Ryan
I’m a loner, sitting in my tiny little hole of a room at the back of the gym on a Saturday night. The last six dollars I have after buying some food are lying on the floor next to my makeshift bed that consists of old gym mats I found in one of the closets.
I’m surrounded by four white walls in a room with one little window that doesn’t do a lick of good. It’s so damn hot in Sevilla and the air doesn’t move, making me feel like I’m in an isolated jail cell. I found a fan in one of the hall closets yesterday, so at least the thing dries my sweat off at night. I wonder what Dalila would do if she came into my room. She’d probably scrunch up her nose and tell me to get lost.
I’ve been thinking about her a lot. Hell, images of her keep crossing my mind when I’m too hot to sleep. That dude Rico seemed more suited for a golf outing than a boxing gym. They’re a perfect couple. The bossy girl and the blowhard.
But that doesn’t mean I don’t remember how she kissed me. Remembering that crazy night is the only entertainment I have.
My life here sucks, but at least I have food for the next week. Lucky for me, food is dirt cheap in Mexico and I’ve managed to stock up. I don’t even know why I’m still here. Well, besides the fact that I’m almost out of gas and don’t have anywhere else to go.
I’ve been here a week and haven’t seen the legendary Juan Camacho. It wouldn’t matter, anyway. I don’t have squat to pay the dude. I’ve sparred with a few guys from the gym since I’ve been here and would love get an opportunity to show Camacho what I’ve got.
I glance at the cheap-ass pay-as-you-go phone I got, almost willing it to ring. It’s useless because I don’t get any calls. My mom hasn’t called to see how I’m doing, even though I left her my number. All my life I’ve wanted her to tell me how much she values my existence, but it’s just a fantasy. The reality is I’m the mistake that led to her being a poor young single mom disowned by her parents and desperate to find a guy who’d stick around.
My existence ruined lots of things for her.
I used to wonder what life would have been like if my parents had stayed together. I imagined Christmases with a huge tree decorated with colorful lights and shiny tinsel. We’d send out goofy holiday cards with a picture of our family wearing ugly sweaters. In the spring my dad would be my Little League coach and my mom would sit in the stands and cheer me on the loudest. I’d pretend she embarrassed me, but I’d secretly love it. I wouldn’t have cared if we lived in a big house or an old shed. We’d be a family. And we’d be happy just because we were together.
I pick up my phone and stare at the empty screen. I’ve probably got less than a month until my minutes expire, so I figure I’ll call my mom. I don’t know where I’ll go once that manager Ocho kicks me out of here. I don’t think my mom cares where I am just as long as she’s left with a bottle of booze.
Listening to each ring gives me anxiety. Will she answer or will she glance at her cell and ignore it because I’m calling? A million thoughts are rushing through my mind right now.
“Hello?” my mom’s familiar voice answers.
I swallow hard. “Hey, Mom. It’s Ry. I, um, just wanted to let you know I made it to Mexico. I’m, um, living in a boxing gym.”
“Enough lies, Ryan.”
My heart sinks. There’s no concern laced in her voice. Only resentment. “What are you talkin’ about?”
“Paul heard you were running drugs across the border,” she says, her voice full of contempt. “He said he has informants keeping an eye on you.”
Paul would say anything to make me look like a thug. “I’m not running drugs, Ma.”
“Paul knows—”
“Paul doesn’t know shit about me or what I’m doin’,” I blurt out harshly. “I told you I was going to Mexico to train.”
“Train to fight? Or train to smuggle drugs?” Her tone tells me how much she disrespects me. It’s almost as if she wants me to fail.
“To fight.”
I hear her chug something and then I recognize the sound of a glass set down on a counter. “I don’t know what’s real and what’s not with you anymore.”
I used to lie all the time when I was younger, but she caught me too many times. I stopped lying the first time she told me I was turning into my father. If it was possible, after that she started resenting me even more. She ignored me, stopped making me meals . . . hell, she even stopped taking me to doctor’s appointments.
“I guess I’ll just talk to you later, Ma.”
“Take care of yourself, Ryan. Don’t get yourself into trouble like you did back in Chicago.”
Nobody else is gonna take care of me, I want to say, but I hold my tongue. “Uh-huh,” I say, then before the line goes dead I mumble, “I’m not my dad.”
I toss my phone aside, hating myself for calling her. It didn’t do anything besides rile me up. Knowing that Paul was talking shit about me to my mom makes me sick. I would defend myself more, but what good would that do?
There’s nothing else to do but go into the gym right now. It’s empty at this hour, so I can practice my skills and kill time.
Wearing a T-shirt and sweats, I walk into the empty gym. At the speed bag I work on my technique. Then I jump rope until I’m warmed up enough to start punching the weight bag.
In the back of my mind I wonder if this is all worth it. All the time and effort I put into fighting is worthless if I don’t get a trainer. I should probably give up, but damn it feels good to train. It’s like my body wants to work harder and faster, daring me to push myself to the limit.
Daring me to make something out of my life.
I punch the bag over and over again. I don’t stop, even when my arms get tired. It’s like the bag is my life and I fucking hate it so much. It feels good to beat the shit out of it.
“Give that thing a break!” I whip around, startled. It’s Mateo, standing at the front door wearing jeans and a button-down shirt. He’s obviously not here to work out. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you to take a day off, Hess?”
He spots me while I keep hitting the bag.
“Get dressed and come out with me tonight.”
I jab again. “No thanks.”
He peeks his head around the bag. “Come on, man. You’ve been stuck here for a week. It’s time you venture out of this place. It’s Saturday night. Live a little.”
“I’m good,” I say, picking up a jump rope from one of the hooks on the wall. “Actually, I’d be better if Camacho was here. I could use a trainer. Not that I can afford him, or even a crappy trainer for that matter.”
“Speaking of Camacho . . . have you seen him?” he asks as he straddles a workout bench.
I stop jumping. “Nope. I thought you were gonna introduce me to him.”
He nods. “I can’t introduce you to him if he doesn’t show up. He could show up tomorrow for all I know. He’s kind of a recluse and comes here when he feels like it. I feel bad I haven’t kept up my end of our bargain, so do me a favor and come out with me tonight. You’ll be straight up loco if you don’t get out of here soon.”
I hesitate. He’s right. I’ve been holed up here the past week. The heat is starting to get to me and I need to stop thinking so much. I guess it wouldn’t hurt to go out.
“Fine. I’ll go with you.”
Mateo, with his short hair and a gleam in his eye, claps his hands. The sound echoes through the empty gym. “¡Fantástico!” He practically jumps off the bench. “Be ready in five minutes.”
After a quick shower, I stare at myself in the small foggy mirror above the sink. I need a haircut and a shave. Paul would fucking hate the way I look. He’d say his house wasn’t a homeless shelter, so I shouldn’t look like a homeless dude.
I meet Mateo out front. He’s driving an SUV this time. I’ve seen him drive three different vehicles since we got here. While he doesn’t have money for his own transportation, the dude sure does have a lot of friends and family in town who let him drive their cars.
“Nice ride,” I tell him as I slide into the leather seat.
He glides his hands over the leather steering wheel. “It’s my uncle’s. He owns a construction company in Matamoros and lets me borrow his cars sometimes.”
On the ride, Mateo confides in me that both of his parents along with his two sisters died in a car accident a few years back. “When my uncle told me about the accident, I freaked out at first. I felt so fucking alone. Sure, extended family was there for me. But it’s not like having your core family, you know.”
I look out the window at the shadows on the darkened hillside. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never really had a family. It was always just my alcoholic mom and me.”
“Well, we all have our shit to deal with.” Mateo shrugs. “When you sit on the pity pot for too long, you tend to get numb. I refuse to feel sorry for myself. I’m twenty-four and not going to let life bring me down. The only way is up for me, even if it means taking odd jobs to pay the bills.”
“I feel you.”
He laughs a high-pitched staccato laugh that’s unmistakably his. “We’re just two pendejos trying to make it,” he says. “I recently started a job as a part-time bodyguard. It’s boring work, but it’s cash in my pocket and connections I can use later if I need them. Nothin’ comes easy.”
I sit back and feel a sense of relief that I can chill tonight. I’m not going to think about my home life or boxing or that girl who’s been invading my thoughts.
“Where are we goin’?” I ask when Mateo pulls into an empty parking spot in the middle of a town with bright lights outlining its streets like a runway guiding people to its doors.
“It’s an underground club.”
Underground? I’m not sure I like the sound of that. “What do they do at this club?” I ask.
“You’ll find out soon enough. Come on,” he says.
There’s a big dude at the door who looks like a poster child for the overuse of steroids. In lethal doses. As soon as he sees Mateo he moves aside to let us in.
“I guess you’ve been here before,” I mumble as we step inside and walk down a flight of stairs.
“Too many times to count.”
After we make our way through a hallway filled with people, we end up in a huge, dimly lit room with music blaring. In the center of the room is a square cage where two guys are fighting. One dude is kicking the other guy’s ass pretty good.
I look around. People are crowded around the bar. The fight is like an afterthought—just entertainment for the people inside this insane club.
I grab Mateo’s shoulder. “What is this place?”
“It’s called makin’ money.” Mateo turns to the dude collecting money in the corner of the room. “The guy standing in the cage at the end of the night gets a cut.”
“Of what?”
“The pot.” He pats me on the back. “You said you needed money, right?”
I look at the guys duking it out in the center of the cage. This isn’t boxing. Or MMA. It’s no-rules dirty fighting. This isn’t what I came to Mexico to do.
“I’m out, Mateo. This ain’t me.”
He grabs my shoulder. “You can’t be out. I’ve already bet money on you. It’s a round-robin, and you’re up soon.”
What the hell! “You signed me up to fight?”
Mateo pats me on the back. “I’m telling you, bro, it’ll be easy cash. I told you I’d take care of you.”
“It’s a fucking cage, man. I’m not some sort of animal.”
“We’re all animals, Ryan. Listen, you’re a gringo in a bar full of Mexicanos. You’re going to bring in big money. If you win, you’ll have enough to pay Camacho if he agrees to train you. You came to Mexico to go pro and make a name for yourself. This is your first obstacle. Show everyone you’re not a joke. You came to fight, kick ass, and make cold hard cash. Think about it.”
But I can’t think right now . . . because all of a sudden I scan the place and she is on the other side of the room. Dalila. A blaze of desire rocks my core, which agitates the hell out of me.
I know why I’m here. Mateo set me up and in the end I’m gonna fight so I don’t let him down. But why does Dalila keep showing up in my life?
“I’ll be right back,” I tell Mateo.
“Where are you goin’?” he calls out, but I’m already weaving through the crowd.
I’m going to confront her again. Because annoying the shit out of her is the only light in my darkness.