Jagger: A Caldwell Brothers Novel (3 page)

My brothers, Hendrix and Morrison, are at the bar when I pop in.

“Training hard?” Morrison asks, looking up.

When I see him exchange looks with Hendrix, I look back and forth between them a couple times.

“Yeah. What of it?”

I sit down, trying to avoid their eyes. They know something’s up. I can tell. I sure as hell won’t point it out to them ’cause it’s really nothing but a fucked-up obsession, one that will land me in jail if I don’t cut the shit. I can’t, though. I just can’t.

She haunts me day and night. If I’m not thinking about her, I am dreaming about her. I dream about saving her, holding her, and I dream about tucking her away somewhere until she is eighteen and I can touch her.

It’s too fucking quiet, so I chime in with the only thing I can tell them. “I’m fighting Cobra tomorrow night.”

“And you’re just fucking telling us?” Hendrix snaps.

“I just fucking found out!” I snap back.

“You sure you can handle him?” Morrison asks.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean,
can I handle him
?” I snap.

“You’re distracted as hell. That’s what I mean.”

“Well, shit’s changing. What with you married, and you”—I point to Morrison—“bringing home two.”

“Watch it,” Morrison growls.

“What the fuck? I adore them—all of them—but like I said, shit’s changing. You fuckers need to let me breathe and stop doing it down my back.” I stand up, pissed and 2.2 seconds away from breaking shit. “I’m out.”

“Hold the hell up.” Hendrix laughs. “Sit down and have something to eat. Fuck, have a drink.”

“Two. I think he needs two,” Morrison says with a chuckle. “Sit your ass down, clown.”

Begrudgingly I sit, stewing. In minutes, Livi sets a plate of meatloaf and mashed potatoes in front of me. She gives me a sad smile, and I thank her, even though I’m not hungry, because when I am hungry, I think of her, the tiny little Tatiana, and it makes me angry. I’m angry at the cops and social workers for not dragging her out of there, angry that no matter how many times I tell Johnny Fucking Law, he doesn’t do dick but warn me. Me!

I slam my fist on the bar and look up.

“Still nothing going on?” Hendrix asks as his brows shoot up to the ceiling.

“Getting fight-ready,” I lie. But is it a lie? Will I lose my shit, or will I be able to control myself?

“Well, I can guarantee that oak bar will never fuck with you again.” Morrison laughs.

“Just like Hailey isn’t fucking you?” I snarl back, knowing he’s going through some shit, and it was a low blow.

“Eat up, baby Caldwell. If you need a sparring partner, I’ll give you one.” Morrison stands up and walks toward the back entry, yelling over his shoulder, “I could fuck that anytime I want. You’re just pissed you’re still beating off.”

I know I have crossed a line. Fuck, he’s giving his little momma some space, doing what’s best for her.

I shake my head and look up into Livi’s disapproving eyes.

I give her a smile and a wink, knowing she eats that shit up, and she tries her damnedest not to smile, but she does. Then she throws the wet bar rag at my face.

“Go make nice.”

I nod and look at Hendrix.

“If he can’t give it to you good enough, yell for me, baby Caldwell.”

I get up and make my way to the door, overhearing him tell Livi, “Do you need me to give it to you good, my sexy, little, crazy girl?”

“Anytime, anyplace,” she says in a whisper, but I hear it.

Someday, I will have a chick eating out of my hand, too. Right now, I gotta let Morrison beat on me a little ’cause I feel like shit for acting like an ass.

He has his shirt off, and I laugh as he flexes his pecs.

“Ever seen something this pretty?”

“Yeah, this.” I pull my shirt off.

“That’s not pretty, man,” he grumbles. “That’s a whole lot of shit you’ve got going on there, Legacy. Your arms are covered completely.”

“They’re called a sleeve, asshole.”

“I’ll buy you a shirt, sleeves and all.” He gets in a stance and beckons me with his hand. “Let’s play.”

I strike, knowing damn well he can block me, and he does.

“Do I have ‘bitch’ on my forehead?” He laughs. “Come on, tough guy, you’re not playing with an old drunk.”

I strike again, not hard, just enough to let him know I’m present.

“There you go,” he says as he lunges forward and taps my face. “Hands up, Jagger.”

“Fuck you.” I tap his face back four times. “Take your own advice.”

We play this tapping shit, him, then me, back and forth, and all it does is wind me up.

Back when we were younger, Morrison would let our old man pound on him. Blow after blow, he would take it. I knew damn well he was gaining two things from it. First, he was wearing the old fuck down so he wouldn’t come after Momma, Hendrix, or me. Second, he seemed to like the pain that came from showing the old man he couldn’t break him.

When the asshole came after Hendrix, he broke bones and shit. As a result, Hendrix would knock the bastard out swiftly. When he came after me, I toyed with him. I was the cat, and he was the fucking mouse. I would grapple with him, sweep his legs out from under him, always letting the motherfucker come up for a breath before knocking his sorry ass down again.

“Land something, Jag. Come on,” Morrison says.

“I’m good,” I reply with a nod, backing away. “I’m gonna go for a run.”

With that I take off, running to the place I always do when my head is a fucking mess, to the cemetery to sit and talk to the woman who gave me life. The sidewalk is cracked beneath my feet as I press on, making my way to the only place I can see her now. She gave me life, love, and, until her dying breath, the courage to fight.

Sitting next to her grave makes me uneasy. I still can’t believe she’s gone. I miss her more than I can ever express in words. All of us have gone through insurmountable changes since we lost her. Hendrix is married. Morrison is head over heels in love with a girl who has baggage by the boatloads. Hell, they just returned from a Vegas trip to put Hailey’s ex in jail. I’m sure any day now they will be getting hitched. I know she loves him, just can’t stand to feel like she owes someone. We all have our issues.

Her kid, Marisa—or Little Chick, as Morrison calls her—is totally cool. I’ve never really been around young kids before. With no relatives to speak of outside my brothers, my mom, and the sperm donor, I never really had a chance to.

“I wish you could meet them, Mom,” I say as I sit down on the ground next to her grave. “Your two older boys did really well. They aren’t like him, you know. Me? Well, I like to hit shit, but you know that.” I lie back on the cool ground and look up at the sky. “I got a new tat. It says
Legacy
. We never had much in the form of material things, never had a boatload of cash—hell, not even a trunkful—but what you left us was worth more than all of that. We’re your legacy.” I pull up the sleeve of my Henley, hoping maybe she’ll see it from where I imagine she sits, high up in the clouds. “I got it to remind me of the woman who brought me up, the woman who gave me life, the woman I want to always make proud of me, the woman I want to have live on through me. Right now, Hendrix and Morrison are fulfilling their promise to you, Momma. They are your good in a world of bad. I made the same promise, and by god, I’ll get there someday. It’s just gonna take me longer than it did them.”

I stand just behind the graffiti-covered wall in the shit-hole abandoned car factory on the outskirts of Rock City. I can hear the crowd, feel the energy, the excitement, the tension crackling in the air.

“You okay, kid?” Old Man Shaw, my trainer, asks me with a swat to the back.

“I’m a legacy, Shaw. What do you think?”

“My boy’s on fire tonight!” he yells over to the man acting as tonight’s announcer. “You hear me? He’s on fire!”

I love this old guy. His mind is sharp as hell, but his body is in rough shape. He fought when he was my age, and he didn’t take a break. He made bank and bought a couple gyms, then took me on when I was still in high school after he saw me getting my ass beat by some gangbanger, and he never charged me a dime. He has been at the bar a few times over the years. I know he felt the tension in the air when my old man owned the place. The only difference between now and back then is I now insist, when I win, he gets a healthy cut, and he doesn’t argue, not anymore.

The underground circuit is different than the sanctioned fights. No rules and no limits. Being here, we take a risk, but it’s a risk I’m willing to take.

“Ladies and gentlemen, are you ready?” the announcer yells from inside the makeshift ring surrounded by a crowd of about fifty close by. The space as a whole is full in every corner.

Tonight is different. Money is laid out for this fight. Hell, we even have a circular mat covering a big part of the concrete floor.

“This evening is brought to you by Broke Bail Bonds. This is for the Rock City Light-Heavyweight Championship. We will have five three-minute rounds. In the Broke Bail red corner, standing at an even six feet tall, weighing in at a cool two hundred four pounds, welcome the reigning light-heavyweight champion, the striker, Cooooobra!”

“Shut ’Em Down” by Public Enemy blares, and the crowd goes wild as Cobra bounds out of the hallway opposite the one I’m in. His hands are up, fingers in mock strike position, as he plays the crowd, giving them what they want.

“In the black corner, sponsored by Caldwell’s Bar, standing six foot one inch, weighing in at a trim one hundred ninety pounds, Jagger ‘The Hitmaker’ Caldwell!”

“Right Above It” by Lil Wayne starts, and Shaw gives me the stink eye. The lyrics are meant to antagonize Cobra.

“I know what I’m doing.” I give him a half-hug as my mind gets fight-ready. I hold my hands up in prayer position, look up, and whisper, “Legacy, Momma.”

I begin to ring my hands out of habit. Shaw tells me it’s a dead giveaway that my game is more strike than grapple, but we have trained well. My moves are planned out to a T, and if and when the plan goes to shit, no one has it over me when it comes to instinct.

As my eyes focus on Cobra’s, I give him a slow, planned smile before I take in his girl. I look her up and down, lick my lips, and then give her a wink, baiting him with the mind fuck.

There was a day when that girl meant something to me, but she went back to him time and time again. Apparently now they are engaged. It was her choice to say yes or no. Bitch said yes, and from then on, she’s a no-no to me.

I let my eyes slowly go back to find him glaring at me. I’m pretty sure there is smoke coming out of his ears too.

I stand before him, eyes locked, smirk in place, and hands still ringing, stretching, twisting.

“All right, boys. No biting, kicks to the nuts, and you don’t leave the mat. First one down and out loses.”

“This one’s all you, bro!”

I look left to see Hendrix and Morrison by the black corner and smile.

Hendrix has never sponsored a fight before—hated my fighting—but tonight, he and Morrison are here to show support. They are here ’cause if shit gets ugly like the last time I fought Cobra, they will have my back. The difference between back then and now is that now, I’m knocking the motherfucker out.

I have lost my mind completely. If my father wakes up before I get back, I am one dead girl. There is no way I will survive the beating I’ll get if he catches me. I can’t help it, though.

Once the brown paper bags started appearing regularly, and not just a drop-off by Old Lady Simmons, I had to know who they were from. Waiting and watching carefully, I figured out it was none other than Jagger Caldwell, who is breaking the law just by being this close to the property and my father.

I run my fingers over the green ribbon on my wrist. Someone cares. Jagger Caldwell wants to look after me. I’m not alone anymore.

Tonight I gave my father his dose of allergy medication. Then, as I sat in my room, glancing to my small balcony, movement caught my eye. It was Jagger and another bag.

Rather than waste a single second, I toss on the shoes he left me months ago and sneak out without a second thought. Though my mind catches up to me, I watch the taillight of his motorcycle. Thankfully he doesn’t go far or fast, and the stoplights work in my favor. I watch him pull down an alley. I continue in that direction as I follow Jagger around an abandoned building not far from our rundown complex.

There are many abandoned places on our block. As the Americans like to call it in their movies, I live in the ghetto. I don’t remember Russia enough to know what life was like there, but here, my father is what they would call a slumlord, I think. He maintains our building only to the minimum and charges the maximum.

My curiosity runs wild as to why Jagger is there when he clearly owns a bar. He may have lived in the ghetto, but he owns a business. Why would he hang out here? The business card said
Caldwell’s Dive,
and the court paperwork I had to read over for Father said his legal name is Jagger Caldwell. No middle name, just Jagger Caldwell.

I smile to myself. Of course he is only Jagger Caldwell. He doesn’t need a middle name. He is who he is. A strong name for a strong man.

The streets are full of cars, and people mill about as I watch Jagger enter through the back. Seeing the large man at the door, I know I can’t get in that way, so I move to the front of the building, where I follow in behind a group of scantily clad women with overly done hair and makeup. The large man at the door only scowls as I pass inside with the group after the guy in the front hands him a stack of cash.

Inside the building, the lighting is dim except in the center of the room where a makeshift cage has been set up with a weird mat on the ground. People crowd every clear space near it as more men and women pile into the building, all apparently here to watch something.

The dust on the rafters hardly makes this an ideal location for any sort of gathering. The smells of alcohol, sweat, and overdone perfume hit my nostrils at every turn of my head. The men are roaring loudly as the women hang on to them tightly. The adrenaline seems to be in the air in every breath they take as each person seems to be more amped up than the last.

I make my way against the walls, trying to get a better view of the back. I don’t understand why Jagger would be here. Fear builds inside me. I shouldn’t have done this. I shouldn’t be here. If Father wakes up before I get home, I’m going to pay. Time passes and panic fills me as I fight to keep myself together.

There is a shrill sound before the microphone kicks in. I plug my ears as my head throbs from the noise. Sensory overload is an understatement. The announcer calls out, “The striker, Cobra,” which is followed by some crazy music. Then I look up through the crowd as the announcer calls, “Jagger ‘The Hitmaker’ Caldwell,” whose short, dark-brown hair is wild tonight.

I take in the man who has become my hero from top to bottom as he stretches his arms, swinging them in front of him, making his muscles flex and his tattoos dance along his skin. Both arms are covered from shoulder to wrist in ink. His right pec is covered in what looks to be the helmet of a knight with the word
Momma
under it. His abs flex with every movement, leading down to the word
Hitmaker
in bold script over his lower stomach, under his belly button. His hips make a V that leads to a pair of black shorts that say
TapouT,
covering the toned, tanned thighs of the fighter, leading to his large, bare feet.

When his right foot catches my attention, I squint to read the words
Stay Grounded
on the outside of it just before he hops around, warming up.

Every inch of him is rough, toned, calloused, and screams to be watched. He is glorious. Every move, every breath captivates me.

Once the bell rings, the illusion of Jagger Caldwell quickly crashes in front of me.

I watch in what feels like slow motion as the man who has been giving me tokens of life dances around the ring with his opponent. Suddenly he pounces, and the two lock together around the shoulders and neck.

After they break apart, I watch as Jagger begins his assault. He pounds away, strike after strike, blow after blow, on the Cobra guy. Everything spins around the violence happening in front of me.

Cobra has a longer reach and uses it to his advantage—according to the announcer—as he pulls Jagger to the mat, locking him into a painful-looking hold.

“Will the Hitmaker submit to Cobra’s arm bar?” the announcer calls out to the crowd, and boos resound loudly in reply.

“Submit, punk-ass motherfucker!” Cobra yells out as spit flies from his mouth and blood pours out of his nose.

“Legacy!” Jagger calls out, reversing the hold and pinning Cobra in his own hold.

The two men break apart and seem to start the whole thing over again, first circling each other and then locking in before separating. Jagger kicks out, knocking Cobra to the mat. The two grapple until Jagger moves to hold Cobra’s arm and head in what the announcer calls “the Anaconda” before Cobra taps repeatedly against Jagger.

The announcer laughs into the microphone, saying, “This isn’t regulation, Cobra. Tap all you want, pretty boy. Hitmaker still gets another round with you.”

My body feels like it is on fire as the fury builds. How can the man who saved me be such a barbarian?

I want to run, but I feel stuck in place as the bell rings, the round over.

Each man goes to his corner. Jagger gulps water as it’s squirted down his throat while sweat rolls off his body. I can’t turn away.

The crowd shuffles, and I’m knocked down. Squinting, I watch as the two fighters stand up, and the bell rings for round two.

Slowly, I get to my feet as Jagger swings and then follows with an uppercut. Cobra goes down. O-U-T, he is out.

Jagger Caldwell just knocked a man out for pleasure. I feel the sweat roll down my forehead as I panic. Somehow it was okay to me when Jagger knocked my father out, but now, watching the brutality of it all, I want to puke. Jagger is no better than the monster I live with.

I turn to rush away, pushing through the crowd as the announcer counts down to Jagger’s win. Everyone goes wild while I want to scream and run, but I’m immobile with my back to the makeshift ring.

The need to escape consumes me, and I lose all focus on everything except finding my way to the exit door.

Jagger Caldwell is not the man I thought he was.