TODAY, I WILL finally nail the moody bastard.
The Blue Coliseum is packed, the air ventilation system inadequate in midst of a summer heatwave, and heat permeates the place. A film of condensation gathers on the ceiling and drips down the walls from the mass of bodies jammed into the arena.
It’s Box Fest — a chance to meet your favourite fighters and watch the matches. I am standing in line with my friend, waiting to get an autograph from Lenic “The Tempest” Reevus. The ex-Royal Marine — now a heavyweight champion in bare-knuckle boxing — is built like a Spartan warrior. His pretty-boy face and hard-muscled body screams, ‘Hello girls,’ but his eyes are always permanently set in a deep frown. It’s like he would rather be shot dead than be caught red-handed with a smile. Most of his shots in the tabloids are of him giving the finger to the camera. Rumoured to have a hot temperament, he’s been known to smash a few paparazzi’s cameras.
“I think you need to buy official merchandise to get an autograph,” Delphine says, standing behind me. “The board by the entrance states it.”
“I’ve got merchandise,” I reply. “I just didn’t get it from here.”
“Your boobs aren’t official WBC merchandise.”
I look farther down the line and find I am about halfway to the table where he sits. “They’re official. As in real. It should count for something.”
A distant roar of a crowd rises and falls, rises again. The boxing match is swinging in full force in the main room of the large amphitheatre. “They’ll turn you away. You won’t get his autograph.”
“I’m not here for his signature, Del.”
Time and time again, as each fan greets him, Lenic Reevus will use and reuse the same hand gesture that transfers his name to authentic sports memorabilia, and offer a quick fake smile. Not fake, as such. Forced, maybe, or that it’s slightly hellish and uncomfortable for him. Unnatural.
I don’t need him to smile for what I’ve got planned.
He appears tired and completely overworked. Despite the fact that he’s been sitting for hours, I can feel the fatigue over his body, enveloping him with darkness, taunting him over the how many hours he still has ahead of him.
He needs something new, something to look forward to at the end of the evening. The sameness of signings, the desperate women and men, practically begging for his attention is probably getting old. He needs excitement. He needs someone to say something fresh.
He needs … seven minutes of heaven with me.
“I’m going to pass him my phone number to hook up. A quickie backstage in his private changing room.”
“Flick, you can’t,” my friend condemns, her piercing blue eyes on me.
“Life’s about living in the moment. I’m not going to let this opportunity slip through my fingers. He is everything a woman wants — perfection. A man who dominates with confidence. A man who chases the woman. A man with swagger and drop-dead gorgeous good looks. A man who has a terrifying sexual appetite and a staggering range of sexual technique. That’s Lenic Reevus, I guarantee it.”
“You can’t know that.”
“In my dreams he is.”
“Exactly. It’s your twisted reality. It’s just a dream. Men like that don’t exist. Not in the real world. Not for mere mortals like us.”
“I disagree. I think we should dream big. Why not? Who says we don’t deserve to go get what we want? Men do it all the time going way beyond their league, so why can’t we? Just the other day you were quoting Ghandi: ‘Be the change you want to see in the world.’”
“Are you saying Ghandi is the reason the world needs you to have sex with Lenic Reevus?”
As the line moves closer, I smile. “Yes. It’s a matter of world affairs that I have sex with him. I need to be that change. If I must have mind-altering orgasms to do it, then so be it.”
“OK. You’re twenty-four. You don’t need my advice on the proper etiquette on how to get laid. But why are you choosing to hit on him now? You’ve had plenty of opportunities.”
Lenic Reevus’ gym is just a pebble’s throw away from my house in Stonebrook, but I’ve never had the nerve to walk up to him. Today is different, however. It marks a time I want to forget. My grandpa supported me against the hardship of this day, but he sadly passed away this year. I guess I'm looking for a distraction. Looking to do something wild and reckless to banish the bad memories. A dirty one-night stand with my celebrity crush is the perfect antidote.
I shrug. “It just feels right. All the sweat, blood and testosterone of the venue will steam things up for us. Filthy sex is the best kind.” I look at her. “It’s not a big deal. I’m seeking a one-time encounter. Not a marriage proposal.”
She chuckles softly. “Go for it. I think it’ll be amusing to watch you try and catch him. Everyone in my yoga class has asked him out and he’s snubbed every single one of them.”
“Gay?”
“God, I hope not. Not after you caught him in the shower last month.” She fans herself with the baseball cap she just purchased from the venue. “It would be such a waste.”
“Mmmm,” I moan, biting my lip, remembering. “How can I forget the video of the century?”
A month ago, when the church bells woke me up at five a.m., again, I caught Lenic Reevus running across Old Marsden’s private land. My house and attic bedroom are situated just perfectly to see across Marsden’s land — with an expensive camera and 83x zoom lens attached. I struck gold when he decided to use the private outside shower by the boat sheds.
My phone buzzes in my purse. I dig it out and raise it to my ear. “Hey, West. Where are you?”
West is my brother — technically, not my real brother, but you don’t have to be blood-related to be family. He is set to fight against Lenic Reevus in the bare-knuckle boxing semi-finals at the end of the year. I suppose that makes my crush the enemy.
“Still held up with my manager, babe,” West says. “Just wanted to see how you were holding up. I remembered what day it is.”
I don’t want to remember that today is the anniversary of my parents’ death. Even though it was the day Grandpa Joe took me in, I don’t like to be reminded of what he was taking me away from. “I’m fine, honestly.”
“OK, good. Look, change of plans. Meet backstage in my changing room in say … two hours? You still got those backstage passes I gave you?”
“Yes. Delphine says many thanks.”
“No problem. Anything for you, Flick. You know that.” I hear static through the line and then muffled voices. Stepping forwards in the line, I wait. “Sorry, my manager wants me to meet with WBC’s coordinator. Might not see me tonight, at all, which means hanging out at our old hang-out will have to wait for another time. But go on ahead backstage without me. I’ve made sure they’ve put your favourite cocktails by the bar. Just give them my name — they’re expecting you.”
“You are the loveliest man I know, West.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he grins down the phone.
“Don’t worry if you can’t come back to Stonebrook tonight. I’m still taking Delphine along with me to revisit our childhood years by the sea.”
“I’ll do my best. I really do want to be with you tonight. If I can’t get free, you still up for me coming to yours on Monday?”
“Sure—”
“Sorry, Flick. Gotta go.”
The line goes dead and I slip my phone back into my purse, turning to Delphine. “West is going to try and meet up with us backstage in about two hours.”
“Backstage partying — can’t wait,” she says, flicking her shoulder-length blonde hair over her head.
“Neither can I,” I reply, looking at Lenic. “As for Lenic being gay,” I add, continuing our conversation from earlier, “you’re being narrow-minded. I’d buy front-row tickets to that show. There is nothing steamier than two hot men kissing each other.”
“Only you could be turned on by gay men.”
“They wouldn’t be gay. They’d be two curious straight men that are really horny one night, and one of them would be Lenic Reevus. He’d be the instigator. The predator.”
“By any chance, are you drunk?”
“I might have consumed four glasses of wine at the bar for Dutch courage.”
“Was that before or after the several shots of Tequila?”
I ignore her, distracted by Lenic’s large form bent over the table, signing a book, then handing it to the woman in front of him with a quick smile.
I lick my lips a little. What would it be like to be kissed by those lips as he takes me up against a wall?
“You’ll need more than Dutch courage — good luck.”
I realise that as I have been mulling over my dirty thoughts, the line has moved to the point where I am next in line. A metre away from the table I still for a moment, locking heated eyes with Lenic’s, and brush a hand seductively through my long dark hair. His expression is blank, soon turning into one of impatience.
I start walking slowly towards him, my five-inch heels clicking against the stone floor. From all the attention I’ve received from the opposite sex this evening, I know I look striking in my skin-tight red dress. I feel confident. I feel ready.
I hold my breath as his dark gaze holds mine, and smile coyly. It doesn’t draw one from him. I wink. His face doesn’t change, doesn’t budge.
He sits tall in his chair, waiting for me to reach out with something for him to sign. I pause for a moment. What takes me by surprise is how he looks me in the eye, directly in the eye. It is sad his beautiful face never lights up. Dark. Ominous.
I can see he is hurting; there is a big hole of missing love, covered by concrete walls, enforced with steel bars. I want to help, need to help. The harsh flash of his dark eyes tells me to leave him be, and listen to my friend’s advice, but I can’t ignore instinct.
"Hey," he says. I freeze at the sound of his deep, raspy voice, my eyes fixated on his thick, prominent Adam’s apple.
He said, ‘Hey?’ All his other fans got a ‘hi,’ not a ‘hey.’ ‘Hey’ is more … intimate.
“Got something for me to sign?”
“Hey…" I reply, a large smile splitting my face. “I don’t.” I fake a blush. “But I was hoping you could sign something else.” I bat my eyelashes as I grip the edge of the table with my hands and lean forwards, spotlighting my cleavage. I am aware I’m not being subtle at my attempts at flirting. Maybe I should have foregone that double shot of vodka on an empty stomach.
His eyes roam over me, sizing me up. “Rules clearly state I only sign official WBC goods.” He stabs a finger in the direction of the stalls on the far side of the room. “Buy something, line up, and I’ll be happy to sign.” His voice is toneless. “I wouldn’t want to be charged for sexual assault.”
I chuckle flirtatiously. “OK, you’re not a rule breaker. It’s fine. I’m not really one to get autographs from a celebrity.”
“I need to attend to the next person in line." I can tell he is trying to be polite as possible, but losing patience quickly.
I slide a piece of notepaper across the table. “Here’s my phone number. Ring me later once you’re finished here. We could have a little fun backstage … if you like. No strings attached. Quick and dirty.” My lips curl at one side.
He turns the full weight of his gaze on me, and doesn’t say a word for a long time, like his brain is ticking away. “I’ll take that under advisement.”
The loud music in the arena thumps in my ears, but my brain is turning down the flashing lights and putting on music that, in my mind, sounds a lot like ‘bwa chi chi waa waa’.
I nod dumbly as he picks up my phone number between his thick fingers, and for one, seemingly eternal retina-searing moment, he just looks at me, lets me see all of the sex positions he has planned for us play out behind his sinful gaze. I feel my entire face suffuse with heat.
I am like honey to a bee.
I smile with high confidence as I leave, glancing over my shoulder to find his eyes still on mine, my heart pounding, and my faith in myself floating in Cloud Nine. Those dark eyes of his are promising me he will take me in ways that will have me forever praying for my sins, as he folds up my phone number and…
…throws it in the rubbish bin.
Wait, what?
Did that bee just sting me?
His gaze, glazed with amusement, clamps down on mine. I shift my feet uncomfortably as a cocky smirk plays across his devilishly handsome features. I should look away, run away. I am humiliated. But I find my eyes riveted to his. There is a small twinkle in his eyes, a slight amusing smile. It should be a good thing, given the rarity, like catching a unicorn. But in this circumstance, it’s a bad thing. His smile is mocking me.
And then his expression darkens, like I was a thorn in his flesh; one he picked out and casted off — just like my phone number. He finally breaks eye contact, and I watch him turn his head around to glance up at Delphine, reaching out to sign her Tempest baseball cap.
That … arrogant bastard.
I didn’t do anything wrong, I tell myself with resolve. I am, after all, entitled to want to blow off a little steam and have a good time every once in a while, right? Right.
I suddenly feel an irrational surge of anger and start to march straight back to him, with my head held firmly high.
Fake it until you make it.
He could have easily slipped my phone number away and never call. He could have left our parting at a polite, respectable level.
"You’re one of my favourite boxers, Tempest," I hear Delphine say to him.
"Thanks. Who should I make this out to?" Lenic asks her politely.
“I don't know what makes you think you're so important,” I spit at him, eyes narrowed. He flicks his gaze at me. It isn’t pleasant. It isn’t kind. It is the look a man has when faced with a crazy, wild thing. Something untamed, something unpredictable. Something damn frustrating.
“You mind?” he says. “The lady’s getting her autograph.”
“The lady’s my best friend.” I look at Delphine. “I really am sorry for this. You don’t mind, do you? I only need a minute, I promise.”
“Um … no, it’s fine,” she replies, looking at me like I’m insane.
“Thank you. I owe you one.”
My eyes narrow at the man in question, all that gorgeous thick hair and height and piercing dark eyes — Lenic Reevus, The Tempest, whatever — and try not to react with too much hostility.
“I think someone — outside your brown-nosing entourage — needs to tell you that just because you’re famous and good-looking, doesn’t mean you can show an insensitive and cruel disregard for others.”
A bulky security guard from behind the famous boxer steps forward. Lenic holds his hand up, shakes his head. The security guard moves back, keeping a stern glare on me.
I continue my onslaught. “You wanted me to see you discard my phone number into the rubbish bin. You smiled at me when you did it. I saw you. You got off on making me feel small and insignificant, didn’t you? Like you’re King of the damn world. But you’re not. You’re the biggest jerk.”
The cocky look on his face only riles me up further. “All I did — was throw away something I don’t need.”
My anger isn’t from his rejection. It’s the manner in which he rejected me. “You should be more generous and kind to your fans. After all, we’re the ones who support you, make you.”
“You want me to screw every woman who gives me her number … so that I don’t come off as an arsehole who’s ungrateful to his fans? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Yes,” I say firmly, then pause, a little confused. “I guess…” I add more weakly. I realise my point is leading me towards a lack of good sense and judgment.
“That’s a beautiful mind you got there.” His tone is cocky, arrogant. “I don’t sleep with fans.”
“You should try it. Might put a rare smile on your dark, miserable face for once. You know, it doesn’t hurt to smile.”
His piercing gaze falters for a second, breaking away from mine, before he parks his elbows on the table and leans forwards, throwing another punch. “Partying’s not my thing. Some of us work for a living.”
Is he insinuating that I don’t work? “Are you calling me a gold digger?” He smoothes a hand along the nearly shorn sides of his head, the look of a man who thinks he is King.
“I call it like I see it.”
“How dare you? What right do you have to judge me?” I hiss back. “I spend more time working hard than playing hard.”
“Is that right?” His eyes sweep a slow perusal of my body. I swallow, feeling the heat of my anger in my chest slowly move down between my legs. “Something in entertainment, huh?”
Did he just infer I’m a stripper, a lap dancer? A webcam girl? “Yes, correct — but not in the way you’re so obviously thinking. I’m a vlogger. I work extremely hard making lifestyle videos for my one million subscribers.” I straighten up, feeling like I’ve taken the throne.
He leans casually back in his chair, crosses his arms. “How the hell do you make a living from that?” His tone is laced with superiority, like my career is meaningless, juvenile.
“Why don’t you tell me first how you make a living from punching a man in the face,” I retort, as we appraise each other like warring lions. “You ugly faces. I pretty them. I know which one I deem more valuable in people’s lives.”
I note the hard, calculating look in those black eyes as they traverse the venue, the large crowd, and take in the stench and density of the air around us. “If I slept with every fan who wanted it — I wouldn’t have time to eat, sleep or do anything else.”
And Delphine thinks I’m the vainest of them all.
“You’re an incredibly egotistical man, you know that, right?”
He rubs his jaw, glancing at the rubbish bin behind him. “Show her the bin, Doug,” he says to the security guard. The man built like a brick wall picks up the metal bucket and angles it down so I’m able to see the contents. There are at least a hundred discarded phone numbers inside.
I watch his large shoulders rise and fall as he heaves out a heavy breath, then stretches his back. He’s losing his patience. “Are we understanding each other now?” he asks, looking at me with an oblique disinterest. “Are we done here? Your friend’s waiting.”
Indignation sweeps through me like a hot wash, and I am hell-bent on throwing the knockout punch. “Ohhhh … I see…” I smirk, long enough for irritation to tense his body. “Yes, we are understanding each other now. Of course you’re not interested … So the tabloids were right...” An uppish chuckle comes from my lips, and I glance over at Delphine. She stands awkwardly, a sheepish expression on her face. “He’s answered our question.”
“What question?” he grunts, with a pissed expression on his face
I turn to him. “That you bat for the other team and I don’t mean the terrorists.”
His coffee spills over the table as he slams his large fists down in front of him, hard enough to make me flinch. He makes a noise of frustration in the back of his throat. “You saying I'm gay? I'm not gay.” His usual cocksure manner has cracked. I’ve struck a raw nerve. There’s been a lot of media hype in the tabloids questioning his sexuality due to his scarce public sex life. “For the hundredth time,” he spits, “that picture of me with Cross is not what it looked like. My arsehole manager likes playing to the damn crowd.”
That very picture of Lenic being kissed on the lips by another good-looking man is my desktop image.
“It doesn’t help your case when you turn down a solid nine-and-a-half willing girl...” I squint my eyes at him and give him a come-out-of-the-closet look. “I believe everything I read in the newspapers.”
Thinking I’ve gained the upper hand, and believing this evening couldn’t crush my soul any more, he hits me below the belt with, “Maybe you’re not my type of girl. You think that could be the case?”
I feel my stomach clench and my mood takes a dramatic turn for the worse. But I don’t show hurt. I won’t give him the satisfaction. I was hoping for fireworks with Lenic Reevus — soaked in sweat and cum and blinding orgasms. But there is none of that here. There is just ugly disappointment, like a quickie that never hits the spot.
Reality never lives up to the hype. Lenic Reevus is rude, bitter and maybe gay — and not the sexy straight kind.
My thoughts backpedal desperately in my head as I fight to remember just how I ended up here — how I came to the conclusion that this was the only possible end result of dealing with today’s anniversary.
God, I am the architect of my own misfortune.
I fight back the gut-wrenching trembling that threatens to overtake me. What am I even doing here? Seriously. Today marks a dark time, but I am fine. I am always fine. I’ll leave while I still have some dignity, while I’m still whole. I won’t let myself care.
I look down confidently at the way my bright-red dress hugs every sexy curve of my toned body, then raise my eyebrow at him, with an outward look that screams I know I’m his type, even though inwardly I doubt otherwise.
I park my hands on the table and lean forwards, pulse racing. “You should show a little more respect to your fans — even the desperate, pathetic ones — because every woman deserves to be treated right. You don’t get a pass because you’re famous. Ever heard of the Wheel of Fortune?” I don’t give him time to answer. “If you’re not careful, one day your ego will strike you down and you’ll fall from a great height.”
I straighten up, and smile mirthlessly down at him. “I’m delighted we didn’t screw. You’re a humourless jerk who wouldn’t know what fun is, even if it knocked on your door and slapped you in the face. There’s plenty of more sharks in the sea for me to spend tonight with. Enjoy your miserable lonely life, Tempest.”
There is a flash in his eyes that betray emotions, and for a moment, he looks like a sparrow with broken wings. But it is too brief, and the arena is too full, and the sound of an announcement rings too loudly in my ears, and there is nothing left to say.
Not breaking my smile, I turn on my heel and walk away, willing my heartbeat to slow down. All I wanted was the familiarity of a strong man to take me tonight — that touch to vanish the ghosts in my own head. My smile falters, but I hold strong. Tomorrow the shadows clear, like they always do.
I only need to survive tonight.