by Rome, Ada
He tapped me on the forearm, waking me from my staring reverie.
“Earth to Kat.” He snapped his fingers. “You have one job here. Collect the money.”
“Money? What money?”
Esmeralda explained. “Each fighter pledges money, basically betting on himself. There’s a five hundred dollar minimum. The loser has to pay the amount of the winner’s bet. So, let’s say I bet a thousand dollars and you bet five thousand. If I win, you have to pay me a thousand. But if you win, I have to pay you five thousand. Got it?”
“I think so.”
“Kat’s a born bookie.” Trent placed a gloved hand briefly on my kneecap with a charming grin.
“So, it’s good to bet a higher amount because you can make more in the end, right? As long as you win”
“Exactly,” Esmeralda nodded. “Either fighter can walk away if the bet is too rich for him. Then it’s up to the next challenger. And we only deal in cash. No IOUs.”
“Don’t worry. I always win.” Trent punched one balled fist into the palm of his other hand.
The fights moved quickly, each accompanied by a chorus of cheers, yells, and whistles. I saw flailing fists and feet as the fighters kicked and punched with zealous skill and startling strength. There were takedowns and holds. After one vicious knockdown, a woozy fighter rolled on the mat, struggling to rise until he flopped helplessly onto his stomach.
The girl in the bikini held up placards that read “46” and “47.”
“This is me.” Trent jogged down a few steps.
“Wait!” I called. “What’s our bet? How much am I supposed to collect?”
“Ten thousand. And I like your faith in me.” He held a fist toward me. I bumped his fist with my own. “You’re going to be my lucky charm.” He turned and sprinted down to the ring, climbing through the cage and emerging to a loud roar from the crowd.
“They like Trent a lot,” Esmeralda observed.
“He’s one of the best,” Oscar agreed. I got the impression from his bouncing knees and fidgeting hands that he was a bundle of nervous energy.
I tried to see what was happening in the ring, but the heads of standing spectators blocked my view. I stood, but the view was not much better. I flopped down anxiously onto the bench.
“So, how long have you and Trent been dating?” Esmeralda asked. We both craned our necks. I caught a glimpse of Trent furiously punching, the muscles in his carved and contoured back bulging and shifting with each hammer blow. His opponent was tall and broad-shouldered, bald on top but with a thick red beard like a lumberjack. He wilted under the barrage of Trent’s punches, doubling over and clutching at his midsection. The crowd roared and chanted.
“Oh, we’re not dating. I’m an intern at the magazine.”
“Hmm. I see.” She gave me a strange look that was half suspicion and half amusement. I briefly wondered what that look meant.
Trent clearly had the advantage through several rounds of fighting. His powerful legs kicked and cartwheeled while his opponent struggled to gain traction. I flinched when the lumberjack landed a perfectly aimed thrust at Trent’s ribs, sending him into a stunned back-pedal. He recovered quickly and delivered a walloping punch to the lumberjack’s large head. They wrestled and grappled mightily. Trent remained in full control, his opponent pinned to the mat.
When it was over, the referee raised Trent’s wrist to a thunder of shouts from the thrilled crowd. The lumberjack hung his head and limped to the edge of the cage.
“Who do I give this to?”
A woman, young but with skin prematurely aged by sun exposure, stood next to me. Her yellowish hair was fried at the tips and showed dark roots at her scalp. She wore a thin purple tank top with the word “Sexy” scrawled across her breasts in glittering rhinestones. Her fingers, each terminating in a razor-sharp red nail, clutched a rolled-up wad of money secured with a dirty rubber band.
Esmeralda titled her chin in my direction. “That’s all her,” she said to the woman.
I tentatively grasped the wad of warm, sweaty bills. To my surprise, she offered a handshake as well, her red talons poking my palm and her collection of shiny bangle bracelets clinking.
“Good fight,” she said. “Lucky girl.” She clomped down the steps in her heavy boots and melted into the screaming crowd.
“You might want to put that away,” Esmeralda said with a nod to the money that I foolishly balanced on my palm like a glass treasure. Her lips twitched with a suppressed smile. She placed a reassuring hand on my knee.
I hastily stuffed the roll of money into a side pocket of Trent’s duffel just as he returned from the ring, breathing heavily and glistening with sweat.
“So, what did you think?” He wiped down his chest and neck with a towel. He noticeably winced when the towel skated over the spot on his ribs where the lumberjack had landed a decisive blow.
“No contest, man.” Oscar said with a head shake and admiring grin. “You had him the whole time.”
“And you?” Trent slapped my forearm with the towel. “What did you think?”
My brain cycled through possible responses. You’re beautiful. I want to lick that sweat from your stomach. Please ravish me on this bench in front of all these people.
“Impressive,” was all I managed to say.
We watched one fight after another until Oscar’s number was called. He bowed over Esmeralda. They whispered a brief prayer together. He kissed her tenderly on the forehead before heading into the ring.
“Did you do your job?” Trent asked.
“The money is in that pocket of your bag,” I said, pointing to the zippered compartment.
“Good job, Kitty Kat.”
“So, why do you do this anyway? The fighting, I mean. Isn’t it dangerous?”
“Danger is not necessarily a reason to avoid doing something,” he said with a piercing sideways glance. “Fighting has always been my second passion. Journalism is my first. That’s why I started the magazine, to combine the two. But watching isn’t enough for me. I need to feel the thrill and rush of actual hand-to-hand combat.”
“Aren’t you afraid that people will recognize you? You are kind of a celebrity. Aren’t you worried that this will all become public?”
“I’m kind of a celebrity?” He laughed. “No, I’m not worried. This is a good group. They’re trustworthy. They may look like a bunch of rogues and rascals, but they watch out for each other. We watch out for each other.”
From what we could see of Oscar’s fight, it was a much closer contest than Trent’s fight had been. Esmeralda sat with her hands clasped tightly, her knuckles white with tension. The outcome was in doubt until the referee raised Oscar’s wrist in victory, prompting a breathy sigh of relief from Esmeralda. Trent reached behind me and gave her shoulder a comforting pat. The corners of her eyes were wet with tears.
“I never can get used to it,” she said.
Ten minutes later, the four of us headed toward the improvised parking lot. Esmeralda gave me a warm hug when we stopped in front of a ‘90s hatchback with a dented fender and peeling paint. The back window featured a set of decals in the shapes of four family members – a mother, father, son, and daughter.
“I’ll see you next time, Kat,” she said as she ducked into the driver’s seat. Oscar held his elbow gingerly, as if nursing an injury.
Next time? I would be here again?
Trent and I walked to his car. He winced as he settled behind the steering wheel and dropped the duffel bag at my feet. We waited for the garage door to open. The tires crunched over the pitted driveway, past the overgrown fences, and out onto the dark streets of the Brooklyn waterfront.
He opened the windows. Salty sea breezes whipped through the interior, cool and refreshing. I released the tight ponytail that had begun to squeeze my scalp, allowing my thick hair to fly long and loose. Wispy tendrils batted against my cheeks in the wind. I enjoyed the sensations of speed and freedom. I turned to ask Trent a question and found his
eyes fixed on mine. He looked away and gently rubbed his side with one hand while steering with the other, his eyes now focused on the road ahead.
“Do your ribs hurt? I saw the punch he landed.”
“A little. It’s starting to stiffen up. I can ice it when we get home.”
We? Home? Am I going home with Trent?
“You know, I didn’t even count the money. Some bookie, I am.” I laughed. “Let me count it now.”
I zipped open the duffel and rummaged through the side pocket. It was empty. Panic gripped my stomach. I had put the money in there. I was sure of it. I checked the other compartments just to be sure. The money was nowhere to be found.
Trent sensed my anxiety and softly touched my forearm.
“It’s alright. The money is gone.”
“Gone? What do you mean it’s gone? I swear that I put it in here.”
“I mean that I gave it away” he said calmly. “I gave it to Esmeralda when no one was looking.”
I thought back to a private moment that I had glimpsed between them in the warehouse. She had wrapped her arms gratefully around his neck, wiping dabs of moisture from her eyelashes.
“Oscar doesn’t know.” Trent sighed heavily. “He would never accept a handout, so I give the money to Esmeralda on the sly. They have two kids and a mortgage. He was laid off from his job a year ago. I don’t need money. They do.”
“They seem like good people.” I tucked a flying tendril behind my ear.
Trent nodded. “If you look hard enough, you can find a lot of good people in this world. Bad people too.”
His voice trailed off. We drove in silence, past the blinking lights of the docks and the smooth sheen of the midnight river. Manhattan sparkled in the distance like a wonderland of star-pricked castles.
After crossing the bridge and winding through a maze of streets on the Lower East Side, Trent stopped the car in front of a high-rise building with a forbidding iron-gray front.
“Home sweet home,” he said.
I swallowed nervously. The car engine purred. The faint city sounds of distant sirens and snatches of half-heard conversations drifted through the open windows.
“Unless…” he paused and continued, “you want me to take you back to your dorm?”
“No.” I smiled sheepishly. “No, I’d like to come in. Just for a bit.” I tried to sound casual, like this sort of thing happened to me every day. Like I was used to being invited into the homes of hot, rich, and famous men. This was most definitely new territory for me.
“Just for a bit then.” He smiled mysteriously.
Chapter 7
“Something to drink? I have water, milk, orange juice, vodka.”
Trent peered into the contents of his open refrigerator. I swiveled my head in amazement at the sumptuous grandeur of his apartment. The floor-to-ceiling windows provided a stunning view of the Manhattan skyline, the ever-flickering lights of the nighttime city suggestive of the pulsing life within.
One room flowed smoothly into another, the spacious kitchen giving way to a living room furnished with plush rugs and luxurious leather couches. A dark archway gave a hint of an expansive bedroom at the far end. The color scheme was subdued and tasteful, dominated by gray, slate blue, and deep indigo hues.
“Water is fine. Your place is amazing, by the way.”
“Yeah, it’s alright.” He poured a glass of water and handed it to me.
I perched on one of the black leather barstools and glanced around at the sprawling and elegant space. I noticed a curving metal staircase next to the bank of windows.
“Where do those stairs go?”
“To the roof. Great place to watch the sunrise. Maybe I’ll show it to you sometime.” He unbuttoned and removed his shirt, gritting his teeth through the pain. He rummaged in the freezer and retrieved an ice pack, plopping it with a smack onto the granite counter.
“Do you need any help?”
“I could use some help wrapping this, actually. There’s a bandage roll in my duffel. Bring it over here.”
I did as instructed. He pressed the ice pack to the sore patch on his ribs. A purplish bruise was already forming. I stood before him, uncertain where to begin. I unrolled the bandage and began tentatively winding it around his torso, my arms encircling his waist as his warm breath skated over the top of my head. My cheek brushed against the firm skin of his chest. To my surprise, in that brief instant of contact, I felt his heart pounding as hard and fast as my own.
“Thank you,” he said softly when I had finished.
He ran his fingertips along my hairline and caressed the side of my face from my temple to the tip of my chin. I closed my eyes, relishing the soothing sensation of his touch. Hands that I’d earlier seen punching with a furious violence now radiated a tender warmth. I held my breath, unwilling to make any move that might destroy this perfect moment.
He gently gripped my shoulders and took a step backwards. He shook his head and cleared his throat. “Kat, I can’t ---”
His hesitation plunged me back into reality. He’s my boss. There are too many complications.
“I know. I understand.” My voice was raw and trembling.
“It’s just…there are things that you don’t know about me. There are reasons that I can’t do this…with you.”
“I get it. You don’t have to explain.” I steadied my voice, trying for a certainty that I did not feel. My brain spun through all of the sane and sensible arguments telling me that I should walk away before things went any further. But the pull of his body on mine was a magnetic force that I could not resist.
He stepped back and ran a hand through his tousled black hair.
“Do you, though? Do you understand?” He tipped his chin downward and crossed his arms over his bare chest. His ice blue eyes stared at me from under lowered brows. I had no idea how to respond. Maybe I don’t understand. What does he mean?
My mouth hung open, aiming but failing to utter comprehensible words. I leaned on the counter for support. Every nerve ending in my skin strained toward him. Just one touch and the barrier would crumble. One touch, and those strong hands would plunge into my blouse and caress my naked flesh. I wanted to feel his fingers tearing at my flimsy bra and sliding down into my pants to feel my wet and pulsing center. He knew it, and I knew it. The image made my cheeks flush hot. The tension between us crackled like lightning.
“Come on,” he finally said. His voice was rough and wounded, as if he were struggling to contain a strong emotion. “Why don’t I go ahead and show you that roof deck.”
I nodded quickly. I didn’t trust my voice to remain level at the moment.
As I followed him up the curving metal staircase, I watched the muscles in his back shift and writhe beneath the skin, creating moving undulations in the tree roots that snaked down his spine. I suddenly had a revelation. I knew what Trent’s tattoos signified.
“I get it,” I blurted once we had emerged onto the flat cement roof. I scanned the canvas of his skin under the faint moonlight. He raised one eyebrow in a question. “The tattoos,” I clarified. “I know what they mean.”
“Oh?” He leaned back on one heel and placed his hands on his hips. The wounded note was gone. His voice was back to the droll and slightly mocking tone that I found both incredibly infuriating and impossibly arousing.
“The four elements. Earth, air, water, and fire. The tree on your back is earth, the winds and cyclones on your chest are air, the waves and sea creatures are water, and the flames and dragons are fire. It’s brilliant. It’s beautiful.”
His lips broke into a pleased smile, but his eyelids squinted in a secretive leer.
“Congratulations, Kat. You have solved one piece of the puzzle.”
“What do you mean?”
He turned and settled onto an opened futon that I just now noticed amid a collection of lounge chairs and potted plants. He lay backwards, briefly grimacing from the pain in his side, and patted the empty space on the cushion. I sli
pped out of my shoes and settled next to him, resting on my side and leaning on one elbow.
“Well,” he said as he placed one hand behind his head and gazed up into the black sky, where only a few brave stars managed to outshine the blanket of city lights below. “You know what the tattoos mean in general. But you don’t know exactly what they mean to me.”
I considered this. He was right. Why had he chosen to cover his body in images of the four elements?
“And I suppose you’re not going to make it easy and just tell me,” I replied with a sarcastic smirk.
“You’re the reporter, my dear. I’d say it’s your job to figure it out.”
I lay back and joined him in gazing up at the sky.
“Will you even give me a hint?”
He paused, breathing deeply in and out. A full minute passed in silence. You never realize how long a minute can feel until you’ve spent one locked in quiet anticipation.
“It’s about a girl.” His voice was low and deep, almost angry. He turned his head toward me. My heart caught in my throat. His eyes briefly met mine with a searching intensity and then dropped to the place where his hand rested on the cushion. He smiled, but it was a closed-lip smile, tight and sad. “It’s always about a girl, isn’t it?” He chuckled quietly, wistfully.
“Where is she?” I wanted to ask who instead of where, but I wasn’t yet ready to face the answer. I didn’t want to picture the girl who secretly held Trent’s heart. I wanted to be the girl who secretly held Trent’s heart.
“She’s gone,” he answered simply.
To my great surprise, his fingers reached toward me and began plucking open the buttons of my blouse. I held my breath. My heart raced out of control.
“You should get comfortable.” His voice was low and husky.
I sat up and slipped my blouse over my shoulders. The fabric puddled at my wrists. I wore a thin peach camisole that barely covered the swell of my pushed-up cleavage. The cool night air prickled the skin along my arms. Trent slipped one hand under the border of my camisole, pulling me to him as his fingertips pressed firmly into the bare flesh of my back.