Fearless: a Sports Romance

by Amarie Avant

  His eyes narrow somewhat. I know that through a raging crowd, he sees me. The death mask across his face almost falters. That jagged scar that my fingers had trembled to touch the one night we spent together looked less menacing for all of a second. Damn, how was I so afraid to touch it?

  I nod subtly in his direction. Why? Because my entire body is shut down.

  He nods back and then the referee makes an announcement.

  The opening bell rings, and the fighters touch gloves as a sign of respect. Soon as done, they migrate to the opposite sides of the cage as if they’re getting a quick feel for each other. Before I have a chance to blink, Vassili is all over The Damager. He pounces with a right hook so hard, I can feel the wind rushing in my direction. The Damager tosses back a low kick of his own. On the defense, Vassili blocks his attempt. Vassili lunges and overpowers The Damager. He climbs onto of his chest, quick fists as heavy as weights. The Damager tries to work his arm around Vassili’s leg, but only forces himself against the fence. Right where Vassili wanted him.

  With one hand tugging against the cage for leverage, Vassili slams his knee into his opponent’s stomach and liver. I jump out of my seat as does everyone else. Hooting and hollering for him. A rush of aggression streams through my veins.

  Killer Karo is declared the winner. Vassili climbs up the cage wall, straddling it with a leg. He pounds a fist against his bronze chest.

  In a whirlwind interview, he’s explaining his strategy. His cocky ass is almost flippant while saying The Damager was a “worthy” opponent. The truth is in his eyes; this was no stress off his back. And then in the blink of an eye, the man I broke my own heart by pushing away, is gone again.

  I had stopped accepting Vassili’s calls and text messages because the image of a brighter future as a prime litigator didn’t include a Russian mobster screwing me at nights; even though he hadn’t even tried to. Damn, the way my brain is set up, I’ll probably go insane one day with wondering why.

  “You're in shock, aren't you?” Taryn digs into my thoughts.

  Face still blank, I offer a nod. I've seen him. Now it's time to go. The thought echoes in my ears as if someone else is steering my life. I don't wanna go! My high school friends haven't made a move to get up.

  The crowd slowly quiets down, but the closest people to me are hyped. There’s mention of some sort of party in The Hills. Taryn chimes into the conversation, but my gaze continues to be transfixed to the cage where the man who I never should have seen again once was. Somehow on a stage bathed in blood and sweat, Vassili Resnov’s presence still reigns.

  My cell phone vibrates against my thigh. I aimlessly take the phone out of my leather jacket pocket, which is draped over my lap. The phone number is familiar to me as the reflection of my own face in a clear blue lake. Though I deleted the 323-number, I instinctively know that it belongs to none other than Vassili Karo Resnov.

  Him: Wait for me.

  I smile. Then I glance at the last correspondence. A text from him. He had a competition to attend in Georgia during my last year at Spelman. He offered me tickets. Then the next message was him again, saying he would come through if I was too afraid.

  I never responded back.

  Vassili

  One day Zariah stopped calling and stopped replying to my text messages. I ordered Yuri to visit her college. Check for her at the dorm, the part-time job she held in the registrar’s office, fucking follow her to her classes, but don’t return until he’d confirm she was A-fucking-Okay. Yuri reported that he saw her at the Spelman library, head in a book. No marks. No bruises. No problem.

  After hitting the shower, I glance at my phone to see if she'd responded. My mouth hitches to the left. She said okay.

  I hurry and grab my things from the locker. Dress in faded jeans, a thermal and boots. Yuri and Nestor sent the usual females away. Those mudaks were all too happy to share an extra round of pussy since I had told them tonight was for me and Zariah.

  When I step back into the arena, the cage is gone. The stage is halfway destructed. I glance around at the sea of chairs, one portion folded and the other in the process of being folded by a handful of workers. An image of Zariah, cuddled in my arms, eighteen, and fast asleep crosses my mind. I never knew such peace existed in the world. And the next morning, she snatched it all back with her desire to leave for college.

  Guess that’s what happens when you bargain with God after taking your first life? After murdering Sergio, I prayed. I told God I wouldn’t fuck her on the first night unless she gave the go ahead. But the next morning, the Lord gave me the sign that I wouldn’t get to have this innocent beauty anyway. She was moving away.

  Now, it’s been years since I’ve seen her in the flesh. The feel of her body is still engrained in my brain. My gaze sweeps across the room again. Where is she? My usual frown is deep set as I turn around. And then the air expels from my lungs as my eyes land on mahogany, big, and innocent eyes.

  She's hugging a leather jacket to her chest. It's blocking a sweet, succulent pussy that I never got to stretch and mold against my cock. But the slight curve of it from her dressed in only panties and bra that night is also still in my mind as are those hips and toned thighs. There's no makeup on her face, allowing me to view her in all her natural glory without a single flaw on her dark brown skin.

  Shit. I have never liked a color more than I did when she stepped into Vadim’s Gym.

  Thick pink lips frame a bright white smile when she asks, “You thought I left?”

  “I thought I'd have to come get you.” I shrug.

  “Oh, you’d have to come get me?” She smirks. “Hmm, damn, you were always confused as to what belongs and doesn’t belong to you, Vassili. Are you still trying to boss me around?”

  “Depends,” I tell her, closing in the space between us. She doesn't tremble in my arms as she once did and I’m not sure if this is a good or bad thing.

  “Depends on what?” Her mouth is lush, waiting for me to dominate those lips.

  “Did you wait for me?”

  Zariah’s gaze shades in confusion. “I'm here, aren't I?”

  “You know what I meant.” I could take her here, now. But I step back some. She bites her lip, it tells me that nobody has touched her. I breathe freely. Why didn't I just stop by in Georgia all those years ago? Fuck that! Why didn't I mark her that first night I promised myself she was mine? Oh, the prayer. Never bargain with God.

  Zariah places her hands on her hips. “Vassili, I did not wait for you. Have some chill. Anyway, why'd you want me to stay behind this evening?”

  I cock my head toward the closest exit. “Because it was either those friends of yours bring you to me or I come get you after the fight. You just returned from Berkley, Zariah. Seeing you tonight was inevitable.”

  She stops walking. “W-what? You know about my friends and school?”

  “I know everything about you, Miss Washington. What sorta man would I be if I didn’t keep tabs on my property?”

  Her gaze cuts at me. “Your property?”

  I almost smile, aware that my choice of words would make her angry. Fuck me. I don’t know which I prefer; her with an attitude or her innocent and sweet. “Before you get all angry, let's get to where I plan to take you. Can we do that? Just for the night?”

  Zariah softens as I rub a thumb along her bottom lip. Though she mellows, she turns away from my touch and takes my hand instead. “Well, I feel like this just-for-the-night crap won't stop, especially since our night together ended over seven years ago. You Resnovs don’t play fair.”

  I give her hand a little squeeze. “We don't.”

  ###

  “The Red Door? Very exclusive, even for your status. Either you have a gun in your pocket as a form of persuasion or you booked months in advance,” Zariah says, as I hold the door open to my G-class Mercedes truck.

  “Months in advance? Nah, I don’t even anticipate what I’ll eat for breakfast, let alone add time to the equation.”


  Zariah licks her lips. “All right, no strong arming the employees. My father has a new and improved business card.”

  I chuckle softly. “How could I forget your social ties?”

  We start toward the long line of trendy dressed people, waiting to get inside of my first lounge. It’s a cover up for my family’s business, but legitimized by much of the money from my MMA sponsors. When Zariah makes her way to the back of the line, I wrap my arm around her waist, bringing her soft body closer to mine.

  “Don’t insult my connections, Zariah.” I nudge her on. “I never wait for shit.”

  We make it inside the three-story lounge. There are bright red streamers hanging from the ceiling. Gold plated statues of dogs posted along the walls. I can tell Malich’s upscale escorts from the regular beauties. All the men are ugly as shit, tossing around money. The flashiest ones have one of our bitches on both of their arms. Granted, I still keep my distance from the Resnov way, The Red Door has become a peace offering to Anatoly. My father believes that I run the whores around here. When in actuality Malich pockets more cash from connecting his bitches with willing gentlemen than I do just in our smuggled Russian alcohol. There’s virtually no money in food.

  “Just getting us a little water.”

  “Oh, sparkling water would be nice,” Zariah says.

  I nod as response. I head to the nearest bar, while she lingers, people watching. I slap my hand onto the glittery counter. The Russian behind the bar does a double take as she notices me. “Wow, Karo, I never see you here. You made me a lucky girl this evening.”

  I nod. “Good, those side bets always were where the money is. I need a bottle and two shot glass. Tell the chef to head upstairs.”

  “The whole roof is closed. It might rain.”

  “A little water never hurt.”

  Zariah is posted against a glossy red pillar when I return, she eyes me and the vodka then smirks. “So that’s the water? There was always a very big communication break between you and I,” she says, lips damn near kissing my earlobe.

  “That so?” I recall the debates she used to start when I texted her pictures of my cock.

  “Where are we going?” Zariah asks as I lead her back toward the elevator.

  “You thought I’d share you for the night, Zariah? Fuck, there you go, still underestimating me, girl.” I give the up button a little push with the end of the vodka bottle. “What do you think of my place?”

  “Your place?”

  I watch Zariah’s lovely ass as she saunters into the elevator then step in beside her. I override the elevator stops for the second and third floor, pressing the button to go straight to the roof.

  “Yes, beautiful. Or should you try the food first? I remember something about the freshmen ten, when I mentioned your cheeks way back when.”

  Subconsciously, she rubs a hand over her cheekbones, which are higher and more defined. “It’s the freshman fifteen, asshole. And if you ever say I look like a chipmunk again…” She slugs me in the arm. Instantly, Zariah grumbles under her breath, rubbing her knuckles, due to the pain she’s caused herself from hitting steel.

  “Never miscalculate your opponent’s strengths, Zariah. Suck it up,” I tell her, stepping back out of the elevator. There are hearths with glittery red glass at various sections, with chairs and couches surrounding them.

  She looks just past me, and then goes silent. “Wow, this place is beautiful,” Zariah mumbles, following me.

  “Yeah, well the whole object was to get you alone. Somehow, I had the feeling you’d run if I took you to my house. And this is my home away from homes.”

  “Run? I'm not a little girl. Although it's freezing out here.” Zariah stops short of licking those plush lips. I opt not to toss back one of my award winning cocky lines. She knows good and damn well I will keep her warm, she is, after all, mine.

  I pull out a box of matches. Light a cigarette, give it a quick puff and blow the air away from her. Then I flick the cigarette into the hearth closest to a seat for the two of us. A blaze of fire brightens the night. I sink down and pat the tiny space next to me. “I only bite when provoked, Zariah.”

  “Somehow, I find that hard to believe.”

  With not much room left for her, Zariah’s curves brush against mine.

  I smile. “See, gorgeous. You're in good company. Besides, you haven't lived since I last touched you.”

  “Whateva, Vassili. Matter of fact, I preferred you a thousand miles away, faux dick pics and all. And I have lived,” she jokes. “I've… I was in a sorority.”

  “Glad you approved of my long, fat cock, one hundred percent all me.” I reach down between us and grab it. All beef, all hard and ready for her. “I’m a Russian bull, baby. But, nah, you haven't lived. You were in the sorority esteemed for their brains. Not the one with the hot, ready girls.”

  Zariah’s body sinks closer to mine as she laughs. No longer tense, all soft, luscious and sweet. She's slipping into that comfort zone we once had while retorting, “We still drank and … and I guess I haven't lived. You've been keeping tabs on me? By the way, how did you know Rhonda and Taryn were my friends?”

  “Yuri. He works for me.”

  “Which guy? The heavyset one or the tall, slender one. I remember them ready to pounce on me at the gym.”

  “The slim one in Nestor. Heavyset? That’s polite. But yeah, Yuri is the fat fuck.”

  “Humph.” Zariah turns toward me. “So Yuri works for you? I remember your sidestepping certain simple questions. So I take it he doesn't work for you in a coaching, sparring regard?”

  “No.”

  She smirks. “I won't do these one-answer convos. Tell me more about your stalking me through Yuri? I guess it pays being Malich’s son?”

  Malich—my father? I decide not to correct Zariah since my father, Anatoly Resnov is dangling at the tippy-fucking-top of Americas Most Wanted. If she thinks I'm Malich’s son and she's ‘okay’ with it, then that's better for her sanity. I plan to tell her the truth, once we are more acquainted.

  She shutters as a wind comes along, and I know this is my saving grace because Zariah Washington will one day make a great attorney and she was never any good at letting me shrug shit off or be too vague.

  “Sweetheart, I'm a mudak! You still cold?” I start to pull out of my jacket. “Beautiful, drink, it will warm you well.”

  She picks up her glass. “I'm all right, Vassili. Please don’t take off your jacket. Here, I'll take a sip.”

  Zariah tosses the drink back and then wiggles in surprise. “Damn! Did that get stronger since I was eighteen?”

  “My family is always about improving a product.”

  She opens her mouth, yet I've already placed the jacket over her.

  “Thank you,” she mumbles. “So, why… why didn't you ever come to see me?”

  I tell her the truth “You weren't ready for me yet, Zar.”

  “And you knew I wouldn't,” she whispers the next part, “give it up to another? Cocky much?”

  “I'll agree with you. Yes, I’m cocky, but I believe in you. In you being intelligent enough not to screw any mudak,” I whisper in her ear. Shit, her beautiful body is as malleable as liquid lust. Though from my view, the chef has just exited the elevator. He will, no doubt, fuck over the moment.

  Her shoulders jolt as the chef speaks Russian, apologizing for the intrusion. Our connection is shot to hell. I place a protective hand on her leg while he places three silver dooms on the coffee table across from us.

  “Dumplings,” Zariah says. “And what are those? Chicken skewers?”

  “It's lamb, shashlik. Say it with me, beautiful.”

  She does and then smiles.

  I open the last silver dome.

  “Damn, Vassili! Seriously? Fried drumettes. Oh, and none of those sissy-ass flat wingette pieces. You remembered! Now, I feel like crap for not responding to you all those years ago.” Though Zariah started off joking, I can tell her punch line choice of words
are regretted instantly.

  “Yeah, I remember everything about you,” is my reply and once more those thick lips curve into a grin.

  Zariah

  What am I doing? This man is perfect in a world where lawfulness doesn’t mean a thing. I've tried to tell myself that the few years we spent talking and texting were to save me from loneliness. To remind me that I can have a life and don't have to be rigid and self-centered like my father. Every semester another Honor Roll and notch on my belt. And every semester I had Vassili to remind me to take a damn breath when needed.

  It wasn't that I was consumed with education. My brain is a sponge. It's just that, jokes and cock pics aside, I really, really liked Vassili Resnov.

  Tonight, I'm just a little tipsy after that one shot. Anymore and I'm wide open. As Vassili and I chat and eat, I see myself wanting to include more nights and days with him in my future, alienate myself from the poison of my father, and drink something just as toxic, potent. Vassili.

  “Damn, this is so good,” I tell him, trying one of the shashlik sticks. I bump my shoulder against his. “Dang, I should’ve tried it sooner.”

  “There's one left and it's all yours, Zariah. I'll text the chef.”

  Damn! He’d offer his last. If I recall anything from partying with rich boys as a teen, they could inhale food, not offering much thought to any female counterparts, girlfriend or not.

  The firelight glows against his golden skin. With his jacket around me, I feel submerged in power, invincibility and a spice of testosterone. I just want to bring it to my face and breathe him in. I have stopped myself for the thousandth time of looking at the defined muscles in his arms.

  Butterflies lift off throughout my stomach as Vassili gazes at my lips. Though he doesn’t smile much, and his expression is always serious, the look in his eye reads exactly what he wants. I’ve never been so desired in my life. He just offered me the last piece of food. There’s something sentimental about a big, muscular guy, who can wolf down a pack of food, offering me his last. Again, I am all smiles as I speak, “Nah, thanks anyway. I don't work out like you do, Karo.”