He laughs. “You never loved a fighter before, huh?”
“I—”
“I ain’t talking about romantically—just in general.”
“I mean, my Uncle Kenny’s been a boxer all my life and I love him.”
“No…no…no. I’m talking about afighter.”
There’s that distinction Uncle Kenny’s always obsessing over. Boxers vs. Fighters. Structure vs. Chaos. The Good Guys vs.Thoseguys—the bad ones—the ones who take but never give. The ones Aunt Faye said had darkness in their eyes.
“No,” I squeak, turning around. “I guess I haven’t.”
“Yeah, I figured as much. You know, boxers got a lot of structure—rules, sanctions, folks to answer to, illegal moves. I’m sure your Uncle Kenny can tell you about all the rules he’s always following.” He chuckles, slowly lifting his finger and swaying it in the air along with the haunting beat playing. “Fighters don’t got shit but this.”
He balls his shaky hand into a fist, studying it with hard eyes.
“No gloves, no rules…just survival.”
“And what does any of that have to do with celebrating your son’s birthday?”
“Everything. I raised Pup just like my daddy raised me. So ain’t no room in his head for pussy shit like birthdays and love. The Bottoms eats soft boys, so I made sure I raised aman.”
He nods his head along to the music still drifting from Calvin’s room while I swallow to quell the disgusting feeling I can’t pinpoint.
“So you must be the one who taught him he shouldn’t have any friends too, huh? The concept of friendship must be too soft for you.”
He chuckles. “Oh, that’s what this is? You wanna be Pup’s friend?”
“No. I?—”
“He found you in his kitchen last week…and now you sittin here with me asking about the women he’s fucking and tryna chastise me about some stuff you don’t know nothing about.”
“I…I…”
He laughs harder. “Lil’ Pup still craving that social interaction? Still flirting with them pussy problems, huh?”
“I’d like to think that craving social interaction is a good thing. It means he’s an actual human being—not a machine.”
He snorts. “You just like Faye-Baby.”
“What do you mean?”
“‘Oh, he’s just a boy, Senior,’” he mimics Aunt Faye’s high-pitched voice. “‘Let me love on him. Let me get him a cake from Copeland’s for his birthday and take him here and there.’”
He rolls his eyes.
There it goes again—that heavy feeling rolling across the pit of my stomach.
Aunt Faye isdefinitelya liar.
He points toward the doorway. “He checks on Cal first, and then he sweeps the hallway for Beatrice. After that, he checks in on her—fucks around with her in the kitchen before she fixes ourfood. I’m sure you don’t wanna do that, though, but you can do all the rest of it.”
The pen slides against my sweaty palm.
“Once you understand the life and heart of a fighter, you’ll see why you shouldn’t wanna befriend one. We’re all ugly, sweet pea. If I told you we were any good, I’d just be pouring sugar over shit.”
CHAPTER
