by JD Hawkins
I back off, waiting until Hendrix commits himself a little, jogging backwards and shaking my head to get some sense into it. Hendrix isn’t letting me go that easily, though. He leaps forward, fist first. It hits the side of my head, and I can almost see the chirping of cartoon birds, then he follows through with his body, clattering me to the ground.
We fall heavy, as if he’s just taken us both off a cliff, and I know it’s over. Dazed, disoriented, and hurting real bad, I’m gonna need a miracle to avoid getting choked out now.
And a miracle is what I get.
I hear a shout. A scream. The kind a fighter makes when something is wrong. I’m on my back but Hendrix isn’t on me, in fact, he’s nowhere near me. Seconds later I get just enough composure to sit up and see the medical team crowded around Hendrix, who’s lying on his back clutching his shoulder and wincing like a baby. The crowd’s got a different kind of excitement about it now, an unruly one, an unhappy one.
The medic looks up at the ref.
“He landed badly. Dislocated his shoulder,” he says. “He can’t fight like this. It’s over.”
The ref stands up straight, addressing the crowd, and makes a gesture like wiping a table with both hands. The crowd explodes into a long, ugly boo. He grabs my hand as I get up and holds my arm aloft.
“The winner, by technical knockout—Connor Anderson!”
They’re not a crowd anymore, they’re an angry mob with me playing the role of villain. The ref turns me around so I can drink in every last drop of directed hatred, of disappointed and frustrated booing. They look about ready to storm the ring and carry me off to the pyre. Two thousand fans who came to see a fight but saw a thirty-second pounding instead, with the guy getting his face kicked in somehow being announced a winner.
I don’t blame them.
16
Frankie
“Last roll of the dice, huh?” Jim smiles, staring at the flyer in his hands.
“Something like that,” I say, closing up the box of freshly-printed flyers and pulling the heavy cube slowly from the reception desk. “What do you think of it? You think it’ll bring in the crowds we need to keep us going?”
Jim shrugs, still studying the flyer like there’s more than a couple dozen words on it. “It’s got the studio’s address, the name…the prices.” He turns to me. “Let’s face it, compared to the big chain studios, the cheap prices are the only thing we’ve got going for us.”
“And against us,” I say, hugging the box to me.
Jim’s phone beeps and he pulls it out, frowning a split second after swiping the screen.
“Shit. I gotta run.”
“What’s wrong?”
“My boyfriend just dented the car again. I’m going to kill him,” he growls, grabbing one of the other boxes.
“Leave it,” I say quickly, nodding at the door. “I’ll handle them.”
Jim looks at me for a second, about to protest, before the sense of urgency gets the better of him and he bolts for the door. I watch him go with a soft smile and jerk the box up to a slightly more comfortable position.
I move slowly to the studio doors, stop for a second to lift the box a little higher with my knee, and carry on.
“Oh my God.” The words leave my lips instinctually, a gasp of surprise.
Not just that he’s here, two days after the fight he only barely won, the fight I couldn’t make it to but instead had to watch on TV, and not just that it’s the first time I’ve seen him outside the ring since I insulted him and ran out of his apartment, but at the bruises and cuts that cover his face and neck, making him look like a budget horror flick monster. Not least in his hooded-up jersey and slouched, large frame.
“Let me help you with that,” he says, my eyes fixed upon his face so intently I barely notice the way he plucks the box from me like it’s filled with air. “This going to your car?”
I study his face for a couple more seconds, wondering how the hell it must feel to be as bruised as a bag of fruit in a washing machine, then nod. He turns around to the exit, breaking the spell.
“Wait!” I call out, jogging back to the reception where I pick up the second box and follow him. “The car’s locked. We’ll go together.”
He holds the door open for me, the box under his other arm, and I step through. We walk the forty paces to my car in silence, as if him turning up like this and helping me carry stuff was the most natural thing in the world. As if we’ve got nothing serious to talk about. As if we’re just another couple with a common goal. I wish I could say I felt uncomfortable, or that I don’t like it, but I can’t.
He takes the other box from me, putting it under his other arm, as we get to the car. I fish out my keys and open the trunk. The weird way we seem to cooperate so easily somehow makes me feel a little at ease, even though Connor turning up like this, now, is the last thing I expected.
“I saw the fight,” I say, finally, as Connor puts the boxes in the car carefully. “I had to work late but I stopped at a sports bar on my way home and watched.”
He shrugs. “That’s okay. Wasn’t much to see anyway.”
“I wouldn’t say that.” I try to flash a supportive smile. “Honestly, though? It did look…pretty brutal. You won, though, so that’s what counts, right? And next up is the title match. I know you’ll do great.”
“Yeah,” he says, his voice hard as he slams the trunk shut. “Did you see the post-fight conference?”
“No, I didn’t watch it,” I say, hanging my head shamefully as I turn back to the studio. “Was it bad?”
“Well…Gregg went easier on me than he did in the octagon, though I guess he had to since he was wrapped in bandages. The journalists didn’t, though. It was barely a win—they knew it, I knew it. And Butch is only just getting started on me.”
We walk a little more in that comfortable silence, the L.A. air light and cool, the lights from my studio like an oasis on the dark street.
“Well, thanks for watching,” Connor says. “I actually came here because I wanted to say I’m sorry.”
“Connor, you don’t have to. I was probably not being that understanding…” I say, remembering the way I walked out. I’m suddenly filled with the urge to confess all of what Tara told me, but then the honor of the promise I gave her holds me back. I know she probably doesn’t deserve my confidence, but I never break my word—and maybe it’s smarter to wait and see what happens, how Connor acts now that he’s formally apologized. “I guess I didn’t really get how important the fight was. Not until I actually saw it on TV.”
“It’s not just that,” Connor says, as he holds the door open for me again. “I’m also sorry for forgetting everything you taught me…maybe sorry’s not the right word.”
“Let’s go to the office,” I say, leading him inside and sitting in the office chair, pointing at the comfy chair in the corner. He drops himself there, elbows on knees, hands clasped, shoulders hunched—a man still carrying a burden. A man who can’t relax.
I sigh deeply. “What the hell happened, Connor? In the ring, I mean. You told me you were the favorite. That this was just a show-off fight.”
Connor throws himself back in the chair, pulls off his hood so he can bury his hands in his hair as he looks longingly up at the ceiling. I see the full extent of his bruises, the vivid reds and evil purples that streak across the sides of his face.
“I believed the hype,” he says, with more vulnerability than I’ve ever heard from him. “Just like you said. I listened to the crowd. Got caught up in all the hysteria. Became everything people wanted me to be—loud, obnoxious, flashy. Forgot everything I wanted to be—a good fighter. This wasn’t a proud win for me.”
I look away, partly because I don’t really know how to deal with a vulnerable Connor—and partly because vulnerable Connor is surprisingly hot, and I don’t want him to notice the way I’m biting my lip.
“So what now? You’re still going to fight the guy with the belt, right?”
“Foreman?” Connor
says. “Yeah. I’m supposed to. Though almost every other fighter, journalist, and fan doesn’t want me to. They think I should give up the title shot to somebody else. That I’ve just proved I’m not good enough. And maybe they’re right.”
“Don’t say that!”
“It’s the truth. Hendrix shoulda won that fight. I’m not ready for the UFC.”
“That’s bullshit.” I shake my head. “You can’t give up just like that.”
“Why not?”
A grin plays across my lips. “It’s not very alpha male, is it?”
Connor looks at me and laughs.
“Neither am I.”
I shoot him a meek smile.
“You can’t throw your whole life away just because of one shitty fight, Connor. That’s insane.”
“No, you know what’s insane? The way a guy who calls himself ‘Alpha Male’ just got his face pulverized by a skinny guy who has a negative record. The way Hendrix beat a guy who’s spent the past six months trash-talking and grabbing his balls in every interview. The way that guy just got mind-fucked.” He looks up at me and laughs again, shaking his head. “Maybe it sounds crazy, but I’m not even disappointed. I just…don’t know what I’m gonna do now. What I’m all about. I got humiliated in the ring, and now that I’m out of it, I’m just…lost.”
I take one look at Connor’s face and realize that right now, in this moment, he needs me. Whether he realizes it or not. “So the fight didn’t go the way you wanted, so you had an off night, so you let this guy psych you out—so fucking what?” I say, stepping out of the office chair to crouch in front of him, my hand clutching his knee to grab his attention. “Do you know how many times I’ve been humiliated in the past month? By my landlord, my sister, the guy who almost repo’d my car, the fitness chain fuckers up the street who are just waiting me out like I’m holding this place hostage? My whole life has become an exercise in humiliation—but you don’t see me giving up!”
Connor gives me that grim smile again, only this time I see admiration in his eyes.
“Maybe you’re more of an alpha than I ever was.”
“Maybe you don’t really know what an alpha is.”
“Maybe you should show me.”
I look at him, slouched back in the chair, a powerful, determined man, who’s spent so long dominating that he never learned how to deal with failure, directing all of that power and determination inward now, destructively. A man who could break bricks with those arms, who could lift cars with those shoulders, slumped back like all that muscle is a burden and not a gift. A man at his lowest point, and yet still more attractive than any man I’ve ever met.
“Frankie,” Connor says cautiously, as my hand moves up his sweatpants, “what are you doing?”
“Reminding you,” I say, the low thrum of my hotness for him coming out as a husky whisper.
His eyes go lidded when I find the outline of his cock, barely hard yet and still big enough to fill my palm.
“Frankie…” he says, halfway between an urge and a protest. “You don’t have to…”
“I want to,” I say, feeling the firmness under my stroking palm turn hard, push itself against my strokes now like a wakened beast. Connor slumps in the chair, but the trace of that animal who fucked me beside the water still exists somewhere in the depths of his big, imposing body.
I swing myself up and onto him, straddling his middle as he sits on the chair, hips grinding as my clit finds his hard cock through the clothes. His movements are stiff, reluctant, his hands still on the armrests when they ought to be on my arching back, exploring my heaving breasts.
“Come on, Connor,” I hiss, hand grabbing the bottom of his jaw as I run the tip of my tongue across the hard stubble of his cheekbone, “I know you’re in there.”
A smile flickers at the corner of his lips, his strong hands wrapping around my waist. I push my body against his as my tongue continues its journey down the underside of his ear, tracing the groove of his neck muscles.
“Frankie,” he murmurs.
“Shh,” I say, putting a finger against his lips, locking eyes with him as I run my hand under his sweatshirt and reach up against his torso.
When I dig my nails in and rake them down between his stone-like pecs and the complex lines of his six-pack, the small fire that he’s keeping deep inside starts to catch, starts to flame up. I lick my lips with excitement as his jaw clenches with determination. His eyes narrow into hard blue torches of masculine desire. Strength surges into his muscles as he grips my waist harder and pulls me against his cock, forcing me onto him.
“That’s it,” I say, smiling wickedly. “Let it out.”
Hard lips attack mine, uncompromising and greedy, his tongue invading my mouth, fighting my own, rampaging over it with the fierce violence of wildfire. Strong fingers clutch and pull at my ass, forcing my thighs against his, squeezing my hard nipples against his wall of a frame.
I reach down into those sweatpants, squeezing my hand between our compressed bodies, finding the hard head of his cock and bringing it up beyond the waistband, out into the open. Connor growls as the last remnant of hesitation leaves his body, doubts fleeing his mind in the face of the lust I’ve ignited.
His fingers go to my hair, pulling my ponytail free with the deft touch of an artist and then grabbing the unbound locks with the heavy roughness of a brute. He pulls my head back, breaking our lips to leave me panting over my tongue like I’m coming up for air. He holds me there in front of him, a fistful of hair at the end of those veined muscles, and breathes in a hiss through his lips.
I feel his eyes strip me of all my baggage, down to a core of beauty, a core of fuckable hotness, as he slides his sweatpants down, his cock hard and long and thick as it presses against the skintight fabric of my yoga pants. My mouth waters. I grab him with my hand and squeeze, watching a pulse of pleasure pass over his killer eyes and jungle cat jawline. Then I ease off him and get on the floor, down on my knees with my hands on his thighs.
“Don’t be gentle,” he says, his voice heavy with testosterone and heat, before pulling my head down and positioning my wet lips onto that rod of concentrated power and desire.
His cock fills my mouth, the curve of his head against the roof, against the back of my throat. I struggle to breathe, struggle to pull away, struggle to take him deeper. His head goes back and he growls at the wall, a growl that vibrates against my tongue. My nails claw at the neo-classical lines of his sides, scratching and pulling like a woman gone mad.
He holds my head steady and pumps my lips up and down his hot, thick shaft, my tongue lashing all the way, teeth scratching gently, lips sealed around his thrusting solidness. His hands go to my breasts, pinching and squeezing the nipples, against my sides, neck, the sudden, delightful pain of a smack on my ass. Hands grabbing and pulling at my body, prone between his muscular legs—between his alpha male stance, a king on his throne. Hands I can’t even tell are mine, or his, anymore. The stiff desire in his cock and the alive pleasure of my body blending, becoming symbiotic. Two people pushing, a dance between Connor fucking my mouth and my ravenous hunger to take every inch inside of me.
His breathing is a constant growl now, sharp intakes of breath, his torso rising and falling rapidly under my nails. I feel that he’s close instinctually, the oncoming pleasure communicated through the skin of his cock, in the way he pumps me. I push myself further but he pulls me away urgently, my lips smacking as the head leaves my mouth, and he tugs my hair back to make me look up at him, beyond the spire of his cock.
His eyes meet mine, and he lets out a low groan as he comes into my mouth. I swallow, closing my throat tighter around his cock. He shudders. I wonder whether this will transform me in the same way I wanted it to transform Connor.
17
Connor
I’m supposed to take a ten day recovery period before I go back to the gym. Ten days of sitting around doing nothing, letting my injuries heal and my mind calm, a holiday from the incessa
nt pounding and exhaustion that training gives my body.
It was supposed to be a time for victory. Time to break my regime a little and treat myself to a beer. Time to invite some of the guys over to watch the fight again and celebrate. Time to give interviews and do the rounds as I reveled in the win and ramped up to the next challenge, the even bigger challenge, the climax of everything.
But I’m a loser now, despite the fact that I technically won the Hendrix fight, and nobody wants to spend time with a loser. Gregg’s the one everybody wants to bring in for the interviews, to ask how he feels about getting robbed, to ask when he’ll be back in action, to ask when he’ll be ready to fight a revenge match with me, and the guys who I expected to bring booze and good spirits to my house for a party know better than anyone that this isn’t the time for company.
The analysts and fans go wild on social media, calling for me to hand in the title bout to someone better, to hand it back to Gregg. Pretending they always suspected I was full of hot air, writing off my entire career, telling me to go back to small-organization fights—more than a few of them picking up on Gregg’s joke about my rightful job being a porno actor.
I should be embarrassed, demoralized, completely broken. I should want to hide my face until everybody forgets my name. I should at least consider the prospect of handing in the title fight, considering Pete Foreman is ten times the fighter Gregg is. I should admit defeat.
Yesterday I would have.
But not anymore.
It’s amazing what a woman like Frankie can do to a guy like me. Tear him to pieces in a way that no MMA fighter could ever hope to, and give him the strength to endure a whole world turning against him—all with a snap of her fingers, or her lips.
That’s why, when I walk into the gym two days after the fight, my head held high, my bruised face like a shield, no slouch in the shoulder or skulking around the side of the room, everyone’s too surprised to make the jokes they’ve been saving. No point rubbing salt in a wound I’m exposing.