by Amy Brent
“We thought you might be braindead,” Jesse said with a little quiver in his voice.
“That would require me to have a brain,” I said. My voice was barely above a hoarse whisper. I tried to laugh, but it made my head throb and my throat burn.
The doctor closed my medical chart and tucked it under his arm. “We’ll monitor you for a few days to make sure there’s no bleeding in the brain that we’ve missed,” he said. He glanced at Jesse and nodded at me. “He needs rest. Don’t stay long.”
“Yes, sir,” Jesse said, giving him a respectful nod.
“Water,” I whispered.
Jesse filled a plastic cup from a pitcher of water on the tray and put a hand behind my neck to lift me up.
“Drink it slow,” he said, carefully tilting the cup to my lips. “Then, get some rest. The doc says rest is the best thing for you.”
“The best thing for me is to get the fuck out of here,” I said, swallowing, wincing at the pain of the water sliding down my throat. It felt like I was swallowing fucking razor blades. “Did they give that cocksucker my belt?”
He gave me a confused frown. “What cocksucker you talking about?”
“Fucking O’Shea,” I said. “Did they give him my belt?”
“Naw, they disqualified him.”
I managed a smile. “Good. So, I’m still champ.” I tried to shake my head, but it hurt too much, so I lay back and closed my eyes. “Fucking O’Shit. I’ll take care of that son of a bitch as soon as I get out of here.”
Jesse didn’t say anything because he didn’t know what to say. He knew I’d never fight again. He just didn’t have the nerve to tell me because he didn’t wanna break my heart. He sat down in the chair by the window and watched TV as I drifted off to sleep.
The next day the doctor returned with x-rays and a death sentence. He told me that if I ever got hit in the head again it would probably kill me, or at the very least, render me braindead. I said bullshit. He said call it whatever I wanted, I was one good lick in the head away from the grave.
I told him to get the fuck out. I told Jesse to leave. I didn’t want to see or talk to anyone. For the next few days I went through the stages of grief over my dead career; shock, denial, pain, anger, bargaining, depression… but mostly anger since that was the emotion I was most comfortable with.
Slowly, grudgingly, I accepted the fact that I would never set foot in the octagon to fight again.
I wanted to fight, but I also wanted to live.
So, I quit fighting and started putting on bouts featuring up and coming fighters that Jesse and a few others trained. I put on boxing matches and MMA tournaments all over the city, then all over the state, then all over the country. Slowly, the fighters got better and the purses got larger and the crowds got bigger. That led to the founding of Patron Sports Entertainment, which today is a twenty-million-dollar company with offices in New York, Chicago, Los Angeles, London, and Tokyo. We put on MMA events all over the world.
I am no longer a fighter, but I am one rich motherfucker.
So is Jesse. He just doesn’t show off about it like I do.
And I owe it all to Danny O’Shit, that Irish cocksucker who ended my career with a cheap shot to the head. Danny was eventually drummed out of every MMA organization for his dirty tactics. Today he is Kyle Cassidy’s personal bodyguard.
But I digress…
I was telling you why I hated Kyle Cassidy. The fact that he employs Danny O’Shit was just an interesting side note.
So, like I was saying, my company, Patron Sports Entertainment puts on boxing matches and MMA tournaments all over the country and they usually go without a hitch. Kyle’s company, or more accurately, his daddy’s company, Cassidy Event Management, was the booking agent for every big venue in the city, which meant to put on an event at the city arena or city stadium, I had to deal with Kyle and his band of merry idiots.
Dealing with Kyle was kind of like the old story of the frog and the scorpion. Here’s the short version: the scorpion wanted to cross the river but knew it would drown, so it talked the frog into taking it across.
“But you are a scorpion,” the frog said. “How do I know you won’t sting me and kill me as we cross the river?”
“Because if I sting and kill you, I will drown, too,” the scorpion said.
So, the scorpion climbs onto the frog’s back and the frog begins to swim across the river. Midway across the river, the scorpion stings the frog and the frog starts to die.
“But why would you do that?” the frog asked. “Now you will die, too.”
“I know,” said the scorpion. “But that’s what I do. I am a scorpion. It’s just my nature.”
In this scenario, Kyle Cassidy was the scorpion and the rest of the world was populated by frogs he would not hesitate to shove his stinger into. I didn’t like being a frog. I wanted to be a large boot that squashed the shit out of the scorpion.
He stung me good earlier today. And there wasn’t a goddamn thing I could do about it. We were in his office reviewing the contract for a big event I wanted to stage in the city in the fall.
“This is bullshit,” I said after reading the latest addendum to the standard contract I would sign to rent the city arena for an MMA event in a few months. Under Kyle’s terms, a hundred thousand dollars of my money, a so-called “gratuity fee”, would find its way into Kyle’s pockets even before the event was staged. I booked two or three events in the city every year and each time the gratuity fee grew.
“It’s the cost of doing business in my city, Nicky,” Kyle said with a shrug, making it sound like he owned the fucking city and everyone in it. O’Shit was there, standing off to the side with his thick arms folded over his chest, glowering at me with eyes that sometimes acted independently of one another.
“This isn’t your city, Kyle,” I said, giving him a hard look that made him roll his eyes. “And this is highway robbery.”
“It is what it is,” Kyle said, waving a hand at me as if I were a bad smell that had wafted into his office. “Sign it or don’t. But those are the best terms we can offer you. The price is based on market demand. If you don’t want to book the arena that weekend I’m sure I can find another place for you. Maybe the old National Guard Armory across the river. I hear it’s pretty nice this time of year if you can ignore the mold and rats.”
“You’re a cunt, Kyle,” I said.
“I am a cunt who holds the keys to the city, Nicky,” he said, smiling as the insult rolled off his back like water off a duck. He leaned back in his chair and began to rock. He was wearing a heavy gold Rolex and a black onyx pinky ring on his left hand. He played with the ring, spinning it on his finger as he waited patiently for me to sign the contract. Who the fuck wears pinky rings? Who did this asshole think he was? Tony fucking Soprano?
We both knew Kyle had me over a barrel. I had no choice but to sign the agreement and pay his price. Cocksucker. I picked up the pen and leaned over his desk to scratch my name on the contract. I tossed the pen on the desk and slid the contract toward him.
“Awesome,” he said with a smile. He leaned forward and picked up the contract, then flipped to the signature page to make sure I’d signed my name. The first time we’d done this dance I’d written FUCK YOU in big letters across the signature line. Kyle casually pulled out a fresh copy of the contract and told me to try again. Motherfucking cocksucker.
“All we need is your check for fifty percent of the rental fee up front and I can have our lawyers send you a copy of the fully endorsed contract. And as always, the gratuity fee needs to be paid by separate check, also up front.”
“I know the process,” I said, narrowing my eyes at him. “You’ve fucked me before.”
“And I’m sure I’ll fuck you again,” he said, grinning at O’Shit. “You’re just so much fun to fuck, Nicky. Isn’t Nicky fun to fuck, Danny?”
“I enjoyed fuckin’ him,” O’Shit growled. “I’d love to fuck him again.”
My hands b
alled into tight fists in my lap. I wanted to slam my fist into O’Shit’s fucking face so hard it came out the back side holding his pathetic brain. Then I’d shove O’Shit’s brain down Kyle’s fucking throat until he choked on it. It was not a new fantasy. I had it every time I had to deal with these two motherfuckers.
Kyle got to his feet and stuck out his right hand. “Thanks for doing business with Cassidy Event Management, Mr. Patron. We hope you have a very successful event and a lovely day.”
“Fuck you,” I said, pushing out of the chair and walking to the door. O’Shit grunted at me as I walked past him. He reeked of cigar smoke and cheap cologne.
“Oh, Nicky, I almost forgot,” Kyle said. “I have an invitation for you.” He handed a white envelope to O’Shit who handed it to me.
“What’s this?” I asked, holding up the envelope, which had my name embossed on the front in gold leaf.
“A VIP invitation to the charity benefit my parents are holding tonight at the Ritz,” he said, lowering himself back into the chair. “Wounded vets or sick kids or something like that. My mom asked me specifically to give it to you.” He gave me a condescending smile. “For some reason, she likes you. Or more to the point, she likes your money.”
I wanted to tear the invitation into a hundred pieces and shove them down his throat, but I tucked it inside my jacket instead and opened the door.
“Should I tell her you’ll be attending?” he asked, lacing his fingers together on the desk and leaning over them. “I know you’d hate to disappoint the old girl.”
“Will you be there, Kyle?” I asked. “With your pet gorilla?”
He chuckled and cut his eyes at O’Shit. “Fuck no. We’ve got better things to do.”
“Fine. Tell her I’ll come.”
CHAPTER THREE: Fiona
I paid the cabbie and stood on the sidewalk in front of The Haven Club for a moment to get my bearings. It was nearly midnight and it had been a very long day, but the adrenaline pumping through my body wasn’t going to let me sleep anytime soon. I was too keyed up to even think about sleep.
I was also still a little rattled and more than a little pissed off. The one thing I wasn’t was hurt. It was too late for hurt. I was hurt the first time I found out that Kyle was cheating on me. I was hurt the second time, the third, the fourth. Now, I wasn’t hurt. I was just pissed off. Not at him for cheating, but for fucking her in my home on my bed when he knew I would be there to catch him. He wanted me to walk in to find him fucking Wendy. He wanted me to see him committing adultery. I think he simply wanted to see the look on my face. I trusted the look of shock and disgust did not disappoint.
I also felt a huge sense of relief, mainly because our marriage was finally over. And it was over, make no mistake. No amount of begging and bribing and cajoling could convince me to stay. There would be no more pretending. No more putting on a brave face for his parents and our friends. No more keeping up appearances for the sake of the business and the Cassidy family reputation. No more smiling on the outside when I was dying on the inside. No more pretending to be happy when I was, even on the best of days, absolutely fucking miserable.
I had stayed married to Kyle for ten years not because I loved him, but because we had a mutually beneficially relationship. He liked having me on his arm and I liked spending his money. I liked living in a penthouse in the city. I liked have chauffeured limos drive me anywhere I needed to go. I liked having a house in the Hamptons and trips around the world. I liked having a humongous closet full of designer clothes, purses, and shoes. I liked having money to burn and the status that went with it. All it cost me was ten years of my life and most of my dignity.
I was basically a whore. A very expensive whore.
And now I wasn’t. And it felt amazing.
It was a warm fall night. The sky was clear and the air was crisp without being cold. I closed my eyes and lifted my nose to the sky and took a few deep breaths, letting them out slowly. The fresh air helped drive some of the tension out of my body. I was sure alcohol would drive out the rest.
I heard a deep voice behind me. I turned to find a very large man in a black suit standing at the club’s front door. He was standing at parade rest with an earpiece in his right ear like a member of the Secret Service. You’d almost expect the president of the United States to be inside.
The Haven Club was a private establishment, like a country club in the heart of the city. Its members included many of the so-called social elite in the city; millionaires, billionaires, politicians, entrepreneurs, socialites, professional athletes, movie stars, maybe even a few Mafioso (according to Kyle).
The Cassidy family had held a membership for decades. Within the very private walls of the club was a small restaurant and bar with a dancefloor, a cigar bar for the men, a spa area for the women, several large party rooms, a business center, and supposedly several private rooms members could use for other things, should they be so inclined.
“Going in, Ms. Cassidy?” the doorman asked with one hand on the large oak door that had the words THE HAVEN CLUB engraved in small letters on a silver plaque. It was the only signage for the club. If you hadn’t known it was there, you might have never have noticed it.
“Yes, thank you,” I said, offering him a smile as he held open the door for me. There was a concierge stationed just inside the door, standing at a desk in a room smaller than my walk-in closet. The concierge was there to scan your membership card before allowing you entrance into the club through the locked door to his right. If you weren’t a member, you did not get in. Tonight, the concierge was an older man wearing a tuxedo and a curt smile. He looked a little ridiculous, standing behind the desk like a butler waiting to serve. He gave me a nod as I walked in the door.
“I’m afraid I don’t have my membership card with me,” I said, giving him a pitiful face. I found my driver’s license in my purse and showed it to him. “My name is Fiona Cassidy. I’m a member.”
“Of course, Mrs. Cassidy, just let me manually check you in,” he said, turning to the computer on the desk. His thin fingers flew over the keys. A page with my membership details and photo came up on the screen. He made a grand gesture of hitting the Enter key. The door buzzed and I heard the sound of a lock disengaging.
“Can you tell me if Mr. Patron is inside?” I asked before going through the door.
He tapped a few keys, then stood arrow straight and put his hands behind his back. “Yes, ma’am, Mr. Patron is in the bar. I believe he is waiting for you.”
* * *
I had heard Nick Patron’s name for years but had somehow never met him until earlier today. Mainly I’d heard what an arrogant asshole he was from Kyle and what a pussy hound he was from a few of my girlfriends who had supposedly been with him, or knew someone who supposedly had. Kyle calling someone else an arrogant asshole was beyond hypocritical, so I took everything he said with a grain of salt. The pussy hound accusations, however, came from some pretty reliable sources.
“Nicky Patron’s a fucking god in bed,” Patricia Weston said after supposedly spending a weekend with him in Atlantic City after some boxing match or something a few years ago. Patricia was a fifty-year-old society slut who only fucked hot younger guys and rich older men. Nick Patron was young and rich. She called him a “two-fer” as in two for the price of one. She gushed about Nick over Sunday brunch with me and a few other girls.
She said, “The guy has a body like chiseled marble and a cock that you can feel from your cunt to your throat. I’m telling you girls, if you ever get the chance to fuck Nicky Patron, DO IT!”
I had no idea who Nick Patron really was until that day. I Googled him later and found that he was not only rich, good looking, and the CEO of a company my husband often did business with, but was also connected to dozens of women; models, actresses, athletes, and a reality star named Sasha Smith who had taped herself having anal sex with Patron in a Vegas hotel room and posted the video on the internet for everyone to see.
&nbs
p; I couldn’t resist watching. The video was jerky and grainy, shot with an iPhone in a dimly lit hotel room. Sasha was holding the camera while getting ass fucked, aiming it so that you could see her plump ass in the air over her shoulder and Nick Patron standing behind her. He had his fingers clenched into her ass and was ramming his cock in and out of her. The girl gasped each time his cock went deep into her ass. I couldn’t tell if it was a gasp of pleasure or pain.
I paused the video to get a look at Nick’s body. I couldn’t see his cock of course (it wasn’t an x-ray, duh), but I could make out the shadow of his hard abs, the thick chest, and the round shoulders covered in tribal tattoos. His eyes were closed, his face serious, as if he was concentrating on holding back his orgasm until the girl was ready for him to cum. Considerate was the word that came to mind. I know, it was an odd thing to think while watching a guy buttfuck a girl. But he seemed… considerate.
It would be another year before I met Nick Patron. Odd that it would be on the same day that I decided to divorce my cheating piece of shit husband. Maybe it was just timing. Or coincidence. Or fate. Whatever the reason, the moment I saw him standing alone at the bar at the charity event, I had a feeling that we were destined to meet. And perhaps do other things.
I was working the ballroom, going from table to table drumming up donations for Kyle’s mom’s charity of the moment when I saw him standing at the bar. He was really tall, with broad shoulders that tested the seams of his black Armani suit. He was wearing a white shirt with a stiff collar and sky blue tie. His dark hair was cut short. His tanned face was clean shaven. Patricia was right: he looked like a god. He also looked like he’d rather be anywhere other than where he was at that moment.