“You are a huge pain in the ass to interview!” I screamed at Cage.
“What?” he asked, squinting. I could only laugh.
“How are we supposed to do an interview here?” I asked, again leaning forward and raising my voice. He grinned, and shrugged his shoulders while drinking something from a glass through a straw.
“You don’t know how to relax and have fun, do you?” he asked. Maybe he was right, I had kept my nose so hard against the grindstone that I was starting to forget what a night off felt like. The song ended, and there was a break in the blaring music while the dj roused the crowd.
“So, Jet Westerson huh? What do you think?” I asked, taking advantage of the relative silence. Cage drank, and I watched the level of liquid in his glass go down until it was a dry suction sound.
“Wooh!” he shook it off, and an inebriated smile appeared on his face. “I think he sucks. He punches like...I don’t know. A dog.”
“A dog?” I asked, unsure of what he meant.
“A female dog.” he said, satisfied with his response.
“Another quick turnaround. You prefer to fight often?” I asked, trying to fire off a few quick ones.
“As much as possible. I’m kind of addicted, and I spend a lot of money.” he said. Before I could follow up, he was leaning over one of the girls and whispering something to Chase.
I was having trouble hearing him as the music had started back up, and I used the opportunity to catch up on my notes, which were also hard to see. These bones are made for hustling.
The shot and a couple sips of Long Island were making their presence felt. A nice head happy buzz swept over me, and I began to bob my head along with the beat of the house music. This was what I wanted to do for a living. I was burning the midnight oils, having a drink, and trying to get the scoop on one of the most sought after and elusive athletes in the world. It can be easy to overlook moments while we are in the midst of them, too busy to appreciate what we are working for in the first place.
“Do you have any kids?” Cage asked. The question sprang from left field, and I laughed for lack of another response.
“What? Where did that come from?” I’m not sure why, but it wasn’t something I would have ever expected him to ask.
“Do you have, any kids?” he asked again, slowing it down sarcastically.
“No.” I said, “Why?”
“You know. Going through the checklist.” there was another pause between songs, more yapping by the dj. We lost our reason to lean in close but did so anyway.
“The checklist?” I was weary of him, of his charm. My question brought a grin, a showcase of his dimples. Another reminder of the danger he presented. “What’s that?”
“You still haven’t realized. You are like smart and dumb at the same time. Dense.” there was enough noise that our conversation was private despite close proximity to others.
“Fuck that.” I said, mocking the ghetto slacker motto he so often repeated. “What’s the checklist?” I asked again.
“This is our second interview together. You think that it was random when I called you out that first time? Nah. Like I said, these MMA journalists, they’re like straight from mama’s basement. When I saw you in the back all writing on your notepad and shit with nice tan thighs, I was like what’s up!”
“So…”
“Pretty. You are fine as hell, check. But that really isn’t shit, so I had to test you to see if you were cool.” he was working on a beer, and I was nursing my Long Island. I needed a clear head to stay sharp, but he was right back to flirting, and I drink when I’m anxious.
“And?”
“That’s why I had you come up to my hotel room. I had to make sure that you weren’t all prissy and stuck up. You missed the bonus points by keeping your hands to yourself, but you passed anyway. Cool, check. So now we enter a whole new subset of questions.” he had turned to face me, giving the noisy lounge a more private feel.
“Which are?”
“Do you have any kids? Any awful tattoos I should know about? And how do you feel about a long string of consecutive full body orgasms?” he didn’t seem to be joking, but one look around the scene he frequented told me more than his pickup lines ever would. I rolled my eyes.
“No kids, no tats, and I’m sorry to tell you Mister Edwards, but you are not my type.” I said. Only one was a lie. A little alcohol can be all it takes to swing my libido, and Cage’s muscular arms were gaining my attention under the dim club lighting.
“I’ll grow on you.” he said, and turned to reach for another shot. His next fight was in six weeks, but who was I to question the diet and training regime of a world champion at the pinnacle of his craft? “And you didn’t answer the one about the full body orgasms.”
“I’m not a booty call.” I said.
“Who said anything about that? I’m looking for that real shit.” he said. It was hard for me to tell if he was serious, I didn’t know. “I don’t ask those questions for a booty call. I ask those questions to girls I am vetting.”
“Vetting?”
“Yeah. I’ve had just enough infatuation to see how powerful love can be. It’s a serious drug, and I don’t want my shit cut with anything.” It didn’t surprise me he was confident, but I didn’t for a second trust that his intentions were anything resembling pure. If he were the one coaching his brother along, that could tell me something. Cash had one girl sitting on his lap. She was kissing the other girl, and he was watching while smoking a cigarette.
“So you don’t want him fighting, but you are okay with him drinking, smoking, and hooking up with strippers?” I asked, assuming their profession.
“Chase is drinking?” he asked. I checked for myself, he wasn’t. “Hey fucker. Put that out!” Cage caught him with the cigarette, took a puff for himself and then put it out. The caring brother then downed another shot before sitting back down. Not one to follow his own advice.
“Have you ever seen Jet fight? You two have really conflicting styles, how do you plan to deal with his top game?” I asked, hoping the alcohol might open him up. He shook his head hard again, reveling in his stupor.
“I know who he is. He’s a joke.” Cage said, not eager to elaborate. “Did you want another shot?” he asked. I waved him off, and showed him my half full drink as justification.
“I’m a writer. This is your next fight. I have to ask for your thoughts on your opponent.” I like to poke and prod if I don’t receive my answer. Direct questions are not the only way to trigger insight.
“Straight up, between us.” he said, pausing. “I don’t want him getting any shine, fuck that. He’s never earned anything. I’m gonna ignore him the entire time, whoop his ass, and that will be the last you ever hear from him.” he said, taking on a certain intensity while pontificating on the man he would be locked in a cage with in less than two months. I wanted to jump up and down to celebrate the quote, but elected instead to repeat it over and over in my head as I wrote it down. My teeth sank into the insides of my cheeks to suppress my smile. I got every word. “You staying at the hotel tonight?” Cage asked, giving me a suggestive elbow nudge.
“You going to implement any specific strategies considering Westerson will be looking for takedowns?” I countered.
“You don’t turn off, do you?” he asked. “First off, that name, Jet Westerson, it’s banned for the rest of the night.”
“Fine.” I interrupted. “But you can’t invite me here for an interview, which this is the worst possible place for by the way, and expect me not to ask you questions!” our entire conversation took place through yelling.
“I gave you this interview because I wanted to see you again. I’ll talk, but you gotta hang out. Take off your journalist pants for a second.” he said. “Can you do that?”
“As long as it doesn’t require taking off my actual pants.” I said, and then set down my pen and pad. “But you have to promise me an interview.”
“I have to stay here
until one. After that, we can talk.” he offered me his hand to solidify the deal. I shook it.
“Why do you have to stay until one?” I asked, nestling close to him. The music was a great excuse to maintain contact.
“I’m getting paid. I don’t go to dumb ass clubs otherwise.” he said.
“Why not?”
“Temptation leads to trouble.” he said, taking a drink from a bottle of beer. A few drinks deep and he was still calm, much different than I would have expected him to be. “You said I wasn’t your type. What is it? If it’s the big dick thing, I could always have a reduction surgery.” funny guy Cage.
“You just have to keep bringing up sex huh? Ever heard of asking a girl a few questions about herself?” I asked.
“I’ve heard of it, but since I know you have already thought about it, and are probably thinking about it now, I figured I would skip straight to the point.” he said, and started to lean in a little. He didn’t commit to a kiss, but brought his face close to mine. “I’m just fucking around. Unless you have, but only you know that.” he peered into my eyes, daring me not to want him. He was a cocky bastard. The witty, gorgeous, bad ass, cocky, bastard. I could practically feel his soft lips pressing against mine, lingering centimeters away. It was a game of chicken, and I was going nowhere. “You’re very pretty Angela.” he added, before standing up and breaking our stare. “The club owner keeps texting me. He wants me to walk around a little. You down to take a lap?” he asked. He helped me to my feet, told his friends we would be right back, and we headed down the stairs.
There were two guards who escorted us from the bottom of the stairs through the crowd. Cage put on his game face, smiled, and shook hands as we made our way toward the main bar with me following right behind him.
“Be right back.” he said, “I’m gonna grab drinks.” the bar was right there, and I stayed put a few feet away. Cage was talking to a few fans and ordering drinks when I turned to scan the scene. I hadn’t been out clubbing in some time, and was glad that my ass cheeks weren’t hanging out like every other girl on the dance floor.
Physical contact with strangers is inevitable in a packed public venue. A bump, or a graze. This wasn't that. There is no mistaking the sensation of five fingers and a palm, grabbing a firm handful of ass for a good squeeze.
“You want a real cock baby?” whispered into my ear from behind.
“What the fuck?” I spun around to face my perpetrator. The man smiled, held up his hands like nothing had happened. “Don't touch me.” I said, narrowing my eyes on him. He was dressed well, and had a small cut above his left eye. Anger welled up inside me, but I let it go. As soon as I turned away to join Cage at the bar, the same hand collided against my ass again. This time a slap. If I had been holding a drink, it would have been thrown on his face the second time I turned to deal with him. “Are you serious?” I asked, screeching. My hand balled reflexively into a fist, and I gritted my teeth.
“Here ya go.” said Cage, walking up beside me with a drink in each hand. He gave me one. “There a problem?” he recognized my body language, and turned his attention to the man.
“Not at all.” his response, still smiling. I would have said something, but didn't want any trouble. I was there for an interview. We turned to leave, and the guy snatched the drink Cage had bought me from my hand, and threw his head back for a swig. “Pussy.” he said after a belch, directed at Cage. There was something familiar about the man's face, like I had seen him before.
“Cage don't.” I said, expecting the worst.
“It's fine.” he said, and motioned for security. His sights had zeroed in on the guy, but he retained his composure well. Staff was all around, lined up on the wall, and a few of the oversize men in black vests made their way in our direction.
The seconds that followed, played out in what felt like slow motion. The man spit at Cage, hitting him directly in the face, and then brought his glass up to his lips for another drink of free alcohol. If that moment were in slow motion, what followed was fast forward. Before he could taste a sip, the glass exploded into a million shards, and blood flew everywhere. The Cage Edwards signature right hand.
The security guards who were closing in sprinted for the scene, and others came running. They weren't the only ones. A random giant from the crowd took a wild swing at Cage, barely missing.
“Go!” Cage ordered in my direction, with wild wide eyes. The chaos had spread instantly, and the crowd was closing in to see what was happening. There was a roar, and security had their hands full. Punches were flying everywhere, men were being tackled, and I was fleeing for cover. I heard the sound of a bottle being smashed, and I ran for the back and dove under a table. The music was stopped and the lights were turned on. Security had lost all control.
From my spot beneath the table I could see everything, and it was escalating quickly. I could tell right away that most of the men fighting weren't untrained. All involved were fighters or security guards. A couple of guests at the club had joined in the melee but lasted only seconds.
My phone was out and filming, and I scanned the war zone for signs of Cage. All that I could hear was my pulse pounding in my ears, and I was sweating all over. Everyone was shouting, and it was impossible to tell who was getting the better of things.
The men fighting against security matched them in size, and were putting up quite a battle. One security guard was slammed through a mini fridge. The sound made me sore. Brandon and even Chase were in the midst of it as well, working together against another huge man who was bleeding from the eye.
Movement in my peripherals drew my attention to the ground by the bar, it was Cage. He had a rear naked choke locked in deep on a much larger opponent, and I shifted my phone to catch footage of the man going unconscious. As soon as he was out, Cage released him and sprang to his feet, eager for more action.
Chase and Brandon had been separated from the scene, both were roughed up but nothing serious. The security guards had the numbers, and one by one they were able to subdue the unruly patrons and regain control. It was over in a few minutes, but the damage was immense. The bulk of the mess was broken glass, and blood. Quite a few of the guards earned their paychecks that night in a span of a few seconds. Some earned reminders that would last forever.
Multiple members of security had rounded up and surrounded Cage and his crew, and I crawled out from under the table once the danger had passed.
“Angela! Over here.” Cage saw me before I could say anything, and I headed over. I was stunned, and didn’t know what to say. “You alright?” he asked, smiling. He wrapped his arm around me.
“I’m fine. That was crazy.” I said.
“Right? Yo, get me a beer!” he was energized by the situation, and gave a fist bump to Ewing. They were already re-living the situation.
“Dude, I saw you hook that dude with the beer bottle!” Ewing said, including an animated pantomime. “Who were those guys? They came out of nowhere. We came running when we heard that first bottle explode. What happened?” he asked. Chase was right beside him and smiling wide himself. His eye was swollen but he wasn’t paying it any attention. His girls were giving him attention, and he was eating it up.
“Fuckin’ random guy spit in my face.” Cage said, recalling what had incited the riot. His expression changed when the flashing blue lights arrived in front of the club. “Hold up, fuck. Get me outta here, let’s go. Come on. Angela!” he was intent to flee. It was his immediate reaction. “Chase, get the car.” he said. Chase took off without questioning. “We’ve gotta go.” he said, “follow me.”
“What?” I asked, being pulled along. I wasn’t sure why we were leaving the scene, or if I wanted to come along, but I went with the moment. Escorted by security, we sprinted in a line toward the back exit, only to see that the building had already been surrounded. We were trapped inside.
“Fuck.” Cage groaned, shut the door and sat down on a bucket. He checked his phone, and smirked. “Chase got out.�
� he said. He pressed a few buttons, and held the phone up to his ear. After a few rings, the person on the other end picked up. “Hello? What up coach? You know that gig you got me? Yeah, you’d better come down here.”
Five - Angela
There were a lot of cops, and the club was shut down for the night. Lines of people were gathered outside, waiting to give statements. They began reviewing the footage right away.
We were ushered upstairs to VIP, to wait while things were sorted out. Cage didn’t like it one bit, and paced nervously.
“Should have left right after. We’re idiots for sticking around.” he said.
“At least Chase got out.” I offered, scribbling on my pad like a mad woman. If ever there were a time to wear my journalist pants, it had arrived. From our spot perched above the dance floor, I had a clear view over much of the scene. My camera was rolling, and my pen glided along line after line of notebook paper. A pair of officers came up the stairs for questioning.
“Mr. Edwards?” one of them asked.
“That’s me.”
“And who are you?” asked the other.
“Angela Clark. I was doing an interview with Cage.” I said.
“You see anything?”
“I did.”
“Alright, stay put. I’ll get you a form so you can fill out a statement.” he turned and headed back down the stairs, while I turned my attention back over to my own statement. I could see at least three men being detained and escorted out of the building. A couple of them had cauliflower ears, and they were all well over two hundred pounds. I got a few decent shots of the men on their way out, and was back to penning my summary of the events, when a fourth man came into my view.
Aaron Mueller. He was a pro fighter I was familiar with, a middle tier heavyweight who I hadn’t heard of in a few years. His head was down, and his hands were cuffed behind his back. There was an officer on either side of him, and there was a bandage wrapped around his head but there was no mistaking him. His bald head and hideous neck tattoo gave him away. It was odd to see him there, and I assumed he had some connection to the other men as well.
Scrapper: MMA Badboy Romance Page 4