The next couple weeks are, as Drake would say it, somewhere between psychotic and iconic; somewhere between "I want it" and "I got it"; somewhere between I'm sober and I'm lifted; somewhere between a mister and commitment.
But I stay down.
First of all, I fall into a fun, thrillingly new schedule. It's also more normal - so normal that I start realizing how weird and unhealthy my old routine was, and more aware of everyone else's.
For example: my friends are so exciting and different and have interesting lives and schedules that I learn more about every day. Miley tells us hilarious stories about her siblings and babysitting troubles (Noah sounds adorable). She insists that her family, the Rays, are the present-day Beverly Hillbillies. Za is into mechanics and skateboarding, working on vintage cars like his Mustang and perfecting tricks on rails and benches in the streets when we hang out in over the weekend. Besides the fact that he likes doing this stuff he says the ladies love a guy who knows cars and can skate; Jason's the same way so I kind of have to agree. Khalil hits up the studio at night and lays down some tracks that he can't wait to spin at the next party. Which might be soon, with all the hookups our slickster Kalfani has. He even secures our dibs on a pot shipment so huge that we have an extra bag to roll after the delivery. That happens on a Tuesday night after Jason picks me up from work and I get so faded he waits an extra hour before taking me home to Danny.
Oh, Jason. And Danny. I can't help but think about them at the same time because, well... they're my boyfriend and my brother. When one is a bad boy/gangster in training/son of a gun (see what I did there?) and the other is a very smart, slightly overprotective EMT who knows how to do more than just the Heimlech, my thoughts about them definitely cross paths.
But ironically, Danny and Jason themselves don't cross paths much. Danny's busy alternating between day and night shifts at the hospital but always gives himself time to rest, see Anna, and keep up with me (which means lecturing me about juggling a job, school, and responsibilities at home but also praising me on my hard work, good grades, and the awesome dinners I've been making "just like Mom used to".) He actually hasn't noticed anything out of the ordinary, besides the fact that I go out all the time, dress like a skater who "a denim and plaid company threw up on" - his words, not mine - and Jason is around frequently to pick me up and drop me off from work and school. Naturally Danny raises his eyebrows at this, but when I retort that he's my boyfriend and he's supposed to do that, he hoots at my feistiness and agrees.
Jason's occupied too, keeping up with the dangerous and exciting life he had before he met me. Being the leader of the Bizzle Gang definitely has its perks - people either fear him, respect him, envy him, or all of the above - and its downfalls - the pressure, danger, and targets - but he handles it all with nonchalant confidence.
Maybe it's the comfort of his routine. When he takes me to work he always takes his evening dose of meds, drops me off, and either stays or meets with contacts and handles business until I'm done. This sounds like a lot of driving that he's doing for me, and after a few days I mention it in a conversation that goes something like this:
Jason, do you need gas money or something? You're driving me around a lot and I feel kinda mooch.
You're not giving me money for doing you a service. That's prostitution.
You'd be a sexy prostitute. If I saw you walking down the street I'd stop for you.
That's what I did for you, baby girl, remember? On your second day at North Shore. Guess that makes me the pimp. Call me Sir Bizzle.
So I'm one of your customers.
You're my only customer.
This kind of talk is what thrills me, excites me, attracts me. I still can't believe he wants me to be his like I want him to be mine. If anyone else doesn't believe it he definitely shows it, though still in his sultry, inconspicuous way. He holds my hand at school, tugging and pulling me so that I stay by his side when we walk. He whispers in my ear and holds me around the waist or under his arm when we're out on business like I'm the only one that matters. He kisses me almost every day, either taking me by surprise with his spontaneity or else commanding me with his sudden grip on me. That never gets old. And I like it.
And what about me, in the midst of all this? Well, I've been sleeping more, for one thing. I'm trying to build myself up to a full night's sleep. The closest I got to it was Halloween when Jason spent the night, which proves how safe and secure I feel when he's with me. I remember telling him that I dreamed about being safe and happy with my eyes open. With my nightmares numbing little by little, and Jason's comfort and bedtime talks, I'm starting to dream with my eyes closed like everyone else. Then again, reality lately seems like my wildest, baddest dreams coming true...
On the Thursday before the fight, Jason asks me - actually, more like tells me - to go kickboxing with the crew after school. I'm totally down with hanging out but can't help but be amused at the choice of activity.
"Kickboxing?" I repeat the night before, laughing. "You're trying to make a fool out of me?"
I can hear Jason's smirk in his voice through the phone. "What do you mean?"
"Rollies, Brink 182, now the gym?" I rattle off, waving my hand. "You're showing off. What do you bench press? I bet you can lift me up and down with no effort." Considering his taut, toned, tatted body, I don't doubt this.
"Lift you up and down? I can do that, baby girl. Long, fast, and hard. Just tell me the time and place." His tone is dark and sensuous.
Holy shit. I'm silent for several minutes as desire, hot and fast, spreads throughout my body and clenches my muscles. My heart races at his suggestiveness. He's so not talking about bench-pressing.
"Spoiler alert: I don't know how to kickbox," I confess eventually, grateful he can't see my blush and goosebumps.
"You don't have to know how," Jason assures me, sounding amused. "You just do it."
So Thursday after school Jason, Miley, Za, Khalil, and I meet up at a gym with three workout facilities, a basketball court, a pool, and several private rooms for classes and racquetball. It must be a popular spot in North Shore, judging by the high-quality of the equipment and the number of people, and I'm not surprised when Jason lets me know that the Bizzle Gang claims this as their own. Our own.
We jog up to the workout area on the second level where it's much less crowded. Up here there's state-of-the-art treadmills, ellipticals, row machines, bench pressers, ab flexers, chest and shoulder press machines, and bars for pull-ups and pull-downs. The front wall is lined with a mirror so everyone can see their reflection, and various weights are stacked along in towers. On the right end of the wall is the kickboxing area, I assume: punching bags hang from the ceiling.
The five of us change and emerge from the locker rooms pumped and energetic. As we're walking across the gym I notice how fit and prepared my friends are. The boys are all shirtless, muscled, and tattooed - Za with the word "loyalty" emblazoned across his collarbone and symbols traveling down his bicep; Khalil with a detailed owl spread across his abdomen and a collage of artwork on his arm; and Jason with the cross at his clavicle and his full sleeve. Even Miley, with her slender thighs, flat stomach, and dream catcher inked on her ribcage, makes me feel inadequate. I mean, I dance and run and do my crunches, but the gym has always scared me, intimidated me, or both.
"You guys are so hot," I whine, feeling more and more like I'm going to embarrass myself. "And buff and tatted and skilled. I feel so out of place."
They all laugh heartily as we stop at a rack of exercise gear - mats, nunchucks, medicine balls, pulleys, etc. - that has just been sanitized. The attendant flashes us a thumbs-up before leaving the station.
"I think you're hot, Tess," Miley shares with a grin, unrolling a mat and shaking it out. "When you hear it from another girl, you know it's true."
I pause and tilt my head, considering her point. Hey, she might be right.
Za cracks his knuckles. "If you wanna get tatted we can get that crackin' now. You saw the tag we did in the subway, right? I'm a tattoo artist in training."
I peek at Jason and hold back my giggle. "Let me know when you're certified, Gunzo," I allow. "Then you can initiate me."
"Initiate you? I don't think Jason'll like that."
"Depends on where you do it at," I muse, and the boys hoot and guffaw raucously.
Miley shakes her head at them, her shoulders trembling with laughter. "I'm going to my Pilates class," she announces. "Train up, Jason."
He nods resolutely as he straps on a pair of black fingerless gloves. He hands me a pair and I raise my eyebrows, uncertain. Smirking, he grasps my hands and slides them on, fastening them around my wrist and smacking my thigh like I'm ready to go.
"So you're training for the fight tomorrow?" I ask him, hoping my exposed skin isn't going red with blush.
"Yeah. Gotta brush up on my technique. And check my span, speed, and strength. I'm not getting another black eye."
Wow - he sounds like the fighter Miley nicknamed him as, and the one he acts like. "You guys come here a lot to practice?"
"Yup," Khalil answers as he heads over to the wall and separates some of the dumbbells. He picks up a heavy-looking one and tests its weight. "Work out with us, ma, and you'll get buff real quick."
I glance at the shiny, daunting equipment, the muscled bodies moving on and between them, and my slim, yoga pants and sports bra-clad reflection, and hear the clanking of metal and weights, the faint hum of dubstep music and TV programs, and the determined pants of people exerting themselves - and feel exhilarated. I haven't even done anything yet, but I really want to now.
"TK, you daydreaming?" Jason's voice pulls me back from my brief reverie. He's standing in front of a punching bag, which Za is holding steady from behind.
I walk over to them and cross my arms over my chest. "No. Just thinking about punching something."
He smirks. "TK giving a TKO? I wanna see that." His tone is skeptical, amused, and curious, all at once.
"Teach me," I request, pouting and narrowing my eyes at his reaction.
Jason snickers and turns to the punching bag. "Three things you need to know going into a fight. First, know your opponent," he tells me, gesturing to the duffel. "These are packed enough to feel like you're making impact with a person."
"But they don't fight back," I point out.
He nods. "Za is holding it for momentum. Otherwise it would swing when I hit it." He pauses and glances at me wickedly. "I hit hard."
Entranced, I just nod slowly.
"Second, take a defensive position," he tells me. He takes his stance and clenches his fists to guard his face. "If your opponent strikes fast in the beginning, you're prepared."
"And the third thing?"
"Go at it. Keep your feet firm - your power'll come from there - unless you have to retreat. Make your jab square, your hook wide, your uppercut short. Don't duck to avoid a blow - that'll give your opponent a window to strike. Just sway or twist."
I watch, equally mesmerized, dominated, and turned on as Jason starts landing his punches and exercising his technique. He's focused, deliberate, and relentless. The skill and expertise in his work is obvious. His lean muscles work under his smooth skin, and I bite my lower lip as I see his biceps, triceps, pecs, deltoids, and abs move and flex. Damn, the boy can fight.
When Jason's finished he exhales, stretching his neck and rotating his shoulders. Sweat gleams on his forehead and torso and I have this sudden, weird urge to lick him.
"Nice set, Bizzle," Za acknowledges as he steps away from the punching bag. He takes a swing at it casually and it swivels.
Jason runs a hand through his flop of bronze hair - the air has been getting cooler since it's November and he's been wearing it like that - and handshakes with Za. Then he turns to me and grins.
"Did you watch and learn, baby girl?" he wonders. "You look like you enjoyed it."
I uncross my arms from my chest and put my hands on my hips. "I did," I admit flirtatiously. "Can't wait for tomorrow."
He presses his tongue against his cheek. "I'm not done yet. Za, hold it again?"
Za returns to his position and braces the duffel. I realize that he's just as strong as Jason to be absorbing the impact and staying firm. This time Jason plants low roundhouse kicks and holds the punching bag on either side as he knees it. If it were a person he'd be hitting illegally.
"Oh, you're fighting dirty now," I note, tilting my head appreciatively as he pauses and adjusts his joggers.
"Dirty or strategically?" he counters.
"Are there any rules in street battles?"
"Yeah, don't lose," Za jokes. "Or punk out."
"We haven't done either," Jason declares and they grin and nod at each other.
I raise my eyebrows and whistle, impressed. "How many times have you guys fought the Wreckers?"
Jason takes a sip of water. "We do street battles every now and then. Like Quavo said, it's the old-fashioned way to settle scores. Za, Khalil, and I have fought them before over real valuable turf or insults they throw at us."
"Miley never fights?" I ask.
Za chuckles. "Not in street fights. The girls stay out of that. But Blondie bitch-slapped Nina months ago. She probably would've taken Cherry and Tate, too, if they were there."
"If I was a bitchass and hit girls, I would have too," Jason mutters.
I think back over weeks of information. "This is the fight you had when you found out Nina betrayed you?" I wonder aloud. They both nod. "What happened?"
"Two words," Za says, holding up that many fingers with one hand and pointing at Jason with the other. "Ape. Shit."
Jason pulls his lips into his mouth and looks at his reflection like he's remembering the night. I can't tell if the memory is one of victory or regret.
"Yeah, I went kinda berserk," he admits indifferently. "Miley was with me and we were on our way to pick up a shipment. I was mad and felt played so I just confronted them in the subway. Quavo got up in my face and I snapped. Johnny and Adrian jumped in... Adrian wasn't really a problem but they were trying to punk me, three on one. So I stopped. Them crippling or killing me wouldn't get me anywhere. And I had to get even." He smiles grimly.
Za nods, scratching the back of his head. "First time I seen Jason lose control," he mentions.
There's a pause between the three of us as the memory - for them - and the explanation - for me - settles. I find myself feeling a mixture of admiration, worry, and sympathy. Jason's the leader of a gang and handles his battles well - and I want him to be safe but he's reckless and capable of damage to others and himself in the process. I hope his depression doesn't get him so down that he lashes out with anger over it. In other words, I hope that he doesn't feel defenseless and helpless unless he's being a fighter. There are other ways to fight.
"That's why I train," Jason declares after a while, rolling his wrist and clenching his fist. "Taught me self-control. And self-reliance." He looks over at me like he's about to lead me into the darkness. "Okay, TK. Your turn. Time to show me what you got."
"I don't have anything," I tell him.
"I think you do, baby girl." Jason steps closer to me so we're face-to-face and smirks as he pulls my ponytail over my shoulder and twirls it around his finger. I can feel the heat emanating from his body and intensifying my own temperature. His gaze and proximity burns me.
"And I'm leaving," Za announces. "Bench press is calling my name. Keep it clean, kids. This is a family gym."
Jason rolls his eyes at him before glancing back at me. He puts my hair back at the nape of my neck, grasps my waist, and turns me so his back is to the wall and I'm facing him.
"Okay," he says smugly. "Hit me."
I blink. "I - I'm not gonna hit you," I stammer. "We can practice a different way."
"No we can't. And yeah, you are. You're the one who needs practice, not me."
I pout. He's literally ordering me around. "You're infuriating."
"And you're cute as hell when you're mad," he replies, mimicking my pout. His eyes shine.
"Don't mock me! That makes me feel so childish." I shove him on the shoulder.
He raises his eyebrows. "See? You got something in you. Hit me."
He's obviously not taking no for an answer so I blow out a breath and - reluctantly - try to prepare myself for a punch.
"I'm not gonna hit you in the face," I tell him nervously. "I'll... hit you in the stomach."
He waits completely unfazed until I finally snap a fist forward and land it on his abdomen. Immediately I withdraw it and shake my hand to dissolve the pain. His muscles are harder than I thought, and I put more force into the punch than is probably necessary, so I end up hurting myself more - or so I think. Jason doubles over, clutching his torso.
"Oh my God, are you okay?" I squeak. I turn away and bite the skin between my thumb and index finger. I feel embarrassed, of all things.
But then it dissolves into annoyance when I hear Jason laughing behind me. I'm about to turn around and hit him again - this time somewhere that will hurt him for real - but of course he beats me to it. He takes my wrist and spins me around so our bodies are pressed against each other, his arms wrapped around my torso, my hands splayed against his chest.
I give him my meanest look and he chuckles more.
"I'm just kidding, TK. That didn't hurt."
"No shit."
"You had some power in your fist, though," he admits with a tilt of his head. "You just need some practice. Then you can give knockouts without knocking yourself out."
"I didn't knock myself out," I mumble, and then sigh and regard him doubtfully. "You really think I can do some damage? I can't even kill a spider. And I hate spiders. How am I supposed to hurt somebody I hate? Or who threatens me?" I wonder.
Jason looks down at me thoughtfully for a moment. The intensity of his eyes always varies - from vulnerable honey to heated maple syrup to solid topaz - but that pretty hazel color never changes.
"You know what I think, baby girl?" he murmurs. He doesn't wait for me to reply. "I think you have some anger in you. And hatred. Over something that happened to you. But it's not in your nature. You're not used to crazy, dangerous emotions like that. But you needed to act them out some kind of way..." His hand slides up my back and he tugs on my ponytail, a smirk playing at his mouth. "And you acted out with us."
I pause, considering his words. Why does what he's saying make so much sense? There's a few reasons why I think I'm so eager for trouble and danger: thrill, curiosity, interest. Now that Jason mentions it, I probably am furious and hateful about my parents' death deep down. I should be - that might be where my moments of boldness come from. And ever since Mom and Dad were killed I've had this urge and determination to defend myself. If that means toughening up and hanging with a gang, so be it. Plus, it's a lot of fun.
"I did," I confess, not guiltily. I give Jason a demure smile to let him know that this is partly his fault. "And I found out that I like it."
A smirk spreads across his lips fully now. He glances around and cinches me tighter, pressing his hand on the small of my back. "You proved that you could handle it."
"Uh-huh," I say slowly. "I was put to the test, right?"
"Yup."
"And I passed, right, Mr. McCann?"
He hikes an eyebrow and bites his lip.
"Doesn't matter if you pass or fail in my class, Miss Klein. As long as you learn what I teach you."
My imagination runs wild for a minute and I fantasize about him being a young, charming, attractive teacher and I being the shy, smart, innocent schoolgirl. It's cliché but so hot and sinful. We have a connection beyond the classroom that we can't deny but we know it's inappropriate. One day he holds me back after class to discuss a poor test grade, or my slip in progress because I'm usually an excellent student. I'm timid to admit my troubles - that my attraction to him is distracting me - but he assures me that he cares about my well-being and that I can confide in him. Sexual tension fills the air without permission and the temptation becomes too great. He comes around the table and kisses me passionately, shamelessly, and backs me up against the door. I lock it hastily and stumble forward until he lays me down on the desk, unbuttons my uniform, and starts teaching me things that I can't learn in the classroom...
I press my lips together and look at my teacher now. "You have taught me things," I confirm. "About having fun, taking risks, coming through for the crew."
"You were already loyal, TK. I'm taking credit for the other things, though." Jason smirks proudly.
"You can't take all the credit. I'm a fast learner, you know."
He watches me challengingly for a moment before positioning me by my waist, bringing my hands up to my face, and stepping back.
"We'll see about that," he says. "Now hit me again."
*****
The next day I'm super sore, but it's a good kind of sore, like you know you worked hard. And I did, practicing some jabs and punches with Jason even though I didn't want to hit him as hard as he insisted. Finally I did and he said if he was a girl it would've hurt like a bitch. I took that as his attempt at a compliment.
Afterward I ran on the treadmill for a little while until Jason called me over to where the boys were bench-pressing. They were talking shit and getting competitive because I guess that's what guys do at the gym. They can't help it. So they started challenging each other and bragging about what one could do and the other couldn't. Turns out Jason can lift me easily, and he did several reps while I just chilled and looked at the ceiling. Then Miley returned from her Pilates class and the boys took turns doing push-ups with us sitting cross-legged on their backs. They kept trying to outdo each other, though, so none of them won that one.
At school everyone is cheery and excited. Nothing brings a school together like a homecoming football game, especially against your sports rival. North Shore High's school spirit and pride is contagious and everyone struts around with our colors and T-shirts.
The crew, particularly, ties white bandanas around our heads and blue ones around our wrists. People in the halls glance at us longer than usual when we walk and sit together because we literally look like a gang, the way we're dressed. We're all wearing black hoodies, grey basketball shorts, black Under Armour compression pants, and white sneaks (Za and Miley in Jays, Khalil in Adidas, Jason in Supras, and me in Converse). We dress this way for uniformity and to make a statement about the fight tonight, and I'm kind of surprised we get away with it - we look so gang affiliated.
After school the five of us eat and hang out at Steak 'n Shake. We all order the most random and creative milkshakes - Birthday Cake, Snickers Peanut Butter, Salted Caramel, Heath, and Chocolate Fudge Brownie - and play taste tests with our eyes closed. Jason gets them all right with his damn sweet tooth and the rest of us have to give up some of our fries.
At the game we don't see the Wreckers, but East Bay is especially hostile with us because of the "decorations" put up on their front lawn on Halloween. It took them three days to clean it up completely and the fact that they suspect the football team makes it even more hilarious. If the Bizzle Gang could take credit for thinking of it and not getting caught - without getting in trouble for confessing - we would.
The boys get really into the game, standing and yelling with the crowd when the stakes get high. I'm glad for the fun and excitement but mostly talk with Miley and only watch the field when our team scores or people gasp. I'm a basketball girl, anyway.
East Bay plays pretty well but North Shore wins by a touchdown. Our side of the stadium explodes in triumph and rushes down to the field to congratulate the team. My own team and I, feeling victorious already, fight our way through the celebration and head to the skate park.
Brink 182 is hype. Nighttime has fallen and street lamps light up the pavement and graffiti. People who heard about the fight and wouldn't miss it for the world are gathered around the edge of the skate bowl, some sitting and swinging their legs, some standing and looking down on the curve. The crowd on one side of the bowl cheers as we enter the park, and I guess that they're the ones on our side.
"The Wreckers aren't here," I announce, looking around in confusion.
"Nah," Jason agrees. "Trying to be fashionably late, I guess."
"Or they're stalling for their ass-whooping!" Za puts in.
"That too. I'm gonna try this damn kickflip one more time..." Jason drops his skateboard to the ground, hops one foot on, and pushes off with the other. Za and Khalil, who brought their boards too, kick, push, and follow him.
"He better not fall," Miley says, coming up behind me, "and get bruised up before the fight even starts."
I sigh and smile. "He's so determined to land this trick. I don't think he cares if he hurts himself in the process."
"Yeah. That's his problem." She shakes her head good-naturedly. "But he always gets back up."
"He won't be tonight," says a low, threatening voice from behind us, and we spin to see Quavo fronting the Wreckers behind us. When did they get here? Sneaking up on people is just trifling.
Miley pulls a blunt out of her hoodie and cups her hand over it as she lights it. She seems bored with Quavo's entire existence. "Besides the fact that I wasn't talking to you, my bank account of fucks to give about what you say is empty for the week. Sorry."
"That's fine. I couldn't care less about ya either, Blondie."
"Great. Feeling's mutual." She exhales a cloud of smoke and holds up her hand for a sarcastic high-five.
Quavo looks over at it then back to to her face. "I'm here to break hands, not slap them. You slap hands on the football field for good sportsmanship when you hate each other on the low. Not here."
"Now who's talking a lot?" I say dryly. "Are you ready to quit?"
He turns to me and raises an eyebrow, then gives me a once-over like he's remembering I was there both times he said those things. "Let's get it, then. Where's your boyfriend?" he replies sourly.
I open my mouth to answer but then we hear wheels rolling fast against pavement, and turn to see Jason, Za, and Khalil reappear around the bend. When he's a few feet away Jason jumps, kicks his board into a spin, and lands back on it before coasting again. I guess this is the kickflip - it just looks like a very complicated Ollie. He hops off right beside me and the board keeps rolling past us. The Wreckers have to separate to avoid getting hit by it.
"Sorry," he says, not sounding sorry at all. "Handling business."
The Wrecker girls rolls their eyes, and the guys shake their heads, and I can't help but grin at Jason and wrap my arms around his waist. He hooks one around my shoulders and pulls me to him. He's such an asshole, but he's mine.
There's no need to say anything as the Bangerz and the Wreckers line up across from each other and the crowd above shuffles in anticipation. Jason and Quavo step up, Jason nonchalant, Quavo glowering, and Johnny moves in importantly.
"Alright, we all know how these street battles go," he says as he crosses his arms over his chest. "Seven rounds. Whoever pins down their opponent for three seconds wins the round. No hits below the belt, no caging, and no kicks to your opponent while they're on the ground. Got it? On my count."
"Nah." Jason shakes his head but doesn't take his eyes off Quavo. "You a crazy mothafucka and I don't trust you to referee."
"You don't trust us anyway. So who's gonna do it?"
"I will," I volunteer immediately, and the Wreckers snicker in doubt.
"I don't think so," Quavo says with a disbelieving laugh. He looks at me. "You're gonna cry when I hurt your boyfriend."
"I won't," I promise. "Because taking an ass-kicking is harder than giving one, and Jason's done both. But from what I've heard you can't do either."
The audience howls with a chorus of "Ohs" and "Oohs". My friends laugh and say, "Get 'em, Tess." Jason smirks and shrugs at Quavo, pointing to me like, "See? She got this."
Quavo narrows his eyes and turns around to discuss it with his crew. I don't think it's that serious, but whatever. I take advantage of the moment while I still can and sidle up to Jason's side.
"What's caging?" I whisper to him.
"Defense. Wrapping someone's arms and holding on so they can't throw punches. Like this." He turns me around and twists my arms behind my back, restricting my movement.
"Okay. Got it."
He releases me, nods, and turns back to face Quavo, but I grab his hand and pull him back one last time.
"Wait! Good luck." I lift up and hold the back of his neck and kiss him meaningfully for what seems like a long time. "And be careful."
Jason smirks and plays with my hair. "I will, baby girl. So I can come back to that."
I flush and take Johnny's place. The Wreckers seem to agree to have me referee because Quavo takes his stance in front of Jason, who assumes his as well.
"On my count," I declare. "One... Two... Three!"
The guys go at it. Immediately I see Jason's training kick in: he regards Quavo carefully, starts in a defensive position, and strikes with force and power. He lands impressive jabs, hooks, and uppercuts to Quavo's jaw and ribs. Quavo nabs Jason sometimes too, which I expected. He's our rival, but he's not a wimp and he knows what he's doing. If Jason's the quick, skilled fighter, then Quavo's the sneaky, aggressive boxer. I watch the rounds closely and call them very fairly, but I do count slower when Jason pins Quavo in Round One and Three. Quavo in a headlock is just too priceless.
At the beginning of Round Five the boys are tied two to two and they stare at each other, getting decisive and stealthy. Jason hastily wipes his hand across his mouth, which Quavo grazed in the previous round.
"Worried bout your lips, pretty boy?" Quavo antagonizes. "Your girl won't mind if they're busted, as long as you kiss it right."
Jason charges forward and swings across Quavo's jaw, hard. Merciless, he rams his knee into Quavo's ribs, shoves him to the ground, and pins him down with his knee in his back. And with that Round Five lasts less than ten seconds.
Jason hops up and retreats, glaring. Quavo stands and shakes it off.
"So that's your weakness, huh?" Quavo wonders as he and Jason circle each other.
Jason stops and clenches his fist. His glance at me is so sudden and quick that I wonder if I just imagined it.
"Relationships don't make you weak," he mutters coldly, with a gaze to match.
"But they do, don't they? In our case, out here in the streets? They lower your guard, make you soft, and give people leverage. Something to hold over you. To use against you. Do you really wanna put yourself in that position?"
Jason's jaw works furiously and he takes several moments to answer. "Commitment isn't necessary. Only loyalty is."
Quavo raises his eyebrows and smirks. "Does she know that?" He jerks his thumb at me.
Jason frowns and glances at me. This time I know I'm not imagining it - the concern and intensity in his honey eyes can't be mistaken. I'm not sure what my face looks like, looking back at him, but I hope he knows that I'm not discouraged or offended by his bluntness. Before I can do or say anything, though, Quavo clocks him in the eye and he stumbles back.
I want to call this a foul immediately, but there's nothing in the rules about catching your opponent off guard and I've been completely fair all this time. Still, I can almost feel the punches Quavo lands on Jason's shoulder and abdomen. Jason fights back, of course, but Quavo manages to pin him only because he sneaked him in the beginning. I lean down and count three full seconds.
"Round Six, Wreckers," I mumble.
The hostility and tension in the skate park mounts. This is getting dicey.
"Round Seven, on my count," I announce in a shaky voice when Jason gets up, seething. I clear my throat. "You guys are tied, so this one determines the fight. Ready? One... Two... Three."
Both boys charge at each other and force the other's momentum. Neither gets a hit in and they pull apart before going at it again. They grip one another's upper arms and dig their heels into the ground, but it's clear neither is going anywhere and they're wasting their energy anyway.
"Enough," Quavo sneers. He spreads his arms. "Let's stop playing. Hit me."
Jason stares at him. "That's no fun. Besides, you suck at defense."
"Maybe, but you should be glad about that. Come at me." Quavo is unfazed.
"We get to the last round and you wanna hand me the fight? Nah. Either you're trying to throw me off or you wanna punk me into winning easy. Probably both," Jason notes dryly. "But I'm not taking this just 'cause you're dogging me."
"That's your problem right there," Quavo accuses with a short laugh, pointing at Jason. "That's all y'all's problem." He gestures to our entire crew. "You too moral. You don't wanna fight dirty when it needs to be done. Or when you do and we come back at you, you call us cheaters and fuckers. That's why we're still in this war. When does it end?" he says rhetorically.
"Are you done?"
"Are you?"
The vein in Jason's neck pulses and steps up to Quavo, barely containing his tremor of rage. "What do you want?"
Quavo glares him in the eye; they're the same height. "Revenge. By loss. Like you keep doing to us." He looks Jason up and down before glancing at me and smirking. "Maybe we'll start with your new bitch."
In a split second Jason tackles Quavo like a bulldozer and they crash to the ground. If I thought Jason was going at it before I was wrong, because now he's not holding back at all. I've never seen him so mad and rattled out of his normally cool, nonchalant self - Quavo's threats right now are affecting him personally. Quavo fires back and they roll and twist, throwing crazy punches and doing all kinds of illegal moves. Quavo knees Jason in the throat, literally cutting him off, before Jason pushes up and cages him, wringing his arm behind his back.
"Call that!" Tate shouts at me, pointing at Jason like he's the only one breaking the rules.
"Shut up! They're both fouling!" I yell back fiercely. I turn back to the hardcore wrestling match going on in front of me. "Guys, time out! Both of you! Stop!"
I don't expect this to accomplish anything, deep down, but what else can I do? Jason and Quavo are fighting each other over more than just the shipment mixup. This is a street battle of their war - their war of vengeance, betrayal, insult, and wrongdoing. It's obvious that this is going farther and nastier than it should be, so I, trying to be a referee, hurry forward to pry them apart within getting between them.
"Hang on, TK," Jason says through gritted teeth, slamming Quavo to the ground again. They struggle against each other. "Just - let - me - choke this mothafucka and I'll take the penalty."
"Choke me! Try it."
"What does it look like I'm doing? You can't keep your mouth shut so Imma do it for you." Suddenly Jason's voice takes on a frightening tone that I don't recognize or understand. "I'm gonna end you."
Quavo laughs shortly. Jason's elbow is digging into his throat and his voice comes out breathless as he speaks but is still biting. "There you go talking again. Not anymore." With effort he manages to turn his head to his crew. "Adrian!"
"No!" I hear Nina cry out desperately.
But then I hear something else that confuses me just as much as Nina's shout, but shocks and scares me way more. It's the unmistakable click of a revolver rotating a bullet in place.
With paralytic slowness - because that's how I feel; paralyzed - I look up and lose my grip on any sort of comfort or safety.
Adrian is pointing a gun at Jason and - since I'm bent beside him, attempting to intervene - at me.