Ruthless Salvation

14

“s**t, yeah. I don’t even have my eyelashes on, and I need to make some cash so I can put money on the fights tomorrow. It’s way more fun when you have a little stake in the game.” She gave me a wink, then turned back to her mirror, a grin still lighting her face.

I got to work without any run-ins with Torin. A small part of me had worried how he might react to seeing Luke, but when he stopped by the club briefly, he never even looked my way. As far as I could tell, my ploy had paid off. There were no awkward interactions, and I didn’t detect a shadow tailing me on my way home.

The successful turn of events reassured me that a night at the fights wouldn’t be an issue. My daddy used to watch pay-per-view fights. I was never a fan of the violence, but I could endure one night for a friend.

“I DIDN’T KNOW you were into wigs!” Micky trailed her fingers through the long auburn strands of hair draped over my shoulder.

“I’m not really.” What I was into was not being seen by my stalker boss.

“I just have a couple for fun.”

“I’ve thought about it, but those things are pricey. Maybe when I’m out of school and not watching every dime.”

“Like the dimes you plan on gambling tonight?” I razzed her with a playful quirk of my eyebrow.

She reflected my attitude right back at me with an epic side-eye. “We all gotta have our priorities.”

We both stared at one another for a pregnant second before bursting into laughter.

Thirty minutes and three subway stations later, we walked up to a crumbling old building with a faded sign reading Electric Avenue Skating Rink. The entire neighborhood looked forgotten in time. It was the perfect place for a pop-up fight night.

We filtered inside the front entrance past a pair of scowling thugs. Each person to enter was then patted down for weapons in what used to be the rink lobby. The wood paneling original to the 1970s was still present, though warped in areas. The floor was checkerboard with what was probably asbestos tiles, and the speckled drop ceiling was missing in sections. Otherwise, the place wasn’t in terrible shape. Brightly colored prints still hung in their frames, and ornamental light fixtures that reminded me of the old Jetsons cartoon hung overhead.

However, the vibe was different once we entered the main part of the building. The rink had been gutted. The room retained almost nothing related to its original purpose save for a giant disco ball hanging from the ceiling. An elevated boxing ring had been set up directly underneath it in the middle of the room, and several hundred people were packed in around the ring or standing in lines at the row of booths housing bookies along one wall.

The air was thick with moisture and anticipation. And sound. So much noise that pressure built in my ears. An announcer commentated from a microphone but was still hard to hear over the cacophony of shouting and music.

The energy was overwhelming.

My heart thundered in my chest as I watched a fight already underway. I knew from seeing bits of pro fights with my dad that a series of smaller fights took place leading up to the main event. I had no idea where Torin might fit in that line-up. For all I knew, his match could have already ended.

The possibility brought on a wave of unexpected disappointment. I shoved the emotion into a cute little Mason jar and vacuum sealed that sucker shut. I had no business wanting to see Torin in a fight or any other capacity aside from a paycheck.

That’s why you’re wearing this ridiculous wig, remember? No entanglements with dangerous men.

Adequately chastened, I stood dutifully in line with Micky. As soon as she placed her bets, we squeezed our way through the crowd of bodies.

Micky said something over her shoulder, but I couldn’t make it out. Between the hearing trouble I had in my left ear and the ruckus everywhere, it was all a blur of sound.

“What?” I tugged on her shirt to get her attention.

“Let’s get a little closer,” Micky said even louder.

“You sure? It might be better to stick near the back.” That would make it easier to cut and run. I had put the suggestion out there, knowing it was in vain.

“Are you kidding? We didn’t come all this way to stand at the back! I want to see the testosterone dripping off them.” I’d figured as much.

She finally settled on a spot about halfway to the ring. We watched three fights over the next two hours. I was relieved to see that illegal fights didn’t necessarily mean gruesome. The same rules professionals followed seemed to apply, and the referee didn’t tolerate any abusive behavior. I’d been a tad worried it would be some sort of fight-to-the-death Mad Max style.

While that particular fear subsided, my anxiety over watching Torin fight magnified by the minute. It was one thing to be a spectator when two strangers pummeled one another. Watching someone I knew possibly get knocked unconscious sounded more and more horrifying. I wanted boundaries between us—I didn’t want the man dead.

And to make matters worse, the crowd was swimming in alcohol. The lack of a concession stand hadn’t stopped anyone from drinking. Even Micky had pulled out a jewel-studded flask at the start of the second fight. Booze-laden breath was all around me. Everyone had steadily grown louder and more animated. By the time Torin “the Streak” Byrne was announced, my chest felt tight with the threat of a full-out panic attack.

The crowd came alive as Torin and his opponent, Joe “Razor” Roman, each walked to the ring. Cheers. Angry slurs. Fists waving in the air for any number of reasons. Micky ate it up. She bounced on her toes and added her voice to the mix while I stood stock-still, my heart wedging itself between my ribs.