Chapter 4

Jerrica's story is interesting even without her beauty or profession, the story of a runaway fighting on the streets for money and, upon losing, offering her body as payment since she rarely had the cash to pay her own bet. She was well known in the circles of street fighting in Louisiana's slums for both, though which earned her more fame is hard to say.

I, with my training, have an interest in a true fight, one where even the winner stumbles away, so when I hear the familiar cheers and cracks of heavy strikes I venture towards it. I've even taken part in a few to offer some education to the amateurs. I have no need in the money, but the thrill of battle appeals to my baser desires. For Jerrica's sake I won't name the town, but it was late at night, probably two a.m. when, as I stumbled to my cheap motel room in a cheaper motel, I overheard the music of a fight – the shuffle of feet, the thump of an elbow to the midsection and the grunts of exertion amid the muffled cheers of onlookers.

Why do these fights always take place in empty warehouses or underground parking garages? It's so cliché. But that's where I saw her for the first time – in a warehouse – trying to run, to hide or escape. Filthy hands shoved her back into the ring to accept another blow from a fist that could palm her skull like a basketball.

"You ain't goin' nowhere, bitch. You gon' lose so we c'n all has a stab at ya," a weasel of a boy hissed.

"Go fuck yerse..." Jerrica attempted, her scream cut short as an anvil-sized fist crashed against her temple. When she collapsed and immediately tried to find her feet again, I felt something of pride for the unknown girl. She reminded me of me. I was the only one in training that rose every time our instructors put us down. I rose every time until they couldn't manage another swing. I rose to my feet until they couldn't raise their arm. Plus, it's not easy to keep your head when something with that much force crushes your temple assuming it doesn't kill you. She survived it, though. The barbaric giant took her throat in one fist and began the backward motion to swing the other into her gut.

It didn't take long for me to intervene when the girl crumpled to the floor once the massive man's massive fist collided with her belly, the other releasing her mid-air. Even in a brawl you only go for the temples and a body blow to injure someone, not win a pride fight. The fiery sparkle in her eyes waned when she couldn't find her feet again after all the brutal punishment. She saw me in the shadows just then. Her face twisted and her lips curled as if trying to say something to me, but her arms gave out and she hit the floor.

"Good evening, fellas. Please step away from the girl," I said from the shadows, strolling into the light as I spoke and as the giant descended on the incapacitated girl.

"Who da fuck is you, old man?" one of them shouted.

"Doesn't matter, jackass. What matters is that you're all going to walk away and leave this young fighter in my care," I replied calmly.

"The fuck we is, old man. This here pussy's ours. Hoss won, not you," the same insolent derelict spat.

"Hoss? That's original. So the deal is you pay if she wins and you fuck if she loses?" I asked with a chuckle.

"That's right. We fin'lly got that sweet little ass. Hoss done became the first to win, so we's all goan take a piece tonight," he said. He must have been the spokesperson for the little band of losers.

"Where I come from you get laid by treating a woman with respect, not beating the shit out of her. She's in no condition for sex since she's half dead, so I'll say it again. Leave. Now," I said with a little menace.

"No," she croaked from the concrete at my feet.

"See old man? That bitch know 'er shit. She need ta pay up," the ringleader grinned. I knelt at her side.

"Do you intend to let these rodents rape you to pay your bet?" I asked while brushing soiled hair from her brow. Her four lips – at least that's how they looked from the deep splits both upper and lower – quivered, her eyes trembled with glistening tears and her voice failed. She merely nodded.

"Well then, this young fighter has a sense of honor that I don't share. She's willing to let you have your prize. I'm not. You fight me for her now," I shrugged out of my coat to drape it over her broken form. I didn't dare leave her side even if they rushed me; she was safer at my feet. I whispered to her, "This isn't happening tonight."

Before I rose to my feet Hoss lunged toward me, but his size limited his speed. My primary training was based on multiple points of contact to deliver powerful blows simultaneously, thus inflicting more damage with each strike. Rather than let them all rush me, I wanted to stop the giant quickly. As he neared, I launched into the air with my right arm arcing out and down, and the moment my forearm crashed into the triangle of flesh and nerves connecting his shoulder to his neck, I jabbed my left fist into his larynx. When he fell to his knees I grinned, his nose cracking against my knee. With the giant subdued, I was more comfortable with facing the rest of them. I gave him a love tap in the temple, and unlike the girl at my feet he collapsed.

"Anyone else want to try? I'm not as easy as a teenage girl," I asked the group from the middle of a wide circle of bodies. Two of them rushed me, one wielding a hunting knife rusted with age and poor care. I parried with my forearm against the wrist of the knife-wielding hand and used his momentum in combination with the strength of my back muscles to kiss his nose with my forehead. Much like Hoss, he collapsed immediately. The unarmed idiot used the opportunity to land a weak right cross against my jaw, but the contact did little as instinct took over. My neck relaxed, allowing the blow to turn my head, and when I brought my head round the little bastard froze. It may have been the grin on my face or the hand grasping his neck and preventing air flow.

I briefly considered breaking his neck. That didn't seem like a good idea since the girl needed medical attention which meant I was planted for at least a day. Instead of killing the little fuck I settled for several blows to the solar plexus that I know crushed a few ribs. The next round began shortly after when a few of them hurtled in my direction. The nearest one received a closed fist to the throat with an upward angle; I felt his jaw crack. Now I was in the mood to punish someone, and when Hoss started to rise on wobbly legs he got my vote.

I spun on my left heel to deliver my right heel against the ear of the second attacker while allowing the third to tackle me to the ground. I could have avoided it or chosen my stance to avoid it, but I wanted to grapple with this one. He was broadly built, looking to be the kind of strong man that works hard on a farm or mill, the kind that takes a hit with the best. Once on the concrete, I spun and kicked a couple times until I had his arm in a lock. When I pulled, I felt his shoulder dislocate much to his screeching displeasure, but then I rolled completely over with his arm held steady so that the rotation would tear anything connecting his arm to his shoulder socket. I'm told that really, really hurts. I ended his fight with a heel to the jaw.

By this time, Hoss was steady and considering his options. I gave him no time to get his bearings before I slid between his feet, entwined my legs around his ankles and twisted. His already broken nose cracked against the floor; by that time I was certain he wouldn't see very clearly for a while. To add insult to injury I introduced my foot to his testicles through dirty jeans several times as he sprawled on the floor.

The rest of the onlookers didn't have the balls to try anything.

A couple of them ran immediately, most of them thought about it and filed away, but the illiterate leader flicked open a switchblade; I drew a .38, the same pistol Jerrica carries now. I gave it to her as a reminder. The knife clanked on the concrete right about the same moment I saw the idiot bolt out of sight through a doorway on the far side of the warehouse.

The walk to the hospital with an unconscious, broken teenager in my arms was a trial of stamina. Even a malnourished teen feels like a ton of bricks when she's nothing but dead weight. I didn't even have time to call for help before a nurse yelled for assistance, and within moments Jerrica was on a gurney, rushed through some doors and given the treatment she needed.

Honor among thieves is the best way to explain why Jerrica told the police that she knew nothing from her hospital bed. Naturally they didn't believe her, but you can't force a teenager to say anything if she doesn't want to.

"Do you have insurance, miss?" a social worker asked once the police departed with much less of a case than they wanted.

"No," I answered for Jerrica, the social worker turning to me with a glare.

"And you are?" she asked.

"I'm an interested third party," I replied.

"The bills will be..." the lady began, but I have no patience for that particular discussion.

"My lawyer and accountants will handle that. Send the bills here," I said as I stood to slap a business card for Jim on her clipboard.

"That's not..." she tried.

"Yes, that's exactly how this works. This young woman has legal counsel and financial means as of this moment. Now, please leave," I said firmly.

The woman huffed for a moment but retreated. I relaxed into the chair near the window to gaze at a very confused and injured girl. We didn't speak for some time while she assessed me through clear judgment marred by cloudy vision. Even in her vulnerable state, her eyes that blazed with fire while swollen half shut burned through me – a fighter always. I respected that.

"Do you enjoy what you do?" she asked. Her southern accent made me smile.

"What do you think I do?" I replied.

"You're a killer," she stated boldly.

"I am," I nodded.

"You didn't answer my question," she grinned.

"No, I didn't," I returned, matching her grin.

"Well?" she asked, refusing to let it go.

"Well's a deep subject," I laughed.

"Well!" she laughed with me. After a long pause a shadow spread in her eyes. "I enjoy it."

"You've taken a life?" I asked with a raised eyebrow.

"My father," she said plainly with a nod.

"Why?" I asked.

"He took to hittin' me. I had plenty 'nuff when he took to rapin' me," she shrugged. Her voice caught in her throat.

"And?" I asked, unwilling to press further.

"And nothin'. The pig deserved to die. I just got outta juvie a few months ago. Been takin' it out on lowlifes ever since," she explained, her fists clenching.

"I see no problem with that, but I don't appreciate being lied to," I replied, eliciting a raised eyebrow from her. "The truth is better with me. I killed my father after he murdered my mother. I was young."

"Do you still feel the rage?" she asked, her face betraying her emotions of relief at knowing someone understood her.