Gabriel had been the stock boy at the gym Damion owned. He basically had been in charge of bringing the boxers towels, but after having his ass whooped in the locker room at the gym a few times, Damion had started training him too. Now he was Damion’s personal assistant and not just a towel boy. He had just been a kid to me back then, but now he was my closest friend. He is a young guy –still just twenty while I am pushing twenty-seven, but he is really professional now. He works close with my manager as well as Damion. During training, Gabriel is always the unfortunate soul holding the boxing bag still or sparring in the ring when actual boxers are unavailable. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve accidentally clocked the guy.
Brandi is standing in the back of the room –always supportive. We’re just now getting started, and she already looks bored out of her mind, though. She looks really sexy standing there quietly in the corner; her eyes cut towards me, and her bright pink lips pierced together in a slight smug. She's a dancer, so she’s a bit of an athlete herself which I’ve always liked. A much more elegant sort of athlete –but an athlete nonetheless. I always get trapped going to her boring ass ballets, but I suppose if she can sit through watching me get punched repeatedly I can spare some time to watch her prance about the stage.
“Mr. Trial! Mr. Trial!” One of the reporters has managed to push her way to the front of the crowd. Damn, I think and have to remind myself that Brandi is literally standing right there in the back of the room. The reporter is wearing this tight suit and unless she really is just that ridiculously perky, a serious push-up bra under a low-cut, bright red blouse. I give her the nod so that she knows I’m listening. “I was hoping you could comment on the incident at Belmont High School.”
This bitch. Seriously? I should have known better than answering the chick’s question. I know exactly what she is talking about. I did some stupid commercial a while back –my manager’s idea –and they gave me a slogan: If you can’t go twelve rounds, you’ve not worth the fight. Lame. Well, apparently a few days ago a couple of kids beat the shit out of some other kid at their school; the whole thing had gotten recorded on someone’s camera, and the little punks signed off with my slogan. The video has gone viral. I’ll even admit that I’ve watched it.
What do I say to her? Of course, I go the sarcastic route. I can’t help myself. “What’s wrong?” I question, “don’t know a damn thing about boxing, sweetie, so you got to ask me about some online video to try to get a response from me that doesn’t take you having to actually do your job as a reporter and study up on what you’re reporting?”
The woman is a bit taken back, but she doesn’t back down. “This is about much more than some online video, Mr. Trial. Children in our public schools are imitating you. Do you believe that you are in any way responsible for the actions of these children?”
“What’s your name?” I ask, my lips practically touching the microphone they have laid out in front of me.
“Get her out of here,” my manager starts to say, but I hold up my hand to let him know I got this.
“Alison Lial from The Morning Cup.” She says, and I try not to snort. The Morning Cup is far from serious reporting; I have no idea how she even managed to get let in here.
“Well, Ms. Lial, tell me, what do you think?” I ask, putting her on the spot. “Do you think I am responsible?”
She shoots me these sharp eyes, but she still does not back down. “My opinion is irrelevant to my piece. Do you believe that we, as functioning members of society should be displaying such intentional acts of violence in public spheres for entertaining purposes for not only adults but for the youth as well?”
My manager looks nervous –afraid of what I might say. I just smile at her. “You really want to know what I think, Ms. Lial?” I have to bite my tongue to keep from giving a stupid, sarcastic response. I don’t want to give her fuel for a hate piece –even if it is a little paper like The Morning Cup –plus there are real reporters here too with their cameras on me. “I think what those kids did was absolutely degrading, and they should be ashamed of themselves. I don’t like bullies, and that’s all those kids are –and I hope they’re watching this so that they can hear me say how I think they’re nothing but a couple of cowards picking on someone smaller than them. I’m always honored to hear from younger fans, but not like that. They’re no fans of mine. Boxing is a sport. Sports are supposed to teach us valuable lessons –they’re not some tool meant to be used to overpower someone. Plus, whoever that poor kid was they knocked around, well, I bet he could have taken either of those little shits if they had taken him in a fair fight. Personally, I’d like to hear from those kids because I sure do have a few damn things to say about what the hell they thought they were doing bringing my name into their bullshit antics. Now, if you would get the fuck out of here, Ms. Lial –I hope I gave you enough to write your gossip column.”
I watch as security ushers her out the back door, and there is a small round of applause from the more serious reporters and the line of amateur boxers standing in the background hoping to get a glimpse of me. My manager gives me a subtle thumbs up to let me know I did not fuck up. I bet we could turn this into a killer publicity stunt, now that I think about it. I can already picture it. Me sitting down with the little shits and the poor son of a bitch they beat up –a sort of anti-bullying campaign. Yeah, that could work –and I bet my manager is already thinking something fairly similar.
“So,” I said while I propped my elbows up onto the table and leaned closer to the microphone, “does anyone have any actual questions about boxing they want to address?”
The group of reporters all laugh slightly. Over the years I’ve learned to handle this crowd. They fucking love me –which means good publicity. I own these morons, and I think they all know it.
3
I am always thankful when the press interviews are over. I wind up standing around with Gabe and Brandi afterward, the three of us just chatting in a corner until the room clears out. Damion and my manager head out together, both uttering some stupid jokes about me staying out of trouble and me giving an equally stupid response.
Eventually, Gabe, Brandi, and I get tired of standing around, and we head out the back of the building as well –exiting through the locker rooms into the back parking lot. It’s dark out now, and the place is fairly deserted apart from a few parked cars. Just as we are leaving the building a familiar, bitchy voice squeaks, “Excuse me, Mr. Trial.” It’s Alison Lial.
Brandi is the first to take defense. “Beat it, bitch,” she says. That’s my girl.
I put a hand on Brandi’s hip and offer her a smile, letting her know I can handle myself quite well. Brandi just crosses her arms and pokes out her lips. Gabe rolls his eyes and puts forth a similar stance minus the pouty lips. “Can I help you, Ms. Lial?”
“I was hoping to get a private interview,” she said, “After you had me thrown out, I was not able to get much to write about.”
“I had you thrown out for a reason, you know?” I snap.
“Listen-” she looks pissed, and I hold my hand up to her face before she can say much more.
I turn and look at Brandi and Gabe. “Hey, man, you think you could drive Brandi home? I’d like to nip this shit in the bud before the bitch writes some article trashing me.”
Brandi looks furious at my decision to not drive her home, but she goes with it. Gabe nods and the two of them head off, loading up into his car and peeling out of the parking lot. I turn and look at Alison with the most hateful glare I can manage. “Well? You want a one on one interview or not?”
“Seriously?” she questions; she clearly did not expect for me to cave.
“Yeah, but I’m not doing it out here,” I head back towards the building, and I kindly open the door up for her.
I have keys to a green room upstairs where some of the boxers go to hang out before photo shoots and promo commercials. We sit down on the futon that makes up the majority of the small room, and it only ta
kes a couple of questions before I realize that my assumptions about her were right. She does not know shit about boxing. “How did you get stuck writing this article?” I finally ask her.
She comes clean. “The Morning Cup wants to take a new direction with their reporting style. You were right. The group is pretty much just a gossip style magazine, but they want to become more serious. I was one of the top gossip columnists, but they decided to get rid of those types of writings completely as they started in this new direction. I had to either become a sports writer or lose my job.”
“If you’re going to start writing about sports, you might want to study up a little more, sweetie,” I say. I smile at her, and I see her wince slightly, turn her head down embarrassingly, and softly clear her throat as though a nervous lump had formed.
“I know,” she admits, “this is supposed to be my first story, and I got so nervous. So many reporters at The Morning Cup have already lost their jobs in this transition. I just wanted to write something worth reading, and I fell into my old habits, I suppose. I wanted something juicy instead of just reporting the news. I’m sorry for giving you such a hard time. You actually gave me a pretty good answer to my question, though. I can’t believe you agreed to a private interview.”
I grin. “Well, for a pretty face like that, how couldn’t I?” She blushes again. I add, “Tell you what, if you ever need to ask a question about boxing, I’m your guy,” I snatched her pen away from her, our hands touching for a second. I can tell this makes her nervous. I don’t bother taking her notebook out of her lap; instead, I lean over and write down my number for her –a fake number, of course –I don’t want this nut job calling me all the time. I put the pen down, and I allow my hand to land on her knee.
Alison nervously picked her pen back up, and she says nothing about my hand. We go through a few more questions, and as we do we become increasingly friendly. Soon we’re sitting close enough to where our thighs are touching; I’m practically leaning over her as we speak.
I’ll admit it. I do this sort of thing a lot. I could probably write a book on the art of seduction. I’m good, and I know it. I mean, come one –I embarrassed this woman in front of a group of people, had her thrown out of a building, and made it pretty clear in the parking lot that I had a girlfriend yet here she is completely falling for the charm. “I think you’re going to do just fine with this article,” I tell her, pushing her notebook away and letting it slide onto the floor. “I wouldn’t worry too much.”
I offer her another smile, and I can see her melting. Her breathing has changed; her palms are slightly shaky. I decide to go for it; I lean in and let my lips linger, but I don’t go too much further. She gives me a peck and then pulls away, humiliated that she had been the one to cross the threshold. In one quick motion, I pull her legs out from under her and jump on top of her; she lays flat on her back on the futon staring back up at me. “Do you want it?” I ask her now that we’ve clearly broken all professional barriers.
She does not answer me with words; she grabs me by my shirt collar and pulls my face towards hers, slamming our lips together and slipping her tongue into my mouth. That a girl, I think to myself and get her out of her suit jacket and tight, black dress pants. I pull off her blouse, and I discover that I had been right about the push-up bra. She’s got on bright pink panties and a tan colored push up bra. “Mmm…” I say when I see her laid out on the futon. I remove my t-shirt that ironically says If you can’t go twelve rounds, you’ve not worth the fight across the front.
Her hands reach out, and she unzips my jeans and pulls out my hard cock that only gets harder with her touch. Her knees bend slightly in anticipation. I palm her between her legs, teasing her with my fingers for a minute before diving –shoving my shaft as far up into her as humanly possible. I think it’s pretty obvious that this woman doesn’t like me, but she’s sleeping with me anyways. Oddly enough, I’ve been in similar situations before, and it always winds up being really fun, rough sex –Alison is no different.
Fingernails and biting are a part of this rough, animalistic encounter. I slam hard into her, making her cry out with a mix of pleasure and pain. I bite down only somewhat gently on her nipples, and she goes nuts over it. I shove my arms up underneath her, pulling her hips up to get a better angle; I pinch her ass hard while my hands are down there. “Oh God… you’re going to kill me!” she shrieks excitedly. “Ugh, Jonathan, don’t stop! Don’t stop!”
I ride her until she’s raw and she starts quivering; a loud, orgasmic scream escapes her throat, but I’m not done with her yet. I pull out of her and tell her to turn over, and after such an orgasm she does so willingly. I pull her hips up towards me and press my wet cock into her ass. “Shit!” she hisses, probably not having expected that, but I shut her up by reaching my hand around to further stimulate her moist pussy. My other hand reaches around and grabs one of her breasts, squeezing and massaging it violently.
“Oh, God, I’m cumming!” she shrieks, and I certainly can confirm her claim by how wet my fingers have gotten. I can feel her insides throbbing around my fingers and my dick.
“You like it in the ass, don’t you, bitch?” I say, a little surprised at myself. I never get so raunchy in the bedroom –not with Brandi, at least. She’d probably punch me in my nuts if I called her a bitch while in bed, but I have at it with this stupid ass reporter.
“God, I do, I do!” she says, her hands sprawled out in front of her as she leans back, allowing me to slide into her even further. I can see her hands gripping the side of the futon, her voice panting. I practically have my entire hand up in her now, and she starts screaming all over again. She’s running out of breath, and I’m honestly surprised I’ve lasted this long. I pull out of her ass and turn her back over just in time to cum on her stomach. I grab her legs and lean down, sliding my tongue into her wet pussy just to make her scream one more time before we part ways. She does, and I wipe myself off and get dressed like nothing happened.
She does the same, and I can see a look of shame on her face. We part ways without saying another word to one another. I grin as I watch her rush to her car to put as much distance between us as possible. She’ll never tell a soul.
4
There are no other cars on the road when I leave the ring after my impromptu interview with the tramp from The Morning Cup, so I take my car for a spin through some more deserted areas of San Diego where I know the cops rarely show. I love making her drag and hearing the sound of her wheels spinning out uncontrollably. I guess I’m just a big adrenaline junkie at the end of the day. I roll down the windows, and I can smell the burnt rubber as I make a sharp turn and let the car drift almost uncontrollably. I keep her on the road, though.
I’ve always been a fan of danger. That’s probably why I became a boxer. I love the rush of just throwing yourself out there –living on the edge. I go speeding down a hill, bringing my vehicle to top speed. My gut does a flip, but I live for that kind of shit. This is the life. Really, it is. I feel like I’m untouchable. Like I can do anything. If I can still K.O. a guy after he knocked me in my ears and got me below the belt, I feel like I can do just about anything. I mean, I just fucked a random woman who clearly hated me in some other guy’s office. And I got a girl at home who’s probably making me one of her killer post-match meals. I grin, also thinking of my regular side chick that I keep around for an occasional booty call. A part of me wonders when it’s all going to end. I mean, I can’t keep screwing around forever if I want things to get serious with Brandi… I shake the thought away. Do I even want things to get serious with Brandi? I’ve never really thought that way before.
The strange thought that entered my mind concerning my girlfriend distracts me just as I am turning a sharp corner, and my car comes up on two wheels. I feel a slight panic rush through me, but I manage to land the car upright. My heart is racing a million beats a minute. After that close call, I decide to call it a night and head home before Brandi starts to worry.
/> I pull up to my gated drive; the gate registers my vehicles and opens up for me, and I pull up the long driveway. There is this giant ass fountain out front that I’ve never really cared for, but it was there when I bought the home. I smile as I climb out of my car; coming home to this mansion-like home is still taking some getting used to. It’s really unnecessarily large for just me, but Brandi is here a lot, and who knows –we might fill it up with the mini me’s one day. Again I shake the thought away. I’m not ready to settle down, I think…
Brandi is there to greet me at the door. She has this big smile as she ushers me into the kitchen, and I can smell lasagna. I’m pretty sure she didn’t do a homemade lasagna; the only things she knows how to cook are non-fat, non-gluten, non-dairy… all the kind of crap ballet dancers try to convince themselves tastes good. I don’t really care, though. I love lasagna –boxed lasagna or not. She’s poured wine and tossed a Greek salad. I grin, wondering if I’m going to get lucky for the second time tonight.
We sit down together, and she does the whole post-match let me check over your cuts, bumps, and bruises thing she always does. She looks at me with these pleading eyes as we dive into our salads, and I realize that this is not an I’m-horny kind of dinner she’s prepared. I should have known. She did the whole five-course meal with bread, wine, salad, entree, and what looks like a cheesecake dessert so I would have to sit and listen to her through it all. Here it comes, the same shit she is always spewing. “I really wish you would look into doing something else,” she says and looks at me with these pleading eyes.
Filthy Desires: A Romantic Suspense Collection Page 127