You are gonna get us killed.”
We got drinks—deciding cans were the safest option—and found our seats in a corner reserved for us.
The first fights were featherweight, with each round announced by a guy standing on a crate with a megaphone and scantily clad women holding up numbers. The fighters were gangly but fast. I winced every time a bony joint collided with the mat.
We clapped and cheered for whoever Ross deemed hotter.
He declared none of them were husband material yet.
By the time the welterweights were through, I was getting tired.
It was approaching midnight. I bounced to my feet with a second wind when the heavyweights were announced, but Rafael was not among them.
Ross perked up as I drooped. “Girl, you know this means your man is a superheavyweight.”
Burly fighters circled each other. One beat his chest and yelled. Did they not realize how silly that looked?
“I don’t really know what that means.”
Ross grabbed me by the shoulders, peering deep into my eyes as if about to impart the wisdom of the universe. “It means he weighs more than 265lbs. There’s no upper limit on that weight class. I’m guessing he’s over 300.”
Jesus, I’d known Rafael must be heavier than average just based on his height and muscle, but I’d had no idea what that really meant. The crowd roared as one heavyweight landed a solid uppercut, knocking his opponent out cold.
Finally, the superheavyweight bouts were announced.
Ross and I stood to cheer as my composer entered the scene.
Unique among the competitors, Rafael wore a thin, long-sleeved compression shirt and leggings to his ankles under the fight shorts.
All black, of course. His shorts were a little longer than most others. Damn, he looked good.
Where had he found a cup large enough to cover his…assets? Were there tailors for that kind of thing? Or did he need a blacksmith? I stared hard at his crotch, trying to make the determination.
Rafael had braided his hair and twisted it into a tight knot on the back of his head. It made him look even more hawkish and severe than usual. Catching my eye, he gave me a slight chin lift. I blew him a kiss.
Ross elbowed me and pantomimed cupping his chest.
“I know, right?” I was riveted.
“I like the cunty manbun. He’s got some thick thighs and calves too. Probably got a dick like a giant sequoia. Shit girl, you really are mountain-climbing.”
I snorted. If only he knew.
Ross blew out a breath that further puffed his round cheeks. “I still can’t believe he’s a musician and willingly fucks his hands up like that. Isn’t he, like, in his forties?”
“Forty-five, yeah.” Ish.
I hadn’t considered his age as a factor, but most of the fighters were young; maybe mid-twenties. Only a few looked to be in their thirties or older, and most of those had not fared well in these latest fights. Renewed worry roiled in my gut.
The opponent was a square-faced, barrel-chested bear of a man. If not for spending so much time with Rafael, this man’s size would have stunned me. He was easily over 6’5” and covered in thick body hair as dark as his beard and the buzzed stubble on his head.
I didn’t hear his name over the crowd’s noise.
“Whew, Daddy. They grow the bears extra-large around here.” Ross leaned in, eyes sparkling. “Can you tell your man not to fuck that one up too bad? I want him when he’s done. Now that’s husband material.”
“I’ll send him some brainwaves to be nice.”
The superheavyweights squared up. Rafael growled something too low for me to parse.
“Fuck ya motha!” the bear bellowed. Not as deep as Rafael’s voice, but still a very respectable growl.
“Ooh, and he’s Italian,” my friend cooed.
The moment the bell rang, the bear charged low at Rafael’s legs.
“Yeah, good choice,” Ross said sagely.
“Hey, whose side are you on?”
Rafael spun easily out of the way and kicked the man in the ribs hard enough for me to hear the smack over the crowd noise.
The bear grunted and changed course, throwing haymakers.
I gasped as one collided with Rafael’s jaw, but he used the momentum to drive his knee hard into the bear’s gut.
The bear staggered, and Rafael struck him in the face with a lightning-quick jab-hook combo, nearly spinning the man’s head around.
Damn, he was fast. Much faster than he looked.
Ross sucked in a breath as the bear went down on a knee. Rafael summarily kneed his opponent in the face, knocking the man’s head back. Blood spattered, and the crowd roared.
Not done yet, the bear lunged again at Rafael’s legs.
Fear squeezed my lungs as he went down, but he landed well.
Rolling adroitly, he untangled himself from his opponent and regained his feet.
He dropped a brutal axe kick in the middle of his opponent’s back as the man tried to follow, flattening him on the mat.
The bear rolled as well, grabbing at Rafael’s ankle, and got his face stomped for his trouble.
I winced at the crunch of what was probably his nose breaking.
The bell rang. Round one was over. I wanted to run to him, but Rafael waved me away. He swished his mouth with water and spat into a bucket.
Round two. Rafael went on the offensive. Pelting the hairy man with blows, he backed the bear into a corner of the cage and trapped him. The bear landed a few solid hits to Rafael’s sides, but my composer gave no indication he’d noticed. No wonder he could shrug off the cane so easily.
The bear broke free and slammed his elbow into Rafael’s face.
I let out a little yell, but Rafael cackled like a hyena, blood gushing from his nose.
He retaliated with swift, solid body blows.
The force of his punches rippled through the bear’s torso in shockwaves. Spittle flew from the man’s mouth.
Ross whistled, impressed.
The bear fell backward, and Rafael was on him in an instant.
I cheered. He dropped face and body blows like hammers on his hapless opponent.
More and more punches rained down; pummeling the man’s face into hamburger.
The bear went limp. I tensed, dread coiling in my belly.
Were they going to let Rafael beat this man to death?
The crowd’s shouts and screams drowned out anything the refs might have said.
One of them finally nodded to the announcer, who bellowed into the megaphone, “TKO, Rafael Nazim wins another one!”
The crowd roared. The ref tapped Rafael’s shoulder.
When Rafael shook him off like an annoying fly to land another punch, the ref waved frantically to the sidelines.
Three huge men rushed into the ring and pulled Rafael off his unconscious opponent.
He fought them, too. Just when I thought it would become the brawl he’d warned me about, Rafael calmed.
The men shoved him out of the ring as medics swarmed over the fallen bear.
Rafael spat out his mouthguard and tore off his gloves.
Pacing, he shook his head and smacked himself in the chest and arms with his fists.
Almost as though he were in an argument with himself—or the lingering aggression.
He rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck.
We kept our distance, like kids watching a hungry lion at the zoo.
A grey-bearded biker leered at me, and I ducked behind Ross.
The man drunkenly staggered closer. “Hey, don’t be like that, sweetheart. I just want to say hello.”
Ross held up a palm. “Brother, this is Rafael Nazim’s girlfriend. You sure you want to go there?” He jerked his chin toward my bloody, pacing giant.
The biker’s eyes rounded. “Shit, sorry!” He scurried away like a cockroach under a kitchen light.
I patted my friend’s arm. “Very butch, Ross. I’m impressed. I thought it was going to be like that time the guy yelled at us and you threw the shopping bag.”
“Oh, come on, I was just startled! So, about those brainwaves.” Ross gave me a pained smile. “Do we think Bear Daddy is dead or…?”
Rafael finally waved us over. His lip was swollen, and blood had dried in streaks from his nose to his chest. I glanced around, but no one else approached him. Strange, given how long he had been coming here. Were they all afraid of him? Ross hovered behind me.
“You were incredible.” I threw my arms around Rafael, heedless of all the blood and sweat. “Are you hurt at all?”
One corner of his mouth curled into a wince. “I may have some broken ribs…”
“Oh god, I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking.” I immediately released him and stepped back.
He smiled a tired smile, raised a hand to touch my face, and stopped. Blood crusted his knuckles. He grabbed what I hoped was a clean rag out of a bucket and wiped his hands.
“What about your nose?” To my untrained eye, it was a concerning amount of blood.
“It is not broken.” Rafael turned his head, stopped up one nostril, and blew a bloody glob into the rag. I cringed. God, that was gross. He repeated it on the other side.
“That was brutal. I’m really glad it wasn’t you on the mat getting your face punched through the floor. Why did they let you hit that man for so long?”
“Scared to stop me,” he said quietly, almost subdued. “I have swung on refs who tried to intervene. Knocked one out, seriously injured another.”
Ross gasped. “Whoa, that’s fucked.”
‘Scared to stop me’. The words rattled around in my head.
“Did you kill my Italian husband?” Ross crossed his arms and stood on his tiptoes, looking over the crowd for the fallen bear.
Rafael blinked. “Boris? He is Russian.” He stretched out his hands and fingers. “And no, that man is a concrete block. He will be fine. The medics said he is conscious and hates me more than ever.”
“Why does he hate you?” The words fluttered out before I could bite them back.
“Because I have knocked his stubborn ass out three times now.” Rafael shrugged. “Some people refuse to learn.”
Ross shifted his weight, resting a hand on one hip, maximum sass loaded. “So, it looks like you have a hard time coming down from that bloodlust when you’re worked up. What if you lose control and hurt Elaine?”
Rafael wiped his face with the same rag and spat bloody saliva into the bucket. “I would never hurt her.”
“But what if you do?” My friend pressed.
His courage surprised me. I had no idea Ross cared so much.
We’d been drinking buddies after work and liked all the same games.
He’d dragged me across the peninsula shopping.
We’d shared stories about shitass men. But he wasn’t the one I called crying when I needed help.
Nor was I that person for him. Yet here he was.
Rafael exhaled slowly. “If I ever hurt her, I will kill myself.”