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“This was not the plan,” I say, shrugging out of Jesse’s jacket and handing it to him.
He takes it and slips it on over his tee. He lent it to me before I hopped onto the back of his new hog, his Harley Forty-Eight he scored a good deal on down in Daytona. I’m so sick with envy I could choke.
“Relax,” he says, motioning me through the door of some run-down house in the middle of a neighborhood that looks worse than the worst of Hazard—and that’s saying something. “I promised you’d get to race on the track, and you’re going to.”
“Then why the hell are we at some crack house?” I glance around the foyer as we enter. The walls are either nicotine-coated yellow, or the last time they were painted was for a porno shoot back in the seventies.
He points to an open sliding glass door on the other side of the small house, to where a heard of people are filing through. “You’ll see. You can make some dough at the track tomorrow, but this will give you a nice start. You’ll earn twice as much in an hour here
.”
Tank is tagging my trail, and I look back at him with raised eyebrows. “You approve?”
He laughs. “A good brawl is good for the soul, baby. And the prospect is right.” He punches Jesse lightly on the shoulder. Although he “loves him like a son,” even Tank refers to Jesse as prospect until he’s a full-patch owner. “You’ll make an okay amount to get you going toward your new hog.”
As we work our way toward the glass door, I slip my thumb into my jean pocket, making sure the last of my savings is still there. I’d rather have most of it for the track, where I know for sure I can earn out. With Jesse’s Forty-Eight—a fast as hell bike—I could at least enter and win three races. That would get me to the halfway mark, and I’d still have enough for rent and food, and other necessities I usually don’t think about on the road.
Like toilet paper. Who forgets to buy that? I do. When I’m used to using it in motel rooms, bars, public restrooms, wherever. Well, I found out I had none the hard way this morning.
The noise of the crowd intensifies as we push through to the backyard. Bodies are packed tightly, heads weaving side-to-side as people try to glimpse something in the center of the commotion.
Jesse tugs my hand, and I’m led toward the side, around the crowd, to where a group of bikers are pumping their fists in the air and shouting. They’re old school riders; faded Harley Davidson tats on their forearms, worn leather vests with no MC affiliation. Black bandanas wrapping their graying, long hair. Jesse nods to one and hands him a roll of dollars.
He then turns to me and raises his eyebrows, prompting me. I dig out the wad of cash, silently cursing as I hand Jesse half of my stash. “This better be damn good,” I say.
“Don’t worry. I got you.” He hands the biker my money and says, “Two on The Hunter.”
Blowing out a deep breath, I stand on my tiptoes to peer over the crowd. A makeshift boxing ring is positioned in the middle of the wooden fenced-in yard, and I can just make out two guys in the center dancing around each other, their fists raised.
Holy shit. My mouth pops open and my head snaps around toward Jesse. “A backyard brawl?”
He laughs. “Relax. The po-po know about this club. In fact, I think they sponsor it.” He points toward two obvious cops despite their street clothes. You can always tell by the haircut and the clean-cut look regardless of how grunged out they try to appear. It’s in the way they stand, trying to look comfortable but like there’s a stick up their asses.
“Still,” I say close to Jesse’s ear. “It’s illegal, dude. The last place either of us should be, ya know?”
His forehead creases. “Wow, Mel. Rehab really put a hurt on your spirit. Look”—he motions toward the ring—“one fight and we’re gone. Just chill, okay? I promise there’s nothing to worry about. This shit is huge down here. It’s everywhere. No reason why we can’t make bank until we can get out of here.”
Turning my attention back toward the fighters in the ring, I try to assure myself that Jesse’s right. I mean, fracking cops are standing a few feet away, placing their own bets. When did I become so fucking uptight?
Just as I’m maneuvering to get a better view, calming down enough to enjoy the show…my gaze lands on something that spikes my heart rate, and all bets are off.
Fucking good guy Boone.
Hardcore straightedge, sobriety peddler and keeper of celibacy, Boone Randall.
In the ring.
“What the hell…?” I’m taking off through the crowd, pushing around people and weaving a jagged path to the front of the throng before I know what I’m doing.
I don’t have time to process what I’m seeing, what I’m feeling—deceived. Played. Confused. Many things swirl the chaos of my thoughts as I watch Boone take a hard punch to the jaw. Bareknuckle. No gloves to soften the blow.
His head snaps sideways, and a stream of red sprays from his mouth. My gut clenches.
I finally reach the ring, but a band of yellow tape holds me back from getting to the ropes. I have no idea what I was going to do once I got here—what I intend to say. The shock of seeing Boone in the ring getting the shit beat out of him stunted all rational thought and I just needed to… What?
All thoughts cease the moment our eyes connect.
His deep hazels surrounded by sweat and puffed skin. Mine so wide, I swear they’re about to bulge from their sockets. In the two seconds it takes for Boone to register me, my utter confusion and disbelief, I glimpse the same in him. A fraction of a second now, his features shift from confusion to awareness.
