You're to Blame(23)
Randy follows me to the door. “I’ve got your back, but I promised Lyd I’d get you the fuck out if need be, whether you get what you need or not.”
“Got it.” I reach up to knock on the metal door, and it swings open before my knuckles make contact. They’re expecting someone.
Ari covers his bases to insure he’s found at the top of the mountain where he’s protected. If there is a way to get above him, I’m going to jump at the chance. One of his goons stands with his legs in a wide stance. He doesn’t try to hide the hefty piece of hardware attached to his hip. Bulging, veined muscles make it obvious steroids pump through his veins, and he has an untrustworthy outlook for outsiders, built through time working for Ari. There’s no bulldozing through this guy.
Randy nods as the guy steps to the side for us to enter the main room of the warehouse. The place is packed full of men and women of all ages, here to place bets and witness some good old fashion bloodshed.
“Well, what do we have here?” Ari’s sinister tone reminds me who I’m dealing with. His arms spread wide, but it’s no warm welcome. His shirt gapes, exposing his cheesy gold chains. The sight of him alone makes me cringe. He’s the lowest kind of human who preys on the weak. Though I wouldn’t call myself that, I wonder if I’ve made a wrong turn somewhere.
The old boat warehouse is home to one of Ari’s many lucrative dealings. There’s no true business here. Everything is done under the table and below the radar. Gambling. Fighting. If it’s illegal, Ari has a stake in it. His car dealership brings in a decent amount of money, but the real cash flow is right here. He greases a few pockets, and he’s left alone.
I offer my hand for him to shake, and surprisingly, Ari takes it. “I wanted to apologize for the other night at the house.” What a bunch of bullshit. For a split second, my instinct is to head right back out the door, but then her beautiful face pops into my mind, and I know escape isn’t an option.
Ari’s grip tightens. “All’s forgiven.” He releases my hand and taps me on the cheek. This is another form of control for Ari. Anger floods my head until the rumble from the crowd around us sounds like a gnat. “Now, if you’re truly sorry, you’ll do me a favor and fight tonight. I could earn a pretty pony with a guy like you.” He snickers, and I’d give anything to throw a punch or two in his direction.
“And what kind of cut do I get?” I tilt my head, challenging him.
“When you win, you’ll find out.” Ari steps away, leaving Randy and me alone.
The reason I’m here is to comb over the tensions, which haven’t been addressed with anything but an iron fist by Ari. Protect the innocent and defend the weak is why I walked through his doors. I didn’t come here to fight, but I’ll be damned if I’ll step down from one. Derks is right. Charlotte may not know who he is, but Ari sure as hell knows who she is. If this interview is going to happen, she’ll be like meat on a stick to a hungry wolf. He’ll eat her up and spit out the bones.
“I don’t think the fight’s a good idea, bro.” Randy’s eyes stay on Ari the entire time he speaks.
I ignore his concerns. “Listen up to see if anyone’s willing to talk. We need some leverage to keep Charlotte out of this. It’s loud in here, but it shouldn’t be too hard to overhear something.”
Ari runs a tight ship. For almost an hour, countless conversations I hear go nowhere. By the glances Randy gives me every few minutes, he’s also come up empty handed.
“Duke,” Ari shouts over the crowd. He points to the space beside him. “It’s time.”
Randy slinks through the crowd. Frantic energy radiates off him as he comes to my side. “You got this.”
A shifty, scrawny guy with dark circles under his eyes comes to the center of the room. The crowd circles for the fight. Ari doesn’t splurge on is theatrics. All fights at the warehouse happen in the middle of the room. No seats, no ring. It’s down and dirty street fighting. ‘No weapons but your body’ is the only rule. Years of dealing with silly rich kid bullies hiding behind daddy’s money has prepared me for this.
“Fight hard. Fight dirty. Fight until someone stops fighting back,” Ari announces, glee in his eyes at the prospect of bloodshed.
The crowd buzzes at his words. Anything the opponent can grab is a mark against you, so I peel off my shirt and throw it to the floor. This particular opponent doesn’t understand the concept. He keeps his shirt on, shifting his head from side to side and bouncing on the balls of his feet to warmup.
I lunge forward, landing the first punch square on his jaw. Like bone snapping in half, the sound echoes through the warehouse. A roar explodes from the crowd. I’ll never understand these sick fucks celebrating the pain of another human being.
“Get him.”
“Kick his ass.”
They shout their disdain, eager to see one of us knocked out.
One thing I’ve learned is if I allow my opponent the chance to get the leg up, he always will. Take the in, no matter what.
“Come on, you bastard.” My opponent eggs me on. A nice sheen of sweat spreads above his lips. “Don’t be a pussy. Fight.”
I shift on my feet. Anticipating his next move is easy enough when he shifts his left foot and dashes towards me. My fist connects with his kidney, and he plummets to the floor. A loud groan falls from his mouth. This shot, made more times than I’d care to admit, is always effective. I pounce, drilling punch after punch until blood bubbles on his face. My mind goes blank, and I’m in a trance, finishing the job. The crowd erupts.