Jezebel

by Koko Brown

  Not wasting another minute, Shane hastened toward his fate, Ollie trailing in his wake. Both his coach and corner man, he’d been his second ever since their days in Kansas City.

  Once inside the ring, Shane moved along the ropes.

  Arms swaying in and out, to keep the energy flowing, he scanned the ringside seats in search of his favorite color.

  Shane knew he’d set himself up for disappointment. He wouldn’t be surprised if Celeste would not spite him by honoring his request.

  Shane didn’t blame her. Yesterday, his treatment had been rotten, and yet necessary. He’d expected Ferruci at the weigh in, not the honoring of their appointment. The calendar date had come and gone without word from the boxing promoter.

  Naturally, Shane had given up hope, his cause turning sour upon another man’s whims. In turn, he’d been caught off guard when Ferruci showed up at the weigh in the other day, and he’d acted rashly from a guilty conscience.

  A flash of Kelly green and Shane froze. Celeste sat in the second row wearing his peace offering, an emerald green, satin dress, which hugged every single one of her delectable curves.

  Off the rack, the dress had been delivered this morning by Madame LaRoche herself to ensure a perfect fit. The service hadn’t been cheap, but Shane didn’t begrudge the cost. He’d pay ten times the price to make amends. And it seemed like his plan had been fruitful.

  Not only had she worn the dress, but when their gazes clashed and held her expression softened, giving him a glimpse of the vulnerable woman he’d fallen in love with.

  She smiled and he drew himself to his full height. He even threw his shoulders back. Yeah, he had it bad. A record breaking crowd of more than twenty thousand people had paid to see him fight and he was preening for his wife’s favor.

  Entranced by his wife, Shane didn’t hear the announcer introduce Mountain Man Jim Clarke nor his entrance music. He didn’t move until called to ring center to face his opponent.

  An inch taller and possessed of a wiry build, his opponent hid lightning quick reflexes and a deadly right hook, which could buckle the knees. He’d needed it, Shane muse. He wasn’t going down easy.

  With mounting impatience, Shane digested the rules and the referee’s customary wish of good luck. And he barely tapped the other man’s gloves before retreating to his corner.

  “Remember stay in the middle of the ring, keep your feet moving.” Ollie massaged Shane’s right shoulder. “And whatever you do don’t let him get you on the ropes.”

  At the sound of the bell, Shane advanced on his opponent. Never one to strike the first blow, a silly superstition of his, Shane circled Clarke.

  “You want a piece of this?” his opponent sneered. A showman of the first order, Clarke was known to taunt his opponents during an entire bout. For some fighters, it threw off their timing, messed with their head. Not Shane. Steadfast, he could remain steady with a marching band nipping at his heels.

  “I plan on taking my pound of flesh and then some.” Shane assured him. The fighter’s overconfident expression melted into a furrowed brow. Shane grinned, even winked. The man’s confusion had been worth the cheap talk.

  Bearing his teeth, Clarke stepped forward, throwing with his right. Inside the punch, Shane countered with a hard left uppercut. The blow landed solid and Clarke’s knees buckled. Shane shifted his body weight, preparing to strike. He drew his arm back at the same point Clarke fell to one knee and one of his gloves touched the mat.

  The referee swung his arms, directing Shane to back up. “One…two…three…”

  Slowly, Clarke regained his footing, but not his facilities. Eyes unfocused, his body swayed like a willow in a light breeze.

  However, looks were deceiving. Shane barely advanced two steps when Clarke’s fist connected, clipping Shane’s temple. Overcome by a wave of dizziness, he protected his head as his opponent fired several punches to his arms and upper torso. Shane dug in, refusing to be backed into the ropes. Through the assault, the crowd’s screams filtered into his conscience as did the bell. Giving up his defensive stance, Shane pushed his way past Clarke.

  “Way to dig in, kid,” Ollie said, setting out a stool. Shane opened his mouth for the water bottle. “Stay focused and you got this. After tonight, no more sideshow carny spectacles only arenas and stadiums.”

  After swishing his mouth, Shane spat blood in the bucket at his feet. He mulled over telling Ollie his recently made plans now or after he packed up the Paddy Wagon. He decided on now, he owed his coach that much.

  “I’m throwing in the towel after tonight.”

  Hands greasy with petroleum jelly, Ollie paused mid-routine. Eyes narrowed, head cocked per his habit whenever he attempted to understand something of import. Shane blinked. Were those tears in the old man’s eyes?

  “What do you mean you’re done?”

  “I’m retiring.”

  Slowly, Ollie swept his fingers over Shane’s brow, down his cheeks and chin. “How are you going to feed and clothe yourself?”

  “I have more than a quarter of a million stashed away.” Following in the footsteps of his idol Young Stribling, a heavyweight contender who never gained a title before his premature death at the age of twenty-eight, Shane had also hoped to amass a million dollars before he called it quits.

  Ollie’s head jerked up, his mouth open in shock. “I put away every purse, stayed away from the banks, the market and only used what I needed,” Shane explained.

  The bell for round two clanged and Shane charged forward. Not holding anything back, he cracked his right fist into Clarke’s jaw, spraying sweat in all directions, spattering the canvas. Shane pivoted and hit him with a left hook followed by piston-like rights to the head.

  The skin above Clarke’s left eye split open, leaving a quarter size gash. Blood ran down his cheek and he squinted. Shane took advantage of his handicap, not giving the other man any room to score any cheap shots or points.

  “That round was all yours!” Ollie crowed when Shane sat down after round two. He removed the towel from his shoulder and wiped sweat from Shane’s face and upper shoulders. “Just maintain the momentum.”

  For the remainder of the resting period Ollie spewed words of encouragement peppered with heavy doses of strategy. He might as well have been talking to a tree stump. Shane’s head remained outside the ring, his eyes repeatedly drifting to the second row.

  Did she worry for him? Or was she repulsed by what he did for a living? The thought not sitting well with him, Shane stood before the bell. He rolled his shoulders and moved his feet, feeding off his adrenaline.

  Per Ollie’s advice, Shane sought to reestablish the rhythm. Better to lead, than be led.

  Clarke had other ideas.

  He remained just out of Shane’s seventy-inch reach. Even his feet seemed leaden. He slowed things down, pacing himself and Shane despite his attempts to increase the momentum.

  Impatient and throwing caution to the wind, Shane stepped forward crowding Clarke. He fired several punches at his arms followed by a stiff jab to the face, an uppercut to his nose, spewing blood. Clarke stumbled back and hung on the ropes. Blood, dark and thick dripped over his lip and onto his chin.

  Shane stalked him, preparing to finish him off. Chest rising and falling with exhausted breath, Clarke slumped and Shane’s gaze moved beyond the ring to Gould and his two cronies sitting in the front row. Like a blow to the gut, the man’s presence reminded Shane of their one-sided deal.

  Time to pay the piper, Shane mused inwardly laughing at the wise guy’s ashen countenance like he was about to puke the contents of his stomach.

  Shane didn’t see the fist slam into his midsection. The planted fist knocked the breath out of him, doubling him over.

  Not for long.

  Clarke set him back upright with a sly upper cut. Shane pitched backward almost falling flat if it weren’t for a quick balancing act. He swayed for a moment overcome by a bout of dizziness. Clarke seemed to split into three. Unsure of h
is opponent, Shane lifted his gloves, protecting his head.

  As blood dripped down his face, Clarke pitched forward wildly swinging. Some remained air borne, others landed true. Not enough to produce a KO, but enough to add more points to his card and stun Shane into immobility.

  Shane almost laughed at his change in fortunes. He might as well have been against the ropes. Unable to find an opening, he simply stood there taking Clarke’s repeated blows. Shane didn’t get the chance to ponder how many. He lost count at six.

  Thankfully, the end of the round bell rang and he hobbled to his corner.

  Blood and sweat splattered the ring’s canvas floor. Combine that with an unhealthy dose of anxiety and Celeste wished she’d skipped dinner.

  And yet, she couldn’t turn away.

  The bout unfolded like a scene from a movie with Shane starring as the gallant hero. Tall and handsome, he moved with the grace of a dancer—a deadly one with heavy hands that made mincemeat of his opponent.

  By the fifth round, Mountain Man Clarke turned into a human punching bag. He sported a nasty gash over his right eye, a split lip and his nose had been plugged with so much cotton it was a wonder he could breathe.

  So, of course by the sixth round Celeste thought she’d become numb to the carnage. Clarke quickly dispelled her of that notion when he attacked Shane at the opening bell. One strike after another until Shane hung on the ropes.

  Eye rapidly swelling, his mouth fell open and he appeared to be laboring for breath. Celeste willed him to move before the count.

  Too late. The referee scuttled forward and shoved his hand in Shane’s face.

  “1…2…3…4….”

  The ropes jiggled as Shane struggled to move.

  From her vantage point, the feat seemed impossible, but he succeeded in at least standing on his own. When he moved to rejoin the fray, the referee grabbed his gloves, deterring him.

  Call the fight! Celeste wanted to scream. Instead, she held her tongue as the referee dropped Shane’s hands, giving him the okay to continue.

  Gloves up and arms tucked, Shane moved toward Clarke. Celeste checked her watch. He needed to outlast Clarke another minute or so and then he could rest.

  Clarke had other ideas. The minute Shane was in arm’s reach he struck. Instead of taking a defensive stance, Shane gave tit for tat. With every punch Clarke dished out, he retaliated.

  What should’ve been a long shot, Shane shifted the odds back into his favor. He threw punch after punch, shot after shot. Now on the defensive, Clarke stopped swinging in order to protect his head.

  Undeterred, Shane battered his opponent’s arms until they tired and gave up their post. Although she didn’t know boxing strategy, Celeste knew the exact moment when Shane found an opening. He drew his arm back and then rocketed a solid right hook, followed by a nasty upper cut to Clarke’s chin.

  Clarke’s upper torso twisted, while his feet remained planted. He swayed slightly and then pitched forward. During his descent, light bulbs lit up the arena and the crowd roared, half of them leaving their seats.

  “Timber!” the guy next to her shouted, his expression tainted with blood lust.

  “1…2…3….” Each count reverberated through the Garden. Celeste didn’t join the chorus, she was too busy praying.

  “7…8…9….”

  CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

  As the dutiful wife, she should have shouldered her way into the ring, claiming her marital rights, but she doubted anyone would have believed her. Instead she remained outside the ring, tears streaming down her face as the referee hoisted Shane’s arm.

  Escaping the pandemonium, Celeste hurried through the tunnel to the dressing rooms. What she found was more chaos just on a smaller scale. Groupies huddled in perfumed circles. The media formed a tightknit contingent akin to a small militia. And a handful of staff flitted back and forth trying to wrangle them all.

  A man belonging to neither group barreled past her. “I’m gonna kill him.”

  “Calm down, boss.” One of the two goons shadowing him, tried to calm him down.

  The man whirled around and Celeste was surprised to find she recognized him. “Don’t you fucking tell me to calm down,” Abraham Gould hissed. “I’m ruined.”

  Instead of adding to the traffic in the tunnel, Gould and his two cohorts kept walking, heading toward the exit. Relieved, Celeste relaxed. Something about Gould made her flesh crawl.

  A calamity echoed off the tunnel’s walls, and Celeste put Gould behind her. Her future and what seemed like half of the Garden stormed toward her.

  Bruised and battered, Shane had been swept up and carried by the crowd’s momentum. Without them, he would have probably crawled back to his dressing room.

  Celeste’s heart lurched. A greenish bruise ran the length of his torso. Most of his face, still greasy with petroleum jelly, had started to swell and darken to a grisly bluish-black. He even sported a large goose egg over his left eye.

  And yet, in spite of his woeful physical appearance, he still did a number on her. All the times he’d made love to her came to the forefront. Her heart beat erratically and her fingers itched to touch him, make sure he was okay.

  “Lady, you better get behind me or get trampled.”

  Celeste moved, heeding the police officer’s advice. She’d witnessed a stampede or two, during nightclub raids, and the results were never pretty.

  “Celeste.” Shane’s guttural growling of name, impeded her progress. He’d stopped as well, as did the crowd moving around him in a semicircle.

  Their gazes locked, and her nerve endings sizzled as she drank him in. He’d taken a beating and all she wanted were his hands and tongue on her.

  “Come here and congratulate me.” Even with his hair plastered to his head and almost bruised beyond recognition, he still made her think about all the wicked things he could do to her body.

  A lump filled her throat as she took a step toward him. Two more steps then she ran the rest of the way, practically barreling into him.

  “Why didn’t you come into the ring?”

  “I…ah…I,” she stuttered, no longer finding weight in her earlier reasoning.

  “Shut up,” he said, right before his lips crashed into. His wicked tongue pushed past her lips, his fingers tangled in her hair and her body went up in flames. Celeste melted into him. The faint scent of cologne intermingled with sweat and salt tickled her nose. His taste was raw, exotic and highly addictive.

  “Who’s this champ?” someone asked and then another. Celeste ignored them, despising the interruption. She wanted more kisses.

  To her regret, Shane broke off their kiss, but he didn’t let her go. With his hands gripping her waist, his gaze slid over her mouth. So much desire blazed from him, she ached for a private place where they could be alone.

  “So what gives, Brennan? Who’s the mystery lady?”

  He ran his tongue over his lips as if her taste still lingered there. “This here, gentlemen, is my beautiful wife.”

  Shane opened a floodgate of flashing light bulbs and questions, which he refused to address. He grabbed her hand and hauled her into the dressing room.

  Kissing her nearly killed him, but he couldn’t help touching her, loving her. His woman made him happier than a rat in a trash heap.

  “Shane, are you smelling my hair?”

  “Mmm…hmm,” he murmured. Her body, her scent, everything about her had carried him through the bout.

  “You were great out there, baby. I’m so proud of you,” she said, pushing up against him and wrapping her arms around him. Still tender from the fight, Shane winced.

  “I’m hurting you,” she gasped, jerking back.

  “Yeah, but it’s a good hurt.” He tried pulling her back in his arms, but Ollie wedged between them, splitting them apart.

  “Quit will, ya! Let the doc do his job.” Ollie pointed to a stool in the corner. “You can go sit over there.”

  Celeste moved, but Shane grabbed her hand. “S
tay with me.” It wasn’t a question, but she nodded and his heart swelled as if she’d given him the world.

  While the doc saw to his battle wounds, Shane played with her fingers. He couldn’t help himself. He was on top of the world. He was the light heavyweight champion and he had his woman by his side.

  “How is he, Doc?”

  “He’ll live.” The doctor handed Shane two bottles. “One’s for pain, the other is for the swelling. If you get dizzy, call your primary doctor or check into a hospital. I’m not certain, but I think you suffered a concussion.”

  “Hasn’t been the first time I’ve been beaned in the head,” Shane said while the doctor snapped his bag closed and headed toward the door.

  “I’m going to hit the road as well.” Ollie reached out and squeezed Shane’s shoulder. For the first time in their ten year association, Shane saw tears in the old man’s eyes. “I’ll see you back in the gym.”

  Shane reached up and gripped his coach’s forearm. “Thanks for everything, old man.”

  Overcome with emotion, Ollie’s head dipped and his shoulders shook. “I’m so damn proud of you, kid. You proved all of em wrong.”

  “Come on, Ollie, don’t cry,” Shane sniffed, blinking back tears. He would have been made of stone not to react. “You should be celebrating, not crying like an old woman.”

  Ollie stepped back, wiping away tears with a sleeve. “These are tears of happiness,” he sniffed. He even attempted a smile.

  “That’s better. Now get out of here.” He jerked his head toward the door. “I wanna be alone with my wife.”

  Shane yanked her into his side and kissed a hot path along her jaw and down her throat.

  “We’re not going to do this here are we?” Celeste tilted her head back, giving him a better vantage point as he buried his head in her cleavage.

  “I’m the champ. And I can do whatever I want,” he murmured, while drawing aside the ruffle covering the swell of her breasts.

  “The champ!”

  Irritated by the interruption, Shane growled. “No one is allowed in…” Shane pushed away from the table. “Mr. Ferruci.”