Page 11 of Falcon

Chapter 4

Falcon

There are one hundred and forty-six books on the shelves lining the guestroom. All of which belong to my sister. I know this because I just spent the better half of an hour counting them over and over, waiting on my cell to light up with the alarm ringing, and most of them are romance novels or feminist memoirs.

She was always a big reader, my sister. She wanted multiple bedtime stories, and I would catch her reading under her covers with a flashlight sometimes. I suppose, there were worse things she could have been doing with her time. I got lucky in that sense. She was always a good kid.

It was because she was so kind and good that I spent my free time beating the shit out of anyone who would step up and take a cut from the bookies who ran the clubs. It wasn’t always safe, it wasn’t always fair, but it was money. She deserved that from me. Deserved to have anything she needed.

I’d tuck Nora into bed, leave a few bucks with our neighbor to keep an eye on her; then I’d head downtown to the underground parking structures or warehouses, wherever I was told, and I’d fight. Round after round, opponent after opponent until two or three in the morning.

Then I’d go home, broken nose, bloodied knuckles, and all, catch a few hours of sleep, then wake up to get Nora off to school. I’d spend the next eight hours working labor on construction sites then the cycle would repeat.

I’ve always wondered how I function on such little sleep. Most would be the walking dead after only a few hours, but that’s all I need. It’s all I’ve ever needed.

I roll to my back and pull my cell phone from the nightstand beside me and slide my finger across the bottom of the screen to bring it to life.

Firing up my email, I take a look at the schedule that was sent to me a few weeks ago, with the remaining fights on my schedule.

Jose Wyrez – Dallas, Texas

Jesse Dominique – Chicago, Illinois

Braxton White – Hollywood, California

My final fight, well, potentially my final fight, will be at home, in front of my home crowd, against Braxton fucking White.

He and I don’t have the best history. Mainly because he’s a cocky piece of shit who can’t stop running his fucking mouth. He’s a shit talker on a new level and a douchebag to top it all off. We cross paths at events sometimes, but tend to steer clear of one another after a less than stellar comment he made about Nora when she came to a fight a few years ago.

He opened his mouth, I shattered his jawbone, and then I went to jail for assault.

My lawyer managed to sweet talk the judge into letting me pay a fine. I would have paid a million dollars if it meant I got to knock that bastard’s teeth in again.

We’ve never been in the octagon together, though. My team has reached out many times to make that happen, but it never worked out, until now, when he has a title to defend. As soon as the match was set, I knew I was going to win. I refuse to lose, especially to him.

I close down my email and my phone vibrates in my hand.

Joe’s name flashes across my screen and I answer immediately.

“It’s early as fuck out there…what are you doing calling me?” I say with a gruff to my voice.

“I’m checking in on my client and my friend, asshole.”

“I’m fine.”

“Have you thought anymore about what we talked about? If we need to prep statements, I can get Courtney to do that for you.”

“We’re not involving my publicist because I’m not dropping the fights.”

“Marco, don’t be stupid here.”

I sit up, anger pumping in my veins. “I’m not being fucking stupid. I am finishing my goddamn career when and how I want to. That’s not for you or some fucking doctor to decide.”

“Do you even hear yourself right now? You heard what he said. A body can only take so much damage before irreparable shit starts to happen. You’re lucky right now, but one more good blow and that could change. You’ve had a great run, man. Don’t risk it anymore.”

“You heard what I said, Joe. I want these last three fights, then we’ll talk about it again.”

I hear him sigh in frustration over the phone, changing the subject, which I’m thankful for. “How’s your sister?”

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