Page 2 of Stone’s Cage

Shaking off, I turn to Coach and our station in the cage.

I remind myself I'm going home two thousand dollars richer tonight, just as I catch sight of a real snake slithering between the crowd and the cage. It's Sly W. collecting last minute bets. Bets, that sometimes, I cheat.

Coach sees him too and as I stand and let Coach dump water on me and wipe me off with scratchy old gym towels, he seems uneasy.

"This is clean," I shout at Coach above the roar. But he won't look at me. I hope it's because he's focused on the clock.

The bell rings again. One minute goes by fast.

Round 2 is going to be Python's. I'll let him have it. It's good theater. The crowd will go fucking crazy with people in the crowd pummeling each other on the back. He head butts me right away and I take it, but it drops me to my knees. I should have rethought not ducking. I take a punch to the shoulder, driving me right into those tree trunk legs. I duck my head, trying to take punches on the back of my skull, and know he's got me right where he wants me. I'm not going to jackknife out. I think he knows I'm giving this to him.

Slamming me hard to the ground we both lay there, barely moving, our bodies rock hard with effort: he wants to crush and I need to escape. Python begins to squeeze my chest hard between his legs. His legs are like a vice that does not stop. Meanwhile I swing from behind, trying to get enough leverage to toss him and land back on my feet.

The crowd screams. His face slowly begins to turn red with effort. I have maybe ten seconds before one of my ribs crack. Like lightning, I shove both hands under the small of his back and arch up. When he pushes down, I use his own body weight against him to slip out, free to kick him in the head. The second kick, he grabs my leg and I'm on the ground again.

Round 2 is over.

The 1 to 1 tie drives the crowd to the brink of hysteria. I can hear my name chanted above the feeding frenzy of the crowd while Coach hoses me down with a large gallon jug of water. I spit out my mouthguard and he douses that as well.

Sly W. is nowhere to be seen. The fact I know he's making money off this makes me want to kill that little weasel. I have a hate-hate relationship with the guy. I need him to tell me when to throw a fight. And then I take home more money.

I see girls along the back standing on old bleachers, trying to do a kind of cheerleading thing and I wave. They scream. Jesus, I'm tired of this shit.

Coach is telling me something, but I can’t hear him, my ears are too inflamed from the head punches and tinnitus has kicked in.

I want it over. I need to end this.

Round 3 starts with the bell and ends two minutes short of the required five when I knock the Python out. He'd landed a punch to my nose though before his drop to the floor. Blood drips down my chest as Tiny raises my arm while Jimmy the Python pulls himself up from the matt. We shake hands and embrace like we're old friends. We're not. But it's the show, the sportsmanship we honor, and I go through the motions.

I wipe the blood out of my eyes. My nose is numb but the iron smell is stronger for me than for anyone in the crowd. I grab the winnings from Remi, a couple of thousand plus. What nobody knows except Coach is that I'll go to the bank on Monday, cut a cashier's check, and send most of it to my sister, Cassie.

The fight next week will bring in close to three thousand. And I'll do the same with that, leveraging any scrap of honor I have left for the chance to help her. There's been talk that Shreves, the gang boss, wants me to throw it, but Coach keeps a wary eye on me and I don’t dare. The last time Sly baited me to throw a fight, I did, and I got seven grand. Every penny went to Cassie but Coach didn’t talk to me for two weeks. I've got to keep it clean.

And that's why I can’t look Coach in the eye when he pounds me on the back in congratulations, why I throw down the towel smeared with blood and I walk out into the alley into the grimy New York street light, not feeling like an Underground Combat Fighter, but like a fucking asshole. I stand there for a moment before the groupies come, hands in pockets, gearing up for celebrity I don’t deserve.

I only get the three grand if I win. Sly W.'s been telling me Shreves says my purse will be twelve grand if I lose. They have the whole fight set up.

Assholes.

Lily Watson

I hide in the alley waiting for the fight to be over. This is where I'm supposed to find gang members—the back of some ratty gym named Remi's. It was loud in there, an organized roar, but people flooded out from the front twenty minutes ago—I watched them from my spot under the fire escape, crossing the alley opening in waves. About twenty people have congregated near the back door, waiting for the winner to emerge. After watching two people toss vials of crack, I'm beginning to think this was a bad idea. A very bad idea.

A little light above the doorway flickers and holds as the door opens and a white guy steps out, a head taller than most of his fans.

He just stands there in a cropped, sleeveless hoodie, jeans slouched down around his hips. They are ripped at the knee. His boots are huge, black things with an inch of black tread. I just stare at his boots and think, who needs boots like that in a city? A chain for his wallet hangs down the back of his jeans. With his face in shadow, I can’t see much until he steps out from under that one naked lightbulb.

I step back further into the shadows as my heart flutters. He's muscled and even in the bad lighting I can see where his arms and chest are defined under the hoodie. Fiercely wavy blond-brown hair, a square jaw in the truly heroic tradition, and with light blue eyes I can’t see until he looks directly into mine, and he does something to my insides.

Those eyes are like a jolt of electricity and something wet and warm seeps in my panties. We stare at each other and then I realize he can't really see me—I've already disappeared under the fire escape. This is best, I tell myself, but my heart slams under my chest so hard I shake. He is gorgeous. Absolutely gorgeous.

In this part of New York, her alleys are sticky with stories of stabbings, shootings, gangs and brutal beatings. I've heard a lot in the last two weeks. But, I think, as I pull my long T-shirt sleeves over my hands, there are a lot of resilient people here, trying to take back their corner of the city. I need to keep hope alive.

I take a breath and am just about to approach him and try to get a look at his arms, when the door to Remi's Gym crashes open and even more people spill out into the alley. I am excited, scared, cold and hungry. It's after one in the morning in a torqued New York back alley, and there's an autograph party going on. With drugs and god knows what. Not exactly what I'm looking for.

I just don’t know which side he's on, and I can't see his forearms where the tattoo would be. I stand in the dark and wait.

He pulls those sleeves down further before he picks up a Sharpie, so I won’t get a peek. The people demanding his attention seem almost crazed and a wave of panic runs through me. I need to not be here right now. If one of those crazy fans roots me out, I could be in trouble. The smell of fear is easy to sniff out and something I'm sure they love to track.