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

by Sunniva Dee

  They’re sure of themselves, the antithesis of the fairer sex. I’ve spent a total of—forty-eight hours?—with Victor, but his presence is intense. His physique, the hardness of it. The force of his stare when he studied me.

  I have to check myself so I don’t start squirming. The fighter in front of me has that square body mass, the one that tells me exactly how little it will give if I push my fingertips against his flesh.

  It’s a busy night. I run back and forth serving customers and cleaning up. The fighter shrugs a shoulder, shooting me funny observations, and I can’t believe what my private region is turning into, some hotbed for… yeah: heat.

  “I’m Marty,” he says finally, stretching a hand my way. It’s dry and warm and reminds me of Victor in a non-Victor way.

  “Hi, Marty. So what do you do?” I ask a two-in-one, work and domicile at once. I clear my throat. We need to do small talk with our customers, but the type we do back home is different. I realize I come off sounding weird a lot of times. Thankfully, my male customers, which means most of them, find just about anything I say fascinating. Either that, or they don’t care. Cass signals me, and I know I need to get ready for a birthday celebration and photo op.

  “Besides my day job?” He laughs, lids lifting and revealing his intense gaze. I’d deem him a few years older than Victor. “I do mixed martial arts.”

  “Do you go to a gym around here?”

  “Yeah, I’m with The Alliance Cage Warriors. You heard of us?” he asks, cocking his head, deformed nose tilting along with it. Not-yet-mashed cheekbones, cauliflower ears, that nose, and really freaking short hair. Sure, Victor doesn’t have hair like that, but it’s common for MMA fighters, apparently.

  “No, where is it located?”

  Marty is ready for another beer. He deposits his empty glass on the countertop and waves me closer as if he’s about to share a secret. “See the sign for the candle store across the street?”

  “Uh-huh?”

  “Alliance Cage Warriors is on the backside of the block.”

  “Oh that’s easy. We must be the closest restaurant for you then, huh?”

  He broadens his crooked smile, unapologetic with a chipped tooth as a focal point. “Yep, and we support our Hooter ladies.”

  I let my gaze run over my fellow waitresses. Is one of them his girlfriend? He catches on to my curiosity. “A few of them work our fights.”

  “Work them?”

  “Yep, they’re ring girls.”

  My mind scrambles to remember the snippets I’ve seen of MMA matches on TV but draw a blank on details other than swollen eyes and bloody noses. Then I think of ring bearers, which can’t be what he means.

  “Allyn, for instance,” Marty says, nodding toward a girl with shiny black hair who’s carrying burgers to the window section. “She works quite a few of them. You need a freaking hot smile to hold up the round cards.” He winks at me.

  “That’s a job? To hold round cards?”

  “Oh it’s an important one.” He’s amused, and I can’t tell if he’s messing with me or not. “No but seriously. We need someone to kick off the fun, you know? Let the audience know which round begins next.”

  I remember them now. Bikini girls?

  “You have a great smile. Right, Allyn? Couldn’t she work events?”

  Allyn stops next to us. Leans on the counter with one hand and smiles a smile so gorgeously full of pearly-whites I’m blinded. “Yeah, Helena, you could. I’ve been thinking I should introduce you to some people. If you’re interested, of course.”

  HELENA

  I’ve been treated with respect and inclusion in America, effortlessly allowed into one micro-community after the other, the opposite of how it was in college back home. In this country, the stars are aligned for me. I’ve a home full of interesting roommates, a job, and now an opportunity that entices even more because of its ties to Victor.

  I haven’t seen my warrior since last Sunday morning, which ended awkwardly with Angelo and Gun making asses of themselves. He ate his meal of papaya and salmon on the porch, gave me a quick kiss, and said goodbye. He has my phone number now though. If he wants to see me again, he’ll have to connect.

  Allyn and I are at the Max Pavilion in a small city outside of Tampa. I’m wearing a red bikini, as is she. We’re donning high heels—no nylons for this job, which I’m excited about. There’s a myriad of fighters on the bill. I’ve seen at least a dozen walk in and out of the backrooms, some deep in thought and pacing, while others are laughing with their posse, maybe their trainers?

  MMA warriors come in all sizes, it turns out. Many are shorter than me, wide and sturdy-looking. Others are tall, lean, and deeply toned like Victor. I bump into one who fills the doorway, a veritable giant. He catches me in a beefy grip, last second too, because I was on my way down.

  “Sorry, I didn’t see you,” he rumbles. No surprise there since I’m far below his eye level. “Oh hey there,” he exclaims next. “Someone brought us a new girl.” His eyes light up with happiness. They’re small and peering under a fleshy brow. “Allyn! Let’s see you both together. C’mon over.”

  He has yet to introduce himself or ask my name, but he shuffles Allyn up next to me and gives me a friendly nudge from the opposite side so that Allyn and I are shoulder to shoulder.

  “Zeke?” he bellows. “Come see what I found!”

  Zeke is here?

  And there he is, Victor’s friend. I suck in a breath as warm, coffee-brown eyes widen in recognition.

  “I want loads of pics after my win tonight,” Giant growls merrily, “smack between these two beauties. You’re perfect together, black hair and yellow hair, and I’ll be perfect in the middle with no hair.”

  “You’re the girl from Amsterdam,” Zeke says. “I remember you.”

  “Right, Amsterdam,” I say.

  He nods. “The princess.”

  “The baroness,” Allyn corrects him.

  “Ah that’s what she is. I knew it. The rest of the gang is here too,” he says to me like this is good news.

  “Are you fighting?” I ask to win time.

  “No, but he is.” Zeke hikes a thumb over his shoulder as if he knows who’s emerging from behind the corner.

  “Helena.” I swear Victor’s voice is darker tonight. Sadly, it goes straight to the pit of my stomach. His gaze floats from my eyes to my bikini top and back up again, and I suddenly realize there’s a fifty-fifty chance that I’ll be heading up his rounds. To me, that’s exciting. To him, if I’m to judge by his stone-face—not so much.

  “Ah that’s it. Helena,” Zeke repeats, but I can’t concentrate on small talk with Victor here, tanned, covered in sweat like he’s been warming up, defined muscles rippling and twitching, dying for action.

  Victor crosses his arms. “How’s it going?” There’s so much distance in his eyes.

  “Good. You? Prepped for the fight?” I straighten my bikini to keep my hands busy. Discretely, his attention goes to my boobs.

  “Never seen anyone more prepped,” Zeke butts in. “Dude’s a machine. He trains twenty-four seven. It’s such a sure win it’ll be a waste to even watch.”

  “That doesn’t even make sense,” Giant says. “To spend thirty seconds of your life watching a perfectly executed knockout is priceless.”

  “Dudes, don’t jinx me,” Victor clips out. “There’s no telling. He’ll have tricks up his sleeve—he’s not a predictable fighter.”

  I’m being called up front by my new boss. Granted, this is a job that’ll require my presence only a few hours a month, but I’m thrilled thinking that I’ll keep running into Victor.

  When I turn to leave, Victor’s fingers lock around my lower arm. I watch him step closer, breaching an unspoken zone of intimacy. Then he lowers his voice reserving his words for me. As if they understand, his friends shift back, joking between themselves and giving us privacy.

  “The guy who hired you for this gig. Is he behaving?”

  “Wha
t do you mean?”

  “Martens hires according to personal taste, and he’s notorious for sleeping with the ring girls. I don’t like this job for you.” He blinks, surprised. Then he shakes his head in short moves. “I mean—it’s none of my business of course. I do want you to be safe here though.”

  “I see.”

  He doesn’t like my noncommittal answer and furrows those crazy-perfect eyebrows. “Have you rehearsed the steps up to the cage yet?”

  “The cage?”

  “The ring where we fight.” Victor is patient with my lack of knowledge. “Have you run through what you’re about to do?”

  I shrug, because— “How hard is it to take four steps and strut in a circle with a sign in your hands?”

  His fingers press into my skin. “I’ve seen newbies fall before, and I don’t want that to happen to you. You could get hurt.”

  “Victor, seriously, I know how to walk.” I should rip my arm free of his hold, but it’s warm and I can’t recreate the vehemence he triggered from me in Germany. Pretty much everything he does is cute.

  “Listen.” Victor’s mouth touches my ear. Fresh sweat mingles with cologne and shampoo, creating an aroma I’d recognize anywhere. I shudder, a good shudder, a subtle one I hope he doesn’t notice.

  “On the third step, the metal bar that’s supposed to hold the carpet down is bent. It’s got a nail sticking up on the right side. The promoter was supposed to fix the issue before this event, after a ring girl face-planted last weekend, but I’m not sure that has happened. Stay in the middle, okay? Both legs together and walk carefully.”

  He loosens his grip and lets me go. For a second, my arm feels extraordinarily naked. I start to leave, but then I can’t help throwing him a last look. His eyes are dark, and they follow me.

  If anything makes my stomach bounce, it’s mixed messages. “You know, you were so funny in Amsterdam,” I say.

  His expression is stone, but the depths of his pupils simmer. “I’m not funny.”

  I hike up a shoulder in a whatever-you-say. Then I pivot and stride out to the ring.

  “About time,” my new boss says, stressed out. I’m not sure what Victor was worried about when it comes to him, because there’s no sign of Mr. Martens finding me attractive. “We’re about to sound the gong, and you’re up first.”

  “I am?” His little organization lacks communication.

  “Yes! Blonde first, then dark-haired. It’s how we always do it,” he hisses with a fake smile and a nod aimed at men in suits in the front row.

  Allyn failed to mention this rule to me. I look at her for verification—she’s on the opposite side of Mr. M—but she rolls her eyes and mouths, Never.

  I don’t understand. I’m used to an actual system. Allyn lifts her index finger to her mouth and puppeteers me with a clearly enunciated, Roll with it.

  So I do. I keep my mouth shut.

  “Now. Go!” Mr. M’s fake grin becomes obnoxiously big as he stands with me, gives a small push against my lower back, and ushers me toward the stairs.

  I scan the steps, wondering why Allyn didn’t mention the issue with the metal bar and the nail. I see it; like Victor suspected, it hasn’t been fixed.

  I pull in a breath that only reaches the surface of my lungs. The spotlights hit me as I begin my first walk up into the wired mesh of what constitutes Victor’s purpose in life.

  The midsection of the step draws me in the way Victor wanted, and I ascend, all eyes on me. This, with a few hundred people watching me do nothing but stride forward, doesn’t make me nervous.

  There are only a handful of young blue-bloods in my part of Germany, which means we’re sought after in the public eye. Ever since I turned twelve, I’ve attended presidential dances, ministers’ masquerade balls, and other noble events, so now all I have to do is be who I grew up being.

  The prince and the pauper, I think. Thanks to Papa, I’ve been both since I was thirteen.

  The music pounds, the speakers blasting the headliners for the first fight. I catch their nicknames: the Mobster and the Crowbar. Sounds like there will be quite the clash. Are guns allowed in this building? Will the crowbar wrench the mobster to the floor? I’m sure my amusement shows in my smile. I swivel, raise my plaque above my head, and do a slow turn on the tips of my toes.

  I’m in my element. This is so easy. The audience claps—for me, for the sign—but Victor is what makes me dip an eyelid in a wink. His expression may be frozen, but I see a glimmer in his eyes. I pucker him a kiss before I complete my slow circle and walk back the way I came.

  “That was excellent,” Allyn whispers once I’m back on the bench with her. “You’re a natural. I heard someone took a nosedive in this place last weekend.”

  The Mobster starts out not taking prisoners with Mr. Crowbar, and I wonder if my little uniform will end up full of blood. Perhaps that’s why the bikinis are red?

  “Yeah, apparently so,” I say when people stand around us, clapping at a particularly awful punch. “Beautiful elbow!” someone shouts behind us.

  “Are you up next or am I?”

  “You do all of this one. I do the next fight,” my friend tells me, looking me over like I should know these things. I murmur out the specifics of the nail and the metal bar in case she’s unaware.

  “Crazy. I heard the girl ended up getting stitches.” Allyn’s expression clears as if she’s trying to forget the could-bes.

  Four matches later, Victor steps up. Allyn has round-card duty, but when he enters the ring, posture confident and eyes burning, he doesn’t grace her with a single look. He uncurls his fist, revealing a blue mouth guard that he pops in place. Then he lifts his head, and for a heartbeat, his focus halts on me.

  On impulse, I raise a hand and clench my fist tight. It looks ridiculously small, with nail polish causing bright blotches of red to interrupt the pink of a to-be punch. Victor notices, but neither his expression nor his gaze changes. There’s a muscle ticking at the base of his jaw.

  “‘The Victor’ Arquette is here to fight Marshall ‘The Destructionist’ Meyer for y’all’s entertainment!”

  Victor takes the stage, arms above his head in greeting to the crowd. He’s serene without the air of preempted triumph most have walking in. But his eyes, they say it all. Victor is where he’s supposed to be, about to unfold exactly what he was created to do.

  His opponent is his height, wider but with less defined muscle. Some commentator at a table by me talks about reach. The other guy’s reach is apparently longer. It doesn’t affect Victor’s resolve.

  Really, I have no idea what I’m watching right now, but where the earlier fights seemed like aimless bashing, there’s a precision to strikes and kicks in Victor’s fight that makes me sizzle. He’s so intent on inflicting pain, on twisting his adversary into submission. That intensity I’m seeing, that fervor I’ve been the recipient of myself in a much sweeter form.

  I jump when he slams his contender to the mat. The guy writhes, but then he can’t get up. Victor’s slick with sweat when it’s all over three rounds in. His chest heaves, nipples small and tight with exertion. It makes me want to taste him.

  “I’ve seen him before. He’s hot,” Allyn comments once she’s back down. “You know him, huh?”

  “Mm. A little bit.”

  “Does he train at the ACW?”

  “What?”

  “The Alliance Cage Warriors, where Zeke, Marty, and the guys train. It’s right around the corner from work.”

  Oh my god.

  “Yes, he’s at the same fight gym as Zeke.”

  “Wild. I thought every pro from the ACW came to Hooters.”

  “I don’t think he goes out much,” I murmur, standing to get ready for my last match. Victor’s shoulder brushes mine as I pass. He’s drying his face with a towel, avoiding a small gash in his lip. I want to suck that lip clean. I bite my own.

  He leans into the pathway, blocking my passage for a few seconds. It’s subtle. I sidestep and sli
nk past him. As I do, I touch his lip with my thumb and whisper, “Hey, warrior.”

  Victor grinds out a “Fuck,” and it’s the main reason for my smile when I step back onto the mat for the next fight.

  VICTOR

  I could have lost yesterday, and it was a regular Friday night fight. I haven’t lost one of those in ages. If I had, it would have been Helena’s fault. She’s getting under my skin.

  I worry about her. She’s so innocent and impulsive in my jaded country. She accepts the strangest people around her. Just look at her crazy roommates!

  If she were a relative, a sister or a cousin, I’d move her into my house to keep her safe. Then I consider Helena’s body, all that smooth, silky skin, and I’m damn glad she’s not my sister.

  Just, it would have made things easier; I wouldn’t have been thinking about her. She wouldn’t have left me hard and in need of constant showers. Even masturbation can deplete energy, and I have no energy to lose until I’m on permanent payroll in Vegas.

  Yesterday, Helena told me I used to be funny. She doesn’t realize she met a Victor who doesn’t exist. The person I was with her in Amsterdam isn’t me, and I don’t know where he came from. I’m not careless and playful. One doesn’t reach tall goals by caving in to pleasure.

  Maiko hasn’t been feeling good lately. On fight nights when she’s so tired she opts out, I always head straight home once I’m done. But last night I couldn’t leave right away. I stayed at the venue until Helena was safe in the other round-card girl’s car and on her way back to Tampa.

  At the venue, Helena kept sending me side-glances. I knew that if I walked over, we’d soon be doing more than talking, so I remained close enough to keep an eye on her without revealing my bodyguard impulse.

  This morning, I started off in the parking garage, running stairs as hard as I could. I jogged back home leisurely enough, had fish and fruit and a gallon of home-filtered water. Maiko keeps the healthy minerals while weeding out the toxins. See, I’m not the only one treating my body like a temple.