“Kiss me? For good luck?” – “You don’t believe
in luck.” – “No, but I want you to kiss me.”
You could see Reggie Williams from across the lot. He was surrounded by eight other River Kings, and the bottle of Jack glinted in the streetlight as they passed it around. Beside you, Tim sat on the hood of his car and watched them closely, waiting for the moment Reggie gave in and took a sip. The two of you knew it would work in Curly’s favor, because Reggie’s big for a 19 year old, standing at 6′3″ and weighing well over 200 pounds. He was a force to reckon with, and you mentally cursed Curly for being dumb enough to even think about lifting his hubs.
Five minutes later you hear Tim mumble a quiet “fuck”, and the two of you watch as the Kings toss the empty bottle behind a tree, Reggie walking away free of one sip.
You glance quickly at Tim, who had his fists clenched in his lap, and then to Curly. He sat with Danny, and you watch with a small smile as he breaks into an easy laugh, not even thinking about the upcoming fight as he punches his friend in the arm before meeting your gaze.
He knows you’re worried, knows you’re against the fight, but you know there’s no talking him out of something Tim tells him to do. And it’s not that he’s a bad fighter; he’s been taking guys on since before he was thirteen, but he’s not Reggie.
Curly had just turned eighteen. His muscles, although defined, were hidden under his slim structure. Where Reggie’s strength was his punch, Curly’s was his swiftness. He could see a fist coming before they lifted it, and could counteract it just as quick. He fought fair, Tim raised him to, but you knew he always kept his switch in his back pocket.
You were thankful for that, at least, remembering the time one King beat a kid from the Tiber Street Tigers with a chain. That fight was supposed to be clean, too, fists only. The kid ended up in the hospital for three months.