THIEF_Steel Saints MC

by Paula Cox

  “The agent from ABL, Liam! He watched your fight, and he’s got a number for you.” He stands up again, too thrilled to remain seated for this. Eric, Ricky, and the rest of the team have been waiting on this number since I began the pro-am circuit last year. It’s the number of matches before you can officially be called a pro. It’s the number of wins you must have under your belt to earn that title pretty much every single fighter dreams about when he is training.

  I haven’t been boxing for long. Most start off when they’re kids, but I began when I was just a few years out of high school. It was my way of burning some calories. Road life and working the pub was packing on the pounds more quickly than I had anticipated. The worst thing you can be when you’re trying to start up an imposing, dominant motorcycle club is fat and lazy.

  So, I started going to the Beat Gym on a whim. I was a guy who wanted to pound the shit out of something. I had to be constantly moving, and there was just so much in me that needed to get out that I couldn’t control it. Boxing, even if it was just hitting a fifty-pound bag of sand, meant I could do it without killing anyone in the process. After the first day, I was hooked.

  I was also spotted. Ricky, my coach, saw me randomly hitting at the bag like a madman without control. Who the hell knows what he thought of me then and there, but the next day he told me to get in the ring. He put me up against a guy who had ten years of fighting and sparring experience on me. He told him to not hold back as he pummeled me with fists that felt like I was being stabbed at from all angles. Within two rounds, I was backed into the corner of the ring, taking bloody body blows that I still have scars from.

  I left that day angry. Ricky had brushed me off like I had somehow disappointed him. Maybe he did this to all the guys he scouted out. Or maybe he just thought I had more potential as a newbie. My pigheaded self wouldn’t let him think I was weak or that I couldn’t handle the pain. I punished myself each and every day. I convinced the manager to open up at odd hours so I could work out. I stashed money away so I could pay sparring partners to continue to beat the shit out of me until I learned to hit back like a real boxer.

  Several months later, I was back in the ring in front of Ricky. He wasn’t there to watch me. He had another kid on his schedule, some young high schooler with jacked up muscles and a broken nose. But when he saw me knock out my partner in two shots, he canceled the next fight and brought me into his office at the back of the gym -- where only the real fighters of the fitness club were invited. He offered me the chance of a lifetime. He’d train me, coach me, and help manage my career with the help of his agent-on-call, Eric, if I followed his rules and trained right.

  I never looked back. All my free time was spent boxing, training, or working out. For a sport that I was only interested in for placing bets or running gambling rings, I became obsessed overnight. I followed the news of the fights on my phone and traced the rise of some of the greats in my weight class. And as I moved up the ladder, I waited for today when Eric and Ricky brought me the news of the “the number.”

  I lean back in my chair, trying not to get too sentimental here. The next question would potentially change the entire trajectory of my entire life, but that doesn’t mean I was going to allow myself to get choked up about it. I was still Liam Murphy, head of Steel Saints. Boxing was still secondary to that life.

  “How man?” I say, my throat scratchy and dry. I close my eyes, clasp my hands and wait.

  “Four more. Four more wins, Liam, and you’re in.” My mind goes blank as I visualize that number. Four. Four! That’s it. That’s two weeks of work for a lifetime of payouts. Eric knows it too. I’d be his first pro, Ricky’s too. This was as equally big for them as it was for me. They wouldn’t be second-rate coaching staff from an unknown fitness club. So many lives were balancing on the edge of my glove.

  “Do you know what this mean?” Eric continues, “We’re talking sponsorships from major sports brands. You wouldn’t just be an online name for the hard core betters. People all over the world would be watching you on Sports Live. They’ll be betting on you in China! You’ll be up against big timers like La Domo and Beecher! You could qualify for the Olympics or World Championships.”

  I stand up as he grabs me by the shoulders to shout the word we’re both thinking of, “THE MONEY, LIAM! THE MONEY! We’re talking million dollar fights and contracts! Fuck these low win payouts. You’re going to get paid just to step in casinos like these. This could change your life.”

  “What do I need to do? Do I need to…” I’m in total disbelief. My head is still spinning. I have the urge to shout it out from the rooftops or lean my head outside of a car and scream at the commuters on their way home. I should call someone -- I feel as if someone in my life has to know, but I’m at a loss. Alana’s the only one who could care. She’s going to be splitting the winnings with me 20-80, but that’s not exactly why I want to be celebrating with her on my arm.

  Eric brings me back to life. “Well, we need to talk strategy. You’ve got the Tri-Am fights coming up. That’s fine. That’ll get you to four as long as the fights are with those ranked 10 or above in their class. It’ll give us some time to work on your, uh, business in the meantime.”

  “Business? What are you talking about?” He can’t possibly be referring to the restaurant. It’s in my grandma’s name if there’s a problem with it.

  “Come on, Liam. You think Ricky and I are stupid? We know about your boys -- the drugs, the betting, the security thing you got going on. I don’t want to know details or names, but if you’re going to take on public life like running a pro boxing career, that shit has to stop. I am not going to manage someone at risk at spending the rest of his life in jail over felony assault charges. Whatever association you’ve got, you have to cut it off by the time you get your pro contract.”

  Oh shit. He’s right. Why didn’t I think of this before? My feet begin to pace as I struggle to come up with an answer for Eric. Steel Saints have been my lifeline, my blood, and sweat. I have put everything into the club and have been struggling every day to keep it together. Now I had to decide between the career that I loved or the career that was bringing me in huge amounts of money.

  My mind darts back to that bag of jewels hidden in Alana’s ice cream truck. Not just the diamonds, but the stash I’ve put away for myself. That money was going to help me escape to a better life. Now the better life was here, presenting itself for free. I didn’t need to sell those damn things. In fact, if I got caught, I was going to risk everything -- my boxing future, the club, Alana.

  Air escapes me as I press my hands into the back of the leather sofa. I am drowning slowly by my own hands, and there was no way up but to choose one way or the other. I couldn’t live this double life anymore. Boxing or Steel Saints had to go and soon -- before I hit fight number four.

  “How much time do I got?” I ask Eric who is staring at me as if I am about to explode. He knows that forcing me to give up my club was a landmine. I am starting to realize just why Ricky isn’t in the room with him. He wouldn’t have been able to bring it up as gently or politically as Eric. He wasn’t that kind of guy to hear someone go against him.

  “If you can’t just give it up, I guess we could get a month. I could schedule some low-level fights in the Tri-State ring. I’ll say it’s your excuse to hone up before you sign your ABL contracts. It’s risky though. You lose or get injured, and the ABL could up that number or rescind their offer altogether. You get caught by the law or something, it’s gone.”

  “I’ll keep my head down,” I promise, failing to tell him about the major diamond theft I just went through with. “You get me those small fights, and I’ll figure out a way to get out of my shit.”

  Eric, satisfied as much as he can possibly hope to be, brushes a piece of lint off his tailored black suit and stands. He offers his cold, pale hand to me before leaving. I can hear his voice calling to the press as they stay to their posts outside my dressing room. “Ladies and gentlemen!” he
screams, “Mr. Murphy will not be taking questions tonight! If you need a comment, myself or his coach, Ricky Flatten, are willing to speak over at the west entrance!”

  I listen closely to the sound of each reporter leaving. Their crews pick up behind them, carrying large sound booms and cameras. They grumble angrily at the shove off. No doubt they’ve heard about the number too. Word in our boxing circle gets around fast to the Vegas and national press. And a quote from a manager or coach wasn’t exactly the quality reporting they were expecting.

  But what it does do is leave me with time. For a few moments, since I woke up from that terrible dream with Alana watching me fight, I have a second to clear my head and focus on the road ahead of me. I have to make a decision here and now – I need to sell those diamonds and jewels as fast as I possibly can. Not only that, but I also have to find a way out of Steel Saints that would mean the least amount of bloodshed possible. And there was the restaurant and my grandmother to think of too. She was going to have to be protected.

  My world was expanding and crashing all at the same time, and I was left dead center to hold it from falling apart. My life has always been lived on the tip of the sword, ready to fall off or cut through. Now, that feeling of hopelessness was back to haunt me. Steel Saints was my first love, something that had given me purpose in life. Boxing has become my new chapter. Could I turn the page and walk away? I had to, right?

  I reach over to my gym bag and pull out my cell. I find Alana’s name in the contacts and begin typing up the news in a quick text. She’s probably back at her dorm room getting ready to fall asleep or in the Murphy bed of her dad’s ice cream truck. I could practically see her peeling off that tight little red dress, as she stood naked in her heels before her sheets. I could even put myself there, next to her on the other side of the pillows waiting for her to fall into my arms.

  I delete the message. She didn’t need to know about any of this, especially nothing about the other bag of jewels I’ve stashed in her truck’s safe. I’d see her tomorrow where I would do a mad dash to sell those damn diamonds before getting caught. Once they’re sold, I’ll move the jewels and use that money to pay off my position with Steel Saints. Meanwhile, I’d fight in the lower fights and rank up my wins while Eric and Ricky did all the press and ABL work. By the end of the month, I’ll be done with Steel Saints, a pro fighter, and with Alana.

  It may be a fantasy, but this was going to be my reality. I had to make it happen. There was no other choice at this point. Nothing and no one could stop a force like me.

  Except... maybe the sender of the text that just popped up in my message box: Hey Liam. Remember me? I’ve got big news for you that I just know you’ll want to here. Let’s meet up. Your place? Tomorrow night? <3 Always, Amy

  My heart sinks as I remember Alana’s last few words about running into Amy in the bathroom and her talking about meeting with some of the boys in the club. If there is anyone in the world that could make my life that much more complicated, it was her. I hit the ignore option and place the phone back in my bag. Amy was not going to ruin this now. I wouldn’t let her.

  CHAPTER 15

  “What the hell, Alana?” Jana’s confrontation is totally not welcome right now. My head is still spinning from the night, and all I can think about is getting a few hours of sleep before I have to get the ice cream truck going tomorrow morning.

  “What the hell, Jana?!” I shoot back, “You scared the crap out of me!” She practically gave me a heart attack parked right outside our bedroom door wearing only her lacelet bra and a pair of workout shorts. I wonder passively if she was with a guy in the time it took me to get back here. She was seeing this prick of an undergrad she was giving tutoring sessions to, but I guess I shouldn’t be the one to judge. I practically performed a striptease to a guy I’ve only known for a total of forty-eight hours.

  Her face lights up as she grabs me by my shoulders, tossing my purse to the side, and swinging me over towards our tiny, two-seater futon. “Why didn’t you tell me about Liam? You should have given me some heads up! That guy is fine as hell. I mean, those muscles… Screw him practically kidnapping you and me almost calling the cops on you two! That guy is totally worth it.”

  “Yeah. Totally. Hijacking my dad’s ice cream truck, forcing me to go to his illegal club’s headquarters, and then using me as a drug mule is totally forgivable because he’s got abs of steel.” I roll my eyes dramatically. While I admit that she’s right -- that there’s something about an imposing, giant of a man like Liam to make all your troubles go away, I’m also not able to forgive and forget. Even with the taste of his cum still lingering in the back of my throat.

  “Get over yourself, Alana. You’ve been in a sex slump for months now. After Adrian dumped you, I thought you were going to turn yourself into the convent for a permanent position. Frankly, I’m relieved I’m not the only one who is getting some.” She brushes back her silky long black hair, hair that I could only dream of achieving. She was always the hot, nerdy librarian type guys seemed to go gaga for. She calls herself a “needle in the haystack.” I call her self-absorbed.

  “Well, don’t hold your breath. This isn’t going to last. He’s just using me to move those diamonds, and I am just using him to get some cash for my dad. The sex is ... “ I struggle to think of a word that isn’t too enthusiastic, but all I can come up with is fantastic, orgasmic, and, least helpfully, insane.

  “Oh come on. It’s obvious the sex is amazing. Just admit it, Alana! You don’t have to be a prude with me. After all, if I cared, shouldn’t I be more concerned that he is some dangerous motorcycle guy instead?”

  She had a point. When I told her what had happened to me, she brushed it off. “A girl needs a little danger in her life. Bad boys were part of the process and great rebound potential,” she explained. Still, I was skeptical. I wasn’t that kind of girl.

  That night, I opened my laptop and began to write. I put everything down on my blog from the moment he placed a gun to the back of my seat until I left him both sore and satisfied. I tagged the posts “Bad Boy Chronicles” in honor of Jana’s advice. To my surprise, when I opened my computer the next afternoon while I tried on skanky dresses from Jana’s closet, the post had practically exploded. In less than ten hours, it had managed to attract over 200 comments. Most didn’t believe me. Others thought this was all fantasy, but for the few who took it as truth, they were enthralled and asking for more. I even spotted a friend of a friend reposting it on their social media pages! The story of “L” and me was hotter than I could have imagined.

  Jana watches as I stare off over at my purse where I have stuffed my laptop. She must be reading my mind as she says, “I added some advertisements to that post. If you’re going to go viral, you might as well make us some money off of it. I’ll take my cut, as per usual.” She winks at me as she stands up and throws on an oversized t-shirt I don’t recognize.

  “You know,” she says as she climbs up to her lofted bed. “You should really write about tonight, especially if it went as well as your face is giving away.”

  “What are you talking about?” I ask wide-eyed as I feel warmth spread to my cheeks. I hate how my blush seems to instantly give me away whenever I’m trying to hold something back.

  “Oh, don’t be naive, Alana. You’ve got the same glow on your face as you did last night. Both of us may have gotten some action tonight, but only one of us looks like it. I look forward to reading about it on my commute to the research library tomorrow.” Jana reaches over her bed and turns off the clip on her reading lamp near her disheveled pillows. Her back turns to me as she signals she’s done pestering me for the night. I’m officially alone with my thoughts for the first time.

  Was she right, though? Did readers really want more “Bad Boy Chronicles?” I mean, it started off as a joke, a one-time story with a lot of very fuzzy details. But the comments, shares, and likes couldn’t be explained away as just a weird, viral happening. Maybe Jana was right that every
girl should experience a man like Liam. Maybe I was the gateway for these girls to see what it was like first hand. Maybe I could even provide a little insight into how to get one to be more than just a one-night stand…

  My mind explodes in a daze of memories and ideas. I leap off the couch and grab the laptop from my bag. I pull up my blog within seconds and open a draft page. I can barely move fast enough for my thoughts, but I write out the first thing I think of:

  I slept with him again. Well, not slept with, per say. We fooled around. It was right after his match (did I mention he was a pretty damn good boxer too?), and we were both in this daze from his win…

  I write it all, from start to finish. I don’t bother to edit my words or even use spell check. I just want to get this story out. A good hour passes as the sky grows impossibly darker and the only light in our room is from the streetlight outside. Jana’s soft snore doesn’t even phase me.

  That night, I dream about words flowing through me. They circle around my head and then filter down through my fingers until they are spilled out onto a blank page. This is the inspiration writers like me dream about. And I sleep soundlessly at the thought that maybe, just maybe, I had found my own muse in Liam.