Love Games

18|| We Have A Problem

🦋Amina

In the early light filtering through the curtains, our conversation dances around the edges of Easton's shadowed world. His initial declaration, "I told you, I sell cars," was tinged with a defensive pride, yet it barely scratched the surface of his life's canvas. As we lay there, wrapped in the comfort of his bed, a dance of words unfolds between us.

"And motorcycles," he adds, after a pause filled with unspoken thoughts, his voice carrying a hint of something more, something deeper.

My curiosity, however, remains unsatiated. "I'm being serious," I push, sensing the depth of the iceberg beneath the surface of his words.

A moment of hesitation passes before he unveils more of his world. "Well, I've got some investments, dabble in stocks, and sometimes I place bets on games...and rigged street fights," he admits, the last part catching me off guard and pulling me deeper into the intrigue of his life.

"You bet on street fights?" My voice mirrors my surprise, yet it's laced with an undeniable intrigue.

"Yeah, but ask what you really want to know," he counters, his perception cutting through the layers of my curiosity.

It's then I dive into the question that's been burning within me. "Aunt Dee, what is it you do with her?" I ask, unable to keep the question caged any longer.

Easton's posture shifts, a fortress of reticence in his eyes as he leans back against the headboard. "I help her with business from time to time," he states, his words carefully chosen, leaving more unsaid than revealed.

The conversation takes a turn as I probe further, "So, can I come to one of those underground fights with you one day?" My question, bold and direct, hangs in the air, momentarily silenced by the growl of my stomach, a sound he graciously ignores.

"No," he answers simply, his response as swift as his move to exit the room. But I'm not ready to let it go.

"Why?" I persist, following him into the kitchen, where the domestic act of breakfast preparation unfolds.

He reasons, "For one, they're illegal, and for two, they're dangerous." His back is to me, but I can hear the seriousness in his tone.

Undeterred, I challenge, "I'll just find my own way then."

"Good luck," he retorts, the simplicity of his response doing little to quell my determination.

As he sets a plate before me, a mix of eggs, toast, and cheese, my confusion surfaces. "What's that supposed to mean?"

His explanation that one needs to be vetted and invited peels back another layer of this clandestine world. "Why do you want to go so badly?" he asks

"I used to box for fun, something I did after my dad..." I pause, the memories flooding back. "I always liked the sport."

Easton's gaze softens, his own history perhaps mirroring mine in some way. He considers his response carefully before redirecting the conversation. "This is no boxing, this is underground street fighting," he warns, his voice tinged with a hint of concern.

"And you consider boxing a sport?" he challenges, his attempt to shift the focus evident.

"I mean, it is," I assert, taking a bite of my breakfast sandwich.

"Fair enough," he concedes, though his tone betrays a lingering doubt. "But underground fighting is a whole different ballgame. It's raw, brutal, and unpredictable."

I nod, acknowledging his viewpoint, but not fully agreeing. "I see your point, but there's something about the adrenaline and the intensity of it that appeals to some people."