Champ

by Rhona Davis

  “Antonio Marquez. He’s back out of retirement.”

  I raise a brow.

  “The boxer who killed Connor’s brother in the ring,” he adds.

  I pause. “Really?”

  “Christ, Sophie, one rule of a reporter . . . always put two and two together. You told me Connor said it was an accident, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wrong. Any dimwit can see he’s bullshitting. He doesn’t talk about it because he knows that motherfucker’s gloves were loaded.”

  I suddenly feel like a complete amateur. “But, shouldn’t interest be low on Antonio coming out of retirement?”

  “Kid, Connor’s fighting him next. This is the whole darn point of me agreeing for you to cover the story. The fight is billed as ‘Revenge.’ It’s the match up of the century. And your news story could well be sport’s scoop of the century . . . prove the old headlines were right.”

  I look into the distance, slightly dazed.

  “Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted?” he says. “A chance to write something big?”

  I nod. “Yes, but . . . I don’t know what to say—”

  “Then say nothing. Now, get gone. I’ve a very important appointment I can’t be late for.”

  “Who with?”

  “Taco Bell. There’s a jumbo cheese burrito that has my name written all over it.”

  6

  Sofia

  Five days later

  Connor’s mansion . . .

  I hand the cab driver my fare and start dragging my baggage up the short hill toward Connor’s ridiculously expensive looking mansion.

  Before I have time to acclimatize myself to my strange new surroundings I hear the cab speeding off behind me, leaving me for dust out here in the wilderness.

  I have to do this now.

  I have to spend a whole eight weeks with an intolerable ego maniac who enjoys walking around in the nude. Not a bad thought—the nude bit—it’s the ego that makes me shudder with apprehension. This could well be an exercise in personal self-restraint, especially if he acts like a dick with me.

  As I approach the ten-foot tall doors of his castle-like house, I keep reminding myself about the end goal—the prize in all this. Everyone will soon know my name in the trade. Hopefully it’ll be the start of a real career so I can stop shadowing for the others at the newspaper.

  I pull out a piece of screwed up paper from my pocket and check the address on my hand written inventory:

  Number 7, Grace Drive, the Hamptons.

  I look up at a gold number seven stuck on an ice-cream white door. Yep, this is Connor’s place all right. The number on its own must have cost more than my apartment. What a total waste of money.

  Just as I reach for the doorbell, the door opens.

  A girl of around twenty stands in the hallway, looking me up and down. She’s wearing a red two-piece swimsuit which leaves little to the imagination. Her blonde hair is shoulder length and draws the eye down to a huge pair of breasts—fake, I’m sure. I feel slightly intimidated as she examines me like a piece of trash that’s been swept in from the Hudson River.

  “Is Connor in?” I politely ask.

  “Who wants to know?”

  I stretch my hand out. “Sofia.”

  She chews gum nonchalantly and folds her arms, unmoved by my gesture.

  I drop my hand and add, in a more professional tone, “Sofia Chavez, from the New Jersey Herald.”

  Just as she begins to shut the door in my face, I stick my foot in to stop her. She glares at me as though she wants to kill me, daggers extruding from her ghost-blue eyes. Like two cars playing chicken on the road, neither one of us yields. She may be beautiful, with tits to die for, but I’m not letting this little hussy scare me.

  “Let her in, Candy,” calls a familiar voice.

  Begrudgingly, she steps to one side. Connor is at the far end of the hall waving me in.

  As I brush past the plastic bimbo, I throw her a condescending smirk.

  Bitch.

  Walking through the grand hallway, I hear loud music. “We’re just having a party,” Connor says. “Every time I’m about to start training camp I throw one.” He turns his attention to Candy. “Baby, get Ms. Chavez here a drink.”

  She pauses.

  “Now, Candy.”

  She sneers. “I can’t, she hasn’t told me what she wants.”

  Connor looks at me for confirmation, raising both brows.

  “Oh . . . err, water please.”

  “Water?” Connor says.

  “It’s a hot day, water will do just fine.”

  Candy—what a name—rolls her eyes and mutters the word square, then shuffles half-assed down the hallway, making a right at the bottom.

  “Who’s little Miss Attitude, your girlfriend?” I ask Connor.

  “Ha! No. Just something for the guys to look at. Anyway, don’t you worry about that.” He looks up the staircase. “Hey, Vinnie.”

  Vinnie, a giant shape of a man, stands in the middle of the stairs. He’s wearing board shorts with no shirt on. He looks like a shaved bear. What is it with all these big men lately?

  “Yeah, Con?” he says.

  “Help Sophie with her bags . . . second floor, third room down.”

  “No problem, boss.”

  Vinnie waddles down the stairs and takes my bags. Relief hits me; I thought my arms would fall off. Vinnie’s strong, lifting them up the stairs like he’s carrying matchsticks.

  Connor grins. “Good old Vin, he’ll do anything for you.”

  “Is he your friend?”

  “He’s family. He works on my security team. I’ve known him for several years now. Took him out of a bad place. Hard as fucking nails, that one.”

  I lift my chin and awkwardly smile.

  “Here, Slovia,” Candy says, appearing from the bottom of the hallway with a drink in hand.

  I shuffle a few steps forward and go to take the glass. She keeps a tight grip on it and for a beat we’re locked into some stupid psychological game I never asked for.

  “It’s Sofia,” I say, dragging my name out so she doesn’t forget. I snatch the glass away from her.

  She shoots me a fake smile and runs out to the backyard.

  “Don’t worry about her,” Connor says. “She just gets jealous sometimes.”

  “Jealous of what?”

  “Of other hot girls. It’s like competition to her.”

  My cheeks flush crimson. I’m flattered but I don’t want to show him that. I need to keep things strictly professional. This is the kind of guy who’d take any small sign of weakness as permission to try his luck, I just know it.

  “Bags are in the room,” the behemoth in board shorts calls from the top landing.

  Connor waves up to him. “Cheers, Vin. Coming for a swim?”

  “Need a piss first.”

  Connor shakes his head at me. “Subtlety is not one of his best qualities.”

  I break into laughter.

  “What’s funny?” he says, raising a brow.

  “What would you know about subtlety?”

  He smiles. “We’re not gonna lock horns now, are we?”

  “That’s up to you, Mr. Patrick.”

  “Connor.”

  “Connor.” I repeat.

  “Forget it,” I snap.

  “I’m sure your editor guaranteed that you’d do exactly as I say in order for that story. Now. . . put it on.”

  I place my hands to my hips and square right up to Connor: Ego maniac and now misogynist pig. “Not in this or any other lifetime. I’m not one of your . . . bitches.”

  One of the other girls, sitting by the pool nearby, shoots me a disapproving look and whispers into the ear of a friend.

  Connor raises his arms. “Now look what you’ve gone and done, offending my guests.”

  “And what am I?”

  “You, angel, are here to work. Now put it on. It’s a party, damn it. Use the summerhouse at the bottom of the lawn t
o get changed. You don’t have to undress here.”

  I throw him a mock smile. “Gee. Thanks.”

  “You’re funny. I’m getting a beer.”

  As he marches off, I curse his name.

  I study the white two-piece he’s left me. I look around to see if anyone’s watching. When I’m confident that everyone is too busy either making out, drinking, or jumping into the swimming pool, I pick up the garment and check the label. It’s my size all right—at least I think it is. I’ve never really made a habit of wearing two-piece bathing suits. In fact, I can’t remember the last time my skin hit the chlorine water.

  “It’s for the story,” the voice in my head reminds me.

  I glance up and take in my surroundings. The whole yard looks like a set from some P Diddy music video; bitches, beer, gangsta-Gs . . . so not my thing. The music is so loud that it almost shatters the windows of the house. I should enjoy it, being just twenty-five myself, but I never came here to party. As Connor said, I’m here to work. Why do I get the impression that this was all put on to fuck with my head? Wouldn’t be the first time he’s done that to a reporter.

  I pull the swimming suit up for closer inspection.

  “Why aren’t you drinking?”

  I jump.

  It’s the blonde girl. She’s itching for a fight, I can sense it.

  “I asked you why you’re not drinking?” She narrows her gaze. “I made you that.”

  I scowl at her and she returns the favor.

  “Okay, okay,” I break. “I’ll drink it if you’re so bothered.”

  She takes a few steps back, watching me like one of those annoying kids in science class waiting for some kind of freak chemical accident. Feeling suspicious, I keep my gaze locked to hers as I bring the glass to my lips. Her mouth twists as she watches, a giggle threating to spill from her at any minute.

  I take a sip and immediately spit out. “Shit, what’s this?”

  “Vodka, neat,” she proudly announces.

  Connor comes bounding over, rubbing his hands together. “Gonna change, or am I going to have to dress you myself?”

  “I don’t think Slovvy likes alcohol much,” the plastic bitch says.

  Right, Candy and Connor . . . here’s to both of you, fucktards.

  I down the tall glass in one. A swell of vomit brews up as soon as the booze hits me, but thankfully I hold back the need to spew. Although stupid, it’s worth it just to see the smug look on Candy’s face melt away. She soon scuttles off leaving Connor standing in front of me, his jaw slack in shock.

  “What?” I say, ice-cold. “Never seen a girl drink before?”

  “No, I—”

  “Not so tough now, are you?” I interrupt in defiance.

  Before he has the chance to think up some maddening retort, I screw the bathing suit into a ball in my hands and charge toward the summerhouse. “I’ll be three minutes,” I shout out as press ahead. “Meet you in the pool, big shot.”

  7

  Connor

  Her smooth, tanned legs hang off the side of the bed. She’s fast asleep, dead to the world. I stay pressed to the door frame of her bedroom, watching.

  A smile pulls across my face when I think about last night—which finished only a few hours ago. She went crazy and I loved it. So different to the stuffy workaholic she first presented herself as. She was fun last night, playing volleyball in the pool and kicking major ass. Towards the end of the party she even seemed to get along with Candy and some of the other girls, drinking them all under the table.

  My cock twinges as I remember how stunning she looked in that tiny bikini; her lithe body, dark and sexy against the nylon white fabric. Her natural beauty absolutely destroys the silicon enhanced sexiness of the other girls—that’s not to say the others aren’t cute in their own right, but she trumps them all. Sofia is classy, unassuming, and completely oblivious to her own effortless sensuality. It’s like she was just born into that body by mistake and got on with it, ignoring her own appeal—clueless to the way she surely drives all men wild.

  She stirs, he legs shifting back under the warm shelter of the duvet.

  Bored now, I pace into the room and pull open the blinds. A vibrant dawn sun bursts into life, drowning every inch of the room in a hazy golden light.

  She turns and moans, still half asleep but slowly coming out of it.

  “Sophie, time to get up.”

  “Wh-what time is it?” she murmurs.

  “Six. Get up. It’s time to run.”

  She pulls the duvet over her head and lets out a zombie-like groan.

  I wait for a moment, allowing her to wake up, but quickly lose patience. Grabbing the end of the duvet with both hands, I sharply pull the thing off her.

  “What the fuck?” she cries, followed by, “Oh my god, I’m naked!”

  “I’ve left you some workout gear on the small chair by the dresser. Get ready and meet me downstairs in ten.”

  Her face is paralyzed with shock, her hands cruelly covering up her small ripe breasts. “How the hell did I get here?’

  “I brought you to bed?”

  “You did what?”

  “You were a mess, Sophie. You could hardly stand. You sure like your drink.”

  “Did you . . . undress me?”

  “It’s not like I haven’t seen a naked chick before.”

  “Oh my god. I’m gonna be sick.”

  I pause, drinking in her sexy shivering body with my eyes. She briefly glances at me. “Get out!”

  I cover my eyes, pretending to be just as shocked by her nakedness. “All right. I’m going, I’m going.”

  As I start down the corridor I can hear whimpers of panic drift out from the room. I hold onto my mouth to stop myself laughing.

  She’s so moody in the morning.

  Standing by the front door, I hear a tiny rumble of feet pad across the landing. I look up and see Sophie approach; her face is pulled into an angry pout, her brow as far down to her eyes as possible. It’s safe to say she looks pretty pissed. She stomps down the stairs, holding onto the railings to stop her reluctant body from tumbling down.

  “Ready, angel?” I call up.

  She frowns at me, flashing her teeth like a wild animal ready to attack.

  “It’s just a short jog, day one of training camp. We won’t push it.” As she hits the final step, I chuck a large bottle her way.

  Her reflexes are sharp for such an early hour. She catches it and holds the bottle up to the light, squinting and swishing the contents around. “What’s this? It looks cloudy.”

  “That’s an isotonic drink. Helps keep the energy levels high.”

  “Is this your idea of breakfast? I was thinking more along the lines of pancakes and bacon.”

  “No. Just something to keep us hydrated. We’re going on a fasted run. It’s good for the metabolism.”

  “Fasted run?”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll grab some eggs when we get back.”

  “Raw eggs?” She grimaces. “Like in the rocky film?”

  I chuckle. “That’s just a movie myth, unless you fancy food poising? Nope, we’ll have a nice plate of poached eggs or something. Trust me, you won’t want to run on a full stomach.”

  She holds onto her head, pressing her fingers to her temples. “I feel awful.”

  “I’m not surprised, sweetheart. You certainly packed it away last night.”

  She looks down at the jogging bottoms and sneakers I selected for her. “How did you get my size right?”

  “Intuition.”

  She adjusts the waistband of her pants and pulls them up. I don’t mind waiting a little longer as I enjoy the sight of the material riding tight against her crotch. I can almost make out the shape of her slit.

  She glares at me. “What?”

  “Nothing. Looks good on you.” I clear my throat. “Ready to go?”

  She blows a loose stand of hair away from her eyes. “Can’t you just go without me?”

  “Nega
tive.” I chuck her a smartphone. “I want you to document my routine. Take some pictures for your spread.”

  She moans. “Urgh, my head is killing. You got any pain killers?”

  “Angel, as soon as you breathe in the wonderful fresh air, and take in the sunny views of the beach, you won’t need a thing.” I check the time on my sports wristwatch. “Come on, we’re wasting the morning.”

  She huffs. “Don’t go too fast.”

  “You’re running with me, of course I won’t.”

  “Wait, Connor, slow down!”

  Sticking to my optimal pace, I turn around and jog backwards. “What’s wrong?”

  “I—I can’t, I . . .”

  She gasps for air but I ignore her. “It’s only been a few minutes. Come on, Sofia, I thought you had better endurance than that.” I gesture to the villages below. They’re drenched in golds, blues, and greens. “Just look at that. Beautiful.”

  “Pig,” she screams.

  I take in a lungful of clean, crisp beachy air. “Man, it’s so good to be alive.”

  As I gather speed, the gasps of Sophie dissipate. I slow to a crawl and glance back over my shoulder. She’s slumped by the foot of an old tree, her head sagging, her arms propped up on her knees like two limp pieces of spaghetti.

  Maybe I over did it a little?

  I turn around and bound over to her.

  Her whole body looks tired and broken. She rubs at her foot.

  “Not like you to quit,” I say.

  “Oh, shut up! You don’t know me.”

  I roll my eyes. “What’s the matter?”

  “My ankle. I think it’s twisted or something. You shithead. You ran too fast.”

  “Take any pictures?”

  Her eyes stare straight through me. “Pictures? I could hardly see you, sprinting over the damn horizon like the Roadrunner. You think I could have even possibly attempted to take pictures?”

  “Maybe I was a little over zealous,” I say, looking away and grinning.

  “Maybe? You are such an asshole. You’re doing this all on purpose.”

  “Think so?”

  “The drinking games, the tight itchy clothes, the early morning run when I’m suffering with a bastard hangover . . . you’re trying to break me, aren’t you?”