To Love A Hitman

by Randell Mccreary

  They're green. Bright green. Although he has a lot more hair, although I can't see his face and he has more muscles than before – and although he's using a lower, more guttural voice – is it him?

  He mistakes my blank surprise for fear, and starts laughing, posturing himself and swaying from side to side, as if daring for me to hit him.

  Oh God. It even smells like him. It's that same musky scent, with the tiniest hint of beer.

  It is.

  He's not called Jackson Cage. His real name is Casey James. My surprise turns into hardened anger. He doesn't seem to recognize me at all. I might be more bulked out than before, cleaner shaven than before, since my hair used to go past my shoulders at a point, but it offends me that he doesn't recognize me.

  Fuck. I should have known. Jackson/Casey – after a small debate, I decide to stay with Jackson – quite likely started hating the gays more after me. And I tried my hardest to blot him from my memory. Then he started rising to power about two years ago, and he'd already completed his transformation from the clean shaven, lean muscled warrior to a monster. I don't know why I didn't connect the dots before. Even if he didn't use his real name, I should have...

  No. I didn't want to think about it.

  He continues his posturing, and I take a deep breath, keeping myself calm. Should I try to announce I know him? That I was that guy from four years ago?

  No. With this crowd, I don't think my words will reach him. I decide to keep my mouth shut, saving the surprise for the match tomorrow. Saving my determination for the beatdown.

  We stand on our scales, and unfortunately, he's well within the weight class. He's just one kilo heavier than me, and I have difficulty comprehending that fact. He technically has the advantage over me. He's a little heavier, has better reach, though it's two inches, but even the slightest reach advantage can make it difficult. I know he likes to go for the early knockout, and he tends to flag behind once arriving into the later rounds. I have the southpaw advantage, but I'm not as strong as him. I don't think I can land a knockout.

  My mind feverishly whirls with calculations, even as the crowd roars, waving banners that display his name in full.

  He'll find it awkward if I can move in, get to the t position, and mirror his moves. I'll have a wider hitbox, deadlier angles in that position. I tend to win on points, but people hate evasive fighters.

  Guess that will be a good way to make him hate me some more, then. I let the tiniest smirk enter my lips, which seems to infuriate him.

  “I'm gonna beat you to the fucking ground, you faggot. Your pussy ways won't do shit in the ring.”

  Yawn. He could at least come up with some marginally more original insults. I give him a mock bow, and a vein seems to twitch in his temple. He even starts dancing from side to side, his eyes psychotic.

  I know he's a handsome man under that façade. He has a strong, square jawline. He used to look at me with kinder eyes as well. Until that incident.

  He actually looks like at one point that he seriously wants to punch me. I goad him further, simply by smiling wider.

  Just wait till I get my hands on him in the ring. My coach wants to usher me away, but I want to back off with dignity, so it doesn't look like I'm cowering. He'll take it badly anyway, though I then see him start talking to a reporter, puffing out his chest like a gorilla.

  One tentatively goes to me – not so many people want to hear my opinion.

  “How do you feel about the big fight tomorrow, Georgie Hall?” The younger reporter shoves the mic in my face, and a cameraman looks as if he wants the lens to absorb my features into a singular point.

  “The best man will win,” I say, calm, collected. “Normally, I'd simply wish my opponent good luck, but given that Jackson seems to have a habit of trash talking minorities, I will dedicate my match to them. I hope he'll choke on his own pride when he gets beaten by a faggot.”

  It's probably the boldest thing I've said in my career, and my blood is pulsing in my ears, throbbing in my throat, and it's a glorious sensation. The reporter actually lets a grin at this, and I grin back, before politely making my exit. My coach, Royce Danson, gives me a calculating stare. His eyes are black holes in his dark skin.

  “You got the skill yunno. You studied him, you got the stamina to outlast him. But make sure to protect your head at all times. He likes to swing for the head.”

  I nod, patting Royce on the back. It's going to be a long day tomorrow. And we've both agreed to leave off the training, and focus instead on me wellbeing. Which means, off to the spa, off for my sports massage, my stretches, my meditation. Royce is very particular about these things.

  Fingers crossed, I'm going to beat the shit out of him tomorrow.

  Chapter Two

  I still remember the ferocity that he beat me with, back in that boxing ring four years ago. I didn't understand how he could contain so much fear and hatred. I'd never suspected it in him before. He certainly didn't display anything of the sort when he was being sweet with me beforehand, talking to me. Maybe we were both a little drunk, but still... you really don't think that the person you sit and laugh with, will end up knocking you unconscious and landing you in hospital because he decides he now hates gays.

  He hates the fact we did that.

  It's annoying. Before, he was friendly. Before, he showed me even some kindness. Then it all went wrong.

  I close my eyes, remembering the kiss. It's one thing that's frozen in my mind. He looked so different then. He might have been more drunk than me, less aware than me, when we started our dancing together. It was shamelessly provocative, though it first started out as simple line dancing, evolving to the slow hip sway, and the grind of our hips together. He seemed really into it. Same with when we stumbled into the hallway afterwards. He went into the kiss, even if it started a little sloppily at first, like he didn't know what he was doing. He was scared, even, I think, so I had to ease him into the kiss. There was no one else around in that hallway, everyone either danced or drank in the bar, few went past the narrow corridor, though to this day I'm still unsure where exactly it led out to.

  I know he wanted the kiss. He'd been asking me so many questions when he knew I was gay. How do gay guys have sex? Isn't it weird? Doesn't it feel wrong? Such intrusive questions. I knew the nature behind them. He was curious to know what it felt like. Being gay. Oh, he denied like hell he was gay, but he still asked those questions, and he was the one who reached for my lips first, claiming he was drunk, he didn't really know what he was thinking or doing.

  Excuses. I saw through them. Our lips merged together, first clumsy, then with more confidence as I helped guide him along. Sure, I hadn't kissed so well before, but I did have that one friend who was more than happy to show me how to kiss. It came into good use here. I took the time with him, wrapping my arms around, even as the flush crept down my neck and over my chest. Even as the desire increased to the point where it became unbearable. Even as I found myself drowning in his eyes, his breaths, his touch. Such a magnificent shade of green. It stirred a kind of hunger, a wanting in my stomach, that only increased over the moments.

  I did, however, stop him from going all the way. He wanted to. He really did. He thrust his tongue in my mouth, hot breaths intermingling, tongues dancing. His free hand had started roaming over my body, spreading the fever from my cheeks to other places. Such a glorious feeling. I just wanted to keep it going forever, just the kissing and close contact, and although him touching me, groping me definitely aroused, stopping the act was priority. Although it probably wouldn't have mattered, I was technically underage. And for whatever reason, it made me uncomfortable to do something, even if I was just three months from making it to eighteen.

  Still enough to get someone convicted. Not worth it in the end. I had to gently tease his hand off my dick, gently calm him down, and make up a valid excuse for cock-blocking.

  “Sorry, Case. Let's get you a taxi home. Okay?”

  He seemed to be ok
ay with it at first, though I remember the brightness of his cheeks, as if embarrassed, though he still snatched a few last kisses. Perhaps scared of the moment ending, of losing the fever that consumed him. I can't be sure, but nothing seemed off with the way we departed.

  I went back to my friends, who were super supportive of my new choice in career, in the fact talent scouts had snapped me up. I had recently come out to my mother and father, and they had the most chill reaction. Well, more like, “Yeah, we knew already.”

  I'm unsure if them knowing is a good or bad thing, but since they accepted it, it was good.

  Fast forward to one week later, and I meet him again. At first, when I saw him, I went and waved, since he was my opponent. A little skinnier than me, more sinew and bone than muscle, but he was surrounded by friends.

  Imagine my shock when he started slinging profanities my way. I suppose I should have seen it coming. Sometimes during the kissing, he had a dark look in his eyes, as if he was feeling guilty, and knew he shouldn't be indulging himself with something like our kissing, going further, groping past my boxers.

  The hostility baffled me. He had been into it a week before, but he just hurled abuse – the first real abuse I'd ever gotten.

  Then, when it came to the match, he didn't show me any respect. He just went for me like an animal, punching and flailing, often breaking the rules. He punched me below the belt twice, and when we clinched, he punched the back of my head, an illegal move. He gut punched, he swiped past my defenses, and when he knocked a ringing blow to my head, making it hard to focus, he unleashed a flurry of devastating punches that sent me bloodied and unconscious to the ground, my nose broken. They rushed me to hospital after that, and my coach confirmed that my sexuality had spurred on the ferocity of his assault.

  I didn't see him again since – until his alias, Jackson Cage started popping up, though he looked completely different, and didn't refer to himself by the name I knew him as. Like he was trying to hide.

  God. Thinking about all that makes me roll out of my bed in anger. That's when I'm remember I'm in the hotel, and that I need to get the rage out of my heart. We had something. The moment passed. And now we're left with a massive dickhead who seems to go way over the top when it comes to bashing the gays. I itch for vengeance. My nose never healed properly from breaking. There's a jagged line where the break occurred. A scar that will never go away. He didn't even have the audacity to visit me in hospital and apologize.

  I munch on my breakfast, a high carb dish that I spent about half an hour cooking, eggs, bacon, toast and beans, and then contact my coach, ready to go through the rest of my day avoiding the public spotlight, until my match at midnight.

  It's funny, browsing sites to see who has bet on who, and most people seem to be supporting Jackson, saying he's clearly the winner, whilst others are saying my southpaw stance will confuse the shit out of his tiny, bigoted mind. People start going on about how technical we are as well, and it's quite interesting how people claim to think my skills are. One person thinks I got through by luck. Another thinks I will lose because I don't have the same passion as Jackson.

  The anger stokes itself inside me. It gets progressively more violent as the day goes on, and I keep revisiting that moment four years back. Our kiss, that sent shivers through my body. His brutal beat down of me, which sent me to hospital. His rise to power and taking the championship belt, and his arrogant declarations that he plans to be the best welterweight boxer in the world. I watched him, hating him, but not realizing he was the same person. How dumb must I be to not recognize those eyes.

  My mom and dad wish me luck. I know dad wanted to be at the match tonight, but I told him it would likely get rowdy, and he'd hear a lot of people chanting against me. I didn't want him to get hurt. Bad excuses, but I just don't want my dad trapped in that kind of atmosphere, not after he spent his entire life bringing me up and teaching me respect.

  He'll be able to watch it live, anyway, so it doesn't matter. Sure enough, when I'm splashed across television for the whole world to see. I just hope I won't disappoint him. And Jackson doesn't bash me to pieces.

  Eventually, I go into the Vegas boxing house. I think there's probably a total of about twenty of my fans here, which is exceedingly brave of them, considering it probably cost them a lot of money to get here. I mentally think to myself that if I win this fight, I'll present each of my fans with shirts from my favorite shop, courtesy of the cool shirt shop that's a block over from my hotel. I ask my coach to do this, and he rolls his eyes, before rushing off to the shop, no doubt checking to see if it's open. I sign autographs. I don't really have merchandize yet, but I cheer when I see someone wearing a Winter is Coming hoodie, and give him a thumb up. Jackson by far has more fans, and merchandize all glitzy and obnoxious. Who wants to wear a shirt with his stupid fucking face on it, seriously? If I had a shirt design, I'd focus on a quote or something, a nice color scheme, or even an insignia like you get with Game of Thrones shirts.

  Jackson spots me as I'm signing for my fans, and no doubt he's mocking the fact I don't have many here, since his crowd roars with ugly laughter. The heat rises to my ears, but I stay deadly calm.

  “What an asshole,” one fan says. I absently scribble my autograph in a book that I see has other autographs as well. “I hope you beat the shit out of him.”

  “Just make sure all of you have put bets on me,” I say with a smile. My fan smiles back, his face grim and determined, like he's the one planning to fight. In a way, I suppose, my fans all dearly wish for me to win. These are the dedicated ones, who defied the odds and came anyway. And when I step out into a scream of cameras and reporters and flashing lights, my heart leaps when I see my father in the ring seat, despite me specifically telling him not to be here. Guess he didn't want to have his son unsupported. I smile at him and wave, and clap hands with my fans.

  Jackson's side is a screaming black shirted mass, roaring for him, some of them chanting and thumping their fists on their knees. It's intimidating, but my coach continues to whisper in my ear, to not let it get to me. Jackson's already made it to the ring, and he swaggers around like a peacock, his chest inflated and his jaw raised high. He's ready for action. Ready to beat down the faggot.

  Just let him fucking wait. I wish he'd recognize me. But I'll save that surprise until the end. I look at the referee – an African American man hitting near his sixties with a good reputation for fairness, and sigh. The judges, I'm less happy about, because I'm pretty sure they're Jackson's judges, so they'll be more inclined to count his points. He's built like a monster. I certainly won't have more strength than him. But that kind of build tends to wear out faster, because the strength is too focused in one spot.

  Getting into the ring is nerve racking. I'll be made or broken here. Jackson locks eyes with me and instantly stalks forward, prompting the referee to walk between us to make sure no sneaky blows are exchanged before the match starts.

  “Wait until I fuck you over, you gay motherfucker.” He snaps the word, and I blink a few times, though I don't bother with a return jibe. He seems to take it as a moment of weakness and fear, and his abuse heightens. I simply flex my knuckles inside the white gloves with their red undersides, cracking them, staring at his black ones, his angry green eyes, the face full of hair that shows no compassion. He seems to see me as nothing else but an animal.

  And it pumps my blood up. Normally, I'm an offensive fighter, simply because most people don't expect my style. I stance switch, and I've been known to go from southpaw to orthodox, solely to confuse, as part of a boxing match is sussing out your opponent on the fly.

  We go to our corners, we sit down, we get out last pep talks – and then we get up, and the round begins. The crowd roar. As expected, Jackson hurls taunts my way, goading me to anger, enticing me to attack. I simply watch him. I'm not going to mess around. Every second is another second spent in figuring him out, preparing myself.

  For a moment, the memory of the kiss com
es back, hot and strong, before I blink it away. Finally, tired of my passivity, Jackson approaches, beginning to test the waters. I instantly hold my right arm out, signalling my intent, and I see Jackson hesitate a moment. I know he would have received some training against southpaws, but how much, really?

  He moves in, attempt to get into my space to execute a right cross – except that will be difficult to land against me. I am his mirror. Suddenly, he explodes. He intends to take me by furious surprise, but I see the tension in his body in time, and calmly bob, weave, and leap backwards, avoiding the blows, and even managing to tap him in the ribs. First blow to me. Jackson hisses, going red in the face. I go right up into the t position after a more cautious approach from him, and too late, he realizes the deadly angle I have, and I manage three more blows in succession, before he clinches me. I accept the clinch, then gasp when I feel his glove hit my skull twice. The referee screams at Jackson to stop – Jackson's playing dirty now, clearly trying to get me dazed and primed for a knockout.