Beautiful Beast (Gypsy Heroes)

by Le Carre, Georgia

‘Any good?’

  ‘Not bad.’

  He comes forward, the muscles of his chest gleaming in the down-lights. Desire floods through me, so hot and fast that my clit aches.

  I pat the sofa next to me.

  He raises his eyebrows.

  ‘I want to try something.’

  His eyebrows rise. ‘What?’

  I turn my book to the appropriate page and hand it over to him. ‘I want to try that.’

  He takes the book from me and reads. I watch him, the way the light caresses his cheekbones, the shadows his long eyelashes make, the straight mouth. A beautiful man, a truly beautiful man. When he looks up his eyes are dark and amused. ‘I’ve got whiskey.’

  ‘I know where I can get some ice,’ I say with a grin.

  By the time I come back with a bucket of ice, he has stripped naked. His big thighs are bunched and ready and his decorated, satiny soft cock is erect and magnificent in the soft glow of the lights. He is so hot and so perfect my thighs quiver. In one hand he is holding a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.

  I lean weakly against a pillar. ‘Already so hard?’

  He doesn’t answer. Instead he opens me with his practiced fingers and does to me what the billionaire banker did to his woman.

  FOURTEEN

  The first thing I do at work when I return from our little holiday is go on the Internet and find out about bare knuckle fighting, a sport where the opponents ram their unprotected fists into each other to decide who is the hardest of them. What I discover scares the shit out of me.

  The activity is considered to be the ultimate tear-up, no fucking around, no holds barred and with plenty of blood. It could be pouring from a fighter’s ears or even from his groin, bitten by his opponent.

  I also learn that the impact of one man’s bare fist on another is equivalent to the force of a four pound lump hammer traveling at twenty miles an hour. The effect could be devastating, even after a bout lasting just a few minutes. There are no official rounds to this blood sport; instead it just goes on until one of them cannot take it anymore, or has sustained so many injuries that he can no longer stand.

  It reminds me of the Chinese proverb my grandmother used to tell us grandchildren: When two tigers fight, one limps away horribly wounded, the other is dead.

  That evening, profoundly disturbed and unable to wait, I run to the front door as soon as I hear Jake enter and confront him. ‘Is it true that in bare knuckle fighting you could be bitten so hard in the groin that you start bleeding?’ I demand.

  He closes the door with a deliberate click. ‘It won’t be like that, Lil. Both Pilkington and I are too proud to bite like wild animals.’

  I clasp my hands together nervously. ‘But you could end up with a broken eye socket or a smashed fist?’ The thought makes me tremble.

  ‘Unlikely. The fight will be marshaled by a referee.’

  ‘But the possibility exists that you could get hurt?’ I insist.

  ‘Yes, I could,’ he admits.

  I take a deep breath. ‘And what happens when you do?’

  ‘There will be a paramedic on standby.’

  ‘It says on the Internet that you could be brain damaged. What could a paramedic do then?’ I cry.

  ‘I could die tomorrow crossing the street.’

  ‘I don’t want you to fight,’ I blurt out unhappily.

  He takes my trembling hands in his, but looks at me with an unyielding face. ‘It is tragic, but we both have to go through this fight simply to sustain our identities. I have to fight him, Lil. It is all arranged. The date has been set. Saturday coming. And there is no backing out.’

  I gasp. ‘And when were you going to tell me that?’

  ‘Saturday.’

  Angrily I pull my hands out of his grasp. ‘Before or after the fight?’

  He runs his fingers through his hair. ‘Before. I was trying to avoid a scene like this.’

  ‘Where will it be held?’ I ask coldly.

  ‘In a barn somewhere.’

  ‘I hope you’ve reserved a good seat for me,’ I throw at him sarcastically.

  ‘You’re not going.’

  My eyes widen. ‘Why can’t I go?’

  He folds his arms over his chest. ‘Do you really want to watch two men inflict savage injuries on each other?’

  I narrow my eyes. ‘I thought you said the injuries are not going to be savage?’

  He frowns. ‘Just stop it, Lil. You’re not coming, OK?’

  ‘It’s a spectator sport so won’t there be others there, including women?’

  ‘Yes.’ His voice is cautious.

  ‘And you said it is a noble tradition.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I want to be with you while you engage in this noble tradition.’

  ‘Well, I don’t want you there.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I will be distracted and unable to concentrate if you are. I want to know that you are in a safe place. At home.’

  Some part of me is relieved to know that I am not going to see the fight. It makes me sick to even watch a boxing fight between total strangers. I don’t know that I can take watching Jake bloodied in such a barbaric way. ‘Will you at least let me come and wait in the car for you?’

  He sighs. ‘All right, you can wait in the car with Shane.’

  I look at him. ‘Will many people be going?’

  ‘Entrance is by word of mouth and the location will only be revealed a few hours earlier by the organizers, so nobody really knows how many will turn up until the day.’

  ‘Will people be betting?’

  He shrugs. ‘They usually do.’

  Saturday flies into my life. Nobody talks and I sit in the back of the car, sullen and fearful, as Shane drives us to a barn in the middle of nowhere. Dominic has gone on ahead and will meet us at the location of the fight.

  A swarthy boy is directing cars down a beaten track to a field. I am shocked to see what looks like hundreds of cars parked there. Shane passes them and comes to a stop outside a barn. There is a van selling hot dogs and burgers. As I watch, people are going into the barn.

  Dominic has been waiting for us to arrive. He comes striding toward us. He is tall and broad like his brothers, but it is immediately apparent that he is not the thinker of the family.

  ‘It’s a fucking zoo in there,’ he says bending down at Jake’s window.

  ‘Is Pilkington here yet?’ Jake asks.

  ‘Just arrived. He’s got a lot of supporters. His women are going crazy, but don’t worry, it won’t take you long to put him to sleep.’

  Jake gets out of the car. I scramble out, too. Dominic acknowledges me with a nod. I don’t nod back. I know it is him that has caused this fight.

  Jake turns toward me and smiles. ‘Kiss me good luck?’

  I fling myself at him and, holding the sides of his face between my palms, I kiss him desperately. His mouth is warm. His hands come around my waist. And his tongue traces my teeth gently. But there is no passion. There is only the sense of cold fingers crawling all over me. I break away. He smiles again at me.

  Shane comes around to stand beside me as I watch Jake stride away with Dom.

  Close to the barn, he stops, and turns around to look at us. I wave at him, but he simply stares at me as if this could be the last time he will see me. The thought makes my throat constrict with fear. What if something happens to him? Brain damage. Or…death. People have died during these fights.

  The thought galvanizes me, and I take a step to run toward him, but Shane’s arm shoots out and grasps my forearm. I stop and do not move. He holds me still while Jake carries on staring at me.

  Finally, Jake nods and, turning away, walks into the barn. He never turns again. He enters the door and I hear the crowds roar their welcome. I feel a shiver go through me. Shane removes his hand. I hug myself. I don’t want to think of what is going on in that barn.

  I turn my head to look at Shane. He is staring at the entrance, his face ten
se and anxious.

  ‘It’s going to be OK, right?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s going to be OK,’ he says very softly, not looking at me.

  This is the first time I have been alone with him since that night at the party when he found Jake with his fingers inside me. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say.

  His head whips around. ‘About what?’

  ‘About that night. I didn’t mean to hurt you or cause trouble between you and Jake.’

  He stares at me incredulously. ‘You don’t understand at all, do you?’

  ‘Understand what?’

  ‘My brother would never have done that if you were right for me.’

  I stare at him curiously. This unshakeable loyalty they all have toward each other even at their own expense.

  ‘My brother is the father I never had. Did you know that his burning ambition was to be a vet? He wanted to be the best vet in the world. He was convinced he could talk to animals. Maybe he could. Even fierce dogs used to wag their tails at him.’

  His eyes harden.

  ‘He gave it all up for us. We are what we are today because of him, because he took the tough decisions and did whatever was necessary for us to stay alive and thrive. I owe my life to him. So yes, I liked you, but contrary to what you think, I had no problems stepping aside. And I am proud that I did something for him. I introduced him to you.’

  I flush bright red with guilt. ‘I’m not special,’ I mumble.

  ‘You’re so clever and yet so blind,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘When you see him, what do you see?’

  I shake my head. My thoughts about Jake are so jumbled, so conflicted and so confused that even I have not tried to analyze them yet.

  ‘You see a flashy criminal, don’t you? He dresses that way because those are the trappings of those he deals with and it is a disguise he wears so they do not see that he is not one of them.’

  I think of Jake on the horse and the way he was when we were alone on the island. He was most comfortable when he was unshaven, barefoot and shirtless.

  ‘Do you really think my brother treats anyone else the way he treats you? I’ve never seen a woman get as close as you have to him. In fact, to my knowledge no one has. Don’t fuck it up by mistaking the strong emotions he has for you with weakness.’

  FIFTEEN

  Jake

  The atmosphere in the barn is buzzing. All around me side bets and cash seem to be changing hands. Dominic has rounded up some of our boys to shout their welcome for me, but they are few compared to the people who have come to see The Bat.

  At six feet two, an inch shorter than me, but weighing well over nineteen stones, and with a chest that is reported to be fifty-five inches, he is not just a veteran of at least thirty bare-knuckle fights, but a champion, too. I made light of it to Lily, but Billy Joe Pilkington has never lost a fight. His opponents are known to be either out cold or crawling pathetically away from him at the end of the fight.

  And now he believes no one can beat him.

  Taking a deep breath I walk toward the makeshift ring. It’s been so long since I have been in one. The ring is a claustrophobically small six by six feet square made of three bales of hay stacked up to mid-thigh level. Billy Joe stands in one corner, shirtless, his chest puffed out and covered in tattoos, the largest being a bat with its mouth open in a red scream, and the letters No Fear written in olde English font.

  His eyes, black with cold intent, are fixed on me, as he pulls a mouthful of Guinness from a can. He swallows and slowly and deliberately clenches his fist. White frothy liquid shoots out of the can and pours over his large hand. He flings the crushed bit of metal aside and, with a savage roar, repeatedly bangs his chest with his fist in an astonishing show of bad ass.

  Staring at me he punches his fist—one of the knuckles has been smashed to smithereens during a fight—into his open palm. He’s getting off on the adoration of the crowd and trying to intimidate me.

  I step over the cordon of hay and I am in the ring with Pilkington.

  I feel the eyes of every single person in that packed barn. All hoping to spot a telltale weakness, a slight twitch, a nervous smile, a dropping of the eyelids. Any small sign to decide which corner to put their money in. But I keep my attention totally focused on Pilkington. He is much bigger than I remember, stronger, and more muscular. There is a new scar on his face. It looks like a bite mark.

  In that moment I realize we are two different species. He’s fighting to die and I’m fighting to live. This is totally against everything I am supposed to be doing with my life. Nevertheless, this fight is real and it is happening. For a second my mind shifts to Lily waiting outside. I push the thought away. Shane is watching over her. She is safe. I need to get this done. I train my thoughts back to my adversary.

  ‘What you waiting for, Eden?’ Pilkington taunts.

  His voice inspires an instant eruption from the crowd. They jeer and bay for blood. Anyone’s will do, it’s all part of the bare-knuckle sport!

  Pilkington takes a step forward into my space and I take one into his. I meet him glare for glare. We are so close our noses are practically touching. This is as primeval as it gets. Two rivals locking horns in a battle for supremacy.

  His raging black eyes blink, and suddenly he head-butts me and swings a thunderous right my way. I register the breeze that slithers up my cheek as his iron knuckles swish by and hear the sickening crack of his fist connecting with my temple, before my brain rattles in my head and my ears start ringing. My legs give way under me and I go crashing to the ground. But I am so hyped up and racing with adrenalin I don’t feel the pain. All around me his supporters are going crazy.

  ‘Do him. Fucking do him,’ they howl.

  This is a bad start. I know that he already has one on me.

  Every punch takes a little out of me. It isn’t like it is on TV. It’s exhausting. Unfortunately for Billy Pilkington, though, we’re not yet half an hour into the battle when I’ll be weaker. His blow disorientates me only momentarily. I look up and see him, feet apart, hands raised, as if he is a conquering gladiator who has already delivered the final blow. Boy is he wrong. I’m not done. Not by a long shot.

  ‘Come on, Jake,’ Dominic screams somewhere from my left.

  I shake my head to clear it and get to my feet. This time Pilkington doesn’t have surprise on his side. I explode forward with a powerful uppercut. He leans backward to evade it, and I kick him. He staggers, but stays upright.

  I throw a punch into the side of his jaw. He ducks, and I land a solid blow to his liver. The pain causes air to whoosh out of his lungs. He retaliates with a blow to my left kidney. I gasp with the flash of pain and land on my knees. Fuck that hurt. I’m gonna be pissing blood for the next few days.

  I scramble up, but he sideswipes my legs from underneath me. I topple backwards. He staggers toward me, and with a furious screech, throws himself on top of me. The weight of him landing on me is unreal. My body jerks. His large hand spiders across my face and digs into my eyes. I slam my elbow into his ribs, and hear the crack of bone. His eyes widen. He rolls off me.

  We are both on our feet.

  I unleash a powerful uppercut down the middle that catches him on the chin. Whack. He grimaces and falls with a dull thud, almost as if he’s unconscious before he even hits the floor. For one moment I think it’s done, but the next thing I see, he is sitting up, blood spilling from his mouth, and what the fuck? Smiling at me. Well, that’s a fucking first, no one’s ever got up without help from my best shot. That shot should have dropped a horse.

  I realize single punches are not going to crack this tough nut as I watch him get back on his feet and turn to face me. With a grunt he takes a lurching step forward. The odd move disarms me. He swings out and connects heavily with my ribs. A searing flash of pain ripples through my torso.

  Winded, I double over, and stagger back unsteadily. The punch has the effect of knocking in the backs of my knees. My head is swimming, but blindly I hit out for
his body.

  I know I’m in a fucking war when a left body shot opens me up to a pair of knuckles that feel like they’re encased in steel. My head snaps around from the unbelievable force. My mouth fills with blood. I swallow a mouthful and, protecting my head, fire back, unleashing multiple combinations that rain down on him.

  His head looks like it might come off his shoulders. Fuck knows how he’s staying on his feet. One thing I got to say for him, he is as strong as a damn bull. He keeps coming forward throwing bombs. One lands hard on my jaw. I see a vapor mist of my blood spray the onlookers. It makes them yell louder. The more blood the better, just so long as it isn’t theirs.

  I suck up the pain and catch him again, this time with a devastating blow to the solar plexus that bends him in two. I watch him drop to his knees, face etched in pain, blood pouring from his mouth and a gaping eye cut. He’s a fucking mess, but the fucker won’t stay down.

  I gulp some air as he staggers toward me, and I remember the hard way what I’ve learned with fighters—no matter how exhausted your opponent is, the last thing to go is the power of his punch—when a crunching punch lands on my ribs followed by an exploding right to my jaw. It sends more blood spraying all over two guys closest to me. The impact of the rib shot sends me winded to the floor. I choke and cough violently.

  ‘Fucking give it up, Eden,’ Pilkington bellows, swaying over me, his face snarled and bloodied.

  But quitting is not in my genes. I can take his best dogs. I get to my feet—it is only adrenalin that is keeping me going now—and start dancing the famous Eden shuffle. It’s been so long, but it comes back to me as clear as if it was yesterday. It mesmerizes and dazes Pilkington. My jabs come from every angle making his life a little worse with every shot. They’re too fast for him to see them coming out of that swollen eye of his and he’s too fatigued to block any.

  The sustained assault on his face and body leaves him gasping for breath. I watch him finally wilt and collapse after three more hard blows. The crowd becomes frenzied: they know as do I. He won’t throw another punch. He’s done. He’s not the only one—the earlier strength in my legs deserts me and I slither to the ground beside him, blood and sweat dripping from my body.