Pierce Her Stepbrother

by Saffron Daughter

  “Huh,” I say as we leave the warehouse. The entire audience is filtering out at once, and it’s slow progress.

  I admit to myself that he was impressive. Deceptively light on his feet, he seemed like the energizer bunny, circling his opponents endlessly, dodging punches and kicks like he was a cat. And yet he was huge, a frame of solid, lean muscle. He even had bulging veins across his abs.

  “What are we going to do now?” I ask Rose.

  “Well,” she says, grinning at me. “Now it’s the after-party. We’ll go to a local place with Pierce.”

  I blink. “We’re going to go drinking with him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I thought athletes had to, you know, take care of their bodies.”

  “Please. It’s fight night. This only happens twice a month, maybe three times if there’s a visiting event. Besides, what guy can you think of who finishes beating the shit out of five people in one night, and then goes home and watches the television?”

  “Good point,” I say.

  “It’s the testosterone,” she whispers, winking at me. “Anyway, now you’ll get a chance to meet him. See what all that pointing was about.”

  “I don’t really care,” I say. “To be honest, I might just head off early.”

  “No!” she says, gripping onto my arm. “No, stay. We’re probably going to go to Juice. It’s the best club in Melbourne, and it’s exclusive.”

  Juice?

  “I, uh, I’ve never been to a—”

  “You haven’t?”

  “Well, no, back in the States you gotta be twenty-one.”

  “You never used a fake ID?”

  “No!”

  She waves her hand. “Don’t worry about it, there’s nothing to it. Have a drink, feel the music, do what you want. Dance, sit, whatever.”

  “I don’t know, Rose,” I say. I’m starting to feel nervous now. I can’t dance! I don’t even know what people are supposed to do in a club. And I’m wearing jeans and a black tank and a grey, wooly cardigan. I feel frumpy.

  “Oh, come on, girl. It’s a private club. If you get in, nobody will give a shit how you’re dressed.”

  I narrow my eyes. How did she know what I was thinking?

  “How will we get in?”

  “I’ll get you in,” a deep voice says.

  I spin around, and Pierce Fletcher is standing behind me. He’s wearing maroon dress shit tucked into black slacks, and it all fits his body perfectly. Then I look at his face. He’s smirking, and his eyes, an odd shade of light grey I’ve never seen before, seem to sparkle.

  “Great fights tonight, Pierce,” Rose says behind me.

  Her boyfriend Jason claps him on the back and wraps an arm around his shoulder. Pierce’s face breaks out into a playful, boyish grin, and all that hard, chiseled manliness seems to melt into joy and charm.

  “You kicked arse tonight, mate.”

  But his eyes snap back to mine, and his face grows serious again. Hard lines. He’s a looker, but it’s better when he smiles.

  He just keeps looking at me, as if he’s measuring me, somehow, adding up everything he sees of me and labeling me, categorizing me, figuring me out.

  I feel put on the spot; I feel hot, and I feel flushed.

  “I’m Pierce,” he says, and he sticks out a hand. It’s huge, and I give him my hand, watching as his swallows mine up.

  “Penelope.”

  “I know,” he says. He leans in and whispers conspiratorially, “My mother told me you were coming.”

  “Yeah,” I say. I’m at a loss for words. Whereas in the cage he was all aggression and showboating, somehow now he’s no longer just a brute with a penchant for violence and lifting weights. He actually seems pretty nice.

  I blink, surprised at how I think of him. I guess fighting is just not really my thing.

  Somehow – its’ subtle, but I don’t miss it – he uses his body language to guide me into walking with him. An arm out, a gentle gesture, and we’re walking down the street. Someone calls out his name, but he ignores them.

  “First fight, Penelope?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Like it?”

  I shake my head. “Not really.”

  He laughs. “It’s not for everyone.”

  Feeling on an island, I look behind me, and see Rose and Jason walking hand in hand. Behind her are Chance and Cassie. I guess we’re all going to the club together.

  Rose winks at me.

  “I noticed you tonight,” Pierce says, and I snap my head back around and look up at him.

  “I could tell,” I say. “The pointing wasn’t exactly subtle.”

  “It’s part of the personality.”

  I shrug. Somehow, I don’t believe he compartmentalizes his fighting from his everyday life that much.

  Our shoulders touch, and I feel this current of electricity shoot through me, right into my belly.

  “You’re not comfortable.”

  I blanch. “Sorry?”

  “You’re not comfortable, right?”

  “Um, no, I guess?”

  “First time to a fight, and going by the way you’re dressed, I’d say Rose didn’t tell you we were going to a club afterward.”

  My cheeks burn, and I look down at myself. In addition to my go-grocery-shopping outfit, I’m wearing white-tipped black Converses.

  “She didn’t,” I say, and I turn around and scowl at her. She and Jason are laughing like they think this whole thing is just so damn cute.

  It’s not! I’m on an island out here!

  “It’s alright,” he says. “You still look fantastic. Very striking.”

  Oh God, I think to myself. Striking?

  “I get the feeling you do this after every fight, right?” I ask.

  “Go celebrating?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re right. I do always win.” He grins.

  “I meant pick out some girl you think you’re going to get with.”

  “Think?”

  “Wow,” I say. “And just before you said it was all an act.”

  “I never said it was an act. I said it was part of the personality.”

  I shake my head, blinking. I don’t even know what that means.

  He turns around and says to Jason, “Alright, see you guys there. Wait for me at the front door, or they won’t let you in.”

  “Fuck off, mate, we’re not your fucking groupies,” Jason says.

  “Yes you are,” Pierce says. “Or you wouldn’t wait for me at the door.”

  “Yeah, yeah, see you there.”

  Pierce turns to me. “This way.”

  I do a double take, and then look behind me, but Rose and Jason are already crossing the street.

  “Hey!” I yell. “Where are you going?”

  “To the car.”

  They keep going, and I turn back to Pierce, and he’s just regarding me. I feel like I’m on display or something. Being tested.

  Is this some kind of setup?

  “I won’t bite,” he says.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “To my car.”

  “Oh.”

  We round a corner, and there I see a black sports car. It’s Porsche.

  “That’s your car?”

  “Yup. 911 GT3.”

  “I didn’t realize fighting paid so well.”

  “It pays well – I won twenty-five grand tonight – but not this well. My granddad left me a bunch of money. My stockbroker used it and bet big. He got lucky, and I got rich.”

  “So did he, I bet,” I say. “Off commission, I mean.”

  “The man works, gotta pay him.” He opens the passenger side door for me. “It’s low,” he says.

  “So?”

  “Never mind,” he says casually. “Usually they’re wearing heels.”

  “Um,” I say, climbing into the car. What the hell was that?

  He’s right, the car is low. “Why did you say that?” I ask as he climbs into the car.
<
br />   But he doesn’t reply. He buckles up, starts the car, and I grip instinctively onto my seat as I feel the thunderous vibration rattle in my bum.

  He pulls out of the parking space, and the car accelerates so fast I can barely breathe, and even though the windows are closed, it’s so loud I can hardly hear anything but the roar of the engine.

  “Wow,” I whisper, grinning. I can feel adrenaline coursing through my body as he weaves us through the quiet suburb. He must be going past the limit.

  I can feel the seat beneath me just trembling against my bum. It’s like I can feel every crack and crevice in the road.

  “The suspension is too hard,” I say, and he just laughs. “What?”

  “There’s no switch or anything. This is a track car.” He points up with his finger, and for the first time, I notice the roll cage. It was practically invisible in the dark. Not exactly my preferred choice for a daily driver.

  “So why is it so hard?”

  “Soft suspension transfers momentum to absorb shock and centrifugal force,” he says. “Slows you down, wasted energy. You can’t take corners as aggressively.”

  “Oh,” I say. “But we’re driving through the city.”

  “I like to feel the road.”

  “An underground fighter and an amateur race car driver, huh? You’re just full of surprises.” Now it’s me who is grinning at him, and he takes it on the chin.

  “You know me better than I know myself, Penelope.”

  “Women’s intuition,” I say.

  We laugh, and for the first time, I’m feeling comfortable.

  “Could you drive a bit slower?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “But we’re right up on the limit.”

  “That’s why it’s called a limit. What’s the problem?”

  “I barely know you, you’re driving in a car with way too much power. I’m a cautious person. Your insurance must cost you loads, but I’m guessing they don’t know you fight for a living and then drive your own car to clubs.”

  “Relax,” he says. “I won’t be driving back.”

  “So who will drive you?”

  “Nobody. The club’s in downtown Melbourne, near Southern Cross station. I live in a block of apartments nearby. We’ll walk.”

  Apartments in the city center? He must be rolling in it.

  Wait a minute, what did he mean by we’ll—

  “What’s that supposed to be?” He nods at my wrist.

  “It’s a tattoo.”

  “I know it’s a fucking tattoo, Pen. What’s it of?”

  “Oh, so this is the part where you come up with a nickname for me?”

  “I didn’t exactly come up with it. Penelope… Penny… Pen… P.”

  “How about we just stick to Penelope?”

  “What’s it of? Your tattoo? I can’t see from here.”

  “It’s Chicago’s skyline. From the lake.”

  “When did you get it done?”

  “Why?”

  “I want to know.”

  Sighing, I tell him. “Just last month. I didn’t get it done. I did it myself.”

  “No shit,” he says. “That’s on your right hand, and I noticed you were a righty.”

  “You notice these things, do you?”

  “Got to when you’re in the cage. You don’t always know your opponent. Always new kids giving it a go. So, you did it with your left hand?”

  “Yeah. I’m a little ambidextrous.”

  “So am I,” he says, and he smiles at me. “That’s really impressive.”

  “So is this the part where you flatter me? Say nice things, do your little routine?”

  “I really couldn’t give a shit about flattering you, Penelope. I’m just making conversation.”

  “Oh, just making conversation, huh? You don’t’ exactly seem like the talking type.”

  “Yeah, because ten minutes ago you were shaking like a wet puppy. Hey, I know I’m hot, but there’s no need to be nervous, Pen.”

  I roll my eyes. “Oh God.”

  But he just smirks. It’s smug. It’s actually really annoying.

  I’m starting to dislike him intensely.

  *

  I walk with her to the elevator, and as the doors slide open, and as she walks into it and me after her, I catch her scent, and think to myself that she smells amazing.

  There’s just a touch of perfume, something sweet and innocent, which seems at odds with an aspiring tattoo artist, but maybe I’m just stereotyping. But, more importantly, beneath it I can smell her. It was hot in that warehouse, with so many people sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, and all those bright lights. No doubt she was sweating. And no doubt being able to smell her is turning me on.

  I feel blood pumping into my cock, and when I look in the reflective doors of the elevator, I can see the hint of an outline of my manhood through my slacks.

  And I’m thinking to myself, I hope she notices.

  “God, you can feel the bass even in here,” she says. She’s got her bag over one shoulder, and is fiddling with the zip nervously.

  I meet her eyes in the mirror, but she looks away. I wish she wouldn’t, because looking into her eyes is like opening a channel of energy; it zaps me, makes my heart beat fast, makes me anticipate. Usually I can tell what I’m anticipating, but not with her. She’s different. She’s not just falling into my arms. She’s not pressing herself up against me in the lift, grinding her hips against my groin. She’s not biting at my lower lip or sucking on my ear lobe or whispering the things she wants me to do to her in bed.

  She’s just standing there, closed, shoulders drooped, unenthusiastic. And yet she won’t meet my eyes. She acts like she doesn’t like me, that she doesn’t like what she sees, but it’s clear that isn’t true.

  Penelope is nervous, uncomfortable. This is not just her first fight, but her first club. I’d also bet money she’s never been with a boy before.

  The elevator doors open, the booming bass greets us, and the flashing lights wash over us.

  She’s out of her element, instantly uncomfortable. She stiffens up. As she steps out of the lift, her eyes wander to the dance floor. The girls dancing are sexy, confident, and know how to work their bodies.

  Her eyes flash to the bar, and she sees half a dozen guys doing shots; they’re loud, boisterous.

  Then she turns around, and doesn’t meet my eyes.

  “I need to—”

  “There’s a balcony on the thirtieth floor of this building,” I say. “It’s private, but I know the security guard and he’ll let us on there.”

  She looks into my eyes.

  “Tell me what you’d like to drink, and we can go up there, sit down. Get away from the music. It’s not my favorite, anyway.”

  After a moment’s consideration, she nods. “Do they have any champagne?”

  I grin. “Let me check.”

  I walk up to the bar and order two bottles of Verve Cliquot, and come back with two glasses hanging from my fingers. She presses the elevator button, the doors slide open, and I notice a distinct bounce in her step as we walk in.

  “Hey, Pierce!”

  I hold the doors open. It’s Jason.

  “Who let you in here?” I ask, grinning.

  “Fuck off, we don’t need you to get in. I know the bouncer. Up for some Charlie?”

  “Nah. We’re going to the balcony.”

  “Want me to come?” he asks.

  I frown. “Of course fucking not.”

  “Oh, right, gotcha, mate.”

  The elevator doors slide shut.

  I catch her smiling in the reflection, and there is an unmistakable look of relief on her face.

  “Clubs just aren’t my thing,” she says.

  “Not for everybody,” I say.

  *

  chapter five

  “We’re really high up.”

  “We are,” he says, grinning at me. He pops off
the champagne bottle cork, and lets the froth spill over off the edge of the balcony.

  “There could be someone down there!”

  He shrugs. “Fuck it.”

  “Are you trying to be an asshole?”

  “There’s nobody there.”

  He pours me a glass and hands it to me. I notice there’s barely any bubbles; he’s given me three-quarters of a champagne-glass-full.

  “In movies they always only fill the glass up, like, one-fifth,” I say.

  “Well, life ain’t a movie, is it? Penelope.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Jason didn’t tell me much about you.”

  “Good to know my only friend in Australia has a boyfriend who is not a gossip.”

  “He did say, though, that you were an aspiring tattoo artist.”

  “I am,” I say.

  “You like tattoos?”

  “I like the art, the meaning. I like the idea of people wearing their skin as an expression of themselves.”

  “Are you any good?”

  “Yeah,” I say, grinning. I take a liberal sip from my glass. It tastes really good! “I think I’m pretty talented. I’m not being stuck-up or anything, just that I know how to analyze my own talent.”

  “So, what, you opening your own shop?”

  “No, it doesn’t work like that. I’ve got to apprentice for an established artist, first. They need to vouch for me to get my license. Then I can open my own shop.”

  “And are you apprenticing now?”

  “I’ve got an interview tomorrow,” I say.

  “Think you’ll get it?”

  “I hope so.”

  He grins. “What did you think of my tattoos?”

  “I didn’t notice them,” I lie.

  “Bullshit. Let me tell you something.”

  He gestures at me to sit in one of the classy rattan chairs on the balcony. I do, and he sits after.

  “Tell me what?”

  “When I first step into the cage, I instantly notice certain things.”

  “Like fighting is similar to art. Please.”

  “Fighting is an art. I notice whether he’s a lefty or a righty. I notice which leg he puts his weight on. I notice if he’s strong in the thighs, or strong in the calves.”

  “How can you even tell that?”