by Rome, Ada
MONTAINE
A Novel
By Ada Rome
Warning: This book contains adult language and situations. It is intended for mature audiences over the age of 18.
Copyright
Please respect the work of this author. No part of this book may be reproduced or copied without permission. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Any similarities to events or situations is also coincidental.
The publisher and author acknowledge the trademark status and trademark ownership of all trademarks and locations mentioned in this book. Trademarks and locations are not sponsored or endorsed by trademark owners.
© 2015 by Ada Rome
All Rights Reserved
Cover Photo © Shutterstock.com
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Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 1
“Listen up. This is very important.” In my right hand, I held a long black skirt with a wide, flowing hem. In my left hand, I held a short black pencil skirt. “Which one should I wear?”
“This one, you idiot.” Marcie snatched the pencil skirt from my hand and slammed it against my chest. “And while you’re at it, burn this other one.” She grabbed the longer skirt and tossed it over the twin beds of our dorm room. The hanger clattered against the opposite wall. “It looks like something my grandmother would wear to a funeral. Scratch that. It looks like something my grandmother would wear to her own funeral.”
“Hey, my mom bought me that skirt.” I gestured toward the shapeless pile on the floor.
“Your mom is a lovely woman, Kat, but she doesn’t know sexy for shit.”
“I want to make a good impression, though. Are you sure about this?” I pressed the pencil skirt against my hips. The hem barely reached the middle of my thighs.
“Yes, I’m sure. You need to work that great bod of yours more often. I would kill for your curves. You’re all ass and tits, while I look like a damn Skipper doll. And you’re not going to make a good impression if you show up for your first day of work dressed like a nun. Do you know how many girls would love to be in your shoes right now?”
I slipped the slinky black skirt over my hips. The waist sat high. The knit material clung tightly to my thighs.
“Yeah, I know, but---” I pulled the hem down toward my knees.
“Butt is right. Your butt looks amazing in that skirt.” Marcie reached out and hiked the hem back up to my crotch. “Trent Montaine won’t know what hit him. Speaking of shoes, by the way.” She handed me a pair of black patent leather stilettos with needle-like four-inch heels.
“I’m not there to impress Trent Montaine. I’m there to do my job. This is an important step in my career.” I slipped the heels on one-by-one and wobbled with the height differential.
“Blah blah blah. Journalistic integrity. The power of the written word. I get it. Save it for your resume. You’re about to start an internship at one of the hottest publications in the country that just happens to be run by one of the hottest guys in the universe. That’s what you should be getting excited about. The other stuff is secondary.”
I laughed and selected a breezy canary yellow silk blouse from the mass of clothes that we’d dumped from my closet onto the bed.
“The other stuff is not secondary!” I buttoned the blouse up to my neck and tucked it into my waistband. “Besides, you forgot to mention that Trent Montaine is also reputed to be one of the biggest assholes in the universe.”
“Listen, Tits Raney.” Marcie hastily undid my top four buttons to reveal a healthy dose of cleavage. “Assholes are the new thing. Nobody likes nice guys anymore except you. Your pussy is like a damn charity. Fucks for Shmucks. It’s time to step up to the big leagues.”
“There’s nothing wrong with nice guys.” I demurely refastened the fourth button.
“You know what they say about nice guys?” Marcie gripped me by the chin and dotted cherry red lipstick onto my mouth.
“They finish last?” I slurred my words, unable to move my jaw with the grip she held on my face.
“They finish quick.” She handed me a tissue to blot my lips. “Have you ever been fucked for real, Kat? I mean for real, not some light boinking by one of these clueless prep school boys. Didn’t you say the last one made squeak noises during sex?”
“You’re a jerk.” I balled up the tissue and threw it in Marcie’s face. She skillfully batted it away. I pursed my lips to feign anger, but it was no use. Laughter burst through my closed lips. “Oh come on. Warren was a gentleman.”
“Warren was a dog toy!” She shook her head dramatically, the dark brown wings of her pageboy haircut flapping against her cheekbones.
I thought of Warren, my last boyfriend, a sociology major who inexplicably culminated every bout of sexual intercourse with a high-pitched squeak. To this day, I could not enter the toy aisle of a pet store without feelings of intense disappointment. Maybe Marcie had a point. Nice guys do finish quick.
“I swear, Kat, when Vaughn goes down on me, I’m pretty sure I see Jesus.” She flopped back on the bed and spread her arms out wide, a serene smile stretching across her coral lips.
“I know. I’ve heard you. Our beds are three feet away from each other.”
She sat up and threw the tissue back at me. “Whatever, Lady and the Tramp. True love knows no volume control.”
“Now, what would the good Reverend and Mrs. Middlewood think to hear their daughter talk in such a fashion?” I asked with an exaggerated southern drawl.
Marcie’s parents were two extremely sweet and pious residents of a small Alabama town with one stop light and three churches. Her father, Reverend Middlewood, led the congregation of one of those churches. Through a quirk of genetics, Marcie had somehow sprung from their loins as a sassy hell raiser. At eighteen, she hightailed it out of that tiny town and off to college in New York City, where she could let her true personality flourish.
I was under strict instructions to play along with the charade of “good Marcie” whenever they came to visit. I once ran into them on the corner of Broadway and 110th Street, blinking in the noise and traffic like moles in sunlight while they waited for their daughter. Marcie sauntered over in a flowery sundress that was better suited to a 1950s housewife, complete with a fuzzy wool cardigan to hide any evidence of the zombie fairy tattoo on her right shoulder. My mouth opened in shock. Her death glare told me to shut it promptly.
Vaughn Brink, her boyfriend of three months, was definitely off limits to Ma and Pa Middlewood. A rangy guitarist whose skin was a canvas of exotic ink and painful-looking piercings, Vaughn would have scared the hellfire straight out of that lovely, God-fearing couple.
“What they don’t know can’t hurt them,” Marcie replied with a sprightly nod. “They’ll meet him at the wedding.”
“Wedding!” I dropped the bobby pin I had been unsuccessfully trying to stick into the ballerina bun on the crown of my head. It was immediately lost in a litter of makeup,
lotions, creams, and perfumes. “Weren’t you telling me the other day that marriage is merely a social construct forced on us by outdated traditions?” I imitated a professorial lecture voice. “Besides, is Vaughn really the marrying type?”
Marcie frequently dragged me downtown to hear her boyfriend’s band play their version of screechy faux punk rock. After the show, we invariably had to fight our way through a crowd of panting female groupies in stringy tank tops and combat boots. That was how Marcie had met him in the first place. She was one of the groupies.
“Oh, relax. I’m just joking. Vaughn is for sexual funsies. I’m not settling down anytime soon.” She slipped off her black t-shirt and donned one of my camisoles, pushing her small breasts up with both hands to give the appearance of cleavage.
“Say, what time is it anyway?” I asked casually.
Marcie reached toward a vintage Wonder Woman alarm clock on the nightstand.
“Eight twenty-five.”
“Seriously?” Another bobby pin clattered onto the dresser. “I’m supposed to be there at nine! And it’s rush hour. I have to go.”
“It’s all good. Just tell Trent that you were busy getting your lady parts waxed and you lost track of time. He’ll understand.”
I made another futile attempt to straighten my too-short skirt and took one last peek at the floor-length mirror.
“Shit!” I exclaimed. “Shit shit shit shit shit!”
“What’s the matter, you weirdo?” Marcie sidled up next to me. I towered over her tiny pixie physique.
“Yellow and black? I look like a damn bumble bee! I need to change.”
“You don’t have time.” Marcie put a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “You look fantastic. Bumble bees are sexy.”
“Bumble bees are not sexy. They’re fat and fuzzy.”
“They also suck the juice out of plant gonads and sting people with their butts. That’s hot. Be the bee, my dear. Be the queen bee. Make all the men do your bidding, starting with Trent.”
I took a deep breath and grabbed my oversized black pebbled leather purse from the desk chair. I’d bought it from a discount store in the hope of looking adequately professional on my first day.
“Wish me luck.” I opened the door and stood poised on the threshold.
“You don’t need luck.” She trotted over to me. With a lightning-quick hop and effortless swipe, she released my carefully tended bun. I gasped as a long cascade of auburn hair fell over my shoulder.
“Marcie! Why did you do that?”
She plucked out a couple of errant bobby pins and fluffed the sides. “Now you look like a movie star instead of like a snooty librarian. You’ll thank me later.” She air-kissed each side of my face and slapped me on the butt. “Go out there and get ‘em, tiger.”
“Tigers are orange and black. I’m a bee, remember?” I wrapped her in a brief hug and jogged to the elevator as rapidly as my uncomfortable shoes would allow. Marcie wolf-whistled in my wake. With a cheery ding and a lighted down arrow, the elevator doors opened. I stepped inside.
“Be the bee!” Marcie shouted as the doors clamped shut.
Chapter 2
8:59. I stuffed my phone back into my purse and struggled to catch my breath. I was on the corner of Fifth Avenue and 20th Street, where the offices of KTFO Magazine occupied one floor in a sedate pre-war building. A set of ornate gray stone pillars flanked the entrance. A revolving door with shiny brass fittings spun busily with arriving staff. I paused and adjusted the skirt that was riding steadily up my thighs in the June heat.
Someone crashed into my shoulder and nearly sent me tottering onto the pavement. I looked up in time to see a man striding confidently up the front steps. His form-fitting blue plaid shirt was rolled up to his elbows, revealing a network of tattoos snaking along his forearms as he reached out and pushed the revolving door. He didn’t even bother turning around to apologize.
“Dick,” I muttered under my breath, lifting my heavy hair from my perspiring neck. The door continued to spin like a portal. Anxiety rooted me to the sidewalk.
“It’s now or never,” said a voice with a strong accent. If I had to guess, I would have said it originated somewhere in Eastern Europe. I turned and looked down on a small elderly man with thin strips of hair combed over his scalp and round glasses like bottle caps. Despite the early summer heat, he was elegantly dressed in a dark gray suit, lavender striped shirt, and cornflower blue silk pocket square.
“Excuse me?”
“You’re headed into the magazine?” He poked a rolled-up newspaper toward the entrance.
“Yes. Yes, sir,” I corrected myself. He seemed like someone deserving of the more respectful form of address.
“Well then, better get a move on. You’re late,” he said with a wink. He trotted up the steps with a surprising amount of energy and disappeared through the revolving door like a phantom.
The spell was broken. I followed him inside, my heels clacking noisily on the marble floor. To my surprise, I was alone in the lobby. Everything gleamed with a glamorous art deco style. The shining tiles were inlaid with a sunburst pattern. Tall potted palms lined the corridor to the old-fashioned elevator. A sign on the wall indicated that KTFO Magazine was located on the fourth floor, sandwiched between a dental practice and a college tutoring service.
My mother had expressed confusion when I’d told her that I would be spending the summer as an intern at a publication called “KTFO.”
“KTFO?” she asked. “What does that mean? It sounds like the name of a radio station.”
“It’s an abbreviation.” I hesitated. She was easily shocked by strong language. “It stands for Knocked the Fuck Out.” I cleared my throat. “It’s a magazine about fighting.”
“Fighting?” She pursed her lips and shook her head with disapproval. The gold brooch on her smart tweed jacket glinted in the light of a chandelier. “What kind of fighting?”
“Mostly MMA.” She paused while slicing a portion of roast beef and looked up at me with a blank expression. “Mixed martial arts,” I clarified. “But they also cover other types of fighting around the world. They do some really interesting, cutting-edge work.”
“Oh dear. Are you sure about this, Kat? What do you know about fighting?” Her soft brown eyes looked dismayed, almost hurt. It was bad enough that I was studying journalism rather than law or medicine. Now I insisted on writing about a bunch of sweaty men pummeling each other for money. She shook her head again as if resolving an internal debate.
Nevertheless, she raised a good question, one I had asked myself many times in the weeks since. What do I know about fighting? Not much at the moment, but I was ready to learn.
I pushed open the latticed screen that enclosed the elevator like a cage. This thing had probably been in use since the 1920s. I punched a large button with a graceful “4” painted in black calligraphy. The coffin-like box shuddered to life with a grinding creak.
As one of the few women trying to break into the world of sports journalism, I was often forced to answer the question, “What do you know about this?” People seemed to think that my gender somehow prevented me from being able to comprehend competitive athletics. One look at me, and they decided that I was better suited for a quiet poetry journal or gardening blog. What do you know about football? What do you know about baseball? What do you know about lacrosse, hockey, or taekwondo?
To me, sports were fascinating because of their human element, the outsized personalities and behind-the-scenes struggles, the defeats and the comebacks, the unconquerable drive that led people to defy the odds and push past the limits of what we all thought was possible. As a reporter, I wanted to find out what made those people tick and give their stories the justice that they deserved. This passion was precisely the reason that I’d crossed my fingers and applied for the internship at KTFO despite my lack of any previous knowledge of or interest in fighting, professional or otherwise.
Trent Montaine, the founder of KTFO, seemed to sh
are my fascination with the human drama of sports. Despite his reputation as an incorrigible playboy and his regular appearances in lists of the world’s most beautiful people, he possessed serious journalistic chops. He had spent most of his 20s reporting from every war-torn region on the planet, risking life and limb to bring to light the stories that everyone else was afraid to touch. According to legend, he was once kidnapped in the mountains of Afghanistan by a troupe of sword-wielding bandits and managed to barter his way to freedom using only an old pocket watch, a pack of gum, and his trademark thousand-watt charm. At the age of 30, he broke away from war reporting to found his own magazine. People said that he was crazy. They insisted that magazine publishing was a dying industry. In only three short years, he had silenced the doubters and turned KTFO into a respected journalistic powerhouse. His magazine featured some of the best sports writing and photography on the planet. He maintained very high standards and hired only the best of the best.
Naturally, I was proud and excited when I found out that I’d been chosen for the coveted KTFO internship. My jealous male classmates scoffed. I overheard them discussing me in the hallway after we announced our summer destinations. They probably just needed a chick to fill out the ranks. She’ll never make it. I was determined to prove them wrong.
The elevator doors opened on a surprisingly modern setting. The fourth floor had been thoroughly remodeled into a sleek, high-tech office. A glass partition took up one full wall and offered a glimpse into the bustling activity within. Streamlined desks were positioned in an open layout. Writers sat busily typing, jotting notes, making phone calls, and swilling cups of coffee. The decorations were spare and minimalist. A gigantic painting of a stylized boxing glove hung on one wall. A painting of a bleeding heart occupied the opposite wall.
I pulled open the glass door to a murmuring undercurrent of voices. A few heads lifted in interest at the new face but quickly lowered again. I had no idea where to begin. Trent’s office seemed like a good start. I took the first right and headed down a hallway lined with framed photographs of fighting arenas, from professional boxing rings to dusty foreign fields. I stopped short at a silver wall plaque that read “Trent Montaine.”