The Fighter and the Baroness: A Modern-Day Fairy Tale

by Sunniva Dee

  I shake my head—shake her off. I still have a few moments with her though. I’m not out of here yet.

  She smells like sleep. Herbs from her hair and sleep. I know because suddenly my nose is in those golden locks.

  She moans. Why does she do that, to torture me? Victor, you’ve made girls moan before. It’s not a big deal. Just—

  Fuck me if her pitch isn’t something I’d recognize all the way to Amsterdam.

  “Ooh, you’re awake,” she husks in the sweetest girl voice. Against myself, I lift two, three—I don’t know—four sections of golden laminate from her face and drape it over the pillow.

  “I can see you behind all that hair now,” I whisper. I need to not sound love-struck. She’s not special, just a woman, just someone who’s interfering with the entire objective of my life.

  “Wow.” She blinks, forcing her eyes so wide. “I didn’t mean to oversleep. I don’t ever do that. Are you okay?” she asks me.

  “I’m awesome.” Again that fluffy cloud-tinge to my voice. I don’t sound like someone who’s about to win fucking ten fights in a row, climbing, climbing, and making Maiko proud, making all of her investments in me, financial and emotional, worthwhile.

  I’m not that fluffy cloud guy. My professional future relies on me not being that guy. Hell, my future wife, whoever she is, will thank me as much as Maiko will for remaining focused while it counts.

  “You slept well with me here?” The pads of my fingers soak in her silk. My hands feel too rough, but I still draw goose bumps from her. I purse my mouth, rising high enough to study delicate fairytale features. She’s some sort of living Disney princess. And to avoid an extreme mood change, I won’t tell her that. As funny as it is to hear her bark.

  “Uh-huh, you’re the best pillow.” She stretches slowly.

  Sometime in the future, I’ll hunt this down, this sensation of belonging with someone without a need to define it. But first, I’m going to earn my keep.

  “Your nose is a little button,” I whisper, kissing it. “Did you know?”

  Her smile is lazy, acknowledging me like she’s used to warriors going buttery soft. “Silly. I can make pancakes for breakfast. Or do you need to leave?”

  Possibility and change and hope swell in my chest. I can’t think about any of it. “I can’t have pancakes. Sounds delicious though. One day.”

  Helena’s smile widens. “That day, maybe I’ll make them for you.”

  “That would be nice,” I say. I appreciate that she doesn’t question my diet. “Ah crap.” I’m letting the last hours get to me.

  “What?” She accepts my nose nudging deep against her throat. She wraps her legs around my thighs, pulling me down. She’s all there for me if I want her. Oh all that skin again. She’s so damn naked, open, trusting beneath me. It does something to my heart.

  “Say it, Warrior,” she murmurs, the nickname rolling easily off her tongue, making me as hard as I was last night.

  “I’m really liking you, okay? You’re amazing,” I litter out, not backing my statement up with physicality. “You throw me off track.”

  She touches my forehead, brushing hair from my face. “And that’s bad?”

  “It’s a problem. I’m busy with my career. I told you.”

  “Yeah. Busy.”

  But I’m not too busy when sleek legs tighten around mine, cornering me and making me crush her close, working her until her body arches in climax.

  “You’re so damn sweet,” I say then, knowing I shouldn’t and needing to get the fuck off this bed and back to my schedule.

  “Papaya? Eggs?” she puffs in response. “I have both. Carbs. Protein. What’s your vice, Warrior?”

  Warrior.

  She’s got me. Fuck-fuck-fuck.

  I’m not hungry, so I say, “Fish and fruit,” wanting her to fail.

  “Papaya should work then, and we have some smoked salmon. Does that cut it for your diet? If not, there’s a small supermarket on the corner.”

  She passed. Hard.

  “You’re too much.” I pull her to me, her forehead against my mouth. The memory of that drooling roommate of hers hits me. Maybe I should have breakfast here. It doesn’t have to mean I’ll be seeing her again. I’d just be doing her a favor. She’s too gullible to understand the fake, American male, her roommate being a perfect example. The guy’s a single-minded douchebag is what he is.

  “Smoked salmon and papaya sound great.”

  HELENA

  The morning is interesting. Victor is a panther in this house, dark and agile, quiet as he moves between my bathroom and the kitchen where I’m arranging his plate. I jump when he caresses my arm, not noticing until he’s right there.

  “Hey,” he goes, chuckling quietly at my response and stroking up and down as if he enjoys the feel of me as much as I enjoy his touch.

  Gun enters after Victor has taken a seat. Elbows on his knees, Victor peers out beneath black bangs, finding Gun in some sort of cowboy stance in the door. Neither greets the other.

  “Helena, you’re up,” Gun says as if it’s just the two of us in the room. “Cass up yet?”

  “No, not this early. We don’t work today. Plus, I thought she was sleeping at Ricardo’s,” I say.

  “Oh, ‘the boyfriend.’” Gun makes air quotes for me, still ignoring Victor.

  “Anyway: Gun, this is Victor, my friend from… Amsterdam. Well, he’s not really from there, but—”

  “You’re friends already?” Gun asks in a light tone. “That was quick. Quickie-friends.” He suppresses a snort.

  Victor stands slowly, eyes darker than before as he stares Gun down. “You should watch your mouth around Helena.”

  Hmm. Gun’s acting strange, but Victor seems offended… and on my behalf? Angelo’s here too. Everyone up early on a weekend. Interesting.

  “You know what a quickie is, amore?” He winks from the door.

  “Oh,” I say. “Yeah.”

  Gun saunters to the fridge, turning his back to Victor like that’s safe.

  “Gunther’s suggesting that someone had a quickie.” He grins at Victor. Wow, subtle Italian right there. “Hey, I’m Angelo. Nice to meet you. Helena is our resident princess.”

  “Oh my God, where’s this coming from?” I throw my hands in the air, more appalled at this damn stigma than Angelo and Gun butting into my sex life.

  “You need to hide your crown better, amore. Can’t have it just sitting there in your underwear drawer.”

  “Fuck this.” Two strides, and Victor’s got Angelo pushed against the wall, palm flat against his chest. It’s like pressing a button and Angelo’s snickering nervously. Guys!

  “No, he’s making stuff up. You saw it, Victor. It’s on my desk—I’m trying to find out what to do with it,” I say. “Don’t listen to him.”

  “Sorry, man, I was just messing around. I’ve got a girl, and I’m not interested in German princesses. I prefer MILFs. What they can do with their mouths,” Angelo adds as Victor reluctantly lets go.

  I’ve only been in the U.S. for two weeks, but I already assume my small neck of the woods is special; there is no filter in this apartment, apparently, and somehow I doubt it would have been better with Cass around.

  And there she is.

  I cover my face with my hands.

  “Want to eat on the porch?” Victor asks, and all I can do is nod in agreement and walk outside with him.

  “You’re going to introduce me, right?” Cass says from behind me. “Eventually?”

  I suck in air through my nose; between Gun’s annoyance, Victor’s lack of humor right now, and Angelo’s… Italian-guy-ness—I’m worked up. With Victor’s plate in one hand and balancing two coffees in the other, I still pivot slowly to face the proverbial music. “Right. Cass, this is Victor, my first American friend. We met on the way to the U.S., at an airport.”

  Cass takes his hand, and her eyes say everything that she does not. I’m relieved she at least keeps her mouth shut.

&nb
sp; HELENA

  I’ve bought a MacBook. I know. I should have gone for something cheaper, not channeling my damn father again and again and again. Every time I do, I think that I can’t wait to start those studies in the fall. Business Management will teach me financial manners.

  Then I think that I can’t study here. I don’t have a student visa, and they’re strict in this country. My status is that I’m here on a three-month tourist visa, and yet here I am working like an illegal immigrant.

  Macs are the best though. If I end up studying something and want my computer to last, this is the way to go.

  My father has countered my phone bill complaints with a Skype account, and now we’re connected, a very late night for me and after breakfast for him.

  “Schatz.” He shakes his head, thick, still-dark beard covering the lower half of his face. He looks like someone you can trust with anything. It’s hard to believe he has squandered most of Kyria’s back-up funds and put my home in danger. Funny how he was the best father.

  “I wish you hadn’t done this,” he murmurs.

  We’ve already been over the reaction in our village. I’ve spoken with Gunther Wilhelm. He’s still in denial, thinking he can “fix” this. Gunther Wilhelm is in love with me, he says, which sucks hard.

  “I know. I’m sorry, Papa.” I bet most people’s parents hold on to a piece of them. Most kids don’t have to apologize though, for randomly breaking their own plans and doing the runaway bride thing from some film. I should have told my family I couldn’t go through with the wedding.

  I’ve thought about it, and not being in love wasn’t the deal breaker for me. Neither was the fact that I’d be tied to Kyria for life; my home resides deep in my bones. It flows through my veins—Kyria is a part of who I am.

  No, what made me scamper off was the realization that I had no idea what the future would bring. I’m still young. I don’t know how I’ll feel about such a calculated decision decades from now.

  Again and again I recall a conversation Victor and I had in Amsterdam. What stands out is his comment about Kyria’s twenty-one bedrooms and how they could accommodate a big portion of my wedding guests…. in ten years! As in not at all now.

  “But it’s done, Papa, and I’ve figured out what I need to do.”

  “What is that, Schatz?” His wish to make me happy translates clearly through the wireless connection.

  “I want to save Kyria. I can’t imagine our home falling into museum hands or into the hands of someone wanting to abuse its beauty for money. And to save it, I need to learn how to manage estates, Papa. There’s a master’s program here I’d like to pursue.”

  “Is it a major we don’t have in Germany?” my father asks.

  “Nein,” I reply, because with Papa I can be honest. “They offer something similar at the Worbonn, but after what occurred, I need distance.”

  As I say it, I realize how self-absorbed I sound, like it’s all about me. If I were a good girl, a good heiress, I’d go back home and calm the chaos I left behind. I’d return to my old university for this master’s degree that could save my heritage. I wouldn’t be traipsing about on another continent.

  My father’s kind eyes don’t change. Twelve days ago when I first saw him on Skype, his gaze held disappointment and the weight of reality. But he’s resilient. He has weathered worse setbacks than me.

  “Helena, darling,” Mama says, popping half of her face into the frame. “When we didn’t know where you were, your daddy covered his heart with his hand, and I thought he was having a heart attack. I was so worried.”

  “Kerstin, don’t do this,” my father murmurs. “Your mother exaggerates.” When he pulls her to his side, making them both appear on my screen, Mama leans her head on his shoulder, and it’s almost impossible to keep my composure.

  “I’m sorry,” I repeat. “Sorry I did this.”

  “Come home, okay?” Mama nods, eyes glossy next to my father’s calm ones.

  “I can’t, Mama. Not yet.”

  “Kerstin, why don’t you get us some more coffee?” Papa says. We all know he wants her gone for the last part of our conversation.

  My father’s face grows as he leans in, filling the picture. Lips pressed together, he exhales through his nostrils and studies me. “Are you happy, little girl?”

  A lump grows in my throat. It’s difficult to be honest when I feel bad for admitting the truth. I am happy in this new life. Yes, my future is at Kyria and I will return, but I enjoy, enjoy my time in this extraordinary reality that’s pink and sunny and weird and contains blunt, sex-minded roommates and an MMA warrior with twitching muscles and eyes that go dark when I trigger him.

  “Mama close?” I whisper.

  Papa floats a look behind him and shakes his head.

  “I’m happy. This is good for me, Papa.”

  “Do they treat you well over there? Are you taking care of yourself?” There’s a difference between being fearful for someone and caring, and Papa isn’t afraid. He always trusted me… more than I trust him.

  “Then we need to look at the practical side. Do you have a visa?”

  “Yeah, a tourist visa.”

  “That means three months. And you want to study there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You need to come home then.”

  Goose bumps prick the back of my neck. “What? What do you mean?”

  Papa scrapes two fingernails through his beard, gaze serene and on me. “You can’t apply for an F1 visa from within the United States. You need to do it from your country of domicile.”

  I bite my lip, its plumpness giving to the pressure of my teeth. “Are you sure I can’t just dip by Mexico or something and apply?” My voice is thin, like I’m dreading Kyria. That’s not it though. I just… I don’t look forward to walking into the village gossip, and I definitely don’t look forward to seeing Gunther Wilhelm the Fourth.

  “Unfortunately, no. But you still have two months left on your tourist visa, so this is what I would do.” He flips open a small notepad and clicks the back end of a pen. Then he wiggles his moustache as he prepares to take notes.

  Oh my daddy and his notepad. It makes him look organized. If I were at Kyria, he’d write out a diagram with As and Bs and Cs attached to seemingly random numbers while he explained. I wouldn’t ask what they meant, because numbers aren’t my strong side and I understand his spoken analogies better. I… will do numbers for Kyria.

  The message he conveys tonight is easy. I’m not sure why he needs paper for it. He waves the pen while he explains that I should research universities. Visit them, then decide which ones I would like to apply to. Is it too late for fall semester admission? Maybe. Maybe not. We discuss it but fall silent when my mother moves in the background.

  “Mein Schatz.” He says the endearment with finality while he grabs his iPad, readying himself to shut it down. “Do what you have to do, okay? I don’t want you to miss out on your youth for some ruins back home.” His moustache tilts upward in amusement.

  “That’s not funny, Papa. Over my dead body will Kyria become a ruin.”

  He chortles, voice gritty like when he’s particularly entertained. “I’m sorry. But do your research, and I’ll get the paperwork started at the office. If I claim a few favors, you’ll be able to”—his grip on the iPad frame releases as he clutches his notepad again, writing numbers—“one: apply and get accepted to a college you like; two: come home and get your paperwork finalized; three: return to America in time for the start of the fall semester.”

  As I shut my Skype down, I wonder how such a brilliant man could misuse a small fortune and leave Kyria without backing.

  Last night, Cass spent an hour interrogating me about my conversation with Papa. Thanks to her now-proven technique, involving frozen strawberry margaritas and the least effective A/C in Tampa, my friend knows too much about me.

  “Yes, sir, right away!” she shouts now, at work, a big grin on her face. She rolls her chin toward me, addi
ng, “The baroness is in charge of the tap tonight.”

  I’m so screwed. What did I expect though? She knows my background, complete with an heirloom crown in a drawer. Papa wants me to bring the jewelry when I return instead of sending it. Really, my haphazard shipping plan was ridiculous.

  “Do you want insurance on that? How much is it worth?” I imagine the postal ladies in my head. And then there’s my answer, “In dollars, a few hundred thou. I’ll keep the solitaire though.”

  Jesus.

  “Baroness, huh?” I get up from my crouched position behind the bar, a handful of spilled ice cubes in my hand, and meet the gaze of my customer. He looks vaguely familiar.

  I shrug, because with Cass as my main spreader of nicknames, there isn’t much I can do. “You can call me Helena.”

  “Helena, the baroness. Can you pour me a Sam?”

  “Sure can,” I say. The nylons cling to my legs; work has good A/C, but there’s something about the humidity that makes me feel trapped in them. I scurry the six steps needed to catch up with Cass and her cocktail-making spree for a group of whatever-those-guys-are. Wedding party? Gays? It’s impossible to tell. Maybe they’re gigolos on a night off.

  “Sam is Samuel Adams, right?” I mumble to Cass.

  “Yep, you got it.” She sends my customer a glance. “Give him a large draft. Oh and in case you wondered, he’s one of the fighters.”

  My heart does a double take like it does whenever I think about fighters. I’ve only worked at Hooters for a week, and this is the first time I’ve come face to face with one. Cass told me they come all the time, that we’re close to some fight gym. I admit that I was excited about this.

  And here I am with my first fighter customer. I’ve never seen the man before, but I know his tight, masculine, no-nonsense build, the way he stares you in the eyes with no apology, owning the world and claiming what he wants even if it’s just a beer.

  I hand him his drink, my lingerie moistening in these tight hot pants. Okay. It’s not the uniform’s fault that I’m reacting to him. It’s that familiarity. First I met Victor, then his friends. Now my body seems to catalog fighters in a certain way.