Stacia Kane - Wrong Ways Down

Weren’t like he didn’t know she did, neither. Never usually bothered him so much—well, it did, but he ain’t usually thought on it so much. Just … something about it wouldn’t leave him alone.

The fight weren’t distracting him, neither, the way they usually did. Aye, there were always a moment where he saw himself in that ring, holding up a belt at the end. Always a moment when he thought how different his life might be, iffen he’d ever had a real chance.

But true thing, like he’d said to Chess, when it came down to it he figured what he did suited him better. No rules to follow. No stopping when they went down, when they bled, when they screamed. No bells ringing or handshaking. No padded gloves. Boxing in a ring was a game for gentlemen, and he weren’t one and never had been.

But this night for whatany reason, it were depressing him. Making him think. Making him wonder if he were a ring fighter would he have got an education, would he be more than a thug … would he have been the kinda man a dame like Chess would want. The kind she deserved.

Amy touched his cheek. “What troubles you got? Ain’t seem like you having much fun, you ain’t.”

“Sorry.” He tried smiling at her, but he didn’t think it worked. “Just got shit in my head, dig. All this happening.”

“Any I can do?” Her hand on his leg moved higher. “Make you feel better.”

He raised his eyebrows; his smile started feeling more natural. “Betting I can think of something.”

He glanced back at the TV in time to see the contender land one hard punch straight in the champ’s face, so fast and clean Terrible bet neither dude even felt it. The champ crumpled. Amy gave a little squeal. “It over?”

“Aye, thinking so.” Almost definitely. The champ were out cold; he ain’t would be stumbling back to he feet at the six-count or whatany. “Were a good hit.”

“You oughta try doin it. Be all rich an famous an all. Fun, aye?”

He shrugged, tried to make it casual. “Ain’t for me.”

“Aw, c’mon. Ain’t gotta work no more, be on TV and all. Be taking me on vacations. Ain’t you like that?”

How was he supposed to answer that? Iffen he said no she’d think he meant he ain’t wanted to go on vacation with her, but iffen he said aye she’d keep talking on it. And he ain’t wanted to keep talking on it. “Ain’t for me,” he repeated.

“You just ain’t thinking on it. No more fighting inna street, aye, no more having to hunt em down an all. Be like a real clean job, you digging me?”

“Too old.”

“Ain’t seeing why you ain’t just give it the try. Why you gotta say no to everything? An you ain’t even knowing how old you is.”

“Knowing I older’n twenty.” He wanted to shift away from her. He wanted to stop chattering on this. Were clear from Amy’s smile and the way her fingers tangled in his hair that she were tryna be sweet to him. Wasn’t her fault this weren’t a subject he wanted to talk on, that all she were doing was reminding him how he’d wanted something and failed, reminding him of all the things he ain’t done and never would, and that he job were a dirty one and he were dirty enough to be cool with that fact.

Weren’t her fault, neither, that two or three months past he woulda smiled and joked back because it ain’t mattered. Amy weren’t the one who’d changed. Amy weren’t the one who felt like something were missing now, who’d suddenly started minding that something were missing. “Too old,” he said again.

“Still can kick all them asses easy,” she said. “Bein all big an strong an all.”

She looked like she wanted to be kissed, so he kissed her, even though he ain’t really felt like it. At least it ended the discussion.

Amy’s hands slid over his back; she kissed him harder and slipped her leg over his so she were halfway in his lap. Made her dress ride up almost all the way, too. He ran his hand over the exposed skin, soft and warm, as her mouth moved to his neck. The TV commentators kept talking in the background, excited voices, the cheers of the crowd still loud and eager; he wanted to turn the volume down but couldn’t recall where the remote was. And he sure as fuck weren’t gonna hunt for it, not when he fingers discovered she weren’t wearing anything under that dress.

She bit his neck. “Oops. Looking like I forget me some clothes.”

“Looking so.”

“You like?”

As if he wouldn’t. “Aye.” His free hand tugged at her dress, a cute polka-dot thing with a round collar and red buttons down the front. He started opening them. “Chess got a coat like this, got big buttons—”

Fuck.

He ain’t even could cover it up or try ignoring it; she’d heard him, aye, and she pulled away from him so fast she woulda fallen if he ain’t had good reflexes to catch her. “What?”

“Nothin, just, were sayin dig you dress—”

“Nay, you wasn’t. Were sayin how you like it causen the Churchwitch got she a coat with buttons on it.” Her voice started getting louder. “Were thinkin on the Churchwitch while you was opening my buttons.”

“Naw, just, you dress … ” He stopped. What was the fucking point? “Ain’t meant any by it, aye? Weren’t thinkin on she afore, just you buttons gave me a reminder.”

But she was already up, grabbing her shoes and slipping em back on. Her voice were shrill and unhappy. “Wanting go home. You take me on home now, aye? An … thinking we done here. Ain’t can do this no more, dig. Long as you fuckin the Churchwitch you ain’t oughta call me no more.”

“I ain’t—”

“In you head you is.” Her eyes were so intense he had to look away, but he could still feel her watching him. “Isn’t you?”

He didn’t reply. Causen he couldn’t. Behind him he heard the voices from the TV, the commentators talking about the champ still ain’t were awake and they was bringing the doctors up in the ring, how this were serious news. A big dramatic title fight, and somebody lost it hard. Somebody always had to lose.

“Fine on keeping it all casual,” Amy said. “True thing, I were. Never thinking we had us more than that, aye? But always felt afore like you was with me when you was with me, an I ain’t been feeling that way the last months, and that ain’t fair.”

She slipped on her coat. “You got aught to say? You gimme the tell, Terrible, if I wrong. You look me in the fuckin eyes and say I got it wrong.”

He cleared his throat. Not much point, since he couldn’t think of shit to say.

But he tried anyway, after a painful minute. Tried saying the only thing he could. “Sorry. True thing, Amy. Ain’t meant to … sorry.”

“Aye. Me, too.” Her heels clicked on the cement as she headed for the door. “Thinkin you oughta take me home now. Aye? Thinkin time for me to go.”

He couldn’t argue. He drove her home in silence—drove back past Chuck’s, aye, but it felt like it’d be one more way of disrespecting Amy to go looking for Chess so he kept driving—and came home to watch the new year start, alone in he empty apartment.

He ain’t stayed home alone all night, though. Four in the morning he phone rang, and he knew before he even picked it up and saw Berta’s number that it were bad news. Real bad news.

So he was back at Berta’s, walking up the stairs again to see another one of Bump’s girls. Another one. A second one. He could practically feel the blood boiling in his veins, his muscles itching with the desire to pound somebody. Or something. He ain’t really gave a fuck what.

One time were an accident; well, no, one time were something that shouldn’t ever happen, and one time infuriated him, but one time could be an accident, some fucker getting lucky. Twice was somebody targeting them, for real. Twice was somebody out there having heself some fucking fun at everybody’s expense. Twice was somebody planning this shit, taking advantage of the fact that the streets was crazy from people celebrating.