The Fight

by Alice Ward

  And maybe the fact that she didn’t seem the least bit interested in me had increased my interest that much more. Because of my money and position, women usually fell all over me, but the great Cherry Bomb kept her distance. Still, there was something that made me want to be in the same room with her again. Needed to be. My cock pulsed, and I jumped out of bed and headed for the shower, determined to put all thoughts of Cherry out of my head.

  But the problem was, my erection just would not go away. And when I decided to take care of the problem in the shower and wrapped my hand around it, the deliciously sweaty image of Cherry lodged itself forefront in my mind. As if she were in front of me, her image became a fantasy in which she stepped into the shower stall as large as a walk-in closet, shutting the glass door behind her and turning to give me a questioning look.

  Her eyes flicked to my lower regions, her pupils darkening, which made my abdomen muscles tighten in anticipation.

  “Let me,” my phantom Cherry purred, closing the distance between us and commandeering my cock, sliding her soft hand down my length as I let out a hiss and gritted my teeth, trying to arch into her touch.

  She tightened her grip and locked eyes with me. In hers, I could see that she was enjoying herself, was turned on by what she was doing. Her tongue flicked out, ran over her lower lip.

  My wonder at her joining me in the shower darted away, and I pulled her closer, smashing her breasts against my chest, the contact making her gasp before taking her mouth with mine. I plunged my tongue in, clashed with hers, spiraling and sparring, until I finally won the battle and explored her mouth as her hand increased its speed.

  Abruptly, she pulled her mouth from mine and stepped back, the cold air harsh after her soft warmth. I blinked my eyes open and realized she’d gone to her knees. A feeling that could only be described as a punch to the gut staggered through me.

  “Cherry, you don’t—”

  “I want to taste you, want you to fill my mouth.”

  A strangled groan escaped me as she acted on her words before I could object further, opening her mouth and taking in the head, sucking and swirling her tongue across it before dipping it into my slit. I actually felt blood leave my extremities as my dick hardened further.

  She pressed her head forward, opening her mouth and taking half my length in, pulling back and sucking as she went. My growl was lost in the sounds of the water hitting the tile and our bodies, the pounding of my heart in my ears. Then she took me deeper, all the way, until I was hilted in the back of her throat, and she moaned as she pressed her tongue against my shaft on her way up.

  My hand went to the back of her neck, encouraging her to continue as she feasted on my ever-hardening cock.

  Her movements became faster, my hips pumping desperately as she opened, laving me with her tongue. My other hand twisted in her hair, and I heard myself groaning her name.

  I let her take control, sliding my cock in and out of her mouth, the popping sound each time she reached the end raising my excitement until I was panting. The tension in my lower belly reached a pinnacle, and the air went white-hot as she latched on and sucked, taking all of me. Shouting her name in surprise, I burst into her mouth. Even then, she didn’t stop, only slowed as she drew out every last drop and made a show of swallowing, a sexy smirk on her face as she did.

  Smiling like the cat who had snuck the last bit of the cream, she sat back on her haunches, and her darkened eyes met mine. I drew in a shuddering breath and stepped back to catch my balance, and the vision disappeared.

  Once again, I was in my shower, the hot water turning cold as my lungs heaved and I tried to expel the fantasy from my mind.

  But even at the office, it wouldn’t leave. Not entirely.

  Hours later, I still couldn’t concentrate on the numbers I was trying to come up with for my new “prototype” to present to the ever unhappy accountants. Each time my attention wandered, I ended up staring out the window at the view of the Ohio River and the Second Street Bridge. The third time that view changed to what I had envisioned in my shower that morning, I slapped the pen down on my desk and stood.

  Sometimes when I couldn’t concentrate, I wandered the halls, talked to the guards or the receptionists. Owning a skyscraper wasn’t all shits and giggles. To make clients happy, it involved knowing what was going on in its depths, listening to complaints about how the cleaning crew was doing, how someone had to call the police because some crazy came off the street threatening people with a machete in Panera Bread. By now, most of the people I talked to trusted me, knew I was more than a suit sitting at the top of the tower.

  Today though, I had a different subject in mind. The tunnels.

  Before the fight, I’d heard of the tunnels running in a decrepit network underneath the streets of Louisville, but I’d always assumed they weren’t used anymore. Or were only used when some plumbing issue came up at the water line main arteries. After last night I knew there was more to them, and I planned to find out what. If they were being used as a transportation way to illegal fights — which was fine by me, delightful even — I wondered if the ones that must’ve been underneath my own building were in use, and why.

  And I knew just where to go.

  Down on the main level where the trucks came in for delivery, there was a guard who had somehow managed to remain at his post through several guard company buyouts and maybe a hundred employee changes. He was devoted, showing up during blizzards and holidays when no one else did. On top of that, he was a character.

  “Neddie.”

  The wiry, bald guard turned, his face lighting up when he saw me. “Mr. Birchmeir. How’s it going up there on the thirty-fifth?”

  “Running smoothly.” Or it would be if I could get my mind off a certain boxing beauty. “I wanted to pick your brain for a minute.”

  “Pick away, man. There’s not much hair here to protect me from that these days.” Neddie cackled and rubbed his bald head. He was a jokester, but Neddie knew everything that happened on the street, almost as if by osmosis.

  I could tell by the apologetic expression in his hazel eyes that he didn’t have any news for me today. Sometimes he did. He knew my history. Knew who I searched for.

  Some days, he’d give me a snippet about a woman seen in an alley, dark blonde hair, eyes bluer than the ocean on a perfect summer day. Some days the news wasn’t so hopeful, when somebody had found a body. Those days I added a bit of something extra to my morning coffee and called it Irish.

  I laughed and shook my head. “Do you know anything about the tunnels that run underground here? Maybe even under the building?”

  Neddie frowned and gestured toward the sidewalk just outside his office. “Sure do. Why, last winter the police lifted up the manhole cover just out there on the sidewalk, and out came five people. Homeless. Been living underground, trying to not freeze to death.”

  “Really. I never heard about that.” I couldn’t hide my shock that people had taken to climbing into a manhole to escape the bitter cold that gripped Louisville in spells in the winter.

  “Probably the police never made a report, and if there’s nothing to tell, well… why talk about it?” He gave me a sympathetic look. “And they didn’t come back. Jails are so full of the drug problem in this city, they probably just warned them off.”

  “Hmm.” I rocked back on my heels. “That’s just a storm drain out there though, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, but it’s probably in the network of tunnels, connected to others. Some of the tunnels are waterways, some are electric and plumbing access, others used to have a function back in the day.”

  “I’m really interested in these tunnels, Neddie. How would I go about finding out more about them? Not the ones out there on the street, but any that might have an entrance or one that’s been blocked up in the basement here? I might go down there and take a look, actually.”

  Neddie stepped closer and held out a hand in a stop gesture. “Well, Mr. Birchmeir, it’s dark and damn
dirty down there. You don’t wanna muss that fine suit of yours. Why don’t you just let me handle that? I can take my lunch and—”

  “That’s a great idea, but stay on the clock, and we can go down to the lower level, take a look around. I’m not worried about this suit, just want to make sure everything’s secure.”

  Neddie looked away, and I guessed he wasn’t too keen on skipping lunch for an outing in the basement with the building owner. And I was pretty sure I’d just insulted his capabilities, even though his station was on street level.

  “I know you keep things secure, but the basement isn’t your turf. I’ll make sure you still get your lunch when we get back.”

  He waved my words away. “Eh, the less you eat, the longer you live, scientific studies say. Let’s go.”

  I chuckled and shook my head as I followed Neddie into the basement, then through another door marked sub-basement that led to stairs. A basement under a basement. That was creepy. It got damper as we went, the ceiling lower and the lights dimmer, seemingly with bulbs leftover from an era that didn’t know about LED. When we had almost reached the far side of the subbasement, Neddie stopped and clicked on his flashlight.

  “There ya go. There’s one entrance to a tunnel here.” He spoke loudly as he flashed his light on a large, rusted door then flicked the illumination to the adjacent wall. “There’s another. Both secure.” A door similar to the first was visible in the dim light.

  “Damn. How can you tell they’re secure? Looks like a weakness to me.”

  Neddie huffed as if I’d personally insulted him. “They’re secure. I’ll show you.” He went to the first, fiddled with the locking mechanism, which must have been stuck, then banged on the door with his fist, ending in a kick. “Damn thing,” he shouted. “Damn fucking old doors don’t wanna open even to the building owner, no sir.”

  When the door finally did swing open, a breeze filtered in, smelling of dank and mold and piss. I covered my nose with my hand but stepped closer, peering in.

  Inside, in the pale cast of light from the subbasement, were someone’s things. A pile of raggedy blankets, some magazines, a dirty pink bike with training wheels.

  “Looks like somebody’s trash got washed down. Best shut this up before the rats get the scent of fresh air.”

  “Rats?”

  Neddie’s eyes lit up in the faint light. “You ain’t never seen the rats ‘round here? Big as possums and wouldn’t think twice about runnin’ up and chompin’ on your shoe. Damn pesky things, need at least a .22 to kill one. Ain’t allowed to carry a gun though.” His eyes huge with his own talk of rats, Neddie swung the iron door shut and smacked the lock into place, announcing, “Secure!”

  Neddie turned and headed back for the elevator, but I stood in what was left of the rank air. The old guy was a stellar employee, and I wouldn’t think he’d pull one over on me unless he had a reason. Or several. But he was acting strange, or stranger than usual, and I wanted to know why.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Cherry

  I looked anxiously out the window of the bus, trying not to let the critical part of my mind whip me into a nervous frenzy. I distracted myself by mentally laying out my schedule for the day, which ended in a six-hour shift at Jeannie’s Pizza.

  As soon as I woke up, I called the number on Mr. Birchmeir’s business card only to be surprised by a woman’s voice. It took me a couple of seconds to realize the burning in my gut was jealousy, then to piece together that she was a secretary. By then I was already being patched through to Mr. Birchmeir himself and had no chance to recover, stuttering like some kind of half-wit who’d had her brain knocked out.

  He’d given me the address of the gym where I would be training if I accepted his offer. Of course, my first reaction had been to use caution. Living in this area of town, I’d learned that only an idiot would go to an unknown place with an unknown man. I punched the address into Google Maps, which showed its location as toward the upper side of town, off Frankfort Avenue, and a quick search told me that it was a fairly popular gym.

  In fact, the photos were pretty amazing. From what I could tell, it was one of those exclusive gyms that I could never hope to afford, which again had me wondering if this offer was too good to be true. But I had to at least go and see, which left me having to wait for two connecting buses and took an hour and a half. I’d better be walking into a fairy tale, not a scam. If Hawk trusted the guy, then I guessed I’d have to give him the benefit of the doubt.

  Of course, public transportation didn’t go anywhere near the gym, so that meant I had to get off at the closest street and walk the last mile. But I needed some cardio anyway, so I supposed it wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

  At least it wasn’t too cold, despite being the dead of winter. The January thaw had hit overnight, reminding me of the joke locals used about the weather — if you didn’t like the weather, stick around, it would change.

  The street and sidewalks were cleaner here than where I lived, the houses bigger, stores not shut down or with graffiti painted on their sides. I sucked in a deep breath through my nose, the scent of clean air lifting my mood. If I could go pro, I’d move my family somewhere like this, with bigger houses that were sturdy but still had the character of the decade they were built in. I wanted to embrace Kentucky as my home state, Louisville as my stomping ground, but it was hard to do when I lived in a place where most everyone was scrounging for change just for bus fare.

  When I arrived at Burn Fitness, I realized that the pictures didn’t do it justice. Not only was the place massive, but it was also incredibly clean and stylish. The outer walls were a mix of stone and glass, allowing a small peek inside at the machines where several muscle-bound men and women were working out. I stopped in front of the brilliant red doors boasting chrome handles. They glimmered so that I almost felt like I would smear them with my touch, so I covered my palms with the edge of my jacket before grasping one and pushing the door open.

  “Ah, Cherry, you’re early.” I was surprised to be greeted by Mr. Birchmeir right inside the front door. He was dressed much more casually than I’d last seen him, sporting a loose t-shirt that probably cost more than what I would pay for electric this month and dark-washed jeans that were no doubt equally as expensive. I was reminded once again how unfairly handsome he was, and it put me on edge.

  Maybe I just needed to get laid. Then I’d be able to focus for more than three seconds around him.

  “It was the earliest route, Mr. Birchmeir. Buses don’t run all their regular routes on Saturday,” I said with an amiable smile.

  He frowned in a way that bordered on concern and smiled a welcome. “Please, call me Caleb. And you rode a TARC bus here? Those things are atrocious.”

  My back snapped straight. Was he being condescending? “I don’t have a car.”

  Mom used to have a car, Dad’s old farm truck in fact, but it needed a new carburetor, so it was sitting in the backyard at the house waiting until we could afford the repair bill.

  He leaned back and scratched the side of his head. The strangest craving came over me, to step forward and touch his hair. “I’m sorry, I would have had a driver pick you up if I’d known. Bet you had to transfer more than once.”

  This pretty boy knew the bus system? That was a surprise. “Yeah…”

  “As a teen, I had to take the bus for a while when my… driving privileges were restricted. So I can relate.”

  But he couldn’t, really. And as hot as he was, I couldn’t let myself forget that. I wouldn’t fall into the trap of submitting to my desires and ruining a career that hadn’t even started yet.

  He let out a short, sexy chuckle and gestured toward the back of the gym. “Would you like to take a tour of the facilities?”

  “Yeah, sure. That’s why I’m here, right?”

  His eyes swept over me. “That it is. This way.” He walked into the gym, past the receptionist desk where a Latino guy smile and nodded. I followed, flashing a quick smil
e.

  He had a certain sort of swagger as he walked. One that wasn’t quite cocky, but definitely communicated that he was more than secure in himself. I found my eyes flicking from his broad shoulders to his strong waist, and finally to his pretty delicious-looking backside. Several times, when he turned to explain some piece of equipment, I had to quickly avert my gaze to avoid being caught checking my potential sponsor out.

  The last thing I wanted was to seem unprofessional. I was lucky that this guy even wanted to talk to me after my awkward reaction to his initial offer, and I didn’t want to blow it now.

  We finished the tour of the workout area, passing through the locker rooms, stepping into a massive area in the rear of the building. The ceiling reached as high as a second story, light fixtures hanging on metal bars that crossed this way and that.

  “This is the ring,” Caleb said, pointing to the main focus in the cavernous room.

  There was a full-sized, beautifully padded fighting area that looked as if it was dutifully polished every night. The ropes were taut, without a single fray in sight, while the padding was thick and even throughout. It was the kind of ring you saw in movies, and I was struggling not to drool over it.

  “Over there are the punching bags and the sparring mats.” I followed his pointed finger to more pristine facilities. A rugged-looking man pounded on a long and probably very heavy sand-filled punching bag as if it had personally offended him.

  “So, what kind of schedule are you thinking of for training?” I asked, wanting to ask if there was anyone I could spar with right then, I wanted in that ring so badly.

  “The usual hours of this gym are six a.m. to eleven p.m., Monday through Friday and six to nine on the weekends.”

  “What about a coach?”

  He shrugged as if that was the least important detail and started for another area. “I have a few portfolios and highlight reels I want you to look at to decide who you would like to work with. After you examine the contract and feel comfortable moving forward, of course.”