Down For The Count: The Complete Series

By Christa Cervone

Fighter.

I've always been a fighter,
Even before I knew it was in my blood.
I fought the demons of my past.
I fought for my life.
I fought for the future I wanted.

Growing up in a foster home, after my father killed my mother,
I fought for who I was,
Who I could become.

And now, it's what I do, what I am.
My career is in the ring, taking down every opponent I face,
Every enemy who threatens me.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christa Cervone
• Release date: Jun 7, 2016
• ISBN: 9781533576897

Christa Cervone

Born and raised in Western Massachusetts, Christa is a sucker for young love and happy endings—of all varieties. Her first book, Broken, was written as a tribute to the man she met and fell in love with at the young age of sixteen. Fast forward twenty-something years, they’re still going strong and navigating through life with three children, three dogs, and a lizard. As a writer, Christa expresses what she knows about life, love and hardships through her characters, which is why they will always be relatable with real problems. As readers, you’ll be thrust into their world, feel their heartache, take on the obstacles life throws at them, and ultimately experience the elation of their happily ever after. When she's not carting her kids around to numerous sporting events, you’ll find her writing, reading, wasting time on Facebook, or watching television shows like The Walking Dead, Shameless, Ink Master, or Vikings.

Book preview

Acknowledgement

This book couldn’t have been written without the help of Josue Lopez. Not only is he a Golden Gloves champion, but he was also my son’s boxing coach.

Much like Saint, Josue grew up on the streets of an inner city and chose a path of boxing instead of gangs or drugs. He put himself through community college with scholarships and grants, then went on to study at University of Massachusetts Amherst. During that time, he became Western Massachusetts’ Golden Gloves Champion. He is now teaching English as a second language to elementary school children in the inner city near where he was raised.

This story wouldn’t be what it is without you, Josh. Thank you so much for taking the time to sit down with me and teach me about the boxing world. You truly helped me bring Saint to life.

***

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About The Author

To my late father, Daniel, the toughest man I've ever known.

Part 1

Prologue

––––––––

In the case of the Commonwealth versus Josue Vega, how do you plead?

Not guilty, our father says in his thick Spanish accent.

The cameras flash and reporters chatter into their microphones, although I can’t make out what they’re saying.

Order in the court! the judge's voice booms throughout the crowded room. His gavel hits the desk, the cracking sound causing my little brother, Jason, to jump clear out of his seat.

It’s okay, Jase. We’re safe now. I try to comfort him. The two of us sit quietly in the second row of the hot, congested courtroom as we watch our father plead not guilty to the murder of our mother. Even though I'm too proud to admit it out loud, I’m just as frightened as he is. I’m the older brother, he looks up to me—it’s my job to be brave for both of us.

Your Honor, my client asks to be released on bail. He has two young sons he needs to care for while the trial is ongoing, a tall man, who sat next to our father just moments ago, says in a deep, commanding voice.

My heart beats rapidly against my chest and a certain level of fear races through my veins as I eyeball the man standing before the judge. He's the same man who was supposed to care for Jase and me, to protect us from the evil in this world. But that's not the life Jase and I have lived. We've only known a life of fear and abuse at the hands of that man.

Regardless of the various emotions circulating within my body, a smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth. The sight of my father wearing a bright orange jumpsuit with handcuffs adorning his wrists and shackles at his feet brings a smile to my face. Finally, after all these years, justice will be served.

Sometime before dawn, a thunderous bang woke Jase and me. It was the police looking for our father. After questioning us together, the cops separated us and questioned me alone. Did I know the whereabouts of my father...had I seen him in the past twenty-four hours...when was the last time I saw him—the questions were all so similar, yet confusing at the same time. It almost seemed as if they were hoping I'd slip up and give something away. Little did they know, I would've been the first person to rat my father out had I known his whereabouts.

I answered honestly, explaining the events from two nights before: my parents arguing, though I couldn't tell the police what they'd been fighting about. Screaming matches in our house were a normal occurrence; Jase and I had learned to ignore it.

How could you? He’s just a little boy... Those words had hit me like a kick to the gut. My mother's voice so crystal clear, she could’ve been sitting next to me. My lip quivered and tears formed at the realization those words would be the last I'd ever hear her speak.

Your Honor, the defendant is being charged with murder. I insist he be remanded to the county jail for the duration of his trial, a loud, determined voice demands from the other side of the courtroom, bringing me back to the here and now.

The judge looks at us and I can see the pity in his eyes.

Mr. Vega, I have to agree with the District Attorney, the judge says in a stern tone. You’re standing trial for the murder of your wife. Bail is denied and you’re to return to the county jail for the remainder of your trial. Bailiff, please remove the defendant and have him taken into custody.

Voices erupt from the back of the courtroom. I turn around, the reporters talk and the cameras flash. Shifting back toward the front, I watch a man in what looks like a police uniform leads my father out of the courtroom. Jase buries his face into the crook of his arm and cries. Why are they taking Papi?

It’s okay, Jase, I whisper. We have each other, remember? We’re blood brothers. Jase wipes his tears away with his hand and forces a smile.

Blood brothers was something I'd come up with a few years back when we'd been playing at the park. It had been one of the few times in our lives our father had actually offered to take us somewhere.

After a long winter of being cooped up in our small, dingy apartment, a pleasant spring day was finally upon us. Jase and I had run ourselves ragged playing tag, swinging on the swings, climbing on the jungle gym, and hanging from the monkey bars.

Our father had told us numerous times to stop running and low and behold, right after his final warning, Jase fell and skinned both knees. The glare in our father's eyes was terrifying and I knew what would follow if he heard Jase cry. I'd been on the receiving end of the I'll give you something to cry about threat more times than I cared to discuss. That must've been one of our father’s favorite lines. Jase didn't help matters much. He'd always been extremely sensitive and cried over almost everything.

Come on, Jase. Don’t cry, I whispered, casting a glance over my shoulder at our father. Jase’s body trembled as he tried to hold back his tears. The blood from his knees trickled down his shins and out the corner of my eye, I saw our father rise to his feet. I knew I had to act fast.

I reached into my back pocket and pulled out an old pocketknife I’d found lying on the sidewalk one day after school. I’d kept it hidden from Jase because I knew he’d want to play with it and would only end up hurting himself.

Hey, Jase, look what I found, I said, secretly showing him the knife.

His eyes grew wide. Whoa, where did you get that?

What are you two doing over there? our father grumbled, making Jase jump.

Nothing, Papi. I’m just tying Jase’s shoes, I answered back, hoping he wouldn't catch on.

Hurry up! I’m ready to leave! he snapped in response.

Opening up the blade as fast as I could, I took the tip and pressed it down onto the pad of my thumb.

Gabe, what are you doing? Jase's voice filled with wonder and his chocolate brown eyes widened.

I wanna show you that you don’t have to cry every time you bleed. The blood on the tip of my thumb pooled to the size of a pea. See, I’m bleeding and I’m not crying.

It’s like we’re blood brothers! Jase blinked back his tears and smiled.

Yes. Exactly, Jase. Blood brothers. My face mirrored his.

Order in the court! Order in the court! A boisterous voice tears me from my memory. Jase leaps. Gripping his hand tight, I pull his body into mine. Frightened, he hides his face against my chest and I shield his vision with my arms. Shocked by what's occurring, I stare at my father and a man dressed in a police officer's uniform scuffling across the court room.

Mr. Vega! The judge bangs his gavel repeatedly, my heart beats in time with the sound. I'm now holding you in contempt of court, the judge shouts.

Two more officers burst through the door. One tackles my father to the floor while the other calms the onlookers and ushers them out of the courtroom. Once order is restored, the judge directs his attention toward our father. Mr. Vega, I find you in contempt of this court. Bailiff, please escort the defendant out.

Jase's head peeks out from my arms. The two of us sit quietly and watch as our father is hauled out of the courtroom. I sigh, not because the chaos is over, but because after all these years, I finally feel safe. He and our mother are out of our lives forever; they can no longer hurt us. To say I haven’t dreamed of this day would be a lie. Living with parents who actually love us has always been a fantasy of mine. While some kids daydreamed about becoming a major league baseball player or a movie star, I dreamed of Jase and I being free. I’d seen it in a movie once—a little girl who didn’t have any parents. She and a group of girls lived in an orphanage with some drunk mean lady. She wished and hoped a family would adopt her. At the end of the movie, her wish came true. Some rich guy adopted her and they lived happily ever after. I’m crossing my fingers that will happen to us.

Gabriel? Jason? a gentle voice says from behind. Together, Jase and I turn. A man and woman dressed in fancy suits stand before us. My stomach flutters with nerves. Are they our new parents? Excited by the thought, a smile creeps through. They seem nice. I bet they can give us a happy life. Actually, I know they can. I’m Debbie, the robust red haired lady says, then turns to the man directly to her left, and this is Dave. We’re going to take you to where you’ll be staying.

Jase, shh...stop crying. I nudge him with my elbow. Look, I think this is our new mom and dad, I whisper.

The last thing I want is for them to think Jase is a crybaby. He is, but I don’t want them to change their minds about us.

Come on, boys. We’re going to get you situated in your new homes, Dave says.

I look up, confused. Homes?

Yes, you and Jason are being placed in foster homes, Debbie replies in a soft, yet comforting voice.

You’re not our new mom and dad? Jase whimpers, tears spilling over and running down his cheeks. My heart breaks when I hear Jase's question.

Oh no, Jason. Debbie crouches down in front of Jase, the sincerity in her tone so convincing. We work for the Department of Social Services. We’ve been sent to bring you to your new homes.

Debbie’s words set Jase off. The tears flow harder than I've ever seen before. I feel helpless. In his five years of life, he’s never known a parent’s love. On nights we'd have trouble falling asleep, I'd make up stories. They consisted of us living in a happy home where our make-believe mom makes us dinner and our make-believe dad would come home from work and play baseball with us. Jase would always get excited. He'd ask me to tell him the story over and over again until either he or I fell asleep. I'd promised him we'd have a life like that someday. That one day, Mami’s medicine would make her better. I never meant for it to be a lie.

When Mami was sick, either she slept all day or was throwing up in the bathroom. Every morning, I heard her making a phone call for more medicine. About twenty minutes later, there'd be a knock on the door. A man dressed in dark, baggy clothes would appear. After that, she’d disappear into her bedroom. Sometimes, she came right out. Other times, she stayed in there for close to an hour.

Most mornings, I was the one who got us ready for school. If we were lucky, there was food in the house, but only if Mami had felt well enough to go grocery shopping. The majority of the time we went to school hungry. Mrs. Gibbons, my teacher, occasionally brought in fruit for us. She slipped it to us in the hallway and always reminded us not to tell anyone.

Sometimes, during class, I’d daydream that Mrs. Gibbons was our mom, but then the dismissal bell would ring and snap me back to reality. I always hated the end of the day. It meant school was over and it was time for us to go home.

Jase and I would take our time walking home from school because we never knew what we were walking into when we got there. More often than not, Papi would be yelling at Mami because the house was a mess or dinner wasn't made—it was always the same reasons. I work all fuckin’ day, the least you can do is clean this fuckin’ pigsty and have dinner ready, he’d yell, raising his hand at her.

Depending on his mood after hitting our mother, he’d take his anger out on us. Jase and I would huddle in our room, trying to keep quiet, but he’d barge through the door. And you two! All you ever do around here is make messes and eat! It’s about time you start helping out.

If we were lucky, he’d leave after he yelled at us. Nights when we weren't so lucky, he’d physically drag us into the living room. You better clean this fucking mess! he'd scream. And get me a fuckin’ beer too, you little piece of shit! The hatred in his eyes was almost paralyzing. I don’t know why your mother even wanted you in the first place. You’re nothing but a waste of space and money.

I’d encourage Jase to clean as quickly as he could so we could go back into our room and wait for our father to pass out on the couch. In the past year, this had become an almost daily occurrence for us.

Gabriel and Jason, it’s time to go, a voice says. Gabriel, you’ll be coming with me, and Jason will be going with Dave.

What do you mean, Jase is going with Dave? My voice trembles. Once I realize what’s happening, I scream at the top of my lungs, You’re not taking my brother from me! I’m all he has!

Debbie tries to soothe and calm me, but it only makes matters worse. I kick and take a swing at her, yelling in Spanish, "No me puedes quitar a mi hermano, puta estúpida! My brother stays with me! Before I know it, I’m taken away, kicking and screaming. Dave restrains my feet while another man grabs my torso. Jase cries hysterically. Through his sobs, he calls out, Gabe, please don't leave me! Please. I promise I'll be stronger from now on. Please!" he begs, but I can barely make out his last word through his strangled cry. I watch Debbie escort him out of the courtroom and realize everything I’ve ever known is gone.

***

Chapter 1

Everybody wants to be somebody. The thing you have to do is give them confidence they can. You have to give a kid a dream.

–George Foreman

Gabriel, let’s go! Didn’t I tell you not to go out last night? Get your head out of your ass! You wanna win your next fight, you better step it up! Frankie Carbone, my mentor and boxing trainer of ten years, shouts from across the ring. You need to make a choice. Do you wanna go out and party, or do you wanna fight? he sneers and pounds his fist down on the ring. You can’t have it both ways, kid. Your opponents aren’t drinking and partying like you, they’re in the gym training!

"Ciera tu maldita boca viejo pendejo," I mutter. Back when my mother was alive, she taught my brother and me her native tongue. She stressed the importance of being bilingual in today's world, and while I had to agree with her, I find myself only using the colorful words of the Spanish language these days.

I know what I have to do to win this next fight, I don’t need Frankie yelling in my fucking ear, distracting me. My fight against Gavin The Gladiator Sullivan is in two weeks and he'll be the toughest opponent I’ve faced to date. The two of us have sparred on occasion, but we’ve never actually fought each other. Our experience puts us on equal fighting ground with knowing the other’s strengths and weaknesses. I’m planning on using this knowledge to my full advantage.

Jimmy! Get in there and kick his ass, Frankie barks, pointing toward the ring.

You’ve got it, Frankie. My sparring partner and friend, Jimmy Santoro, hops up onto the side of the ring and slips under the ropes. You ready for me, Saint? He hits his boxing gloves together.

You couldn’t beat me on your best fucking day, Jimmy, I reply, egging him on. I laugh as I stare back at him. He dances around the ring, trying his best to act tough, but taking Jimmy seriously is like watching a Kevin Hart or Eddie Murphy movie and not laugh. It's impossible.

We’ve known each other since middle school, although we didn’t start out as friends. Back in the seventh grade, we liked the same girl. Her name was Tina Stetson. She was a pretty blonde and the first girl in our class to develop. Jimmy and I immediately took notice. Tina flirted with both of us, using us to make the other jealous. This went on for weeks while the two of us followed her around like lost puppy dogs. Finally, it all came to blows one day after school.

Rumors started circling during first period. Did you hear Jimmy Santoro made it to second base with Tina?  I’d overheard Cindy Harris whisper to Tracy Davis. That pissed me off, and in retaliation, I created my own rumor. Letting it slip that Jimmy and Olivia Claymore were spotted making out on the late bus. It had been immature, but hearing Jimmy had gotten to second base with Tina had me all sorts of jealous.

By third lunch, the entire situation had gotten out of control. Rumors were flying that Tina and I were having sex under the bleachers at the high school and she was pregnant and didn't know who the father was. Jimmy and I had determined we needed to resolve this once and for all in the only way we knew how: with our fists.

Word of our fight spread like wildfire throughout the school. When I arrived in the parking lot, I was met by the majority of our classmates, including Tina. Jimmy and I exchanged some heated words before either of us threw a punch.

Everything after that was a blur. I can't even recall who took the first swing, but what I do remember is that it took two male teachers to pry me off Jimmy. I'd beaten him pretty bad—his top and bottom lips were split, his left eye was swollen shut, and his nose was bloodied and dripping down his face.

We were hauled into Vice Principal Dufresne’s office. Mr. Dufresne insisted we tell him who had arranged the fight, but neither of us would rat the other out. Ultimately, we ended up serving in-school suspension. Mr. Dufresne assumed that as two rambunctious teenage boys, we would’ve enjoyed a few days off from school. So he decided that sticking us in an enclosed room together was a far more suitable punishment. Little did he know, that was the best possible outcome for me, considering the last place I wanted to spend any time was at home with my foster parents.

Now, as I look at Jimmy, I realize he’s not the same lanky thirteen-year-old kid I always think of him as. Standing directly in front of me, I size him up. His once shaggy chestnut-colored hair is cut close to his scalp and has darkened to smoky brown with age. His five-ten frame is broad, stocky, and muscular. He easily outweighs me by a good eight to ten pounds, which doesn’t seem like much in the real world, but in the boxing world, could mean a win or a loss in the ring.

I, on the other hand, have looked and weighed the same since I graduated high school, and there’s no doubt I’m the spitting image of my father, which drives me insane. I hate even bearing his name, let alone looking like him. The constant reminder of the apple not falling far from the tree is there every time I look in the mirror. If my memory serves correct, we share the same jet-black hair, dark eyes, olive complexion, and slender build. However, at five-foot-eight, I did surpass him in height. Throughout my years of training as a boxer, my weight has remained consistent while my body has transformed into a much leaner and muscular physique.

You’re ‘bout to get schooled, son. Jimmy laughs, mocking me.

Wait, wait! Both Jimmy and I turn around as Tyler runs toward us. Can I announce the fight? he begs, hopping up into the ring.

This isn’t a real fight, Jimmy says, dismissing Tyler’s request.

I know, but Saint promised I could announce the next time he sparred. He sighs, disappointed. With his head hanging low, he turns and lumbers toward the side of the ring. He climbs through the ropes, casts his head over his shoulder, and meets my gaze. His giant green eyes house nothing but sadness. Tyler is one of Frankie’s at risk kids and reminds me so much of myself at his age.

I glance over at Jimmy, flanking an over-exaggerated sad look on my face. I did promise him.

Fine. Jimmy rolls his eyes and tosses his arms into the air in defeat. Tyler, come back up.

Tyler’s face lights up. Both Jimmy and I go to opposite corners, giving Tyler the middle of the ring. Out the corner of my eye, I notice all the kids gathering around the ring, watching in awe. We’re violating one of Frankie’s numerous rules: no kids on the canvas.

Tyler clears his throat and puts on his best announcer’s voice, Introducing first: fighting out of the red corner, wearing green trunks with white trim, weighing in at... Tyler looks at me, panicked.

One hundred and sixty pounds, I whisper.

Weighing in at one hundred and sixty pounds, he says with confidence, Gabriel ‘The Saint’ Vega!

The kids cheer.

Tyler directs his attention toward Jimmy’s side of the ring. Fighting out of the blue corner, wearing black trunks with red trim, weighing in at...

One hundred and sixty-nine pounds, Jimmy whispers.

One hundred and sixty-nine pounds, Tyler repeats, Jimmy ‘The Jackhammer’ Santoro!

Booing comes from outside the ring and I look across at Jimmy, laughing. I pound my gloves together and dance around in circles, taunting him. You’re going down, Jackhammer!

In your dreams, Saint, Jimmy spews back.

Tyler’s arms span out at his side as he motions us to the middle of the ring. I wanna good, clean fight. Tap gloves and good luck! he speaks in a gruff, raspy voice. His tone and demeanor reminds me of the legendary boxing referee Mills Lane.

He's taking the job as announcer so seriously, I can't resist smiling, and it makes me wonder how many boxing matches this kid has watched. Jimmy gives me the boxer’s handshake, touching his gloves to mine, and we step back to our respective corners. Tyler quickly exits the ring and the bell sounds, signaling the start of the round.

Jimmy and I dance around, each of us throwing jabs, but neither landing a punch. The kids cheer. Come on, Saint! Hit ‘em! one of them yells.

Jimmy toys with me just as much as I toy with him. We’ve probably sparred over a thousand times throughout the years. That in-school suspension back in the seventh grade was one of the best things that could have happened to either of us. It was during those days we discovered how much we had in common. We both grew up in the same type of situation and had shitty parents. We formed a strong bond and even agreed Tina wasn’t worth our time or energy. Boy, was she pissed when we both started ignoring her. Jimmy and I were pretty tight until he ended up moving to a foster home outside our school district. Once again, I found myself separated from someone I was close to.

Several years later, Jimmy re-entered my life unexpectedly. One afternoon, Frankie showed up with a kid who was roughly my age. He was mad at the world, filled with piss and vinegar, as Frankie liked to call it, and ready to fight. Without giving it a second thought, or even asking if he had experience in the ring, Frankie tossed him a pair of boxing gloves. Then, I was instructed to get in the ring. Like the diligent student I was, I listened. The new kid and I were face to face in the ring and it took all of two seconds to realize who we were matched up against. Jimmy immediately smiled and lost the wannabe thug routine and I welcomed him with a genuine hug.

Like a majority of the kids who enter Frankie's program, I owe him my life. I was headed down the wrong path and hanging with the wrong crowd when we were introduced. Skipping school, doing drugs, and stealing cars was just another day in my life. Eventually, I found myself arrested and facing grand theft auto charges. At my arraignment, my foster family told the judge they couldn’t handle me anymore and I was ordered to one year in a juvenile detention center for boys.

After my hearing, the judge presiding over my case requested I join him in his chambers. When I walked through the doorway, I’d immediately noticed the wall of books behind the judge’s desk. The school library was the only place I’d ever seen so many books. Curious, I looked around the room. The paintings on the walls had caught my attention. One of them had a man wearing a black robe with a strange white wig on his head. It struck me as funny, but I held back my laughter.

Gabriel, please come in.

I jumped in surprise, the stern voice breaking my concentration. The judge who’d been seated in the courtroom now took residence in an oversized leather chair behind a massive mahogany desk. I almost didn't recognize him. The signature black robe had been replaced with a traditional white dress shirt and blue and yellow paisley tie. He looked normal. Reluctant, I took a few steps closer. May I call you Gabriel?

I nodded nervously. Please, have a seat. He held his hand out, pointing to a chair. I’m Judge Ferriter, he introduced himself. I’m familiar with you and your brother’s history. The tone of his voice lightened.

My eyes grew wide.

I was Judge Marshall’s law clerk in your father’s case, he explained further.

I sat in silence while Judge Ferriter spoke. He told me about my father’s case and his trial. I hadn’t thought of my father in years—I’d actually tried my best to erase that part of my childhood from my memories. It had taken some time, but I’d managed to push all thoughts of my mother and father out of my head. The only part of my childhood I cared to remember was Jase. Though it had been several years since I’d seen him, I still thought about him every day. I’d hoped he’d found a foster family who loved and cared for him, that he didn’t get stuck with a family like mine who was just in it for the money.

You know where Jase is? I blurted, not caring I'd interrupted.

He nodded. Yes. When I saw your name come up on my docket sheet, I knew it looked familiar. I took it upon myself to look up your file, as well as Jason’s.

Jase had a file? That meant he’d been in trouble too. He hadn’t found the family we’d both hoped and dreamed for.

How long has it been since you’ve seen or heard from him? Judge Ferriter inquired.

‘Bout five years. I paused. We lost track of each other.

I’ll see what I can do for you two to see each other.

Why are you doing this? I asked, skeptical of his intentions.

I didn’t trust anyone, and why should I have? My mother had been a junkie, my father an asshole who had brutally beaten and killed her, every single one of the foster homes I’d lived in had only wanted me around for the paycheck—not one adult in my life, except Mrs. Gibbons, had ever been kind to me, let alone loved me.

Because I believe you should have a fighting chance. I’ve seen too many kids come through my courtroom in similar situations and guess where the majority of them end up?

Jail, I answered, unfazed by the judge's statement.

Jail, he repeated as he sat up straight in his chair and leaned forward, his fingers linked together.

He continued his story, explaining he’d been appalled that Child Protective Services had never stepped in when Jase and I lived with our parents. He said he became even more disgusted when he discovered Jase and I had been separated.

Gabriel, I think you have potential. I’ve been in contact with the principal at your school. He tells me you’re a straight A student...when you're there. He paused momentarily. But you need to get your shit together. I flinched in shock by his directness. Or I’ll have no other choice but to send you to the boys home. He leaned back in his chair, hands now resting against his chest. I know a guy on the south side of town. His name is Frankie Carbone and he runs a boxing program for at risk kids.

Judge Ferriter had spoken with passion about Frankie and his gym. He explained their history, how they’d grown up in the same neighborhood. Both from low income families and ran the streets together, though they each took a different route into adulthood. Years later, they ran into one another at a benefit for Frankie’s program.

He’s not going to put up with any shit, Gabriel. He’s a fair man, but if you show up late or don’t show up at all, you’re done. You’ll find yourself in the boys home faster than you can blink an eye.

I agreed to meet with Frankie since the alternative was living in the detention center. The judge called him and discussed my situation, as he referred to it. Our meeting was set. I was to report to Frankie’s gym the next day at "Seven a.m....sharp."

An uppercut to the face knocks me from my memory. What the fuck, Jimmy? The taste the blood trickles from my lip into my mouth.

From across the gym, I hear, Get your head in the fuckin’ fight, Gabriel! God, I hate that he calls me Gabriel. I’ve always hated my name; it’s the last remnant of what connects me to my parents. When I took on my fight name, The Saint, I insisted everyone call me that instead—Frankie never has.

Chill the fuck out, old man! My head’s in it! I bark back over my shoulder.

You all right, Saint? Jimmy asks, a concerned look on his face.

Yeah, I’m fine. I was just thinkin'.

About?

Jase.

Have you heard from him lately?

Nah, he’s hooked on dope. Last I heard from him was 'bout a year ago. He wanted money.

Aw, fuck, Saint. I had no idea.

Not wanting his pity, I shrug it off. It is what it is. I can’t make him get clean unless he wants to. That’s enough talk...let’s go. I take a swing and miss.

"You’re going to have to be faster than that when you fight The Gladiator," Frankie yells.

The two of us spar for the next half hour or so. Dude, that’s my cue. My lady’s here. Jimmy stares love-struck at his girlfriend, Stephannie. Gone is the rugged don't-fuck-with-me Jimmy and in his place is the I'm-so-in-love-I-forgot-I-was-a-man Jimmy. Pathetic.

I turn and wave. Those two have been together since they were kids and I’m pretty sure she’s the only chick Jimmy’s ever slept with. I love Stephannie. She's an amazing girl, a kick ass girlfriend, and she deserves a medal for putting up with Jimmy. It takes an exceptional woman to date a boxer. Not many can wholeheartedly support a boxing career, deal with countless hours of training, and sit through a match knowing the odds of your boyfriend getting his ass beat are pretty good. I consider him a lucky bastard to have found her.

Stephannie waves back. Hey, Saint. We’re headed down to Patsy’s for a few drinks, want to join us?

My eyes dart over to Frankie, checking to see if he heard her. Thankfully, he’s too busy giving the younger kids a run for their money with the punching bags to be paying attention to us. I laugh to myself, remembering the first time I ever stepped foot in this gym.

I’d been an arrogant punk who thought I knew everything. Within the first thirty minutes of training, I was dry heaving over a trashcan. I remember Frankie muttering under his breath, This kid’s never going to make it. That was all I’d needed to give me the determination to do it. For the majority of my life, I’d been put down, told I was worthless, stupid, a failure who was never going to amount to anything—I set out to prove them all wrong.

Come on, let’s hit the showers. Jimmy pats me on the back, his head motioning toward the locker room. Give us twenty minutes and we’ll be ready to go, he murmurs to Stephannie, giving her a kiss on the cheek and a smack on the ass.

She pushes him away. Please, take your time...you stink! she laughs, scrunching her nose and fanning her hand in front of her face.

I saunter past Stephannie and her two friends. Ladies, I say with a nod and a wink.

The sound of their giggles and whispers has me grinning like the Cheshire cat.

Jimmy and I are barely out of earshot when I ask, Who are those chicks Stephannie has with her?

It hadn't been so long ago that Jimmy, Steph, and I partied together. We’d hit night clubs, dive bars, strip joints, and the occasional frat party. Lately, the two of them have been getting all domestic. Steph is focusing on the future. She's taking classes at a community college, looking at houses, and no doubt wants to get married and have kids. That shit is the last thing on my mind. My biggest concerns are what bar I'm going to and what chick I'm going to bang.

I was excited when Steph extended the invite to Patsy's. Throwing back a few beers with two of my best friends is the perfect way to end a grueling day of training. And let's not forget the two little honeys Steph brought along. Her one simple question made both of my concerns evaporate into the thin air, leaving me with the difficult choice of which one of her friends I’m going to fuck first.

That’s Sarah and Aimee. She works with them at Applebee’s. I’ve hung out with them before and they’re pretty cool. Jimmy sits down on the bench to remove the wraps from his hands.

Not too bad on the eyes either. I waggle my eyebrows, knowing it'll get a rise out of him.

Oh, come on, Saint. Don’t try anything on them. Stephannie will fuckin’ kill me, he pleads, opening his locker.

I’m not making any promises.

Within twenty minutes, we’re cleaned up and ready to go. Stephannie and her friends are waiting outside for us. Before we reach the car, Jimmy pulls me aside. Dude, I’m warning you, please be on your best behavior tonight. I don’t need Stephannie pissed at me because you can’t keep your dick in your pants.

I raise three fingers into the air. Scouts honor. I stifle my laugh.

Fuck you, man. Jimmy shoves me and I stumble toward the car. You’ve never been a scout.

Both of us laugh as I open the door.

What’s so funny? Stephannie inquires with a cocked brow.

Nothin’, just a dirty joke Saint told me. He kisses her on the lips to prevent her from asking any more questions.

‘Sup, ladies. I’m Saint. Nice to meet you. I wink at them again.

They giggle and slide over, making room for me to sit in between them. Hi, I’m Aimee, and this is Sarah, the sexy brunette to my left says while playing with a strand of her hair.

Out the corner of her eye, Aimee catches me staring. Her smile reveals the tiniest dimple on her right cheek and a mischievous glimmer in her emerald green eyes tells me there's a naughty side to her.

Breaking my stare, I redirect my attention toward her toffee-colored hair. My eyes follow her long, flowing locks down over her shoulders and I do a double take of her shirt. Gifted is scrawled in fuchsia across her chest in fancy script. Did I read that correctly? Trying not to make it too obvious, I look again. Yup, read it right, and by God she most certainly is.

Nice to meet you. Sarah’s soft voice has me directing my attention toward her. Still equally as pretty, her caramel hair flutters above her shoulders. The soft waves throughout gives the illusion of an unkempt tousled look.

Nice to meet you, too. I offer her my hand like the gentleman I know I'm not and Sarah's smile lights up her entire face. Her supple lips curl up into a coy smile, exposing adorable laugh lines near her mocha eyes. Unable to help myself, but mindful of what occurred moments ago, I take a quick peek at Sarah's chest. Though only a glimpse, I'm able to assess her situation. While her breasts are not as large as Aimee's, they're nothing to be ashamed of. The saying more than a handful is a waste comes to mind and certainly applies.

What’s your poison? I ask. I’ll buy you pretty ladies a drink at Patsy’s.

Rum and Coke for me, Aimee replies with great enthusiasm

I like mudslides, Sarah follows in a soft, subtle tone.

I glance over at Sarah. Don’t be shy, I whisper, tucking a strand of loose hair behind her ear.

I've already convinced myself I'm taking one of these girls home, if not both. As far as I'm concerned, Aimee is a sure thing. The visual of the two of them kissing triggers my cock to swell and has me bound and determined to draw Sarah out of her shell.

We make small talk the rest of the way to Patsy’s and the girls fill me in on how they met at Applebee’s.

That’s cool. I work with troubled youth at the gym.

Oh my God, no way. That’s incredible! Aimee exclaims, her zest almost annoying.

Yeah, I’ve been with Frankie since I was a kid. He’s like the father I never had, I say, my voice vacant as I stare out the window. I’m not quite sure why I admitted that. Typically, I don't share things about my childhood, especially with strangers. I don't want them judging me, and I certainly don't need their pity.

I perk up in my seat when I realize we’re pulling into the parking lot.

Holding my arm out, I let Stephannie, Aimee, and Sarah enter the bar first. Ladies, after you.

Well, aren’t you the gentlemen. Aimee's hand touches my chest.

Jimmy! Saint! I hear as soon as we walk through the door.

I approach the bar. Hey, Patsy! How’s it hangin’?

Patsy’s full name is Patrick Ciaran O’Reilly. If the name hasn't given it away, he’s one hundred percent, full-blooded Irish and he makes a point of telling everyone he meets. But, for whatever reason, he goes by Patsy, which is also the name of the beloved bar he and his wife opened almost forty years ago.

Kid, I’m old. It’s hangin’ pretty low these days. Patsy chuckles at his own joke. For a guy in his seventies, I'd say he's held up pretty well, with exception to his pure white hair and ruddy appearance from busted capillaries on his nose and cheeks thanks to years of drinking.

You don’t look a day over a hundred, Jimmy teases as he walks up behind me.

Pulling the bottle of Jack Daniels from the shelf, Patsy issues a stern warning, Watch your mouth, boy. I can still kick your ass. I’ve been fighting for the last sixty years.

Patsy grew up in an Irish Catholic family and claims he was born to fight. Back in his day, in this neighborhood, men either boxed or joined the military—Patsy boxed. The stories he tells are always entertaining, and when he's drunk, they’re even better. He once let it slip that he fled to Canada to avoid the draft during the Vietnam War.

Aside from Frankie, Patsy’s been one of the most influential people in my life. He's always got my back and has never missed a fight. I chuckle at his witty response and chime in to the conversation. Jimmy, leave the ol’ bastard alone, I sneak in, and my money would be on Patsy.

Jimmy, what’s your girl drinking? Patsy changes the subject, motioning his head toward Stephannie.

Jimmy hollers across the bar, Steph! What do ya want?

A margarita on the rocks! she responds in the same manner.

Patsy’s is what I’d categorize as a dive bar. No cover charge to get in. No big screen televisions hanging from the ceilings airing all seven college football games on Sunday afternoon. No special gimmicks to draw in a crowd, and no Ladies’ Night. Day after day, the same people from the neighborhood fill this place.

You heard the lady, she wants a margarita on the rocks, Jimmy confirms, his attention turned back toward Patsy.

Her friends want a mudslide and a rum and Coke, I quickly add.

Patsy shakes his head. Girlie drinks. In my day, women drank high balls and martinis.

Make ‘em strong, Patsy, I tell him on the sly.

He slaps my arm. ‘Atta boy, Saint.

I twist in my chair, giving myself a bird’s eye view of where Aimee and Sarah are sitting. Sarah makes a remark to Aimee, and Aimee giggles before both girls look over at me, smiling. Like taking candy from a baby.

Jesus Christ, Saint, you’re going to fuck both of them tonight, aren’t you? Jimmy asks, exasperated by the thought.

I straighten my posture, square my shoulders, and give a confident, Sure the fuck am. Jimmy shakes his head. Stephannie is gonna fuckin’ kill me, he whines, palming his face.

Don’t worry about it.

Yeah, that’s easy for you to say. You don’t have to live with her.

He's right, I don’t have to live with her, and it's also none of her business what I do in my private life. Grabbing the drinks, I head to our table. Here you go, lovely ladies. I grin at Sarah while placing her drink down in front of her. Knowing she’s going to be the challenge of the evening, I pull out the chair next to her and position myself so our bodies touch.

I lean in, giving her shoulder a gentle nudge with mine. So, Sarah, I lay on the charm, why don’t you tell me more about yourself?

Her face flushes to a bright shade of red and her body tenses at my proximity.

Um...not much to tell. I live with my parents, work at Applebee’s, and attend community college for Early Childhood Education, she responds, avoiding eye contact as her chin tips down toward her chest and her cheeks flare up again.

My index finger rubs the soft skin of her forearm. Oh, a college girl. I raise my eyebrows in a playful manner.

She lets out a nervous whinny of a laugh. Yeah, Aimee and I are both studying Early Childhood.

I gulp down the last of my Jack and Coke. Oh, two college girls...nice! Jimmy, you ready for another?

He glances down at his drink. Yup.

Patsy! I raise my glass high in the air. We need another round.

Coming right up!

I push my chair back and announce, I’m gonna hit the head.

I’ve gotta go, too. I’ll follow you, Stephannie chimes in, giving me the evil eye.

Don’t try any funny stuff with me on the way to the bathroom, I tease, loud enough for Jimmy to hear. There's nothing funnier than a jealous Jimmy.

Ha! In your dreams, my friend! Jimmy falls for my ribbing, hook, line, and sinker. I chuckle at his comment while Steph and I head toward the bathrooms.

Eh-em. I’m greeted by an angry Stephannie. She’s not wasting anytime laying into me.

What the hell do you think you’re doing?

I play along. What are you talkin’ about?

Oh, don’t give me that shit. I know exactly what you’re up to. So help me God, if you hurt either one of them...

Amused by Stephannie's outburst, I push her further. What? You're gonna what, Steph?

You’re gonna have to answer to me, that's what, she snaps, poking her finger into my chest.

Not threatened in the least, I drape my arm over her shoulder. Steph, we’re all consenting adults. I’m not gonna make them do anything they don’t wanna do.

Uh-huh.

Hey, I resent that. I clench my shirt, feigning offense. I’ll have you know, I’ve never forced any girl to sleep with me. I pause for a moment, enjoying the fury building within her eyes. "They’ve all come willingly," I say, darting into the men’s room before Steph reaches her boiling point and smacks me.

Ugh, you’re such a pig! she yells from the hall.

What the fuck does she want from me? Sarah and Aimee are hot as fuck. If they’re ready, willing, and able, what would stop me from tapping that? And if I can get them to have a threesome...well, that’s a fuckin’ bonus.

I pull up my zipper and wash my hands. Not wanting to deal with any more of Steph’s shit, I crack the door open a hair and peer out. I look left, then right before darting out and heading back toward the table. Thoughts of Aimee and Sarah going at it creep back into my mind and by the time I reach the main room, I'm practically skipping. Saint, your drinks are ready, Patsy calls out.

Hey, Sarah! Come help me with these? I motion toward the bar.

Patsy, pour me some shots of Patron, I say on the sly before Sarah joins me.

Patron? Patsy’s face contorts, mocking my request. Kid, you know this ain’t some frou-frou bar. You want Patron, you better take your ass a few blocks down the street. He gestures toward the door.

Patsy’s response has me laughing. Okay, fine, how ‘bout Jose?

"Who the hell is that? The only Spanish kid we got hangin’ out in here is you."

Cuervo, Patsy. José Cuervo.

Ah! Patsy’s expression changes.

How many?

Make it six.

Patsy stares me down. Are you sure you know what you’re doing?

Don’t worry ‘bout me. I’ve got it covered.

Sarah approaches and I greet her with a smile. Come, sit. I pat the seat next to me.

All right, kid. If you say so. Patsy mutters a few more words under his breath, shaking his head as he lines up six shot glasses.

I swivel in my chair to face our table. Hey, Aimee! Come join us. I raise the tiny glass to indicate shots.

She catches on and leaps from her seat. Shots? Yes!

Patsy grumbles, pouring the tequila into the glasses.

Turning to Sarah, I hand her a glass. You ready for this?

Aimee’s hand grazes along the length of her back. Come on, Sarah, loosen up. We’re going to have fun tonight, Aimee encourages.

I lean my body back into Aimee’s and grin, passing her a shot glass. Here you go.

She reciprocates, pressing her body up against mine. Thanks.

Knowing I’ve made an alliance with Aimee, sweet, innocent Sarah is next.

I pick up the saltshaker off the bar and motion to Sarah. Give me your arm.

Her brow furrows with confusion.

Give me your arm. This time, it's not a request, rather a demand.

Sarah extends out her arm and I meet her halfway, taking hold of her wrist. Her body tenses at my touch. I’m not going to bite you. I pause, almost hesitant to continue, but I push forward anyway. Unless you want me to.

A small smile spreads across Sarah's face and I take her reaction as permission to press further. Running my tongue along the inside of her wrist, I toss the saltshaker over the wet spot.

Aimee bounces in her seat, her wrist extended outright. Diverting my attention, I repeat the exact steps on her, adding a little moan for effect.

Aimee eats up every second of it. Her dainty hand wraps around my wrist, eager to take charge. Here, let me. She rotates my arm and licks over my pulse point. With only her eyes, she gazes up at me. Her sinful smile and cocked eyebrow do it for me. Shaking the canister over my skin, the white granules stick to the dampened area. My free hand reaches for my shot glass. You ready, ladies?

Oh yeah. Aimee grins from ear to ear.

With a quick nod, all three of us lick the salt from our wrists. I