Crossing the Line Page 6

  He sits back in his chair and crosses his arms. "You, my friend, probably have the biggest cojones out of everyone I know." He nods to a beefy guy sitting across from him. "Including Chago over here."

  "Why?" the guy named Chago asks.

  "This guy challenged me to a boxing match," he explains. "And won. That's more than any one of you could do." Nobody disagrees. "So now I'm taking him to Sevilla for a chance to train with Camacho." Mateo downs the rest of his beer before slamming the empty bottle on the table. "Let's go, Hess. I'm a little plastered, so I'll let you drive."

  In my car, Mateo rocks out to some kind of Mexican rap music as he directs me on which way to go.

  "You sure you know where we're goin'?" I ask as he motions for me to turn off on a dirt road leading to the mountains.

  "Si, amigo."

  "You know I don't speak Spanish."

  Mateo shrugs. "You've got to learn at some point. You're in Mexico now. Pay someone to give you lessons."

  "With what money?" I think of the two hundred and sixty dollars I have in my pocket, my entire life savings after I shelled out money for a cheap-ass cell phone. "I'm almost broke. If I don't get a fight soon, I'll be out on the streets damn quick."

  "I already told you. You want to be the best fighter and make dinero, you're not gonna do it training in the US," Mateo says. "You want to be the best, you train with the best. Even if Camacho doesn't train you, stick with me and I'll find someone here in Mexico who'll take you to the top."

  "Why are you helping me?" I ask. "You don't owe me shit, Mateo."

  "The truth?"

  I nod.

  "Because you beat me at my own game. Not many people can do that." He looks out the window and gets serious. "And because I heard your stepfather's a dick and you might need someone to look out for you. Like a brother."

  "You've been checkin' up on me?"

  He takes his sunglasses off his shirt and puts them on. "Yep."

  We keep driving. After a while, the towns are spread apart and we're passing smaller towns with few if any resources. Seeing these poor towns makes me think back to when we were on public assistance for a while. Mom didn't work and we got by on cheap crap food.

  But it was food.

  And it was free.

  To my mom I was someone she had to deal with and feed, not someone she wanted. When I was eight she started leaving me alone so she could go party all night. In junior high, there were times she wouldn't come home the entire weekend, leaving me to fend for myself. I'd watch TV, blaring it so I wouldn't have to hear any scary noises outside our trailer.

  "Shit," Mateo blurts out.

  I glance in my rearview mirror. A police car is behind us with its lights on and the officer is motioning for me to pull off the road. We aren't near any towns and few cars have passed us as we drive, so I wonder if this is legit.

  Mateo says, "It's cool, Ry. Let me do all the talkin'."

  I slow to a stop and see two officers step out of the squad car. One is heading for my side. I keep my hands on the wheel as the officer approaches, and grip the wheel tighter when I notice he has a hand on the butt of his gun.

  Damn, this is not good.

  When he takes his gun and holds it at his side, I mumble under my breath, "I think he's crooked, man."

  "You think?" Mateo says sarcastically. "Dude, they're all crooked."

  "If he asks me to get out of the car and pulls a gun on me, I'm gonna disarm him before he realizes what's happening."

  Mateo holds his hands up. "Whoa, don't get all vigilante on me, Hess. Trust me. We're fine. More than fine."

  "Hola, amigo," the officer says.

  "Mi amigo no habla espanol," Mateo responds. "El viento esta cambiando de direccion oficial, y estamos en el lado correcto."

  I have no clue what Mateo is saying, but I can tell the officer is backing down the more Mateo talks.

  The officer says, "Dile a tu amigo que quiero dinero en efectivo."

  Mateo taps me on the shoulder. "Give him a hundred bucks, Hess."

  I blink twice. "A hundred bucks? Are you fucking kidding me?" I mumble.

  Mateo shakes his head. "Nope. Sorry, man. They want a hundred to let us go."

  "But I didn't do anything wrong."

  "Consider it an entry fee into Los Reyes del Norte's territory."

  I quickly realize that it doesn't matter if I did anything wrong. Some cops straddle both sides of the law here. I reluctantly pull out my wallet and hand the cop a hundred, leaving me with only one-sixty left to my name.

  The officer nods. "Pasale, pero ten cuidado," he says, then taps the hood of my car twice before walking to the police cruiser.

  Mateo leans back in the passenger seat as if it's a cushy recliner in his living room. "We're good."

  "Good? Dude, I'm out a hundred bucks. I'm not good. What did you say to him?"

  "I just told them you're a boxer from the US who's training here for the summer."

  "And who's Los Reyes del Norte and how is this their territory?"

  "You ask too many questions, Hess."

  I'm on a roll and am not stopping now. "Is Los Reyes del Norte some kind of gang?"

  "Yeah. A new movement of young guys calling themselves the Kings of the North and they're recruiting like crazy. They're so powerful if you don't do what they want they'll fuck you up." He shakes his head. "You gotta learn how things work around here, Hess. You're a white boy with Texas plates in the middle of Mexico. That makes you a target. Besides, white boys from the US have a reputation for carrying cash."

  "Not anymore I don't. If Camacho won't take what I've got after I pay for a place to stay, I'm screwed."

  "I got your back," he assures me.

  We pass a bunch of big ranches set between the mountains. Some of them have guards at the entrances, another stark reminder that parts of Mexico can be full of rich people with power and poor people struggling to survive. I guess it's kind of like Texas, or even Chicago, where people on one block live in million-dollar brownstones and on the next block live in housing projects.

  "We're almost there," Mateo announces a half hour later as he directs me through a small town with one store and a bunch of old stucco buildings with colorful Mexican architecture.

  "The houses here are cool," I tell him.

  "Yeah." Mateo gestures to a couple of old men sitting on chairs outside their little houses. Mateo waves as we pass, and they immediately recognize him and wave back. "The guys who live here either work in the fields or retire here because nothing happens. Sevilla is kind of an oasis in the middle of the mountains. It's under nobody's control . . . for now."

  "How'd you find it?"

  "My abuelo, my grandfather, lived here when he was younger. See that building over there?" he asks, pointing to a warehouse with a couple of cars parked outside. "That's the gym."

  After parking I grab my duffel from my trunk, ready to start my life here. I'll stay and train until I can move up and make some money fighting before heading back to Texas. The more I learn, the better chance I'll have of getting fights.

  I need to stay focused, because I'm not going back to Texas the same way I came here. A loser.

  The boxing club is dark and smells like old, stale sweat. The familiar sounds of fists hitting bags and the grunt of guys pushing themselves to their limit permeate the air. I scan the place, attempting to assess each fighter's punch and stance. Most of them are staring at the white boy who once again finds himself the minority. It's no different on the Texas border, where there's a strong Hispanic community.

  There's one ring in the middle of the gym where a tall dude is coaching some short guy with skinny legs. "Hit my chest," he's saying. "As hard as you can."

  I hold back laughter because this dude has no fucking clue how to train. Hit my chest as hard as you can? Is he kidding? While the short dude has protective headgear on, the tall dude has no mitts or gloves and looks like an amateur himself.

  "Dude, seriously?" I say to Mateo. T
he other guys at this place look like they're hard-core fighters. The two in the center ring are a fucking joke.

  Mateo shakes his head and leans in close. "Don't ask," he says so nobody else can hear. He doesn't need to worry; the acoustics in this place suck. "Wait here. I'm gonna go find Ocho, the manager."

  While he disappears out a side door, I watch as the short kid in the ring tries to throw punches. At one point, he falls to the ground. I can't help but laugh.

  The kid glares at me. "What's your problem, gringo?" he growls at me, frustrated, as he grabs the ropes to pull himself up.

  "The problem is you hit like a girl," I tell him.

  "Eso es porque soy una idiota."

  He yanks off his headgear and focuses on me.

  Damn.

  The dude is a girl. And not just any girl. It's Dalila.

  Her dark eyes are piercing through mine and she blinks a few times in surprise. There's no doubt in my mind that she remembers me from the concert. I'm trying not to focus on the sheen of sweat that's covering her flawless, perfectly tanned skin.

  Her hair is a mess, though. I guess at one point it was in a neat ponytail, but now it's falling down her face with the hairband still holding on to a small clump that refuses to be set free.

  "Who the hell are you?" her pseudo-trainer asks.

  One thing I know about dealing with fighters, especially ones with overgrown egos, is that you hold back information. Be a mystery, so they're always wondering what you've got up your sleeve. It gives you a little advantage, in and out of the ring.

  "I'm nobody, man," I tell him.

  "Obviously." He says something in Spanish, some kind of insult, but I don't give a shit. He can insult me all he wants. Maybe this guy is Lucas, the dude she was missing the night I met her.

  My skin is as thick as leather. Actually more like bulletproof glass.

  Dalila brushes the wayward strands away from her face as she turns from me. She's doing a good job of pretending she has no clue who I am.

  While I wait for Mateo to come back, I step closer to the ring to watch the poseur resume "training" her. She's got a determined look on her face as if she's trying to prove something.

  "You've got to keep your elbows in," I call out to her.

  They stop and look at me.

  "Don't you have somewhere else to be?" her pseudo-trainer-slash-boyfriend asks me. "Like building a wall or somethin' like that."

  I put my hands up. "Just thought she'd want some pointers from someone who knows what they're talkin' about."

  "What did you say?" He stands next to Dalila as if he's claiming her as his. I don't tell him that I'm not looking for any distractions, especially from a bossy girl with major control issues.

  I shake my head. "Nothin'. I didn't say anything."

  The dude points at me. "Keep it that way."

  While I don't mind getting into it with someone, I need to rein it in. I'd like nothing better than to fight this blowhard, but not now. Especially when I see a glimpse of a nine millimeter sticking out of an open bag on the floor.

  I'm not looking to get myself shot, at least not on my first night in Mexico.

  I step away from the ring and head for Mateo, who just came back with some old dude by his side.

  "This is Ocho; he runs the place. He says Camacho hasn't been here in a few days, but will probably show up at some point."

  "What the hell am I supposed to do until then?"

  "Listen, I talked to Ocho and explained your situation. I got him to agree to rent one of the back rooms to you. You can live here and take showers in the locker room while you train. He wants a hundred fifty for the month. Up front."

  "A hundred fifty?" That'll leave me with ten bucks left over. "I don't know, man."

  "It includes access to the gym, twenty-four hours a day. What do you want me to tell him? He don't speak a word of English."

  Oh, hell.

  In a matter of hours, I went from having hundreds in my pocket to a measly ten bucks.

  "I don't have a choice. I'll take it." I don't even know how I'll be able to secure a trainer here for a measly ten bucks. What if Camacho never shows up? This sucks.

  "Hey, Mr. America!" Dalila calls out.

  I stop and turn back to find her leaning over the ropes as she motions me back to the ring. Her sultry lips turn into an inviting grin, making me feel like I'm about to be lured into a trap. "You think you're so good at fighting?" she asks. "Why don't you show me what you got?"

  Ten

  Dalila

  I don't know what it is about Ryan that made me want to call him back. Maybe it was the utter shock at seeing him again. Maybe it's something about his confidence and carefree attitude. He didn't show any emotion when it was obvious Rico was getting annoyed with him. It's like he doesn't care what people think of him.

  How can he be so disconnected?

  "I don't fight girls," Ryan says matter-of-factly.

  Rico is standing beside me now, glaring at him. "You want to go a round with me?" Rico blurts out. "I'm ready whenever you are."

  Mr. America shakes his head. "I don't fight amateurs."

  "Who you callin' an amateur?" Rico is about to jump down from the ring, but I grab his arm and hold him back.

  "Don't," I tell him. "He's just trying to get under your skin."

  I can't help but notice Ryan holding back a grin. He's amused instead of scared, which boggles my mind. What guy wouldn't be intimidated by Rico Cruz?

  Ryan says something to the guy next to him, who I remember being a bodyguard at one of Demi's parties. His name is Mateo Rodriguez. I can tell by the serious look on Ryan's face they're discussing something pretty intense.

  "Listen to me, gringo," Rico says. "I don't know who you are or what the hell you're doing here, but this is a Mexican gym. Go back to your country and find your own gym."

  "He's cool, Rico," Mateo says. "He's with me."

  "I don't care who brought him. Get him out of here."

  Ryan picks up a duffel and tosses it over his shoulder. "I'm not going anywhere, so you might as well get used to me." He walks up to the ring and boldly holds out a hand for Rico to shake. "My name's Ryan Hess."

  Rico slaps Ryan's hand away. "This is fucked-up."

  Ryan's eyes shift to me and my entire body tingles. "You want to see me fight, Dalila? Hang around here long enough and I'll show you what I've got."

  When he says my name Rico's eyes go wide. "You know him?"

  Umm. "Not really. I briefly met him when I went to Texas last week." If Rico blabs to my parents, I'll be grounded for life. I shoot Ryan a level stare as a hint not to reveal anything else.

  "Don't lie, Dalila. We know each other well. Very well." Ryan's eyes pierce mine and I feel a tingling sensation all the way down to my toes. "Right, Dalila?"

  I refuse to be taunted by him. "I hardly remember meeting you."

  "Uh-huh." He starts walking away from the ring. "I seem to remember you kissing me. I might even have a selfie of the magic moment."

  He didn't go there! Rico's nostrils are flaring. I grab the ropes hard, wishing it were Ryan's big, fat neck. "I kissed you because I had no other choice!" I yell after him. "And there isn't a selfie."

  "No other choice? He forced you? You come back here and I'll fuck you up, Ryan Hess!" Rico yells.

  Ryan walks cooly out the side door as if he can't be bothered with Rico's threats.

  Rico suddenly jumps out of the ring and I panic. "Where are you going?"

  "Ahorita regreso."

  He disappears through the door Ryan just walked through. "Rico, don't go after him!" I call out, but it's no use. "He didn't force me to kiss him. I wanted to. I mean--"

  I'm getting myself into more trouble. Rico is about to challenge Ryan in a misguided attempt to defend my honor. It's so stupid and wrong. I need to stop him!

  Rico's confidence is egocentric and stems from being born privileged. Ryan's confidence comes from somewhere else . . . as if he's had to fig
ht for the right to act tough or it's a cover-up so people don't dig into whatever pain he's feeling on the inside.

  I shake my head and silently scold myself. Maybe I'm confusing confidence with stupidity.

  I glance at the other boxers at the gym. None of them are looking at me because they're too focused. Unlike Rico.

  Annoyed at my friend for not listening to my pleas, I head outside to find Rico in Ryan's face. He's telling him to go back to the US where he belongs and never look at me again.

  With a set jaw and his hands balled into fists at his side, I can tell Ryan is just biding his time, waiting for the right moment to strike. This is not good.

  Walking toward them, I accidentally kick a soda can and stumble. The can makes a rattling noise as it rolls across the ground. I can feel Ryan's gaze on me as I look up . . .

  "Fight me," Rico orders.

  Ryan turns his attention back to Rico and shakes his head. "Dude, I'm not gonna fight you."

  "You scared?"

  Ryan walks away. "Sure, that's it. I'm scared. Now go back to your girlfriend before someone else comes along and pays attention to her."

  "Don't turn away from me, gringo," Rico calls out. "Or you'll regret it."

  "Rico, stop trying to fight him!" I yell.

  When Rico looks at me like I just betrayed him, I quickly turn around and head for the car. I'm not going to wait around while he continues to threaten Ryan.

  Five minutes later Rico appears. As he settles into the front seat, I can't even look at him. "You shouldn't have confronted him," I blurt out.

  He grabs the steering wheel so tightly his fingers practically turn white. "Why are you mad at me? I was defending your honor."

  "I don't want you to defend my honor, Rico. Did you fight him?"

  "No." With a small chuckle, Rico starts the car. "But I'll fight him one day, whether it's in the ring or out of it. I promise you that."

  The car tires spin when we drive off, another show-off move. The entire drive I sit silently, not believing that Ryan barged into my life again.

  But he did.

  "How was your date with Rico?" Mama asks me when I get home.

  "Eventful."

  "Bueno. I'm glad you had a good time."

  I don't tell her that what happened today wasn't fun. When I go to bed in the evening and replay the day's events in my head, a set of very blue eyes invades my thoughts.

  Why is Ryan Hess in Mexico? Will I ever see him again?

  Fate says yes.