Montaine

by Rome, Ada

  Marcie jumped from my lap and peeked over the railing. “Oh no. It’s her. We have to get out of here.” With her smeared makeup, short dress, and small body, she looked like a drunken fairy at the end of a rough night.

  “I have an idea.” Trent pressed his palms onto the table and raised himself from his chair. “Tony, why don’t you escort Marcie safely to her home? I will do the same for Kat.”

  Marcie nodded, nervously biting her thumbnail.

  “Yes. Absolutely.” Tony stood eagerly, no longer concerned with his untasted beer. He touched Marcie tenderly on the elbow and guided her through the crowd. Trent and I followed closely behind. We emerged into a brisk New York City night. The cool, moist air tickled my bare arms and legs.

  “My car is parked a block away,” Trent said once Marcie and Tony had disappeared around a corner on their way to the subway.

  “You know, Marcie and I live together. I could have just gone with them.” The spiky heels of my black suede ankle boots clicked noisily on the pavement.

  “I know. Do you object to a car ride with me?” He watched me from the corners of his eyes as we walked side by side. “This gives Tony and Marcie a chance to be alone together. Didn’t you say that you were trying to set them up?”

  “Yes. I mean yes, I am trying to set them up. And no, I don’t object to a car ride with you.” I felt like I was babbling and clamped my lips shut to make myself stop.

  “Here we are.” Trent stopped in front a vehicle that looked more like a spaceship than a car. The finish gleamed silver in the moonlight. The fluid lines and streamlined body created a sexy and futuristic profile.

  He placed a firm hand on my lower back as he opened the passenger door. I dropped into the low-slung bucket seat, straightening the tight hem of my dress where it inched higher on my upward-tilted thighs.

  The engine rumbled like a jet when Trent hit the ignition. It settled into a growling purr as we pulled away from the curb and out onto the city streets.

  “I’m at Amsterdam and one-eighteenth street, by the way.”

  He nodded, the light from passing street lamps and storefronts illuminating in snatches the vibrant network of tattoos on his outstretched arms. I saw that the tattoo on his neck was indeed a tree branch. It curled seductively like smoke and ended in a thin twig that seemed to flick at his earlobe. He turned his head quick as a flash and caught me staring.

  “You want to know about my tattoos?”

  “I do.”

  “Well, that will have to wait for another time, when I know you better.”

  I looked down into my lap, embarrassed. We drove in silence for several more minutes.

  “So, what first got you interested in sports?” he asked.

  “My father.” I paused before continuing, trying to collect my emotions. “He was a big fan. He loved all sports. We went to baseball games all the time when I was kid. We spent every Sunday on the couch watching football. He saw the athletes as endlessly inspiring and fascinating, and I learned to see them the same way. When he got sick a few years ago, we’d sit together and watch ESPN for hours and hours on end.” I cleared my throat and swallowed hard, willing my tears to remain in check. “One of the best days we ever had was only a month before he died. We threw our own little Super Bowl party, just the two of us. Made snacks together. Watched the game. Yelled at the referees. Tried to forget that he had cancer and that we knew it would be the last game we would ever watch together.” A tear sliced down my cheek. I swiped it away with my fingertips. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to cry. Anyway, I think of my dad whenever I watch a sporting event or write about one. It’s my way of honoring him.”

  “Thank you for telling me that,” Trent said. “And I’m sorry about your dad.” He glanced at me, his eyes luminous in the dim car interior.

  I nodded and swiped away another errant tear. I liked the simplicity of his response. It made his words sound entirely genuine.

  “Now it’s my turn to ask a question.” I waited to gather my nerves. “What’s the deal with you and Kill?”

  “What do you mean?” He continued to stare through the windshield. His teeth were clenched, his jaw working beneath his chiseled cheekbones.

  “Things seem tense between you. He has a definite attitude problem and a chip on his shoulder for reasons I don’t understand. Did you have a fight? Is that just his personality?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “That’s a copout answer. Everything is complicated.”

  His head swiveled in my direction, a hint of surprise in his expression, and then turned back to the road ahead. He inhaled and exhaled deeply and slowly.

  “I’ve known Kill a long time. He helped me out of a jam once, years ago. I owe him.”

  “Well, you gave him a job at the magazine. He owes you too, doesn’t he? So, you’re even.”

  There was silence except for the rumbling purr of the car engine and the swish of tires over the asphalt.

  “Maybe.” His jaw shifted again. His eyes narrowed as he stared ahead.

  “Is Kill a subject like the tattoos? You’ll tell me about it when you know me better?”

  “Maybe.” This time, he peeked at me from the corner of his eye and lifted his lip in an enticing sideways smirk.

  “Fair enough.”

  To my disappointment, we pulled up to the curb at 118th Street. I very much wanted to continue this conversation. There was something about Trent’s presence that kept me intriguingly off balance and uncertain. I got the feeling that I had only scratched the surface of his personality. I desperately wanted to dig deeper. Of course, his physical nearness also had the power to send my heartbeat into a sprint, my nerves into crackling bursts of electricity, and my brain into a hazy trance of desire.

  “Thanks for the ride.” I suddenly had the feeling of an awkward teenager coming home from a school dance. Where do I look? What do I do with my hands? Is he going to kiss me? Then the more rational part of my brain took over and told me that I was in a car with my boss who was definitely not going to kiss me anytime soon.

  I experienced a moment of embarrassed panic when I could not locate the handle on the passenger door. Then I heard a click, and the door swung open on its own.

  “I control the doors with this button.” He pointed to a blinking green light on the console. “I could have kept you as a prisoner.” I expected a wink and a smirk, but his gorgeous blue eyes were serious.

  I swung my legs out onto the pavement and realized with dismay the difficulty of elegantly exiting this low-slung vehicle in a dress that barely covered my crotch and a set of four-inch stiletto heels. I gripped the window frame and rocked backwards and forwards, hoping perhaps I could launch myself from the car without toppling over into utter humiliation and giving Trent an unexpected glimpse of my pink lace panties.

  Before I even had time to gasp in shock, I felt two large and sturdy hands grasp my rear end and propel me from the vehicle with a mighty shove. I wobbled and steadied myself on the sidewalk, blinking in the glare of the street light and wondering if I had completely imagined the sensation of Trent’s hands on my behind.

  “Atta girl.” His uproarious laughter told me that I had not imagined it. “These seats can be a real pain in the…well…ass.” He pressed the green-lit button. “Goodnight, Kitty Kat.” The door swung shut with a whoosh of air and a click.

  “Goodnight, Trent Montaine,” I whispered to myself, watching from the lonely corner as his car tore away into the night.

  Chapter 6

  I checked my watch. 9:45. Friday night and I was still at the KTFO office, bent over the ladies’ room sink. I wiped smears of liner and mascara from beneath my tired eyes. The mirror revealed sprigs of hair that had escaped from my high ponytail and left me with a wispy, disheveled crown around my forehead. I wet my fingers under the tap and smoothed the hairs back into place, pulling my sagging ponytail taut.

  I’d stayed late to finish some projects and to research ideas for the cover story
contest. Big and bold, Trent had instructed. So far, the only topics I could come up with were small and commonplace. I racked my brain, scoured news items and blogs, but still drew a blank.

  I suddenly heard voices raised in argument just outside the bathroom door. I pressed my back against the cold tiled wall, feeling guilty for eavesdropping but also reluctant to stumble into the middle of someone else’s fight. My ears perked to attention when I realized that the voices belonged to Trent and Kill.

  “This is my magazine. I built it. Not you.” Trent’s voice was cool and lethal.

  “You wouldn’t be anywhere if it wasn’t for me.”

  “Bullshit. You wouldn’t be anywhere if it wasn’t for me. You’d still be writing about library socials in Crapsville, USA. I created this magazine from the ground up. It’s mine. You don’t get to call the shots. I do.”

  “Look at you. So high and mighty. The great Trent Montaine wasn’t always so great. I’ve kept your secrets.” Kill hissed like a cobra. “Be careful, or I might let them out.”

  “Fuck you, Kill. Go ahead. Stop being a pussy and do it. You’ve been threatening long enough. What is it that you want anyway? What’s your end game?”

  “I want a piece of what is mine. I want recognition. And I want you to stop thinking with your dick before it destroys this magazine.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “You know what I’m talking about. Little miss intern mooning over you. Instead of hiring someone qualified, you hired a pair of tits.”

  “It’s not like that. She’s not like that. You don’t know shit, Kill.”

  “Oh, I don’t know shit. You forget that I’ve seen it before. All you’ve ever wanted out of life is to be worshipped. Everything else is secondary.”

  I heard a brief scuffle and a sudden thud on the other side of the wall as a body thumped against it.

  “Do you think I don’t see right through you?” Trent’s words dripped with disdain. “You’re just jealous.”

  “Jealous?” Kill’s voice was strained and breathy, the stifled sound one might make under the throat-closing grip of a steel hand. “Of you? Trent the superstar? Trent the millionaire? Trent who fucks models and drives Lamborghinis? Why would I want all that?” he asked with an edge of sarcasm.

  “Jealous of her. Of Kat. You’re jealous because that girl is a better writer than you will ever be. You know it’s true. But I’m warning you right now, you better back the fuck off of her. Show some respect. Or you’ll have to answer to me. Are we clear?”

  “Aye, aye, captain.”

  Another thud pounded against the wall. Kill made a noise like a strangled squawk.

  “I’m not fucking around, Kill. This ends now.”

  There was silence, followed by a rustling slide of fabric. Then I heard the clip-clop of footsteps echoing down the empty hallway and a long breathy sigh outside the door. I waited, my ears primed to detect the slightest sound. I heard nothing.

  I slowly eased open the door, inch by inch, trying for stealth. The hinges betrayed me with a loud, grinding creak. When I peeked around the doorframe, I was practically nose to nose with Trent. He leaned against the wall, his arms folded across his thick chest, his head turned in my direction, his eyes two burning blue flames.

  “Hello, Kat,” he said in a low and level tone.

  “I-I…I’m sorry,” I stuttered.

  He waved away my apology and shook his head. “No need to be sorry. I guess you heard all of that?”

  “Yes.” There was no point in denying it.

  He nodded, his bottom lip thrust outward and his brows knit together in thought.

  “Wanna talk about it?” he asked, still in the same deep and even tone.

  “Not really.”

  “Good. Me neither.”

  Now it was my turn to nod thoughtfully in the heavy silence.

  He pushed himself from the wall. “I need to work off some anger. Would you be interested in helping me?”

  My mouth opened, but I had no idea how to respond. What does he mean? My jaw hung lifeless for several seconds. His eyes burned into mine.

  “Sure.” A simple word that would change my life.

  “Meet me downstairs in five minutes.”

  ***

  We zoomed across the Brooklyn Bridge. Trent drove fast and angry through the wet and gloomy night. The tires skidded over greasy puddles, remnants of an evening storm, and swished over the glistening asphalt. Dirty gray clouds hung low in the heavens, hiding the moon and stars and turning the river into a solid sheet of undulating black silk.

  Leaving the bridge, we raced along the waterfront until we came to a squat warehouse that seemed to stretch for several blocks. The cracked and potholed parking lot was empty, the surrounding chain link fences overgrown with grasses and weeds. The place looked deserted except for a single harsh yellow bulb that shone above a half-rusted garage entrance.

  “Where are we?”

  “Brooklyn.”

  “I know that. What is this place?”

  “You’ll see.” He stopped the car facing the garage door, the headlights shining on the chipped and scarred surface. “Can I trust you?”

  “Trust me with what?”

  He hesitated, the question hanging dangerously in the air.

  “My secrets,” he finally answered.

  “Absolutely.”

  He took his phone from the front pocket of his jeans and typed out a brief text. The garage door lifted with a grinding shriek and clank of metal gears, slowly revealing a scene that seemed thoroughly surreal.

  The warehouse was the size of several football fields and brightly illuminated like an arena. Vehicles of every description lined the walls, from clapboard pickup trucks to rare million-dollar racers. A few people leaned on car hoods and chatted, but the rest strolled in pairs or small groups toward the rear of the building. My slim black cigarette pants, sheer mint green blouse, and demure beige flats seemed overly formal in the sea of denim cutoffs, tight t-shirts, and flip-flops.

  I looked at Trent. His eyes were laser beams fixed straight ahead. He eased the car into a makeshift parking space, popped open the passenger door, and pulled a duffel bag from the back seat.

  We followed the crowd toward the center of light and noise. A periodic roar shook the rafters. As we got closer, I saw a ring of benches arranged in staggered stadium rows around a large circular wire mesh cage. Inside, two hulking shirtless men squared off, their arms hanging tensely at their sides until one lunged at the other in a fury of pounding fists. The second fighter fell to the ground as the crowd stood and cheered.

  I stopped in my tracks.

  “Fighting?”

  Trent took a few more steps and turned back to me. “MMA, to be exact.”

  “But…how…who…” I stammered, trying to articulate my confusion. “Who is fighting?” I looked at the duffel bag slung over his shoulder. “Are you going to fight?”

  “You got it.”

  “Who are these people? Is this some kind of underground fighting ring?” I lowered my voice to a whisper. “Is this legal?”

  Trent laughed with open-mouthed delight.

  “Yes, this is some kind of underground fighting ring. It’s mildly legal and mildly illegal.”

  “What does that even mean?”

  “It means that we pay the right people to look the other way.”

  He walked a few more steps and turned again to the oily spot on the warehouse ground where I stood rooted with indecision.

  “Are you in?” He held out one hand, his fingers beckoning me forward. I grasped his hand without another word. We headed together toward the ring.

  Trent waved to a group gathered on a middle bench as we drew nearer.

  “Kat, this is Oscar Calabresis and his lovely wife, Esmeralda. Oscar is my training partner at the gym.”

  Oscar sat with his knees bouncing nervously and his fists clenching and unclenching where they rested on his thighs. He was shirtless, a
sacred heart tattooed on his firm chest, his hair sheared short. His handsome face lit up with a welcoming smile as he shook my hand.

  “Pleased to meet you, Kat.” He glanced inquisitively at Trent, who appeared not to notice.

  Esmeralda was beautiful, with waves of lustrous hair in shades of mahogany falling over her shoulders, dancing almond eyes, and full ruby lips that spread in a wide grin that perfectly matched her husband’s. I liked both of them immediately.

  She patted a space on the bench beside her, an invitation to sit. To my surprise, Trent began stripping down to his underwear. He stuffed his jeans and shoes into the duffel bag and pulled out a pair of shorts, hastily slipping them over his hips. He dipped his fingers into a pair of fighting gloves and punched a fist into each palm.

  “What number am I?” he asked Esmeralda.

  She handed him a white sticker with the number “46.”

  “Oscar is number fifty-seven.”

  The crowd erupted in a throaty roar. In the ring, a referee in black and white stripes raised one fighter’s wrist in victory. A blonde in a gold bikini circled the ring, holding up placards with the numbers “40” and “41.” Two men rose from the upper benches and jogged toward an opening in the wire cage.

  Trent unbuttoned his snug-fitting red plaid shirt and let it slide down his arms, rolling it into a ball and stuffing it into the duffel. His body was impossibly gorgeous. His abs were cut in steely ripples across his stomach. His thick pecs were sturdy, solid, and well-formed, a shadow of chest hairs coursing down the middle. His arms were roped through with rigid muscles, and his biceps bulged round and firm.

  His tattoos were like a work of art. They decorated his torso from the indent of his chiseled waist to the iron ridges of his collar bones. The tree that ended in a curve on his neck branched leafy and full on his back, with a tangle of roots that dangled down to the lean arc of his lower back. Across his chest were etched whirling storm clouds and spiraling cyclones. The tattoos on his arms were even more beautifully detailed than I’d previously noticed, the flames and dragons, crashing waves and swimming ocean creatures outlined sharp, vivid, and clear.