Chapter 1
Chapter One
Joy’s arms burned as she continuously struck the punching bag in front of her. The leather material stung her bare fists but she welcomed the familiar pain.
“You think you gon’ be able to put on gloves in the field?”
Byron’s voice boomed in Joy’s head like he was standing right beside her. At the memory of her father’s coaching, she pushed through, releasing the pent up energy bouncing around in her veins. Though her sand and leather opponent was stationary, Joy took pleasure in the repetitive act.
She could be spun in circles, blindfolded, and hung upside down and all of her jabs would find their target. Still, she moved through each progression, appreciating the sense of normalcy she was able to steal from them.
Joy looked forward to her mornings at the boxing gym.
For 90 minutes a day, she didn’t have to suppress her violence.
Her strength and ruthlessness were once again praised and for just a moment in her day, she felt like herself again, not the weak shell of herself that she’d been over the past six months.
The longer Joy trained, the more the atmosphere of the Brooklyn boxing gym transformed, bringing back memories of the day that changed her life.
10 year old Joy trailed behind her father as they walked into the boxing gym.
The scent of leather mats and sweat mixed with the metallic tang of blood made Joy uneasy but she swallowed it down.
Showing apprehension would only upset her father.
He praised her for being the stronger, more ruthless one between she and her older brother.
They passed boys and men of varying ages sparring against each other and sending strong blows into the bags that hung from the ceiling, rattling the chains holding them up.
They finally stopped at a ring with another man and a boy about Joy’s age inside.
“Xavier!” Byron hollered over the thumping music. The man turned to Joy and her father and stepped out of the ring.
“What go down, Thibodeaux,” he greeted Byron with a dap.
“Ain’t shit,” he responded. “This is my daughter, Joy,” he introduced, putting a hand on Joy’s shoulder.
“Ah. So this is our little fighter huh?” Xavier said with a humored smile.
Joy cringed and looked away. She’d been sent home early from school for fighting a boy during recess that had been trying to push another girl off of the swing. During her reprimand, she was told by the principal that the boy would need stitches.
“No need to be embarrassed. Nothing wrong with fighting. Shit, you gone be fighting in some way for the rest of your life. But you need to know how to do it right and when to do it,” Byron said.
“And that’s what I’m here for,” Xavier said. “This is my nephew. You two are gonna train together.” He put his hand on the boys shoulder. Joy regarded the boy with inquisitive eyes and he did the same.
She brought her eyes back up to her father. “Train for what?” Joy asked.
Byron stooped down to speak to Joy eye level. “Remember how I told you that someone took something from me a long time ago?”
Joy nodded.
“I think you can help me get it back princess. You fucked that little boy up,” he laughed and Joy cracked a smile. “With your help, we can take back everything that’s been stolen plus some. What do you think?”
Joy looked into Byron’s face. She loved her dad more than anything in the world. She was a daddy’s girl, undeniably, and would do anything he asked of her. Enthusiastically, she nodded and Byron grinned then stood, placing a kiss on the top of her head on his way up.
“That’s my princess.”
He helped Joy into the ring and went off to the side to speak in hushed tones with Xavier about the plans for their training.
As they did so, Joy and the boy stood eyeing the other warily.
“I’m Joy,” she finally spoke.
“Zyaire,” he mumbled. He held his fist out and Joy bumped it with her own.
The grunts of her exertion reverberated through the empty gym, mixing with the sound of her flesh and bone hitting the bag, fighting through haunting memories and hurt feelings. Her arms cried out for a break but she ignored them
“You think them niggas on the street on gonna care that you’re just a girl?
That you’re tired? Huh?” Byron’s voice boomed and 13 year old Joy scrunched up her face to keep the tears from falling.
She could feel her lip beginning to swell and the salt of her sweat stinging the cut on her cheek.
She shook her head ‘no’ in response and curled her hands into fists.
“No! They won’t! They will whoop yo ass like anybody else. If you wanna be a bitch, then get the fuck out. If you want to be a queen, put your fuckin’ hands up!”
Joy put her hands up.
The alarm on her phone chirped, pulling Joy out of her head and signaling that her time of solace had come to an end.
She sent another series of punches and kicks into the bag, causing the chain holding it up to rattle, then dropped her arms, her breaths labored.
Her mind feeling lighter and her limbs feeling like jello, she gulped down her water and wiped her face as she gathered her belongings to leave.
“Aight, lil mama. See you tomorrow,” Mr. Johnson, the owner of the gym, called from his seat behind the front desk as she passed.
Through a reluctant conversation with the older Black man her third time visiting, she learned that he was a veteran who opened the gym to create a safe space for people to learn self defense and for other veterans to stay sharp or keep to their routines. Joy respected that.
For the most part, he stayed out of her way and didn’t ask too many questions. She respected that even more.
She offered only a raise of her hand in goodbye as she hustled out of the building, mentally chastising herself for creating a predictable routine. Mr. Johnson seemed nice enough but she could never be too careful.
Guilty until proven innocent. No one gets the benefit of the doubt.
Again, her father’s lessons bombarded Joy as she stepped into the cold New York air. Even 1,500 miles away, Byron Thibodeaux’s teachings and demands couldn’t be escaped.
Sweaty and physically depleted but mentally more sharp, Joy boarded the bus that would take her from one side of Brooklyn to the other.
As soon as she settled in her seat, her phone began to vibrate in the pocket of her leggings.
She pulled it out and answered, not bothering to look at the number. The only people who had this number were the jobs she’d applied for and her cousin.
“Hello,” she answered, cringing at her own voice.
It wasn’t the soft and sweet melodic tone she’d gotten down to a disarming science.
It was huskier now. Raspier. Rougher. The only scar from that night that hadn’t faded.
It was a permanent reminder of how her life had been ruined and the men who’d betrayed her in the process.
“Good afternoon, I’m calling to speak with Joy Thibodeaux.”
“Speaking.”
“Hi Joy, this is Tamara Kincaid from King, Kincaid, and Associates. How are you?”
Joy sat up, recognizing the law firm she’d gone through three rounds of interviews with. The Black owned firm was the most elite on the east coast and her top pick.
“Hi Tamara. I’m doing well, and yourself?”
“I’m good, I’m good. I’m calling because the partners were very impressed with your resume, recommendations, and interviews so I’m pleased to offer you the junior associate position.”
Joy removed the phone from her ear to heave a brief sigh of relief. That was all the acknowledgement she allowed herself before she put the phone back to her ear. She feared if she lingered too long in it, she’d start to tear up.
A job offer shouldn’t elicit such a reaction from her but months of rejection and distance had made her sensitive. “That’s wonderful, thank you. I accept,” she said in an even tone that betrayed the thudding in her chest.
“Great!” Tamara exclaimed on the other end. She went on to talk about salary and other details that Joy paid no mind. Her thoughts were reeling, her mind already crossing off one step on her to-do list and mapping out the next.
“Are you able to start the week after next?” Tamara asked, interrupting Joy’s thoughts.
“Yes,” Joy answered quickly, not finding any reason to delay her return to the real world any further.
“That’s perfect. I’ll be out that week for the holidays but your direct manager will be in and he’ll get you situated. Do you have any questions?”
“No ma’am,” Joy shook her head like the woman could see her.
“Wonderful. Keep an eye out on your inbox for the written offer letter. You’ll just need to e-sign that and send it back. Welcome to the team.”
Joy and Tamara exchanged goodbyes, then Joy hung up with a smile that stayed with her the rest of her ride.
Still wearing her sweat soaked clothes and coat, Joy went straight for the white board hanging in her walk-in closet.
It was an organized mess of newspaper clippings, information print outs, and lines connecting faces with sticky note labels.
The board held the key to her plan to rebuild her reputation and reclaim her life.
To prove to her father that she was still an asset. Still the queen he raised.
Marrying into an alliance may be out of the question thanks to her tainted reputation, but building her own alliances and network was still feasible and the first part of her plan to do so had finally snapped into place as soon as she signed her offer letter.
King, Kincaid, and Associates was one of the best law firms on the east coast and they not only handled cases for some of the most notorious organized crime syndicates but also had deep ties and connections to politicians.
Making a name for herself there would mean getting access to the people she would need to connect with.
Joy smiled and with one flick of her wrist, crossed off step one on her list.