Combative Read online

  But I don’t watch the fights. Instead, I watch the crowd, hoping for a glimpse of a man I’ve never met before. The man whose life I’m about to ruin. His name—Nate DeLuca—repeats in my head over and over, playing hostage in my mind. I have to live and breathe him; that’s what Jax said. And that’s what I plan to do. Because Jax isn’t just some newbie detective.

  He isn’t even an old friend.

  Jax is my brother.

  KY

  Age Fifteen

  I was sitting out on the roof again while mayhem ensued in my house. I’d been in bed for over an hour before finally throwing the covers off and accepting that sleep would be impossible. Holding my arm close to my chest—I maneuvered my bedroom window open and climbed out onto the roof, ignoring the sudden outbreak of goose bumps pricking my skin. I wondered for a moment if he’d managed to dislocate my shoulder this time, or just separate it. Yeah, I’d done enough research online to know there’s a difference. Tonight’s reason for my beating—Dad was drunk. That was it. There were also people over again. Him, combined with alcohol and an audience, always made for a good time for everyone.

  Everyone but me.

  Even though I was big for my age, I was no competition for him. Give it a year—it might have been a different story. Even if I could have taken him, I sure as shit wouldn’t try. It’d make me just as bad as him, and the last thing I ever wanted to be was him.

  Sitting down slowly, I rested my arms on my bent knees and looked up at the stars.

  “I wish I may, I wish I might,” I whispered. Then I laughed. “Fuck your wish.”

  “Ky!” My eyes snapped to the sound.

  Jackson was half hanging out his window, his hand waving from side to side.

  “What’s up?” I said, not lifting my head. I didn’t want him to see the freshly swelled bruises around my eyes. Or the cut on my jaw. Or the fact I was a pussy and hiding out from my dad.

  From the corner of my eye, I saw his mouth a few times, probably unsure about what to say—or ask—especially since he most likely knew the answers. Finally, he yelled, “You, uh...want to come over? I got the new Halo on Xbox.”

  I didn’t respond with words, but I slowly came to a stand, dusting off my jeans that were at least three sizes too big. He told me to meet him at his back door, and a minute later I was there, hands shoved in my pockets as I tried to settle my uncontrollable shivers. He led me up to his room and handed me a hoodie that was way too big for him. I eyed it suspiciously. That made him laugh. “It’s an NYU sweatshirt—my dad’s way of pushing me to go there. It won’t fit me for years.” I pulled it over my head, and then sat in front of his TV—my eyes cast downwards the entire time. He sat down next to me, handed me a controller, and finally said, “You played before?”

  I shook my head—my gaze fixed on the controller in my hand. And then I chuckled, the sound surprising to my own ears. I don’t think I’ve ever seen one of these before.”

  We spent the entire night playing Halo until the sun started to come up. In that room, in that one night, we became the most unlikely of friends. Not because he was some kid trying to save me, or because I was a kid that needed saving...or the other way around. We became friends because in between the few words spoken, the few laughs we shared, and the few times we lost control of those laughs, we saw each other for what we were; just boys that liked to laugh and shoot the shit out of our enemies in an overdramatic video game.

  I named his character Captain Victory.

  He laughed and named mine Captain Combative.

  After that night, I spent most nights sleeping on his bedroom floor. He offered me his bed, but I refused every time. Sleeping on the hardwood floor was a shit ton better than what I’d been used to.

  Most nights, I’d wait for all the lights to switch off in his house, then I’d throw a rock at his window. There weren’t any rocks around our house so we’d started collecting them on the way home and piling them up on his side of the fence. Some nights, he wouldn’t respond. I knew he was just doing it to fuck with me because after a while of me waiting for him, I’d eventually throw a handful, and each time I’d hear his loud-ass giggle from inside his room.

  Punk.

  A few months later, I came over and there was a bunk bed in his room. I asked him where he got the money. He told me he’d taken up beating on scrawny defenseless kids and taking their lunch money as a hobby.

  By then, I’d met his parents a few times. Mostly when we hung out at his house after school and his mom was home.

  They’d wait until his dad, Jeff, got home from work to settle down for dinner. His mom, Christine, would ask me to stay and have a meal with them. I’d always politely decline, feeling too out of place with Jackson and his picture-perfect family. At night, I’d be in and out of their house while Jeff and Christine were asleep, or at least we all pretended it was that way. But every night I’d come over and he’d pull out a plate of food from the fridge and heat it up. “Leftovers,” he’d tell me.

  Then, one night, everything changed.

  The night of my sixteenth birthday.

  I skipped the throwing of the rocks on his window and did everything physically possible just to make it to his back door.

  I’d never asked for help—but I needed it.

  Because that night, I needed to get the fuck away from my dad. If I didn’t—I was positive he would’ve killed me.

  I didn’t even think about how it would affect them.

  I should have.

  I made a fist and pounded on their back door. “Jackson!” I tried to scream, but the knot in my throat prevented it. I looked over my shoulder, watching, waiting for my dad to appear from the darkness.

  This time, Jackson’s parents didn’t fake ignoring it. Heated words were exchanged over the thudding of footsteps down their stairs. Relief washed through me, but it wouldn’t have shown. I was too far-gone—too physically hurt to do anything but use the door to support my weight.

  And then the door opened and Jax was there; his eyes wide as he took in my state. Too weak to stay upright, I fell forward. First to my knees, then the rest of me followed. Even though I’m sure it happened quickly—the fall felt eternal.

  I winced in pain as I folded over myself—the one eye I managed to open caught sight of my blood pooling on their kitchen floor. “I didn’t know,” I moaned, but speaking just made the pain worse; I let out an agonizing cry. Jackson squatted down next to me, his eyebrows drawn in concern. He offered a hand to help me up. I stood in front of Jax and his parents, my shoulders slumped. My breath was ragged—caused by the blows my lungs had just copped. I choked on the blood filling my mouth—coughing and spurting—feeling the warmth of it trickle down my chin. I heard a gasp and tried to settle down—tried to push my shoulders back—but my body didn’t allow it. I eyed them all one by one, pleading for something.

  “Help.”

  I needed help.

  My body tensed, as if somehow sensing his presence. The asshole’s voice filled my ears. “Don’t run away from me, you little cunt. Face it like a man!”

  At the time, I’d never been more frightened than I was those few seconds before I turned around and faced my dad.

  Dad—the epitome of someone who’s supposed to love and protect you. But he wasn’t any of those things. He was the devil. In the flesh. His red-rimmed eyes held so much rage. When the snarl pulled on his lips and he took a step forward, I somehow stood my ground.

  His eyes narrowed at Jackson and then at the blood pooled by my feet. Finally, his gaze settled on me. “Useless, weak, pathetic little cunt,” he spit. He took another step forward, his eyes never leaving mine, then his fist rose...The word, “Stop,” echoed in my ears, and I had no doubt they came from Jackson.

  Then an unquestionable sound echoed through the house—that ‘click click’ of a pump action shotgun.

  “You best be leaving now,” Christine said, her tone full badass. If she was scared or intimidated by the situation, the c
larity in her voice completely hid it.

  Her name was a whisper as it fell from my lips.

  Jeff stepped up beside me.

  “Now!” Christine clipped.

  The cold steel of the gun barrel pushed against my bare arm as she nudged me to the side and got between me and the Devil. “I’m not afraid to pull the trigger,” she said, her voice remaining calm. She pointed the gun until it made contact with his chest. “Test me,” she challenged. Like she really, really, wanted an excuse to pull the trigger and end him.

  Slowly, his hands went up in surrender, his eyes moving from her to me.

  “Take one more look,” Christine said. “This is the last time you’ll ever fucking see him.”

  ***

  “You looking to get eighty-sixed out of here?”

  I snap out of my thoughts and look up at the man standing in front of me; shaved head. Black suit. Arms crossed over his huge chest. Fatter than a motherfucker.

  Wondering for a second why he chose me out of all the people here to approach, I clear my throat. “Who do I need to speak to about fighting?”

  He eyes me up and down, slowly, and then he laughs—an all-consuming guttural laugh. “You and all the other punks,” he states. “Watch the fights. We’ll talk at the end if you still want in.” I think he’s about to walk away, but he grasps my shoulders and makes me face the cage. And I’m glad I do because my initial assumption was wrong; the guys in the cage aren’t amateurs.

  It’s clear from their appearance that they’re in the same weight class and I can tell just from watching that their expertise in Martial Arts is completely different. The cage itself isn’t an octagon like most MMA organizations. It’s round, which makes it harder for the fighters to corner their opponent and pound them.

  The bell dings to signal the end of the second round and a medic comes in to check on both fighters.

  The breaks are short but long enough that the fighters can catch their breaths.

  And just as quickly as it ends, the final round begins.

  The fighters bump their glove-covered fists and circle a few times before the first punch is thrown. The bulkier fighter uses fancy footwork and quick jabs to keep his distance. He throws a mean right hook, dropping his opponent to the ground. He sees his opportunity and rushes the dude, now lying on his back on the mat. He tries to finish him with some decent ground and pound, but his opponent’s good on the ground. Too good. Most likely trained in wrestling or jiu-jitsu. His opponent recovers quickly and catches him in a classic arm bar, but the dude doesn’t tap. The crowd screams for him to tap the fuck out, but his pride wins out and his arm snaps.

  He’ll be out of commission for months.

  Stupid.

  The loser nurses his broken arm out of the cage and down a clear path into another room.

  “That guy’s an idiot,” a voice says from next to me. “He should’ve tapped the second his arm was locked.”

  I look to my right and come face to face with Nate DeLuca.

  Shrugging, I turn away and try to keep my adrenaline in check.

  “Tiny tells me you want to fight?” he says.

  I face him. “Tiny?”

  “Yeah,” He jerks his head to the guy that approached me earlier. “That’s Tiny.” He waits for me to respond. I don’t. He adds, “Meet me up at the bar tomorrow, 1400 hours, soldier.”

  I narrow my eyes at him.

  He motions his head toward my chest. “Your dog tags,” he says, before patting my shoulder twice and walking away.

  I watch as he weaves through the crowd, hands in his front pockets—as if he doesn’t have a single care in the world.

  Too bad for him—I’m about to change all of that.

  3

  I’M USED TO wearing an ambiguous mask. Which helps, especially when Nate DeLuca walks into the bar and takes the stool next to mine.

  “You want to fight?” are his opening words.

  I nod and focus on the row of bottles lined up behind the bar.

  “It takes months,” he adds.

  “For what?”

  “You saw the fights, right? They’re not amateurs. Months of training just to get looked at, and even longer just showing up to every fight, getting to know the process, the competition...getting to know me...Building that trust...”

  Perfect, I thought. I want to build his trust. I want to get to know him, the process...all that shit. But the competition? I couldn’t give a fuck about that. I turn to him. “You think I’m untrustworthy?”

  “Here’s the thing,” he starts, turning on his stool to face me. “Normally, we see the prospective fighters around on fight nights. They watch, they learn, and after a while, they get the balls to ask what they need to do to get in that cage. You? You show up out of nowhere, and you just ask.”

  My eyes lock with his. “I just want to fight.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” I repeat.

  “Yeah. Why?” He sighs and rubs his jaw. “Why do you want to fight?”

  I give him an answer I know will intrigue him. “Because if I don’t beat someone’s ass in a controlled environment, I’ll end up killing someone. That’s why.” And with that, I stand up, throw some cash on the bar and head for the door.

  “Wait for the text,” he shouts.

  Raising my hand, I let him know I’ve heard him. I pass Tiny—arms crossed—just inside the entrance.

  I wait until I’ve walked a few blocks away before calling Jackson. He tells me to meet him at my apartment. I’m about to ask him how the fuck he knows where I live, but then I remember who he is now. A knot forms in my stomach, slowly releasing the guilt I’ve been repressing for years.

  I should’ve been there.

  I should’ve known the man he’d become.

  KY

  Age Sixteen

  For days after my sixteenth birthday, I refused to talk about what happened. Jax’s parents walked on eggshells around me. Christine tried to make me feel as at home as possible, but it was hard. I wasn’t used to the attention and I didn’t know how to act. After a few nights of Jackson tip-toeing around me, I finally caved and confided in him. “My dad found out I wasn’t his,” I told him, sitting on the edge of the bottom bunk.

  “You didn’t know?” he asked.

  I took one more look at the framed picture of Jackson and I sitting on his bookshelf. Then I let out a bitter laugh. How did I not know? I glared intently at myself in the picture, smiling and dimples on show, my blue eyes reflecting the sunlight. Neither of my parents had dimples or blue eyes.

  I shook my head in answer to Jackson. “He beat the shit out of Mom and I. Mom got in her car and took off. She just left me there, Jax. She left so that he could take it out on me. Steve doesn’t know.”

  “Who the hell is Steve?”

  “My brother,” I said incredulously, like he was a dumbass for not knowing. “Or half-brother, I guess.”

  He shook his head slowly. “I’ve known you over a year now, Ky. I’ve never seen this Steve guy around, and you’ve never mentioned him.”

  “He couldn’t put up with Dad’s bullshit and left years ago. He used to come around to check on me...” I cleared the lump in my throat. “He wasn’t there to protect me. And I’m not even mad because I should be able to protect myself.”

  “You’re a kid,” he told me. “It’s not your job to protect yourself, especially from your family.”

  “But they’re not,” I stated.

  “Not what?”

  “My family. I have none.”

  He huffed out a breath and sat down next to me. “We’re your family now.”

  ***

  Jackson barely steps foot in my apartment before doing a slow turn in the middle of the living room, hands in his pockets and his gaze everywhere. “This is...”

  “It’s enough,” I interrupt, walking to the kitchen and pulling two bottles of water from the fridge. I lift one in offering, but he shakes his head.

  He moves on
from his appraisal of my furnishings or lack thereof, and sits on the couch. “You probably have to train now, right? I mean, throwing punches at drunken assholes is one thing—but being in a competition...” he trails off.

  “Leave that to me. I’ll handle it.” I lean back on the kitchen island, watching the back of his head, and wait for him to go on.

  “So you’re fighting soon?” he asks, half turning to me.

  “No. He said I needed to see a few more fights, get to know the process, get to know him...”

  He smiles. “That’s perfect.” He pulls a phone out of his pocket and throws it at me.

  I catch it. “What’s this?”

  “Your new phone. Department issued. We can listen in on your calls and track you.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “This isn’t a walk in the park, Parker.” He grins. “Oh, and there’s one other thing,” he says, scratching his jaw. “The department needs you to do one more thing.”

  “What now?”

  He sucks in a breath with a hiss.

  I already know I’m going to hate what he says next.

  “Anger management therapy.”

  “You and your department issued phone and therapy can fuck off.”

  He shrugs lazily, but I can see the hesitation in his eyes. “Looks like jail time for you then,” he says, standing up and making his way to the door. “Oh, and call Mom.”

  My gaze snaps to his. “Did you tell her I was back?”

  “And have to deal with the wrath of my mother? Fuck no. I’m good. But don’t be a dick, Ky, call her.”

  I stay silent.

  “I’m serious, man.” He opens my door and gives me one last disapproving look.

  A second later a text comes through on my non-department issued phone.

  DeLuca: All my fighters train at Xtreem MMA gym. Be there in ten. Gunner’s your man.

  Ky: Got it.

  ***

  Ky: Got a text from DeLuca—I’m training at Xtreem MMA gym—it’s only a block from me. He says it’s where all ‘his’ fighters train. I kind of hate this guy already. I’ll be there in ten. Call you after.