Saturdays were always the best nights.
Christina slipped in through the basement, climbed B's four flights of stairs to his apartment. Knock three times, and then the eyeslit opened up, "yo, what up A, gimme a minute."
A second later and the huge metal door creaked open, ushered in to Busta's suite. Red was already there, smoking a pipe that smelled sweet and sticky. Christina licked her lips.
"A, what you doing tonight? In the ring?"
"Me and Pink, so they say, then J's up, then us again." She slumped down beside Red and he passed her the pipe. "It's Saturday."
Saturday was the big fight night. Saturdays, the only ones in the ring, for six hours straight, were hardcore fighters, the ones that she was actually a little scared of facing, the ones that could probably kill her if the game wasn't so profitable. Few years ago, a girl was fighting, first Saturday of the month, and the crowd got ugly. The other boxer nearly took her head off. Literally.
He pushed the pipe under her nose again, but not tonight, needed her wits and all the energy she could muster. Shook her head. He shrugged. "You'll survive another night."
"Fuck, I was up at the docks all morning." She yawned, and B came in.
Busta was a big man, ex-boxer. Runs things, well. tongue like no one else's, huge and thick.
"Where's your bike?"
"Down the stairs."
Busta waved a hand; some kid that was hovering around behind him trotted off to bring the bike up in the elevator, ready for Christina to ride it into the top floor of the club. B's rooms were covered, every wall plastered in pictures and graffiti.
"Anything you need, A?"
She was already greasing herself up, pulling chaps out of her bag. "Nah, I'm good." Got on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek, "you take care of the betting, baby. I'll be out at one, same as always."
Busta patted her head fondly. "Good girl."
~
The bike swerved through the lineup of people waiting to crawl down onto the actual floor; nothing but a long hallway and throngs of sweaty people all pressed against the railing, waving their arms at her riding the bike. And the bike itself, thrumming underneath her.
Saturdays were Christina's favorite nights.
The huge LED clock on the wall read two minutes to one as she roared up to the balcony, and turned the bike off. Roaring crowd, last vibrations from the bike engine going through her legs. Skin tingling already, the crack smoke from B's room going through her head and making everything dizzy, hot and cold and *hot*. She stood on the bike seat, legs and thighs apart, feeling the bass all up her thighs and into her stomach.
The new girl held her towels and wraps, mouth at waist level and Christina almost pushed up against her face, just a little. The girl looked eager, licking her lips and face upturned, yeah, she'd do it, too, all Christina had to do was move a little closer -- hips pressed forward into the air, legs a little farther apart--
"RING THE ALARM"
Busta's voice, deep and low and booming against the metal of the club. The cage dropped, and Christina jumped straight from the seat of the bike into it, caught her wraps as the girl tossed them up. Cage door dropped, locking her in, and she pressed up against it, bars cold against her skin, knees straddling the metal.
"RING THE ALARM"
They lowered her, slowly, and the bass beat shook the chains, rattling it and the yelling was almost louder than the music, beat lost in the screaming. Screaming and screaming for her. Helmet off, tossed aside.
"RING THE ALARM"
and finally, she set down and the music went absolutely silent for all of three seconds, the crowd hushed up, everyone held their breath as her cage settled, and across the ring, Pink's did too. They stared at each other through the bars, and it was the only time, ever, that the club would be quiet all week.
Then as the cages swung open and the two of them stepped into the ring, a high pitched siren, shrill and right into everyone's skull, insistent ringing. Alarm.
~
"you good, A?" and Pink clapped her on the shoulder. It was only round three, two thirty and they were pacing themselves nicely. She was barely bleeding.
Christina leaned into the hand stroking her shoulder. "yeah, I'm good, baby."
"you should get something for your lip," and Pink ran a fingernail over the cut in her mouth. Yeah, it stung, but, yeah.
Christina sucked the fingertip into her mouth, licked it. "we can take ten minutes."
The crowd around them was already panting, straining over the barrier to get a better look at the two of them. Pink was standing over her, sitting on her stool and, if she just -- hand on Pink's hip, pulled her forward so that. Yeah. tongue out, gently ran from crotch to bellybutton.
She felt Pink shiver under her hands, jerk forward despite herself. Christina grinned. "Sure you don't want to take a break?"
Pink stepped away, wiping her face with a hand. "when we're done here."
The gong sounded; a minute until round four. Christina sagged onto the stool, aching. Eight more rounds and four hours. She stood wearily, faced Pink off again.
~
The yelling grew dull, muted, faded into background noise and all she could hear eventually, every Saturday, were the sounds of her fists into someone's face, their fists into hers. The crowd kept calling out for her and Pink, again and again, she had to keep punching in her jaw, taking hits around the ribs and face.
Three. Three thirty. Christina leaned over the ropes at one point, had to, and yelled at Busta, "hey, can't someone else take a round for once? Pink's gonna collapse over there." But of course the girl was too stubborn to take a break, insisted she was fine, so again and again and again. Her and Pink, and the smacking sounds of a black eye waiting to happen.
Four. Four thirty. J took a whole match, half an hour of going up against some tall guy with tattoes and angelic blond hair, a fighter from 52nd street. At the end of it he was dazed and shaky, couldn't barely walk but the guy -- Nicky? Nat? -- gave him a smile, some respect so J shook off the adrenaline tab and just gulped some more water down again.
Of course right after, the fucking crowd started chanting "A! Pink! A! Pink!" The rhythm was in perfect time to the music, somehow each syllable was perfectly pronounced. Some rich scout was sitting with Busta, too, Christina could see, some guy who Busta would defer to, and if he nodded--
Right, of course. Busta waved an arm, and the scoreboard said "A -- Pink" yet again.
Five, five thirty, and even the refs looked worn out. Just another half hour until dawn, dawn and then she could go home and sleep.
Wiped sweat and blood off her lip, her forehead, where Pink had caught her -- yeah, her face was gonna swell up tomorrow, that was gonna bruise. Have to use a medkit before she went to bed. At the break, took another adrenaline tab, adrenaline and a bit of meth, maybe she'd get through another night like this. A great night, there was nothing else like it in the entire city, a crowd screaming your name, hundreds of people wanting you. Yeah, Christina loved Saturday nights.
She just hated Sunday mornings.
~
"Listen," and Christina sagged onto her bike. "It's, the only thing I really want right now is a bed to sleep in, and eight hours of being unconscious."
Pink grinned. "I did the same stretch you did, remember?"
Ghost of a smile, even that hurt too much because of her cut mouth. "rain check?"
"Yeah, sometime," and Pink turned to go.
"Hey," and this was impulsive, maybe, but fuck if Christina wasn't always impulsive, never thinking and so far it hadn't turned out too badly. "Want a ride home?"
"Yeah," and another smile, so that was something, and if it wasn't sex, well, sex was easy. Pink got on the bike. "Yeah. Thanks."