by Wendy Louise
“I’m not wearing flats,” I scoff. “These boots make my legs look long and skinny.”
Jacob runs his hands up the outside of my thighs, “Katy, your legs don’t need shoes to make them look great.” He can be such a sweetie sometimes, and in those moments I feel guilty that he is not with some girl that worships at his feet.
“Let’s go,” he says. I take his proffered hand and he helps me to stand. I grimace as my foot takes my weight but once I take a few steps I’m fine. It hurts, but not badly, it’s bearable. We settle in to Jacob’s jeep - which is midnight black, unlike my matching red one - and he pulls out in to the traffic, weaving our way across town to the underground.
The place is full tonight. There are a lot more people here than previous fights I have been to. We are all squished in to rows of temporary seating that have been brought in to surround the cage-like structure in the middle of the room. Some people hold banners and signs and chant as they wait for their heroes to take to the canvas stage that graces the room. Jacob is excited, he gets all touchy-feely and giggly before the fights start and he is that way now. He keeps nuzzling the side of my neck just under my ear. It was cute the first few times, and now it is starting to annoy me.
The announcer’s voice comes across the speakers, bellowing in to the room. “Ladies and Gentleman, welcome. WELCOME!” The cheers and chants ramp up to a deafening level and I am tempted to stuff my fingers in to my ears to block it out. Jacob is on his feet beside me clapping and cheering through the hands he has cupped around his mouth.
The voice booms back through the speakers, “Tonight we have the undefeated champion up first. He’s all yours; welcome your man, Johnny, the Jaws Jackson!”
Lose Yourself by Eminem is pounding through the large speakers and filling the room.
The crowd goes ballistic. I’ve seen this guy fight before. He is lethal. He doesn’t hold back once that bell goes and I have never seen an opponent of his win against him. He makes his way in to the room amongst blaring music, followed by his entourage that includes a number of scantily clad women with hairdos that are too big and breasts that spill from their too-small tops. They hang on to his arms as he skates through the crowd making his way to the cage. He jumps on to the canvas and removes his long black silk robe, throwing it to one of his team that waits in the corner of the ring before jumping around the middle of the stage throwing mock punches in the air. The crowd cheers and this only serves to rev him up more. He cups his ear with his hand egging them on to scream louder, and they do.
“Now for his opponent,” the announcer bellows, “we have a new fighter gracing the cage tonight ladies and gentlemen. That’s right, a virgin for Jaws to sink his teeth in to.” The crowd cheers even louder at the thought of the bloodbath that is about to take place here.
“Let’s welcome to the cage, Eli the Terminator Trent.”
Every nerve in my body suddenly fires up. Blood is rushing through my veins and pooling in my ears like a waterfall. All I can hear is the gushing sound as I rise to stand next to Jacob to try and get a glimpse of this guy. Standing on my tip-toes, I crane my neck to try and get a view over the heads in front of us.
Eli Trent.
What are the chances?
Shut Up, by the Black Eyed Peas is screaming through the speakers as the crowd roars. I hate that song. It evokes bad memories for me.
He rounds the corner coming from the same direction as Johnny just did. He wears a dark blue silk robe with a hood that currently covers his face. The Terminator is embroidered on the back of it in silver lettering. Just like Johnny, three barely-dressed girls hang from his arms as he makes his way through the crowd, which is still yelling and screaming with anticipation. He climbs up in to the cage with strength and grace and turns his back to me to remove his silk robe and hands it to his trainer. He starts to jump about to stay warm and punches the air in front of him to show his form. The muscles in his back are ripped and you can see them working under his tanned skin with every punch he throws.
He bumps hands with his trainer and turns around.
That’s when I see his face.
It’s Elijah.
Nine years older, but I know it’s him. I can tell by his eyes and those arms and that hair and those lips.
There is no mistaking it, none.
It’s. My. Elijah.
Read other books by Wendy Louise