Page 3 of Sterling Fight

Sweet succulents, save me.

We haven’t even ordered that drink I suddenly, desperately, need—the one that starts the very short time clock on this evening—when a server approaches and tells us our table is ready. He tips his head toward the swinging door with a pleasant smile on his face.

With a confused expression, I glance at Ralson. We’re already seated at a table. A very open, very public, very visible by the bartender and a bouncer at the door, table.

“Uh.” I seem to be stuck on monosyllabic sounds because I’m truly at a loss for words.

Ralson stands, and without a glance back at me, as his date, he proceeds to follow the server. Thunderstruck, this would be the moment to swipe right and leave this situation. Just bolt for the door and never look back. Just what the ever-loving-eff-ity is going on here?

Typically, I’m quicker on my feet to leave a situation, so I’m surprised at myself when I’m suddenly standing as well and hesitantly following Ralson, thinking a separate dining room must be behind the swing door. A room that is overcrowded and has bad acoustics.

“I really only planned on one⁠—”

I cut myself off as I slip through that dividing barrier, catching the door before it swings back to hit my stunned face. In front of me is a boxing ring. A four sided, roped off, raised roughly eighteen inches off the floor, boxing ring, and in the center are two men punching the daylights out of each other.

In silky, violet-purple shorts is one man facing off with another man in white shorts with a green stripe up the sides and around his waist. Each is a powerhouse of strength. Corded muscles. Bulging veins. Boxing gloves on their fists. They also wear a padded helmet which is the only sane thing about this situation.

Standing inside a backroom boxing ring has never been on my bingo card.

Ralson is several feet in front of me and readily takes a chair offered by the server. I close the distance between us but remain standing.

“Hey, I think I’m going to head out.”

Ralson swivels his head almost as fast as the punch I see out of the corner of my eye. I’m trying not to look. The last thing I want to watch is too grown men pummeling one another, and I definitely do not want to hear the breaking of bones. Or worse, see the sight of blood.

Keeping my concentration on Ralson, I’d really like to throat punch him, despite my aversion to violence. Finally, he blinks up at me from his seated position.

“But we didn’t have a drink yet.”

“Yeah, and suddenly, I’m not thirsty.” I’m downright dehydrated, desperately in need of a martini or six, but not with this guy. And not in this bar.

“I was going to order champagne.”

I have no earthly idea why he’d think champagne was a bargaining tool or a platitude to sway my decision.

“I never drink the stuff.” Bubbly and I have a history that’s long and bitter, unlike this date which will be short and quickly forgotten.

“You’ve got to see this guy,” Ralson continues, turning his attention toward the ring like I didn’t even speak. Didn’t reject his offer or suggest I’m leaving. Because I’m going home.

Or better yet, today is National Indie Bookstore Day, and I think I’ll hit up my local favorite. A good book. A gin martini. A warm bathtub. Best date ever. Party of one, please.

“Ralson, I’m not⁠—”

Ralson flinches. His eyes are trained on the ring. He grimaces like whatever he’s witnessed hurts him. Inhaling deeply, I close my eyes, willing myself not to look. But like watching a horror film, I feel the pull to peek when I know I won’t like what I see.

For half a second—no lie—not even fifteen milliseconds or whatever it would be called; more like thirteen, my favorite number, I turn my head and then turn it back toward Ralson who is fixated on the fight.

But in that microcosm of time, I don’t miss the boxer in purple looking at me. Or at least, facing my direction, eyes appearing to be aimed outside the ring over his opponent’s shoulder.

Ralson winces.

I’m not falling for the temptation to look again, but a strange energy surrounds me.

Snap-crackle-pop.

Or maybe that’s the punch-crunch-break of a bone.

I don’t want to know.