Rayne & Delilah's Midnite Matinee(42)

A fighter in a hoodie with the hood up emerges to some terrible heavy metal that sounds like it was written for a U.S. Army commercial and makes his way toward the ring, punching and feinting. My heart sinks. He looks twice Lawson’s size. Aren’t they supposed to be the same weight? He whips off his hoodie and tosses it to his coach or whatever. He looks like he’s made out of steak and veins draped over a sledgehammer. He’s covered in creepy tattoos. I heard somewhere once that clowns are supposed to do their makeup with soft, rounded edges so as not to frighten kids (we can leave aside the question of whether that’s ever successful). His ink is lots of spikes and teeth and blades and pointy things that look unwelcoming. Like the human version of a reptile that advertises its venomousness with garish colors. And speaking of, his hair and beard are dyed in blond and black streaks. He has the arrogant half smirk of someone who knows you’re using the bathroom after him and leaves the toilet seat up on purpose.

I want Lawson to punch him in that smile for me.

Steak ’n’ Veins does a slow lap around the ring, pumping his fists, punching the air.

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaand in the blue corner, at one hundred sixty-nine pounds, with a record of three and oh, fighting out of Jaaaaaaaaackson, Tennessee…Laaaaaaaaaaawson ‘Lahhhhhhhhhhst in Translation’ uh Vaaaaaaaaaaargas!”

I squeal involuntarily and turn to Delia.

Her face shines like she already knows. “Are you serious?!”

“I was totally joking when I suggested it to him.”

“Hey, it’s no dumber than any of the other fighter nicknames.”

She’s right. One of the fighters was nicknamed “Hot Dog.” And if we’re being honest, “Nightmare” is pretty on the nose.

“No Light” by Florence and the Machine starts booming through the arena. It makes my heart feel swoopy, like suddenly remembering on Thursday night that you have a three-day weekend.

I snap back to meet Delia’s eyes again. “Okay.”

“All right. But seriously.”

“But seriously. I did not tell him to pick that.”

“Whatever.”

“There he is!” I stand. Delia stands with me.

Lawson emerges, doing a bouncing sort of strut, shaking out his arms. He’s wearing a stiff, new-looking ball cap and a T-shirt—his clothing choices are peak Lawson, no attempts here to impress me. His face is pure titanium resolve.

I cup my hands to my mouth and shout, “Go, Lawson!”

It somehow catches his attention, and our eyes meet. He allows the hardness of his face to soften into the faintest hint of a fearless smile. He raises a gloved hand and points in my direction before bounding up into the ring, handing his hat to his coach (?), and whipping off his shirt.

He’s bigger now than he was in the video I saw. Honestly, I’ve never been super impressed by muscles; in fact, I find them sort of comical and eye-roll-y, like Wow, I bet you’re fascinating to talk to. Tell me more about creatine. All of my past boyfriends have been either much more wiry or much more teddy-bear-like. But…he has a nice body.

“Lawson looks like he works out,” Delia says, reading my mind.

“I gotta think it helps with the punching?”

“That one your boyfriend?” Corncob asks.

“My friend,” I say. “But mostly none of your business.”

“Nightmare’s gonna beat his ass.”

“Nightmare’s gonna beat your face’s ass,” I say.

“That don’t make no sense,” Hairy Sandwich says.

“You know what doesn’t make any sense? Literally your face. Your face does not make sense,” Delia says.

Hairy Sandwich starts to gabble something.

“Hey, I know,” I say. “Let’s play the not-talking-to-each-other game. Let’s see who wins that.”

“We don’t wanna talk with y’all. Y’all ain’t as pretty as you think,” Corncob says.

“Awesome, then you’ll probably win,” Delia says.

Lawson and Steak ’n’ Veins, who’s several inches taller than Lawson, square off, staring each other down. Neither blinks. Steak ’n’ Veins eyes Lawson the way my mom eyes me when I track in mud. Lawson returns his caustic stare with yet more serene confidence. It’s a nice look on him. Objectively speaking.

The ref finishes conferring with the two. A woman in Daisy Dukes and a neon-pink bikini top struts a lap around the ring, holding a sign with a “1” on it. Lawson puts up his gloves to touch gloves with Steak ’n’ Veins the way the other fighters have done. Steak ’n’ Veins turns his back on the gesture. Even though I’ve seen very few fights, this seems like a clear dick move. Anger mixes with my surging adrenaline as the fighters circle each other warily. I’m suddenly petrified of seeing Lawson get hurt. I forget I’m still standing until Delia sits down beside me. I wipe my sweaty palms on my legs.

The fight begins. Steak ’n’ Veins immediately comes on strong, attacking hard. But Lawson avoids his punches and returns a few of his own. Steak ’n’ Veins charges at Lawson and narrowly avoids a high kick to the side of the head. He takes Lawson to the ground and gets on top of him, and they start that weirdly intimate tangled embracing the fighters do, throwing short punches and elbows at each other’s heads and faces.