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Chapter
One
Taylor
The old metal door looms decrepit and proud of its latest conquest, reputedly trapping me inside. With practiced, irritated steps, I use my foot to turn the rusted old door handle. As soon as I hear the welcoming click, I ungraciously use my hip, constantly bumping on the metal frame, trying to get it open. The back-and-forth motion looks like I’m in a dance off, horribly losing.
My mind is everywhere else instead of where it should be, concentrating on all the shit I’m carrying. I refuse to make multiple trips, especially if I only suffer for less than a minute with heavy arms and hands.
I laugh in cryptic glee as soon as the metal beast gives way, causing me to stumble outside. If my hands where free, I’d flip that bitch off. Instead, I chuckle, happy to be outside. Unfortunately, I endure this dance several times a week.
I look up, my feet suddenly are laden with cement, unable to move. The jerking motion causes a few of the gloves and pads to easily fall out of my crowded ensemble.
In front of my parents’ boxing gym are three black Escalades, proudly manned by their own suitor. The driver or guardkeeping watch, proudly next to their own personal vehicle. It’s very late, darkness swallows the gym whole. We’re open till ten every night. The moonlight makes them shine, encapsulating them in money and prestige. Something that does not belong in this part of Queens, New York. The only time we get this type of visitor is when the bankers come, or the gangs are looking for someone.
I haven’t moved, standing still on the street holding too much boxing shit. My attention is glued on the men in tailored suits, entranced by what this can mean. Who are these people? If I stare long enough, maybe the universe will answer my questions.
Something hard hits me right in the middle of my back, causing my cemented feet to jerk forward. I barely catch myself before I fall, unfortunately all the contents spill out of my hands.
“Stupid girl,” is the only thing I hear as Mr. Chang growls his distaste, walking by me as he closes up his little corner store for the night.
“Sorry, have a good night,” I mumble, trying to wave goodbye with my right hand but it looks awkward. Mr. Chang only knows three words in English and I’m pretty sure of this, because that’s all I’ve heard since I was a kid living here, it’s either; stupid girl or idiot.
Mr. Chang’s wife died ten years ago. Occasionally my mom would have me bring food to him, or make sure he was still alive by visiting his store often.
With my trance broken, I gather up the gloves and pads and throw them in the door leading into the boxing club. This shit is money, and I refuse to leave it out on the street, even though I’m desperate to see who’s here. The rest of the street is dark and Mr. Chang has gone home. We’re the only place that’s open. Maybe some rich people wanted to try out a lower end boxing ring, see if they could hang. I smile walking in the club, stepping overthe forgotten gloves and pads. I’ll deal with the equipment later, eager to see.
I work on fixing my tight tank top that is starting to drift to the side, then straightening my very loose pair of boxing shorts. It’s the middle of August here, not as hot as it normally is at night. The air conditioning is humming as several of the fans circulate the overtly hot air through the boxing club.
Right when I round the corner, that’s when I get an eerie sensation. The place is dead silent, except the noise from the fans and AC.
We usually have between ten to twenty people in the club always, with a lot more during the busier times. Not one person is working out or sparring. Doing what they need to do to improve themselves, all of them are focused on my dad’s office.
My father’s office is small and shoved into the corner of the gym. The blinds are closed. The only way we see a glimpse, maybe even a glimmer of who’s in there, will come from the uncovered window on his door.
I walk my way through the eerie gym. The members nod at me with reassuring shoulder grabs, or pats on the back. Ignoring specks of blood and spit during an earlier fight that missed the bucket completely.
I started putting the buckets out months ago. So much easier to clean the buckets than the floor twenty times a day. Nobody can properly spit anywhere. There’s a lot of blood and other bodily fluids that make their way through this old-school gym.
I stop, standing next to a few of the old-timers that are staring intently at one of the most beautiful and classy women I’ve ever seen. My dad’s back is toward us. She’s facing my dad with rapt attention, very inclined and focused on what he’s talking about.
My father is moving his arms left and right, dialogue is raptly flowing from him. I can’t help it, my shoulders tense up, thereis no reason for that woman to be here. This is our family’s livelihood. My parents have been through so much. I’m afraid that anything else will break them.
My mom and dad have owned this club since I was little. We barely got by sometimes, especially in the beginning but it’s enough. They made their dream work. Both of them have never been happier, at least that’s what they tell me.
I ignore some of the stifling heat from the delayed air as I sigh, severely interested in what that fancy woman is telling him. The scent of blood and sweat is permanent in the air, even air fresheners conveniently placed throughout the gym can’t get rid of this.
We’ve never had anyone that looks like that here. The last time someone came in with the crappy secondhand store suit, they were from the bank threatening to put my dad on his ass right then and there. Luckily all the boxers in the building weren’t having it.
I know that’s why all the guys are concerned. We have a few women that are in this club, but none of them are here right now. Several older, long-standing members are now at my side watching and waiting with anticipation, worried about what will happen to their club they’ve been going to forever. The ones that aren’t right by me are standing alert and ready throughout the room. The bags are occupied, the ring is occupied. An area we have dedicated for sparring is occupied, but all unused.
My father looks up slightly smiling, replacing it quickly with his permanent stoic face seeing all of his guys surrounding his daughter.
“Relax kid,” Mac says to me. Gripping my shoulder tightly and giving it a little bit of a squeeze in comfort. I’m twenty-two years old. My birthday was a couple weeks ago at the beginning of August, but apparently in this club if you’re under sixty, you’re a kid.
Mac stands next to me, shoulder to shoulder as we continue to watch my father. Those two have been friends as far back as I can remember.
My father glances back toward us, and motions for me to come into the office with him.
