Beautifully Dangerous

by Chelsea Kendall

  Beautifully Dangerous

  Chelsea Kendall

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter One

  Welcome to His World

  I have just been offered my dream assignment. As a freelance videographer, I’m usually running around videotaping weddings and Bar Mitzvahs; but not tonight.

  I’m sitting in the San Francisco offices of SmokingCannon.com, a website that strives to get to the bottom of controversial events, people, books, movies, you name it. Remember that author who faked 99% of his best-selling memoir, Falling Together Again? Well, SmokingCannon was responsible for uncovering the lies that had made that guy, Jerry…something, a best-selling author. Now, four self-published books later and the guy can’t even outsell the ninety-one-year-old lady who writes about werewolf biker romance.

  And now, SmokingCannon has given me the chance to tear open America's best kept secret—underground cage fighting.

  "Expose it for what it really is", my boss at the site had said.

  And that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

  After I get through with my exposé, infamous fighters like The Archer and Bullet Man are going be standing in the unemployment line.

  If we were talking about boxing, it’d be different, and I wouldn’t be on this crusade.

  My father was a professional boxer, and he loved every minute of it. The only reason he gave it up was because I was born. But he always took me to matches and taught me to love the sport—to respect athletic discipline, not violence.

  Boxing is a legitimate sport. Hell, it’s even in the Olympics. There are rules. You can’t just beat someone into a bloody pulp because you’re a homicidal maniac with murder in your blood and a lack of self-control.

  Oh, they have two whole rules in the underground circuit, according to some piece of paper I managed to get my hands on: You can’t rip out a guy’s eyes and you can’t crush his windpipe...unless he’s doing it to you. Other than that, there are no holds barred.

  According to the crazies who are into the sport, it’s the only true form of combat. Boxing is for wimps who are afraid to get hit. Boxers wear gloves, they say, where’s the realism in that?

  I could go on and on about it, but this time, I’m going let the camera speak for itself. Soon, millions of people are going to see the lid blown wide off this illegal barbarism.

  “Look out, cage fighting,” I say triumphantly to myself as I drive home, “your days are numbered!”

  It’s Saturday morning, and I am already excited and a little bit nervous as I look at the two press passes my boss has given me. How he managed to get these, I’ll never know, and I don't care as long as they actually get me in.

  Supposedly, I'll have unrestricted access all weekend to ringside, back stage, any training area, as well as access to any of the fighters should they choose to talk to me. The only question is, who should I take with me tonight?

  I dig around my purse and locate my cell phone. I hit the second number on speed dial, it rings twice, and then he picks up.

  “Jax,” I say, “You’re never gonna believe what I have in my hot little hands.”

  “This is nuts,” I say to Jax as we circle around for the hundredth time looking for a place to park. “There sure are a lot of people here for a sport that’s supposedly been banned.”

  “Yeah, criminalizing it just made it even more popular," Jax says, "Now fighters that were making a thousand bucks a night are making 10k or more. And the guys at the top, in some venues, they’re making close to six figures for one fight. And some of those guys will fight two or three opponents, one after the other, as long as they keep winning.”

  “You know way too much about this,” I chide him gently. I know he’s having the time of his life right now, and I don’t want to spoil it for him.

  “Hey Eva, maybe you can interview me! You know, as a loyal fan or something?”

  “But you’re part of my crew," I say, "It would look too contrived if I interviewed my producer.”

  “I can lose the hat and shirt—you just say when.”

  “But that’s only part of it. This story is supposed to shed light on the bad stuff that goes on in illegal cage fighting. My exposé is not going to feature any crazy fan boys singing its praises.”

  “Oh, so that’s what you call an unbiased piece?" He laughs, "I understand. I’ll just be your producer. But if anyone offers, I still want an autograph. Especially from Bullet Man or The Archer.”

  "Don't worry, we'll get you an autograph. Then afterwards, we can get you an ice cream sundae and a giant foam finger," I tease. Jax and I have always had a great relationship. Even though we get along really well, it's strictly platonic.

  Finally, we locate a place to park that’s not a mile away from the venue. Still, it takes another twenty minutes to push our way through a mob of protestors to access the side entrance. I’ll check them out later, that should make for some great drama. Right now, I want to try and catch some of the fighters before they get their brains scrambled.

  I’m amazed to see how many other people from the Press are here tonight on assignment. I see two local TV stations, as well a cable access channel, and a couple other outlets I’ve never heard of. The local papers are represented here as well; The Chronicle and The Examiner, and even some guy from the San Jose Mercury News is here. No doubt, scores of other websites are represented here as well as a million bloggers and photographers looking to capture something that will take their fifty unique page views per day up to ten thousand.

  Try as we might, we just cannot get back to the locker rooms where the fighters are warming up.

  "Fuck me, there must be a thousand people in this one hallway," Jax says, standing on his toes and looking over the sea of people in front of us.

  There is just too much competition here tonight. I feel kinda bad for Jax—he told me we should have left the house earlier but of course I didn't listen to him. There won’t be that many people, I had assured him. As the eight o’clock hour approaches, a nervous silence washes over the crowd. They know what is coming and they’re waiting here with baited breath, anxious for the blood to start flowing.

  Suddenly I feel sick to my stomach. This is going to be like a human cock fight. How can cock fighting and dog fighting be so taboo, and yet when it's humans fighting to kill or maim each other, nobody has any issue? Well, we'll see about that. When my video goes viral, I have a feeling these cage fights will be stigmatized just as severely.

  As the announcer takes the stage, a cacophony of cheers fills the arena. I can feel the excitement of the crowd start to burrow its way under my skin. I have to admit, I am feeling a sort of visceral, primal anticipation, like something inside of me is slowly awakening.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, lovers and fighters,” I can feel his voice booming in my chest, “For our first fight tonight…”

  As he continues on, I immerse myself in my work, not really paying attention the pre-fight hype. Right now, I want to get the crowd's take on the proceedings. Once the main event starts, then I’ll focus on the fight. With my camera raised and recording, I begin to make my rounds.

  The noise is so loud it gives me a headache. God, I’ll be glad when this is over. Jax, on the other hand, is as giddy as a schoolboy
. His eyes are fixed on the announcer and a wide smile is plastered on his face. I’m quite sure he’ll never go to sleep tonight—he’ll be way too keyed up.

  “Excuse me Ma’am,” someone is tapping me on my shoulder. I turn around to get the guy on film. “Are you making a movie about The Archer?" The stranger asks with a southern drawl. I keep the camera trained on him as excitement creeps into his eyes, "You are, aren’t you? I bet that’s why you’re here. I bet that camera cost a pretty penny, am I right?” As he keeps on talking, I keep on filming. “You must know all about the Archer. But if there is something you don’t know, you can ask me. I know everything there is to know about him.”

  “How big is his dick?” yells another unruly fan.

  The stranger continues nonplused. “Naturally I don’t know that, but I do know he had a tonsillectomy when he was four, and his appendix was removed when he was 18.”

  Does this guy know anything important? I wonder to myself.

  “I heard he’s gay,” says a faceless voice off to my left.

  The stranger I’m filming takes the comment like a personal insult. He looks frantically over my shoulder, searching for the utterer of the gay comment. “For your information, he has a fiancée.”

  “Lots of gay people get married to their beards. Makes them think they can get rid of the urges. You know, they might try and get un-gay, but it never works.”

  My guy is supremely offended. “Who keeps saying that? Show yourself, liar!”

  “I’d go gay for him!” shouts another voice in the crowd.

  “That doesn’t even make sense,” my interviewee replies.

  Suddenly, the crowd erupts. The announcer is about to reveal the prime fighter of the evening. This is good stuff, I better get this scene on film. Besides, I'm getting bored of the I’d be gay for him debate.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, who have you all come to see tonight?” The announcer asks rhetorically.

  "Archer!" ten thousand fans scream in unison. They chant his name over and over again, "AR-CHER, AR-CHER, AR-CHER..."

  I yell into Jax’s ear, “What kind of a name is that for a cage fighter? It’s not even a name. It’s more of a title or a skill, isn't it?”

  “What?” he shouts back.

  “His name,” I shout back. “For the record,” I ask, pointing to my camera, “What’s his real name?”

  “It’s The Archer.”

  “Okay…then what’s his first name?”

  “The.”

  “What?”

  “His first name is The.”

  “I asked you what his actual first name is. What is it?”

  “And I told you, it’s The. His first name is The, and his last name is Archer. The Archer.” He turns back to the stage, clearly convinced that I should understand what the fuck he's talking about. Who names their kid The Archer? And if his parents didn’t do that to him, how drunk was he when he picked his own name?

  Finally the crowd stops chanting The Archer’s name. A spotlight clicks on and shines somewhere in the back of the crowd.

  All hell breaks loose.

  I turn my body toward the spectacle and focus my camera on the hero in the spotlight. I gasp as I catch sight of The Archer for the first time. Jogging up to the ring is the god of sex himself. He’s wearing a pair of white silk boxing shorts that are riding deliciously far below his navel. They’re hung so low that I catch myself straining to see where the muscular "V" of his lower abdominals leads down into his shorts.

  He's wearing nothing else. All that's left to the imagination is the size of his...well. My eyes train up to his flat washboard of a stomach and the solid panes of muscle that make up his chest and shoulders. The Archer has an 8-pack, something I’ve never seen before. His abs are so defined, you could cut glass on them.

  I can’t believe that this is my target. The very reason I’m here is to bring the house down around this beautiful man. He is the root of all that’s vile about this “sport”, and I can’t even get my eyes up much past his crotch. His body is the epitome of balance and perfection. His pecs, his shoulders, his oh-so-smooth skin. He’s larger than life, the perfect specimen of a man. I can only hope his face is a train wreck.

  I look up from my camera and see that he is right in front of me now. My eyes caress his bare chest, his biceps, his muscled forearms. They slide down to his long, well-manicured fingers and back to his broad shoulders again. He is standing in front of me. Looking at me. I force myself to look up from his chiseled torso and meet his eyes. I know it then, as clearly as anything I've ever known.

  This man will be the end of me.

  I gaze deep into his brown eyes, hoping to find the answers to questions I can't ask, wishing he would reveal something about himself that no one else knows. His dark eyebrows are hiding multiple scars, small reminders of past battles, that give him a look of hardened wisdom. His features are chiseled and defined, his razor-sharp jaw line is surprisingly clean shaven. His cheekbones sit high, lending his beautiful face and full lips a look of brutal nobility. The Archer has the vicious handsomeness of a medieval knight, he is a man born in the wrong era, he belongs in a more barbaric world than this.

  He points to my camera.

  “Your lens cap is still on.” He says, with an accent that sends a throbbing pulse of desire straight through me. Oh my god, can I be anymore idiotic? I fumble to turn the camera around, only to find the cap hanging there by its nylon tether.

  I look up at him with narrowed eyes and shake my head.

  He looks at me with an amused expression, like a kid who’s just gotten away with a really good prank—so smug and self-assured. I can hardly be mad at him...except for the little fact that I hate everything he stands for. He is the embodiment of everything I despise about his sport, if you could even call it a sport.

  The Archer turns back to face the ring, laughing to himself contentedly.

  “Oh my god,” gushes Jax of his man crush, "He actually spoke to you. And what was it you said? Oh yeah, you said nothing. Bet that’s gonna translate really well in HD.”

  “Just shut up, okay?”

  At some point I become vaguely aware of the announcer extolling the virtues of my enemy. It’s really difficult to hear what he’s saying over the high pitched female voices offering their wares. One woman in particular has disposed of her shirt and is in the process of losing her bra as well. Another has beat her to the punch and hurls her lacy red bra at The Archer. It lands at the center of the ring and the announcer unceremoniously sweeps it off the stage with his foot.

  This is going to be a long night.

  I didn't think it was possible, but the announcer raises his voice even louder. “Our first challenger tonight hails from…”

  Everything fades into the background like so much white noise as I take in The Archer again. Now that the spotlight is glaring in his eyes, isolating him in the world of the ring, I get a really good look at him. I drink my fill, like a woman lost in the desert who has just come across a cool, clear oasis.

  I know it’s unladylike to admit it, but I’m having urges that I never knew existed within me. I stare at his face, hypnotized. He’s a rough, rugged man, but he's so damn good-looking that I have to wonder what he’s doing in this ring in the first place. With a mug like that, he could surely be a model or a movie star instead.

  His competitor, on the other hand, looks right at home in his underground crime syndicate. He looks kind of like Mickey Roark, only fifteen years older and worse for the wear.

  "Hey Jax, how old is that guy?" I say, pointing at the challenger.

  "Ah, that's Marcus 'The Annihilator' Jones...Not positive about his age exactly, but I'm sure he’s only a few years older than The Archer. Thirty four, maybe?" he says.

  "Damn. That's it?"

  Guess there’s something to be said for genetics. Archer has it all, and The Annihilator guy got totally overlooked. In the interest of having it all, genetically speaking, I think I’ve finally found the man to
father my many babies. Or just one baby with lots of practice. Years of practice. As a rule, I rarely permit myself to fantasize like this—it's just a lot of mental masturbation. But oh my god. Tonight, I’m gonna wear my fingers out while visions of The Archer dance through my head.

  I give my eyes free reign, allowing them to slide up and down The Archer’s perfectly sculpted body. Even his feet are perfect. How amazing is that? As my eyes travel back up his long legs, they come to rest at the hem of his white trunks. What I wouldn’t give right now to slip my hand beneath that silken fabric and do a little exploration of my own. He must be hung like a god. Surely, no one who’s blessed with that much gets shafted in that department. Speaking of shafts...

  The bell rings, and I nearly jump out of my own skin. I’m not surprised to find my voice in the mix of feverish females chanting his name over and over again.

  “AR-CHER…AR-CHER…AR-CHER!”

  Jax is staring at me, eyebrows raised.

  “What?" I blush, "He’s handsome.”

  “Apparently he’s a hell of a lot more than that to you, judging by the look on your face.”

  I frown at him. “Whatever!”

  He shakes his head and returns his attention to the match, as do I.

  While The Archer appears to be laid back, almost playful, his challenger looks like he really wants to live up to his name and annihilate. Clearly "The Annihilator" has been hitting the gym religiously, but his body has none of the symmetry that Archer’s does. His muscles look like they were just dumped on him—some stuck, some didn’t, and others had landed a little off target. He is an ugly man in every way.

  The beast stomps around the ring, making it vibrate under their feet, while Archer glides over the surface like a cat getting ready to pounce. When he does pounce, his movements are far too fast to track. It's actually quite incredible to witness. Thank God I brought my camera with me, this footage is priceless.

  The Annihilator’s head rocks back as he absorbs a punch I never saw land. The Archer is so fast that all I can really see is how each blow affects his opponent. And I can hear the horrible sound of flesh smacking against flesh as it resonates throughout the arena. All of a sudden the beast is bending over from some strike to the lower body. The scene reminds me of a marionette puppet show, and every time The Archer steps in to attack, the puppet master just goes wild on The Annihilator.