Princely Bastard (12 page)

Coomer ignores this.

“Come on,” Mark pleads.

“Do I know you?” Coomer asks.

“I’m one of Larry’s boys. Larry Lee.”

“I don’t see anyone named Larry Lee around, do you?”

“No, but—”

“—Next time bring him along.”

Mark tries to say something in reply, but he’s drowned out by cheers, as one of the fighters has won, with the other not showing the slightest sign of life. Nor is anyone trying to help him. And I can’t help think this soon could be Mark.

“We have a winner, gentlemen and gentlemen!” Coomer proclaims. He then walks up to the standing fighter and gives him the cash, before adding, “Next fight in five minutes. Five minutes, people.”

“Please,” Mark begs, from right behind the man.

“If you really are one of Larry’s boys,” Coomer retorts, “then you know someone has to vouch for you.”

“What if one of these guys vouches for me?”

“Which one?”

“Who’s the best fighter here?”

Coomer looks around, and he points to a hulking bald man with a mustache and no shirt, and he says, “That would be Smithy over there.”

Mark, in turn, rushes toward the hulking man, with me following and becoming more and more scared.

“Please,” I beg him. “Let’s just leave. Let’s just leave right now.”

Mark, though, ignores me and stops in front of the big man.

“Smithy?” Mark asks.

“Yeah,” the man answers.

“Coomer says I need someone to vouch for me, so what do you say?”

Smithy thinks about it for a moment, before smirking a bit—and saying, “Get the fuck out of here.”

Instead Mark punches him hard in the face, knocking him off his feet. And when he turns back to Mark he’s both bleeding and furious.

“You’re fucking dead!” he screams, with everyone in the room now staring at the two.

“So we’re on?” Mark demands.

“You got five bills, piss boy?” the man replies.

“I got ’em.”

“Yo, Coomer—we’re on!”

“I’ve got a schedule here!” Coomer yells.

“Fuck your schedule!”

At once everyone encircles the two fighters, with lots of money exchanging hands as they bet—and Mark rushes up to Smithy and starts pounding the man’s face and body with a flurry of fists—sending Smithy teetering.

Watching this, I know if Mark wins I’ll never see him again. So, I try to convince myself that I really want him to lose—even if it means I’ll get only one more day with him. But when one of Smithy’s punches finally connects—with Mark’s jaw, I forget everything. I cheer for Mark. I cheer as hard as I can.

But it doesn’t help, as the previous day and a half have just taken too much out of Mark. It’s obvious all he had to fight with was adrenaline, and now that it’s gone he’s got nothing. And it’s Mark who’s taking the pounding—only worse. Much worse.

Soon, he falls to his knees, battered and beaten—and I try to stop the fight. I scream and plead. But no one is listening to me, and, when I rush into the makeshift ring, someone grabs me—and throws me to the ground.

“Mark!” I shout. “Mark!”

He can’t hear me, though. He can’t do anything but take punch after punch.

“He’s had enough!” Coomer cries out.

“No!” Smithy hollers. “He ain’t had nothing yet!”

Smithy then somehow hits Mark even harder. He hits him until Mark falls to the man’s ankles.

Afterward, Mark tries to push the big man over, but the man laughs at this—and he kicks Mark in the head, knocking him out.

“We have a winner!” Coomer yells, with everyone other than me hooting and hollering. At the same time, Smithy takes Mark’s wallet from his pants, and, of course, finds nothing.

“He’s a cheat!” Smithy howls while holding up the empty wallet, and the whole crowd descends on Mark like vultures. They kick and punch him, and even take his shoes. And there’s nothing I can do about it. I can’t even get close to him. All I can do is call out his name.

Which Smithy hears—and he approaches me.

“What about you?” he growls, right after he drops the wallet.

“What about me?” I mutter, while slowly stepping backward.

“You got my money?”

“I don’t got nothing.”

“Maybe I’ll just take it out of your ass.”

Suddenly, he jumps at me—and grabs both my arms. And I'm scared. I’m real scared. But I’m also tired—tired of being pushed around, and tired of being hurt. And, recalling just a bit of my “training,” I knee Smithy hard in the groin, sending him to the ground squealing in pain.

Seeing this, the vultures turn to me in shock, with Mark lying unconscious at their feet.

“Get away from him!” I scream, with my arms shaking with fury—and I rush at them and push my way through them, before tumbling onto Mark.

“Mark!” I cry out, with my arms clutching him. “Mark!”

“Just go,” he mumbles.

“I won’t,” I tell him. “I won’t!”

“Well, now you know. Now you finally know.”

“Know what?”

“I’m a total shit.”

“You’re not. You’re a prince. You’re a fucking prince!”

“Some prince I am.”

“You are,” I insist, as I lift him to his waist. “It doesn’t matter who your dad is—you’re a prince.”

WITH A SURGE of strength I never knew I had, I help Mark out of the building and through the warehouse gate. I help him all the way to the grassy hill, where we both collapse onto the soft wet ground.

Then, while gasping for breath, I happen to look out at the port, and see millions of lights, and almost that many colors.

It’s almost beautiful, and I almost want to smile.

“They, they make it seem so romantic,” Mark mutters incoherently.

“What?” I ask.

“The movies. You know,
Lionheart
and
Blood and Bone
. The good guy always wins the big fight, and he always saves the orphan. But it doesn’t happen that way, does it?”

“I don’t need saving, Mark. You’ve already saved me. You’ve saved me a million times over.”

He responds by putting his arms around me, and his legs, too. I can feel the mountain all over me. I can also hear it start to weep.

“Don’t worry,” I tell him, while trying to hold back my own tears. “I won’t keep you to your promise. I won’t stop you. Tomorrow you can go on without me.”

“I can’t,” he hollers. “I wish I could, but I can’t.”

“What?”

“I can’t go on without my princess.”

Not believing what I just heard, I look up into his face, and surprisingly see a small smile. It’s the first one I’ve seen on him, and it looks good. He looks good. So good that I can no longer hold back my tears.

“Why are you crying?” he murmurs.

“You’re him!” I scream—not only to Mark, but to the whole fucking world.

“Who?”

“A rogue with a big heart!”

the end

other books by

K. H. Alynn

Love and the Punk Rock Grrl
College and the Punk Rock Grrl