Beautiful Broken Promises(8)
As we entered the large, open warehouse, women grazed their fingers across my bare skin. Some tried to reach up and grasp my hair, while others just openly winked at me. My stomach churned because these were the absolute last kind of people I wanted to be around.
Business as usual, Mateo continued with his spiel, moving closer to my ear so I could hear him. “You’re up against Barrera tonight. Get his defense down and then throw a right uppercut and finish him with your deadly left hook. He won’t be able to withstand it, his chin is too weak.”
Mateo knew most of the fighters down here. He studied them at every fight, but just like me, he wasn’t here for the shady dealings. He used to be on the Mexican Police Force, but once he realized the extent of the crime and corruption, he got out. I’ve always had a feeling he’s some kind of undercover agent, but he’s assured me that he’s only here to help people like me. Regardless, I’d never be able to repay him for everything he’s done.
Someone shouted to Mateo in Spanish and he hollered back, “Sí, estamos listos!” When he turned back around, he ran a check over me for the thousandth time. “You’re ready, yes?” I nodded and he tapped the back of my head toward our corner.
Right before I straddled the ropes to step into the ring, he grabbed my arm and pulled me down to hear his tight, whispered words. “If anything goes down, you meet me at my car. It’s parked in the southeast corner of the building. Get there, mijo. It won’t do her any good if you’re six feet under.” He threw in that last line because he knew it would sink in and hook me.
I was doing it for her. I tried so damn hard to picture her in my head for motivation… the color of her hair, the deep blue of her eyes, or how her skin shone like porcelain. I pulled out the tattered picture of her that I carried around everywhere I went. The edges were torn, some areas were peeling up, and it was way too small, but it was all I had. Every day I worried that it had been too many years and she wouldn’t look anything like the picture anymore. I shoved it back into the pocket of my shorts and let my fingers graze across the slick surface before I had to force myself to let it go.
I knocked my face around to get myself back in the moment. If I started zoning out now, I would never make it two seconds in the ring with Barrera. I quickly remembered what I came here for and began to scan the crowd, looking for the one in the suit—the richest bastard here. He wasn’t hard to spot and I clenched my fist when my eyes found him and his whole crew. He threw his head back and laughed boisterously at something one of his disgusting lackeys said, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Not this time. You won’t get the slip on me this time, Flores.
I didn’t keep up with the ins and outs of the underground world –that was usually Charlie or Mateo’s job, and they just told me where to be and when. Therefore, I was surprised to see Barrera step up to Flores and the two looked deep in conversation before Flores patted the back of his head and nodded toward the ring. So Barrera belonged to Flores, huh? Well now, the fight just got a little more interesting.
The shuffling of feet began as people started finding their seats. A topless brunette walked down the front aisle, holding a tray. She stopped in front of Flores to hand him a glass with golden liquid sloshing around inside. I could go for that right about now. She tried to stick around and flirt, but I watched Flores slip something into her waistband and shoo her off.
Barrera eyed me as he slithered through the ropes and into the ring. I continued bouncing on my toes, trying not to lose my adrenaline high. I watched his movements and attempted to spot any weak areas, particularly any injuries he could be concealing. He stood up straight and began to bounce as well. He moved from side to side and then began spinning in a full circle, around and around–too busy paying attention to the crowd. The f*cker was going to get dizzy, but that could work in my favor.
The commencements of these fights were simple. There was no Mexican version of Michael Buffer shouting, ‘Let’s get ready to rumble!’ in Spanish. There wasn’t a referee explaining that he wants a “good, clean fight” or asking us to touch-bump to begin. There was just a little old man named Santiago, who looked at each of us, probably to make sure we were in the ring. Then he nodded his head while drumming a bell. Go time.
Shouts immediately could be heard from all corners of the warehouse, echoing loudly off the aluminum walls. The crowd yelled in English and Spanish, and I even thought I heard some Portuguese out there. I couldn’t tell who they were yelling for, although I could vaguely understand they were all calling out different punches to throw or defenses to put up.