K. Tucker - Four Seconds to Lose

10 years ago

Blood drops decorate the dusty gray concrete like an abstract piece of art. The stocky brute facing mehis bottom lip split open, an angry cut across his cheekbonecan account for some of that. But given the colossal beating Im taking at the hands of this recently paroled rapist, most of that blood is probably mine.

Holding my left elbow tight against the ribs that he just splintered with a series of powerful blows, I struggle not to wince as my feet shuffle back toward the ropes of the makeshift ring. Screams and shouts bombard me from all angles, echoing through the underground parking lot of the downtown business building. Normally I have a decent crowd of rich bitches throwing their names, numbers, and pretty boy comments at me. Not tonight, though. All of these people took the twenty-to-one odds against me and theyre no doubt picturing sandy beaches and shiny BMWs.

Hell, I almost bet against me. But, theres not a person in the world that I trust with that kind of money to place it for me. Except maybe Nate. But hes fourteen and a known associate of mine, so I might as well have painted a target on his head if I sent him to the bookie.

Come on, pansy ass! Jones bellows, slamming his meaty fists together, a wicked grin on his face.

I remain silent as Nate splashes my face with cool water and I swig some back, trying to rinse the coppery taste out of my mouth. Ive heard this guy likes to draw his beatings out, so Im not worried about him charging me like a bull. I am worried about the crowd shoving me in, though. I can feel their impatience swelling in the air over my pause. They want to see my skull hit the ground. Now. This is real underground fighting. The kind that brings the high-rolling criminal element and thrill-seekers together like family at Christmas. There are no weight classes here. No drug tests. No rules. No true refereeing. The match doesnt end until one fighters broken body is collected off the ground.

Not exactly the world a loving father would introduce his son into. But I dont have a loving father. I have a mean wannabe-mobster prick of a dad, whoafter pounding on me enough to teach me how to hold my own and harden my muscles beyond their yearsdecided he could make some real cash by throwing me into L.A.s illegal fighting scene. At the age of seventeen, when my body wasnt even fully developed but was solid on account of the grueling workouts my dad insisted on. I cant say that I went unwillingly. Ive even enjoyed it, most times. Its always my dads face Im bashing in, his bones Im snapping, every time I raise my fists.

Every time I pulverize my opponent.

And now, at nineteen years old, Ive ended up fighting for my life in the upper echelon of this illicit world. I could win big on this one with what I put down. Or I could end up in a body bag. As I gaze at the goon in front of mesteroid-enhanced pecs twitching with anticipation, ugly veins protruding from his neck, his face a hideous mess of blood and inkI accept that I probably wont be the last one standing here, tonight. Im a fucking moron for showing up to this fight. Jones is likely high on meth. Nothing short of two shots of fentanyl is going to bring the animal to his knees, and I dont have elephant tranquilizers in my back pocket.

Zee! Nates voice cracks behind me, using my fighter name. I glance over my shoulder at the scrawny kid in my corner. My only reliable confidante, the one by my side through every single fight. Hes holding his cell phone to his ear, his ebony skin turned a sickly ashen tinge. Somethin big is going down at Wilcox. Wilcox. My parents street. Nates wide molasses eyes flicker to my waiting opponent before returning to my mangled face.

They fighting again? I ask. It wouldnt be the first time.

Nates head shakes slowly, somberly. Nah, something different. Benny saw two guys show up about twenty minutes ago. Bennys a fifteen-year-old kid who lives across the street from my parents and goes to Nates school with him. Hes a shithead, but he worships Nate because Nate is connected to me.

For him or her? As disturbing as the question is, its valid. Both of my parents took entrepreneurial paths down the wrong side of moralitymy dad venturing into the drug trade, my mother running a quaint bookkeeping business/ brothel out of my late grandmothers house. And now one of them has clearly pissed someone off enough to track them down on their doorstep.

Normally, I wouldnt give a shit. Id be ecstatic. Maybe, if my dad pissed off the right people, theyd get rid of my problem for me. Only its one in the morning on a Tuesday, and Lizzy, my sixteen-year-old sister, could be asleep in her bed. And, if these guys came looking for money and my dad goes to the hollowed-out armchair to pay them off, hes going to find it empty.

Because I stole every last bill earlier today to put down on this fight.

A new visual blazes in my head. One of these guys collecting their payment on Lizzy.

Thats all it takes for my adrenaline to kick in. The crippling pain in my side instantly vanishes as I look at my opponent through new eyes. If I bury the odometer needle, I can get to their house in under fifteen minutes. It may be enough time. It may not. This goon is the only thing stopping me from leaving right now.

Nate, tell Benny to call the cops.

I toss my water bottle to the ground and charge forward.

Its over so fast, no one watching seems to know what the hell happened. Silence fills the vast parking lot as everyone waits for Jones to get up. Everyone except me. I know hes not getting up for a while. I felt the bones crack as his head snapped to the side with the venomous blows that I delivered in quick succession.

He still hasnt moved as my peeling tires screech up the underground ramp.

Stay here, I bark at Nate as I pull my GTO to a stop in the middle of the street. Im not sure how I didnt crash, given that one eye is swollen shut. I jump out, running past the crowd of curious onlookers, toward the throng of emergency vehicles and police officers, lights flashing, cops running with radios in their hands. They couldnt have beaten us by more than ten minutes.

It takes four police officers, a gun aimed at my forehead, and a set of handcuffs to stop me. They wont let me go in. They wont answer the one damn question I ask over and over again. Is Lizzy okay? Instead, they hammer me with an onslaught of words that dont register, that I dont care to acknowledge.

What happened to you, son?

Who did this to you, son?

You need medical attention.

How do you know the occupants of this home?

Where have you been since midnight until your arrival here?

Despite my warning, Nate ventures out of my car and somehow slips through the police tape. Like a silent shadow, he waits with me as a young paramedic tapes the gash above my eyebrow and informs me that I have three broken ribs.

I barely hear her as I watch a parade march in and out of my parents front door.

As I watch the coroner show up.

The beginning of dawn lights the sky when one . . . two . . . three gurneys finally roll out.