Page 6 of Of Socialites and Prizefights

“Certainly not.”

Roz took a swig and Deepa watched her swallow. “What do you do?” Roz asked.

“I sing. I go out with rich men and convince them to buy me nice things and not be angry when I leave them after. I’m…mostly successful.” Deepa left out her other, shadier dealings for another time and sipped her drink, gazing at Roz from big, black kohl-lined doe-eyes. “What do you do?”

“I've got a job fixing motorcars in my brother’s garage, but that's just what pays the bills. What I really do is fight.”

Intrigued, Deepa leaned in. She’d never met a self-described fighter before. Judging from the calluses on Roz’s palms and the strength of her grip, she believed it.

“Who do you fight?”

Roz smiled. “Whoever wants to have a go. There’s this women's boxing club I’m part of — underground, you know, nothing official — and we organise fights and tournaments for whoever wants it.”

“Do you make money doing that?” Deepa asked curiously. She couldn't imagine Roz made much if the club was unofficial, but she’d been surprised by certain business ventures before.

“Some. The real money’s in the betting rather than the prize. I’m not in it for the money, anyway. But it’s a nice bonus, I’ll give you that.”

Deepa certainly couldn’t relate to that sentiment. Shifting the topic away from money, she asked, “Do you ever get hurt?”

“We can get bloodied up some, yeah. Most serious anyone's ever had in the ring was a cracked rib or a broken nose. That’s not so bad. Don’t even need to go to hospital for something like that.”

“And that doesn’t bother you?”

“Does it bother you?” Roz countered.

“I’m afraid I’ve never been much for blood and gore.” Taking another sip, Deepa waved the fingers of her free hand, rings and nail polish catching the light. “I don’t like getting my hands dirty.”

“Then I shouldn’t invite you to come and watch my next match on Thursday,” Roz said, watching her closely.

Aaliyah and Jasmine would be pleased with her evening. If there was one thing Deepa knew how to do well, it was flirt. Man or woman didn’t seem to make a difference.

“As a friend, or a date?” she asked, glancing at Roz through her mascara’d lashes.

“Whatever you want, love.”

“I think you’d prefer one to the other.”

Roz shrugged. “Sure, yeah, but if you want to come as a friend, I can’t stop you. Just so long as you don't bring any of your men along as a plus-one.”

“Can I bring my girlfriends?”

“The ones who brought you here tonight? Sure you can.”

Deepa considered her options. Roz was attractive, physically and personally, but more importantly, she was engaging. And Deepa was restless, energy itching underneath her skin with the need to move, to change, to do something drastic. Aaliyah’s challenge to find her true love with a woman hung in the air like smoke, but that wasn’t the driving force behind Deepa’s actions. She didn’t need to prove anything to her friends, but she did want to spite Phillip and his intrusive, nasty little curse.

“Alright. I’ll watch the fight.”

Her lack of elaboration made Roz pause. “As a date, or?”

Before Deepa could either impulsively commit to the date or double down and keep things vague, Aaliyah shimmered up to them, looking simultaneously apologetic about interrupting and gleeful about the interaction playing out before her.

“I hate to butt in,” she said, “but…” She tapped her bare wrist where a watch might sit while raising her brows meaningfully at Deepa.

Deepa literally jumped, berating herself for not paying attention to the time. “Is it that late already?”

“Ten fifty-five. I would have let you keep going, but I didn't think you’d much appreciate it.”

“Somewhere you need to be?” Roz asked.

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