CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER TWO
Holly’s shoulder pressed against the canvas and her breath came in labored rolls, rising from her clenched abdomen. Chips stood over her, seemingly half stunned herself. The crowd, for its part, had ushered a series of shouts which had faded to a confused silence. With a shaking hand, Holly pressed her glove against the canvas and hesitantly began to rise.
The ref was stepping in, but Chips shouldered past him and extended a hand, hooking Holly’s boxing glove with hers. At least there was someone left with a spoonful of respect.
She’d done it. The fight was over.
Trembling, Holly began to rise with Chips’s help. The six-foot contender with corn rows turned after sending Holly back toward her corner, wheeling around, arms extended, hurrying to celebrate with her corner—all of whom looked like children in a candy store, laughing and shouting and waving their hands.
Holly could just barely hear the ringmaster’s voice echoing through the arena, “…defeating Holly Hands…”
Holly’s jaw was on fire, her cheek throbbing from where it had been whacked. She winced as she moved toward Lucas and his uncle. Both of them were staring at her like her mascara-streaked face had just appeared on the news, over some heading about a hit-and-run. A little more than a decade ago, Holly’s worst nightmare had been to wander stark naked onto the stage in front of her tenth grade class. The horror of that dream had haunted her for years.
This was worse. Much worse.
Holly leaned against the ropes in her corner, her eyes closed. She knew why she’d done it—she’d had no choice. But that didn’t make it feel any better.
She looked up, her eyes searching, landing somewhere near the stands where the three tree-sized men had been waiting. But her family was already moving. Her father and brothers were stalking away in disgust, moving toward the exit beneath the bleachers. She spotted Freddie, her older brother, lean in and crumple a ticket, tossing it angrily at a green trash can. The balled up paper bounced off the lid and landed on the ground, where Ernie, her other brother, kicked it hard.
Her father looked back for a moment, his eyes piercing across the stadium. His hand no longer held a fist and his eyes only held accusation. Most people said he had kind eyes. And while this was true, he also did this thing with his jaw, where a tooth would click in the back as he clenched. He reserved this delightful little gesture for when he was in his worst mood. As kids, they’d always known to warn the others before dinner,
“Dad’s tooth is clicking!”
in the solemn and hushed tones of palliative care workers, each desperately hoping they weren’t the source of the ominous click.
Now, Holly couldn’t hear the tooth, but she could see the clenching of his jaw, and she knew full well she was the source.
She found she couldn’t hold his familiar gaze and quickly glanced away. A moment later, when she glanced up again, her family had already left—the very first in the crowd of five hundred to exit the arena. All of them, even her dad, were boxers. They would have known she’d thrown.
And they weren’t the only ones.
“Are you joking?” Lucas was yelling at her, his shaved head jutting through the ropes and peering up at her like a scruffy version of whack-a-mole. “You’re joking?”
Lucas’s uncle had a hand on his nephew’s shoulder and was trying to pull him back through the ropes, but Holly’s fiery training partner was still shouting. Somehow, though, his words didn’t quite register, as if she were hearing him from underwater.
Perhaps Chips’s haymaker had knocked a screw or two loose after all.
Holly just breathed, sweat trickling past the tip of her nose and tapping against the canvas between her feet.
Lucas, seemingly aware she wasn’t paying attention, jabbed a finger up toward her, through the ropes.
Her manager, Lucas’s uncle, was just staring at her. His thick, drooping mustache was pure white and angled past his equally large chin. “Was it worth it?” he asked, looking at her.
She closed her eyes against a sudden headache.
Cannizzaro just looked at her, long and hard. “Oh, Holly,” he said with a small shake of his head.
That was bad. He never called her just Holly unless he was really upset.
She tried to find the words, something to say, but her head was still ringing. Cannizzaro sighed in disappointment and then turned, moving after his nephew before Lucas started a fight with someone in the audience.
Holly hardly registered them leaving.
Her mind was on her daughter’s future, paved in the money she’d just earned.
The hard part was over; now she just had to pick it up.
The chill air nipped at Holly’s nose and near-dented cheek. She’d changed in the locker behind the arena before scramming quick. Now, though, as she stood in a hoodie and sweatpants on the sidewalk in the downtown harbor strip, in distant sight of the blue-gray coast, her eyes flicked toward the alley over her shoulder. By the looks of things a man was peeing into a garbage can. This place was nothing if not classy.
She thought of the man in the baseball cap back in the arena—the loan shark who’d offered her the sum. More money in one go than she’d possibly earn over ten fights. Enough to get Olivia the operations she needed, ones insurance wouldn’t cover. Insurance was just like Olivia’s father—there for what they wanted, but when the going got tough they went the way of the wind.
She glanced down and flashed her phone up, double-checking the address on the glowing display. Her eyes moved back up to the old industrial building—the sign out front read
Dry Cl aners
in peeling white letters against red brick. The windows were washed with streaks of glue and paper from ripped posters. Inside, there was no sign of movement.
Holly shivered a bit more, pulling her hoodie closer around her shoulders, and approached the door, head down.
They’d agreed to meet here after the fight, under the cover of night. Already, darkness had inserted itself across the horizon and parts of the city had reluctantly allowed themselves to be coaxed into bed by threats of an early morning or promises of baggy eyes lest they got their beauty snores.
She reached out and pushed against the L-shaped metal door handle.
It didn’t budge.
Holly frowned and pushed a bit harder—still nothing. Anger from the night bubbled up and she emitted a string of expletives, kicking at the base of the door like a child throwing a tantrum. I am woman—hear me roar! Then again, who knew empowerment ended with a sprained toe and a sheepish look back toward a man peeing in a dumpster.
She cursed and lifted her phone, scrolling to the number she’d saved under
Unnamed.
Right now, she could think of a whole slew of names she wished she’d used, none which she’d willingly repeat in front of Olivia.
She hit the number, pressed the cold phone to the less bruised side of her face, and waited impatiently on the sidewalk outside the abandoned dry cleaner’s. Again, she was struck with flashbacks of calls with Olivia’s father, with the insurance companies—memories she cherished as dearly as diapers.
No answer. Then, a prerecorded voice.
We’re sorry, the number you’ve dialed doesn’t—
She hung up. Holly felt a nibbling sensation of chill panic creeping up from her tailbone and along her spine. Her eyes bugged as she stared at the glassy doors in front of her. She tried the phone number again, and again received the voice of an operator advising her the number was disconnected.
Now, the icy feeling was replaced by good ol’-fashioned fear, complete with a steady dose of horror. Holly pounded a fist against the glass door.
Still no response. She looked through the window now, pressing her forehead against the cool glass and breathing shallowly lest she fog the window and obscure her sight. She peered into the dark, waiting for her gaze to adjust.
Nothing. No one.
Holly looked around, up and down the street. The man peeing in the trash can had now turned, giving her a look at the goods. Which, given the tenor of the evening, seemed about fitting.
She slammed a hand against the door a couple more times, but still received nothing. Another call to the dead line. Now, the panic was complete.
Mr. Baseball Cap had promised her the money
after
the fight. The meeting had been set up in the dry cleaner’s—but now he was nowhere to be seen. Inside, the building’s interior looked sparse, empty. No furniture—no small circle table and stools where Wart-chin and his two goons had talked to her, filling her in on the details when they’d first struck the deal.
No small desk where she’d signed the papers agreeing to undisclosed work as a
freelancer
in exchange for a prearranged fee.
Already, she was circling the building, hissing to herself, her blood pumping in her ears. She moved past another trash can, this one, she hoped, less familiar with the taste of urine. She reached the metal door beneath a fire escape in the back alley.
Around her, the walls seemed to leer in, large and dark. She felt a prickle along her spine and ignored it entirely as she reached out and grabbed the handle to the back door.
Cold metal against her fingers, chill wind on her cheeks, she emitted a soft, echoing breath and then twisted, offering up a quiet prayer.
The door opened.
She felt a flash of relief, but the sensation quickly gave way to panic once more. She marched into the abandoned dry cleaner’s, her voice shrill in her own ears. “Hey—I’m here! Hello? I’m here for my money.”
No answer—no sound at all, save the quiet huff of her own breathing.
She stepped further into the room, through the back door. The desk was gone—the stools gone, the table gone. No one else was here. The room was deserted.
She stood, staring, eyes so wide she thought her expression might stick.
She waited for a quarter hour, a half hour, an hour.
No one came. She tried the number six more times—just to be sure—disconnected on every attempt. The cool air in the still room fell in pulses across her already trembling form as the full implications settled on her like a slow fart in a still room.
She’d thrown a fight for a payday, in order to pay for her daughter’s operations. The fight was gone, her chance at the championship also disappeared. And now, standing in the dark, cold, empty building, she realized her fee was gone too.
Baseball Cap had cheated her.