these attract bigger audiences and have a more respectable payout. But the five-figure wins, The Cull fights, will be out of reach until I either get a drug lord sugar daddy or I’m just so popular that it doesn’t matter.
“So,” Miguel says, rubbing his palms together like some evil mastermind, “which clubs are we hitting up tonight?”
“We’re not,” I say. “I need a gym, and I need you to get me into a fight in a few days.”
Miguel frowns. “Yeah…yeah, but this part is important, too. This is how you get people to notice you. This is how they get to know your name. We’ll walk in, get a table, and buy a couple bottles. Make some noise, you know?”
“Just get me a fight…”
“Are you sure?” Drew asks, her hand landing on my knee. I want to treat it as a friendly gesture, something people do when they’re interacting, but this is Drew. So electricity explodes on the spot then travels to far-off nerve endings. The weight of her hand is heavy with the memories of being touched in other ways, of touching her, too.
“Yeah, I might as well get it over with.” I keep my eyes fixed on my pastry, afraid she’ll see my attraction to her shining in them. She’s absently stroking me where her fingers are and, holy fuck, my erection is growing quickly. “We’ve got a long way to go,” I choke out. Jesus Fucking Christ, get your hand off my knee, Drew.
“I need to take you out and introduce you to people,” Miguel argues.
Drew rolls her eyes. “He took Buck and me out the last time we were here, and he kept us out until five…. introducing us to people. ” She squeezes my thigh, causing ripples of heat to roll through my body. “You just want to go clubbing, Mig.”
“And you don’t?” he says as he links their hands and swings them to whatever rhythm is in his head. I shudder out a deep breath, grateful to have her hand gone. But also dreading the blue balls I’ll have to deal with later.
“Fine. We’ll scope it out. Me and you,” Drew says, relenting. “But only if you make sure he has a place to work out and he’s in the ring in a few days.”
****
Miguel finds a gym for me just outside of the city limits. It’s not really a state-of-the-art boxing gym, but it has a lumpy heavy bag and a flimsy speed bag. I even convince a guy there to spar with me, and then I spend my evenings on a treadmill, while Miguel and Drew go on their recon missions. After enduring almost an entire week of Miguel’s failed insistence that he show me off, we get a call from “his guy,” who tells him to just be ready when he calls again. The call comes a day later. Miguel leads us to a rendezvous point on the outskirts of Tepatitlán, and a bus shuttles us off to the unknown. The fight locations change often, Miguel tells me, to elude the few cops who refuse to take bribes. Very few people know the actual address of the fights; most just get a text a few hours before with the meeting point of the buses, which look exactly like regular tour buses. Everyone has to remain at the fight location until all the night’s fights are over. Then everyone is dropped off again or they find their own way home.
Tonight ’s site is a warehouse tucked away in Guadalajara, an hour’s ride, in one of the industrial districts. It’s a gigantic, dingy space with flickering, buzzing lights, and it’s hot as fuck, too. There’s an octagon in the middle, and I know from my days fighting around the South that it’s an easy setup. With a visit to a hardware store and a little Internet research, anyone can build one in a couple hours. There are people from all walks of life here: a few frightened tourists, and lots of excited locals and serious enthusiasts.
“How is it that I’m showing this much cleavage and I’m still overdressed?” Drew whispers to me as we follow Miguel to where I check in. She’s stunning tonight in a low cut orange dress, standing out from the grunge and the grit. But she’s right. She
“So,” Miguel says, rubbing his palms together like some evil mastermind, “which clubs are we hitting up tonight?”
“We’re not,” I say. “I need a gym, and I need you to get me into a fight in a few days.”
Miguel frowns. “Yeah…yeah, but this part is important, too. This is how you get people to notice you. This is how they get to know your name. We’ll walk in, get a table, and buy a couple bottles. Make some noise, you know?”
“Just get me a fight…”
“Are you sure?” Drew asks, her hand landing on my knee. I want to treat it as a friendly gesture, something people do when they’re interacting, but this is Drew. So electricity explodes on the spot then travels to far-off nerve endings. The weight of her hand is heavy with the memories of being touched in other ways, of touching her, too.
“Yeah, I might as well get it over with.” I keep my eyes fixed on my pastry, afraid she’ll see my attraction to her shining in them. She’s absently stroking me where her fingers are and, holy fuck, my erection is growing quickly. “We’ve got a long way to go,” I choke out. Jesus Fucking Christ, get your hand off my knee, Drew.
“I need to take you out and introduce you to people,” Miguel argues.
Drew rolls her eyes. “He took Buck and me out the last time we were here, and he kept us out until five…. introducing us to people. ” She squeezes my thigh, causing ripples of heat to roll through my body. “You just want to go clubbing, Mig.”
“And you don’t?” he says as he links their hands and swings them to whatever rhythm is in his head. I shudder out a deep breath, grateful to have her hand gone. But also dreading the blue balls I’ll have to deal with later.
“Fine. We’ll scope it out. Me and you,” Drew says, relenting. “But only if you make sure he has a place to work out and he’s in the ring in a few days.”
****
Miguel finds a gym for me just outside of the city limits. It’s not really a state-of-the-art boxing gym, but it has a lumpy heavy bag and a flimsy speed bag. I even convince a guy there to spar with me, and then I spend my evenings on a treadmill, while Miguel and Drew go on their recon missions. After enduring almost an entire week of Miguel’s failed insistence that he show me off, we get a call from “his guy,” who tells him to just be ready when he calls again. The call comes a day later. Miguel leads us to a rendezvous point on the outskirts of Tepatitlán, and a bus shuttles us off to the unknown. The fight locations change often, Miguel tells me, to elude the few cops who refuse to take bribes. Very few people know the actual address of the fights; most just get a text a few hours before with the meeting point of the buses, which look exactly like regular tour buses. Everyone has to remain at the fight location until all the night’s fights are over. Then everyone is dropped off again or they find their own way home.
Tonight ’s site is a warehouse tucked away in Guadalajara, an hour’s ride, in one of the industrial districts. It’s a gigantic, dingy space with flickering, buzzing lights, and it’s hot as fuck, too. There’s an octagon in the middle, and I know from my days fighting around the South that it’s an easy setup. With a visit to a hardware store and a little Internet research, anyone can build one in a couple hours. There are people from all walks of life here: a few frightened tourists, and lots of excited locals and serious enthusiasts.
“How is it that I’m showing this much cleavage and I’m still overdressed?” Drew whispers to me as we follow Miguel to where I check in. She’s stunning tonight in a low cut orange dress, standing out from the grunge and the grit. But she’s right. She
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