Текст книги "Uncaged"

Автор книги: Emilia Kincade

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 14 страниц)

Chapter Six

They fucking love me.

I don’t just hear the crowd, I feel them. Their collective voices, the screeching and cheering, and all their clapping, it shakes the air. I feel it on the beads of sweat that sit on my skin, this buzz, this vibration. I’ve just been warming up in the back on the bike, but now, beneath the bright lights, with the audience chanting my name, I’m heating up.

I throw off my robe. I don’t do any bullshit showy poses. I don’t flex my biceps or my lats. I don’t howl or growl or woof or bark.

I just walk around the cage.

Tonight is fight night.

Illegal, underground, unlicensed, whatever you want to call it. You walk in, and you don’t win anything unless you’re the one walking out. It’s just one fight, and the winner takes the pot. That’s always me.

People in the front rows have their hands out. They want to touch me. They want to feel the slick sweat on my skin, the heat in my flesh, the hard muscle packed tight on my body.

Who the fuck am I?

I’m motherfucking Pierce Fletcher, and I’m the best underground fighter in Australia. Probably the world, too.

“Pierce! Pierce!”

The women are screaming my name. They’re everywhere, bikini tops and micro-shorts, crop tops and miniskirts, deep-Vs and backless dresses. Everyone from everywhere is here to watch me.

They’ve got their arms up, they’re dancing, sweating, oozing sex, with full lips or fake lips, and full tits or fake tits. They’re writhing and wriggling, shaking their hips, giving me the look.

I know that look. I’ve seen it a hundred times before. They all want me to make them scream.

“I love you, Pierce!” someone shouts, and I turn to her and wink. Her knees hit each other, and she drops into her seat. She might as well have had an orgasm.

There are six stands of people arranged in a hexagon around each face of the six-sided, steel-wire cage. The wire is sharp; get thrown into it hard enough, and it’ll slice into your flesh. You’ll walk away with a crimson stamp.

I’ve got a ritual. Fighters have rituals. People like to say we’re superstitious, that athletes are superstitious, but it’s not some bullshit belief in the uncontrollable, or the unpredictable, or the unknowable.

Ritual is rhythm, and rhythm is consistency, and consistency is king.

You dance in the cage consistently. You have to pick up and put down your feet each time the same way. You can’t be slower one time, and you can’t be too fast the next. You have to know your body, know its timing. Each move is practiced the same way every time. Sure, improvisation is essential, but if you’re not consistent with the basics, well, then you’re going to get messed up real bad.

Especially if you’re fighting me. God help you then.

I stare up into the stands, soak up the adulation. I scan the faces, look for anybody interesting. I pick out drug dealers and mobsters and mafia crime families. I pick out a couple of politicians and high-ranking businessmen, trying to dress down, look inconspicuous, but the dipshits have still got fucking sweaters over their shoulders.

I see a group of college girls and each has a letter of my name painted on her stomach. Only, they’ve gotten the order wrong. ‘I’-before-‘E’… get it right, for Christ’s sake.

But it never stops being amazing. An adrenal experience.

I’ve got millions riding on me tonight. All the gangs and crews are here. Everybody is betting. Some of them actually think this punk I’m going to fight has a chance. They’re the fish. They’re the idiots.

The guy I’m fighting doesn’t have any chance at all. He’s good, but he’s not good enough. Shit, I put down a cool mil’ on myself without even blinking. He’ll be lucky if he lands a hit.

I walk to the next stand, and there I see a pretty blonde. I flash her a smirk, and she screeches and covers her mouth, before waving back frantically at me. She lifts up her top, shows me her tits. She’s got implants and nipple rings.

Whatever.

I’m about to go to the door to the cage, I’m about to turn around, when I see this face. The noise is silenced. I hear the ding of a bell, and know I need to get into the cage, but I just can’t stop looking at her.

This girl is the most beautiful girl in the room, and she doesn’t even know it. It’s a thump in my chest, a pang in my gut, an energy racing into my cock.

Oh, I want her.

And I’m fucking Pierce Fletcher.

I’ll have her.

That’s when I realize she looks… bored. I lock my eyes on hers; they are a dark brown like dark chocolate, but she’s not looking at me. She’s not watching me. She’s… pecking at her phone!

What the hell? I think to myself.

The crowd stays quiet as I peer at her.

She’s got bushy eyebrows, and her coffee-colored hair looks carelessly tied back. Its shoulder-length, a little wavy, shines in the light. Her button-nose is slightly upturned, and she’s got full lips above a chin that’s just a little too strong.

This girl is striking. She’s got my attention. She’s not caked in makeup, nor is she showing off her tits or trying to be sexy or anything. She’s just sitting there, uninterested.

She’s taking my breath away.

She finally looks up, and she meets my eyes. I know what’s coming now. At first, she’s going to break eye-contact because she’s nervous, because she’s looking at me.

Motherfucking Pierce Fletcher.

And she’s going to think to herself: Oh my God I just made eye-contact with motherfucking Pierce Fletcher!

But then she’s going to realize that I’m looking back at her, and she’s going to realize she has my attention.

What can I say? I’ll be the best lay she ever has, and she’ll know it then and there.

She’s going to look back up at my eyes, and she’s going to smile, do something cute with her hair, shoot me the look, and then I’m going to take her home with me tonight, and I’m going to screw her fucking brains out, make her scream my name over and over again. I’m going to make her claw my back, her throat go hoarse begging for more. And then when I leave, she’ll send me text messages that I won’t reply to.

I never do the same chick twice, even if she’s smokin’. What can I say? It just gets boring. I’ve got more than enough experience to know that.

So I wait. The fight will wait for me. I’m the star of the show, the biggest name, the sole reason there are five-hundred people in this place.

I wait.

She looks up.

She looks into my eyes.

Her stare is utterly blank.

I keep looking at her, and she starts to get visibly irritated.

“What?” she says, shaking her head, now awkward and embarrassed. It’s cute. Her voice is lost in the rising murmuring.

I smirk.

I really like this girl. I don’t know why, but I’ve learned to trust my body, my instincts, my cock. Everything is telling me to go after her, and by the end of the night, I’ll have her. She’ll be mine.

It’s time for a little flourish. I make a fist with my right hand, and bring it up to my mouth and kiss it. Then, slowly, milking the moment while the whole crowd is watching expectantly, I extend my lean, muscular arm outward, and point at her with two fingers, knuckles-up.

She fiddles with her cardigan. The crowd erupts into ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’.

I turn around, and I step into the cage.

Chapter Seven

“What the hell was that about?” I ask nobody in particular, blinking a few times.

Rose and her boyfriend look at me, grinning. “He’s claimed you.”

I shake my head. “Claimed me?”

“I don’t know,” she says, biting her lip. “He’s never done that before. He’s definitely interested in you.”

“You’ve watched him before?”

“Yeah, heaps,” Jason says. “His fights are always a good show.”

I laugh, incredulous. “Don’t I get a say in any of this? How can he just claim me? What does that even mean?”

“Oh, come on, don’t tell me you don’t think he’s hot stuff.”

“Hey,” her boyfriend says, but Rose ignores him.

“He’s alright,” I lie.

“You’re lying,” Rose says. “I always know when people are lying.”

“That’s one of those things people say,” I tell her, “That’s not true and really annoying.”

“Fine, I know when you’re lying. Besides, you’re blushing.”

“I am not!” I say, but I know it’s pointless to check. She’s right. I realize then that my ears are burning too. I look around at all the people who came to watch fight night, and their eyes are all on me.

Some girl is shooting me a death stare. Another winks at me, and blows a kiss.

What the hell is this?

“Babe, if Pierce wants you, he’s gonna—”

“Going to what?” I say, cutting her off. “Going to ask me out on a date?”

She snorts. “Please.”

“It’s not like anything can happen, anyway.”

“Why?” Jason interjects. “You on your period?”

I glare at him.

“Oh relax,” she says, slapping my knee.

“Nothing can happen because his mother is dating my father.”

The small group of people around us all fall silent, and Rose bursts out laughing.

“What’s so funny?”

“You really think that’s going to stop him?”

I scrunch up my face in disbelief. “It’s going to stop me. And,” I say, realizing that I need to recover. “It’s not like I’m interested, anyway.”

“Yeah. Right.”

“Just shut up.”

“This is going to be interesting,” Rose says with an ultra-annoying grin. “Where’s the popcorn?”

We sit in silence for a while, and then I see a young couple walking up the steps in the stand. They enter our row, and Rose gets up and hugs them.

“Hey Cassie, hey Chance!”

I realize the two empty seats beside me are for them. I’m unhappy. Rose didn’t tell me she was bringing friends. It’s not like I came out prepared to really socialize with anyone else but her and her boyfriend.

I smile and introduce myself.

The guy, Chance sits beside me with Cassie, and he pulls out his zippo and clinks it open. “Relax,” he tells me when he sees my expression. “I don’t smoke. Just an old habit.”

The bell dings again, and a second fighter steps into the cage with Pierce. The crowd goes silent, but the air is charged.

The man is smaller than Pierce, but he’s stocky and obviously strong. Pierce is leaner, with longer arms and a lighter step.

I groan to myself. I’m really not having a good time, and the fight hasn’t even started yet.

The two meet in the middle of the cage, and they tap fists. I notice they’re not wearing gloves, but instead have some kind of tape or wrapping around their hands.

If they don’t wear gloves, then each punch is going to really hurt.

The referee motions for them to step back. Already Pierce is putting on a show, strutting about, and the light plays off the deep lines cut into his stunning body. His shorts are tight, hug his ass.

He turns around, shows his back to his opponent – who I’ve already dubbed ‘Stocky’ in my head – and looks at me. He smirks, winks, and again a sea of heads turn to face me, as if they’re expecting me to… respond.

I lick my lips, nod my head slightly at his opponent. Pierce shrugs, like he hasn’t got a worry in the world. But Stocky is already moving in, charging at him.

“Turn around!” I mouth, shaking my head at Pierce in disbelief. He’s going to get punched in the back of the head.

At the last moment, Pierce twists on his heels, and brings an elbow around. Stocky ducks it, but already Pierce is on him, aggressively closing the distance.

Beside me, I hear Chance say, “He always was a showoff.”

Stocky is backing up quick, and Pierce is dancing toward him. He stops suddenly, and puts out his hands, beckons, taunts.

It seems to have an effect. The body language of Stocky changes, becomes angry, and he stomps toward Pierce, fists up, ready to block a blow.

Pierce feints a step to his left, and throws Stocky’s weight off-center. He then kicks out Stocky’s unbalanced foot. Stocky goes down hard onto his back.

Pierce is on him in an instant, rolling around, and I can’t even make out what’s happening. But before long he’s got Stocky’s head in the nook of his knee, and he’s squeezing.

“Holy shit,” Rose whispers. “That was fast.”

Stocky is on the ground, his face is red as a beetroot, and he’s in a chokehold. Pierce, still putting on a show, points at the crowd, and they erupt.

“Jesus,” I say, looking at Chance and Cassie. She’s got her face bunched up, and I agree with her. Watching Stocky being choked like that is so immediate and visceral. It’s… a little sickening.

“Pierce has him in what’s called a submission hold,” I overhear Chance tell her. She doesn’t reply.

Stocky’s losing strength in his body now. He’s trying uselessly to grab Pierce behind him, but can’t get any good hold. Pierce twists his leg again, rolling Stocky’s body over so that he’s face down, neck still being held in between Pierce’s calf and thigh.

“He’s going to kill him,” I whisper in disbelief. “What the hell? Don’t they stop the fight?”

But, to my surprise, Stocky twists his body again, and lays a thunderous punch against Pierce’s thigh. The leg instantly goes dead, and Stocky rolls out, wincing, holding onto his throat and rubbing it.

Pierce gets to his feet, tests his leg, and I can almost feel the numbness he must be feeling, the pins and needles from the heavy blow.

He just grins, and beckons Stocky again.

The noise has all but died. There’s an eerie silence, as if suddenly the audience no longer cares for Pierce’s taunting. Or maybe they’re shocked by the purple bruise that’s already forming on Stocky’s neck.

Stocky is pissed, though. That much is for sure. He’s losing his composure, but still Pierce keeps taunting him.

“Why does he do that?” I say. “Isn’t there sportsmanship?”

“It’s a strategy,” Chance informs me. “Getting into his head, getting him uneven mentally.”

“Isn’t that cheap?”

He shrugs. “Anything to win.”

Stocky lunges, but Pierce dodges him easily. He captures Stocky’s arm, twists it behind his back, and then kicks out his legs again, sending him face-first to the floor. The sound is a deep, loud, single thump, and I’m reminded of the time I once dropped a bowling ball in the lane.

Pierce rolls over the body, hooks Stocky’s neck with his leg again, and this time grabs his own foot with his hand, and pulls.

Stocky’s body flails for a second, then I see the shoulders drop. He’s trying to get out from under it, but gets stuck on Pierce’s hip bone.

It’s only a few seconds before Stocky’s body goes limp.

“That’s the Pace choke,” I overhear Chance say to Cassie. “Lights-out in seconds. No blood to the brain.”

The fight is over. Pierce gets up, and somebody rushes to Stocky. I assume he’s a doctor.

The crowd bursts into manic cheering and applause, and Pierce trots about the cage, arms up, grinning.

He’s barely even broken a sweat.

Chapter Eight

“Did you see how fast he was?” Rose asks me. “God, he’s good.”

“I saw it,” I say as we leave the warehouse. The entire audience is filtering out at once, and it’s slow progress. The hubbub of excited chatter is thunderous. I can barely hear myself speak.

Everybody’s talking about how fast Pierce won. They’re saying that if this was a scored match, Stocky would have only received points for getting out of the first hold with that single blow onto his thigh.

I have to admit to myself that Pierce was impressive. Deceptively light on his feet despite all that muscle… it was graceful. Incredibly athletic.

“What are we going to do now?” I ask Rose.

“Well,” she says, grinning at me. “Now we see if we can talk to Pierce.”

“Really?” I ask.

“Yeah. I’m going to tell him your dad is dating his mom.”

“Damn Rose, why?”

“So we get a chance to meet him.”

“Rose, I don’t want to do this. You can’t tell him that.”

“Why not? You’re free to leave.”

I frown. “God, you can be such a bitch sometimes.”

“Hey, I want to meet him.”

“And what about Jason?”

“Oh, he’s not the jealous type.”

“I’m not?” Jason says, appearing from behind us. He was supposed to be using one of the porta-potties, but apparently the line was too long.

“It was going to be a hazmat zone in there once it got to my turn,” he explains, grinning.

“Gross.”

“Anyway,” Rose says, “Now you’ll get a chance to meet him. See what all that pointing was about.”

“I don’t really care,” I say. “To be honest, I might just head off early.”

“No!” she says, gripping onto my arm. “No, stay. Come on!”

“Rose…”

“They say Pierce’s nights out are legendary.”

“He drinks?”

She snorts. “What do you mean he drinks?”

“Well, aren’t athletes supposed to take care of their bodies?”

“Aren’t you adorable,” Rose says, laughing. “Anyway, if we can’t meet Pierce, Jason and I are going to go out anyway. Want to join us?”

“Where are you going?”

“Oh, probably a club or two.”

I pause. “I, uh, I’ve never been to a—”

“A club?”

“Well, no, back home you gotta be twenty-one.”

“You never used a fake ID?”

“No!”

She waves her hand. “Don’t worry about it, there’s nothing to it. Have a drink, feel the music, do what you want. Dance, sit, whatever. You only have to be eighteen here, anyway.”

“I don’t know, Rose,” I say. I’m starting to feel nervous now. I can’t dance! I’m not dressed for it at all.

“Oh, come on, Pen—” Rose’s eyes widen, and she looks past my shoulder. I turn around, and see Pierce Fletcher walking out of the train depot. He’s wearing a maroon dress shirt tucked into black slacks, and it all fits his body almost too perfectly.

“Pierce!” she screams, waving her hands. He’s already got a crowd of people around him. Everybody’s trying to get a selfie with him. Mobile phone cameras are going off left and right.

If I didn’t know better, I’d think we were at some red carpet event in Hollywood.

But Pierce isn’t paying attention to any of it. His eyes have found me, and he’s making a beeline straight toward us. Each of his steps is a long confident stride. He’s got a sway to him.

If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he was filming a commercial. The way each camera light flashes in seeming slow motion… it’s almost cinematic.

“Great fight, Pierce,” Rose says as he comes toward us. He doesn’t even acknowledge her. His eyes stay on me.

“You kicked arse tonight, mate,” Jason says. Pierce ignores him, too.

He closes the distance between us. I almost want to laugh. This whole scene has been so surreal. I feel like I’m in the commercial now.

His cologne is subtle, takes a moment to reach my senses. On his face he’s wearing an amused smirk, as if he’s finding something funny.

“Hey, beautiful,” he says. Apparently he just can’t help the grin that parts his lips. He’s got a mix between an American and Australian accent. It’s weird, like nothing I’ve ever heard before.

This time I really do laugh. “Jesus,” I whisper, tucking hair behind my ears. “That’s the best you could do?” I don’t even know why I say it. What was I expecting him to do?

“You’re joining me tonight,” he says. “You and your friends.”

Rose grips my arm, and I can almost hear her mentally pressuring me to accept.

“I, uh—”

“Hey, it’s the best club in town.”

“Juice?” Rose asks.

Pierce’s eyes don’t leave mine. “Yeah. We’ll get our own section.” His face grows serious. It’s all hard lines and angles. He’s a looker, but it’s better when he smiles. “Shall we go?”

I bunch my brow together. “You can’t be for real.”

Rose cuts in excitedly. “You know your parents are dating, right?”

Pierce levels a curious look at me. “Is that right? So you’re Penelope?”

“Yeah,” I say.

He only smiles. He just keeps looking at me, as if he’s measuring me, somehow, adding up everything he sees of me and labeling me, categorizing me, figuring me out.

I feel put on the spot; I feel hot, and I feel flushed.

I’m at a loss for words. Whereas in the cage he was all aggression and showboating, somehow now he’s no longer just a brute with a penchant for violence and lifting weights. His personality is intense. I can’t place it, can’t describe it.

I feel off-balance. I feel like I’m in the cage with him, and that I’ve got to hold my own.

“Well, nice fight,” I say. “Sans the showing off.”

Somehow – it’s subtle, but I don’t miss it – he uses his body language to guide me into walking with him. An arm out, a gentle gesture, and we’re walking down the street. Someone calls out his name, but he ignores them. Rose and Jason fall into step behind us. She’s positively giddy.

“First fight, Penelope?”

“Yeah.”

“Like it?”

I shake my head. “Not really.”

“It’s not for everyone.”

Feeling on an island, I look behind me. Rose and Jason urge me on with their looks. Behind them are Chance and Cassie. I guess we’re all going to the club together.

Rose winks at me.

“I noticed you tonight,” Pierce says, and I snap my head back around and look up at him.

“I could tell,” I say. “The pointing wasn’t exactly subtle.”

“It’s part of the personality.”

I shrug. Somehow, I don’t believe he compartmentalizes his fighting from his everyday life that much.

Our shoulders touch, and I feel this current of electricity shoot through me, right into my belly.

“You’re not comfortable.”

I blanch. “Sorry?”

“You’re not comfortable, are you?”

“Um, no, I guess?”

“First time to a fight, and going by the way you’re dressed, I’d say your friend didn’t tell you what the atmosphere was going to be like.”

My cheeks burn. “You know, I’m not really feeling this. I’m going to go home.”

“Don’t,” he says. “I want you to join me.”

“Don’t I get a say in this?”

He stops, turns and looks at me. “You can leave any time you like.”

Again, I’m put on the spot. I hear Rose hiss my name, only this time she’s getting impatient.

“I get the feeling you do this after every fight, right?” I ask.

“Go celebrating?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re right. I do always win.” He grins.

“I meant pick out some girl you think you’re going to get with.”

“Think?”

“Wow,” I say. “And just before you said it was all an act.”

“That’s not what I said.” He turns around and says to Jason, “Alright, see you guys there. Wait for me at the front door, or they won’t let you in.”

I do a double take, and then look behind me, but Rose and Jason are already crossing the street.

“Hey!” I yell. “Where are you going?”

“To the car.”

They keep going, and I turn back to Pierce, and he’s just regarding me. I feel like I’m on display or something. Being tested.

Is this some kind of setup?

“I won’t bite,” he says.

“Where are we going?”

“To my car.”

“Oh.”

We round a corner, and there I see a black sports car. It’s a Porsche.

“That’s your car?”

“Yup. 911 GT3.”

“I didn’t realize fighting paid so well.”

“It pays well – I won twenty-five grand tonight – but not this well.”

“So where do you get your money?”

“I bet on myself in the fights. Usually it doesn’t amount to much, but sometimes I’m the underdog.”

“Is that legal?”

His expression says: Are you serious? He opens the passenger side door for me. “It’s low,” he says.

“So?”

“Never mind,” he says casually. “Usually they’re wearing heels.”

“Um,” I say, climbing into the car. What the hell was that?

He’s right, the car is low. “Why did you say that?” I ask as he climbs into the car.

But he doesn’t reply. He buckles up, starts the car, and I grip instinctively onto my seat as I feel the thunderous vibration rattle in my bum.

He pulls out of the parking space, and the car accelerates so fast I can barely breathe, and even though the windows are closed, it’s so loud I can hardly hear anything but the roar of the engine.

“Wow,” I whisper, grinning. I can feel adrenaline coursing through my body as he weaves us through the quiet suburb.

The seat beneath me shakes violently beneath my bum. It’s like every crack and crevice in the road is transplanted straight through the car and into my ass.

“The suspension is too hard,” I say, and he just laughs. “What?”

“There’s no switch or anything. This is a track car.” He points up with his finger, and for the first time, I notice the roll cage. It was practically invisible in the dark. Not exactly my preferred choice for a daily driver.

“So why is it so hard?”

“Soft suspension transfers momentum to absorb shock and centrifugal force,” he says. “Slows you down, wasted energy. You can’t take corners as aggressively.”

“Oh,” I say. “But we’re not racing.”

“I like to feel the road.”

“An underground fighter and an amateur race car driver, huh? You’re just full of surprises.” Now it’s me who is grinning at him, and he takes it on the chin.

“You know me better than I know myself, Penelope.”

“Women’s intuition,” I joke.

We laugh, and for the first time, I’m starting to feel comfortable. No longer in the presence of Rose’s urgent stares, and the others’ silent observation, I feel less awkward.

“Could you drive a bit slower?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to.”

“But we’re right up on the limit.”

“That’s why it’s called a limit. What’s the problem?”

“I barely know you, and you’re driving in a car with way too much power. I’m a cautious person. Your insurance must cost you loads, but I’m guessing they don’t know you fight for a living and then drive your own car to clubs.”

“Relax,” he says. “I won’t be driving back.”

“So who will drive you?”

“Nobody. The club’s in downtown Melbourne, near Southern Cross station. I live in a block of apartments nearby. We’ll walk.”

Apartments in the city center? He must really be rolling in it.

Wait a minute, what did he mean by we’ll—

“What’s that supposed to be?” He nods at my wrist.

“It’s a tattoo.”

“I know it’s a tattoo, Pen. What’s it of?”

“Oh, so this is the part where you come up with a nickname for me?”

“I didn’t exactly come up with it. Penelope… Penny… Pen… P.”

“How about we just stick to Penelope?”

“What’s it of? Your tattoo? I can’t see from here.”

“It’s Chicago’s skyline. From the lake.”

“When did you get it done?”

“Why?”

“I want to know.”

Sighing, I tell him. “Just last month. I didn’t get it done. I did it myself.”

“No shit,” he says. “That’s on your right hand, and I noticed you were a righty.”

“You notice these things, do you?”

“Got to when you’re in the cage. So, you did it with your left hand?”

“Yeah. I’m a little ambidextrous.”

“So am I,” he says, and he smiles at me. “That’s really impressive.”

“So is this the part where you flatter me? Say nice things, do your little routine?”

“I really couldn’t give a fuck about flattering you, Pen. I’m just making conversation.”

“Oh, just making conversation, huh?”

“Yes, trying to loosen you up.”

He looks at me, and I feel my indignation flare up.

“Ten minutes ago you were shaking like a wet puppy. I know I’m hot, but there’s no need to be nervous.”

I roll my eyes. “Oh my God.”

But he just smirks.

I’m beginning to dislike him intensely.