Page 4 of Roma King
“Fuck me,” she exclaims. “I’ve never heard that phone ring before. Didn’t think it even was still connected.”
We both stare at the ringing phone as if it’s about to perform another trick. “I didn’t know a call could ring for this long.”
Sarah picks up her purse—she must have dropped it when I was busy shooting ten feet into the air like a startled cat—and slings the straps back over her shoulder. “It’s probably a scam call or something.”
“Probably,” I say, shooting the phone another suspicious look. “Come on. I’m starving. I’m going to throw some mac and cheese in the microwave before I fall into bed.”
The phone continues to ring as we make our way into the building.
Sarah gives me a fierce hug when we part on the third floor. The clop of her ridiculous heels echoes as she continues up the stairwell to the fifth floor, where her larger, two-bedroom apartment is located.
As I make myself some food, I push all thoughts of Corey out of my head. Sarah was right; I can’t save everyone, and I can’t take on the pain of the entire world. I’ll end up breaking if I try. One person can only do so much.
Teeth brushed, hair brushed, and PJ’s on, my body hums with exhaustion as I sink into my mattress thirty minutes later. It’s habit alone that has me turning the TV on, the sound muted. Light leaps up the walls of my bedroom while some stupid reality show star talks at the camera. I’m tired enough to sleep for a week, but as I’m just about to drift off, my body locks up again, muscles tightening, my heart surging. The same sound that frightened the living shit out of me downstairs has started up again.
The phone outside the front of the Bakersfield Apartment Building is ringing.
Three floors up and through a tightly closed window, the phone’s sharp, piercing ring sounds out a total of fifteen times before it finally falls silent.
2
PASHA
ROMA
“Take one more step and I’m gonna lay you out, you Pikey piece of shit.”
The guy I’ve been trading blows with for the past fifteen minutes is sweating profusely and looks like he might fall down dead any second. On the other side of the chain link, his trainer thinks it’s a smart move to threaten me into submission. Little does he know, he’s just fucked the fight for his friend. Not because of the threat he just hurled at me, but because of the name he called me.
Pikey.
People watch one movie and they think they know what they’re talking about. Guy Ritchie did a fair enough job of portraying Pikeys in ‘Snatch,’ but now everyone thinks they know everything about me. I am not a fucking Pikey. I’m not Irish for a start, even if my accent might sound a little that way. I’m not a Traveler, or a Hedge Crawler. I’m something else entirely, and while I might be in the process of severing all ties with my family, I am and always will be…Roma.
Something else altogether.
The guy swaying on his feet with the split lip raises his fists, putting on an admirable show; we both know there’s nothing left in his tank, though. I feint to the left, accepting the weak hit to my side, trading the strike for the window I need to end this. It doesn’t take much. I launch my fist into his jaw, embracing the pain, and the guy’s eyes roll back into his head.
Satisfaction floods me as I watch him go down.
A roar of sound fills the cavernous space as three hundred punters, blood spiked with testosterone, either celebrate or dispute my victory. I forget they’re even there most of the time. The crowds that gather to watch the fights take place underneath the Braxton flower markets every night don’t really matter to me. I don’t need their favor or approval. Their adoration passes me by unnoticed. On light feet, still full of energy, barely even tired, I stand over the guy I’ve just knocked out, ready and waiting, just begging the guy to wake the fuck up and come at me again.
The ref, if you can even call him that, hurries into the cage, putting himself between me and the fallen fighter, muttering a warning under his breath that I don’t hear.
Get up. Get up. Get the fuck up, you miserable sack of shit.
His eyelids flutter, but that’s all. Normally when someone gets knocked out, they’re up and on their feet, pissed that they got put down. Not this guy, though. He’s as limp as a gutted fish, practically fucking snoring. His mouthy trainer enters the cage in a whirlwind of bad polyester and hair spray, his steel grey hair coiffured into a style that looks like it last saw the light of day in the eighties. He leaves his guy down on the ground and comes barreling at me with murder in his eyes.
“You got no fucking sense at all, you fucking moron? Have you any idea what the fuck you’ve just done?”
I grin at him. My teeth must be red with blood; the coppery tang of it is all over my tongue. “I don’t throw fights, man. If your guy wasn’t up to it, he shouldn’t have gotten in the cage now, should he?”
He stabs me in the chest with his index finger. “I amnotyour friend. I’m guessing you won’t have many friends here tonight after that shitty stunt you just—”
He stops speaking the moment my fist makes contact with his face. A puff of crimson explodes out of his nose, and then he’s bent double, cupping his hands over his nose, releasing a low, enraged howl. The crowd erupts, some people laughing at the guy as his overly-sprayed hair sticks up in the air, while others hiss and boo. I stoop down, crouching next to the guy so I can whisper into his ear. “Don’t ever touch me. Not inside this cage. Not out of it.”
“All right, all right, Rivin, that’s enough.” The ref, a short motherfucker in his late fifties, comes at me with his hands in the air, careful not to make the same mistake as the trainer as he attempts to herd me out of the cage. “C’mon, man. You got a paycheck to collect on, an’ we need you out of here. If you’re not gone in the next thirty minutes, we won’t be held accountable for what happens to you.”
I back up, mirroring his pose, hands raised. “Just gotta be asked nicely. That’s all.” Out of the cage, down the steps into the heaving crowd, I can see the anger on the people’s faces. They obviously bet on the other guy, some Eastern Block bad ass by all accounts, and they’re not happy that I just cost themtheirpaychecks.
