I wake up later that night covered in sweat. My apartment seems like it’s gone from the autumn chill to a summer heat wave. I throw the black silk sheets off, my comforter already on the floor, as I sit up with my head held high.
The night of a fight is always like this. It’s why I usually don’t even bother trying to sleep. My dreams are usually filled with me going over jab combinations and sequences I have drilled to death with my coach and trainer. The ring becomes this enclosed cage where I am fighting this monster with the face of my father as people around me scream and cheer for him. I am alone, smacking at the darkness with my gloves up. I duck and run from a force that knocks me down each and every time it swings. There is never a bell to stop the rounds -- only the sound of my alarm clock going off, breaking me free from the nightmare that never seems to end.
Tonight’s dream started like that. There I stood in the center of the ring as the crowd begun to chant someone else’s name. A black hooded figure steps into the opposite side of the ring, followed by an entire team of people and officials. They fade into the background as he takes off his robe with his back towards me. I try to call out someone’s name, but I can’t seem to get the syllables out of my mouth before the fight has begun. He moves too fast for me to catch the light. He’s a blur of power and force that I can’t seem to get an inch on.
Just as I am about to give up, to fall to the mat and wait for my alarm to just let me escape, there’s something else there -- someone else. There’s a moment of reprieve from my beating, just long enough for the world to feel as if it stops. The ground around me spins so that nothing looks the same. I can focus on only one person in the crowd. She’s sitting third row, dead center. Her blonde hair flows like a river from the top of her head, the light casting long shadows over her made up face and ruby lips. Her hands are crossed over her chest as she looks at me, almost disappointed.
“What are you doing?” Alana asks, her voice is as real as the moment she dropped me back off at the restaurant. “Why are you letting him win? Don’t you know that we have work to do?” She sounds impatient, almost tired.
I ask her back, barely whispering, “What are you doing here? You shouldn’t be here!” I am being brought back to the dream world where I almost always end up dead, the crowd cheering for it with each and every punch of my mystery opponent. If he didn’t finish the job, they would. And here was Alana sitting dead center among them, the queen of those who remain faceless.
“You brought me here, Liam. This is your fault. Now find a way to win. Find our way out of this.” Her figure fades, blending into the black and gray crowd. Her technicolor drips and bleeds onto the floor of the ring. All I can hear is her repeat, “Find a way out of this.”
In a panic, I turn around, my arms flying fast in the air. I make contact with something. It’s rock hard, a bit of a mountain in my way. The beast crumbles into pebbles onto the ground. Little round bits of flesh roll into a small pile at my feet as I stand there, clutching my hands in awe. Never have I defeated him before. I spin back to look for Alana, to show her that I did it. But she’s gone. The perfect likeness of her leaves a hole in the space of people shouting their boo’s at me. I do the only thing I can do -- I scream.
I scream so long and so hard that I manage to wake myself up. My studio apartment sits silently, bathed in a sunny glow. Despite the blackout curtains, the light manages to seep in through the corners and the patches where the window is still exposed. I grab my phone on the bedside table to check the time. Eleven a.m. It’s way too early for me to be up on match day, but I know that I won’t get back to sleep. And even if I did that dream would follow.
The time isn’t the only thing that catches my eye. There’s a text from an unfamiliar number:
Can I get two tickets for tonight instead of just one? If I’m going to watch you beat the shit out of someone, I at least want to bring around a friend who might enjoy the gore.
It’s Alana. After last night at the hospital, we rode back in silence. She never replied to me when I stupidly said my confession. I don’t blame her, though. What could you say to a guy like me when he points out that there’s more than just a business transaction happening or when he says that he doesn’t want to leave you? You don’t say anything. You change the subject. You show him the flowers some stranger brought for your dad. You point out the coffee machine in the hallway and tell him the name of the security guard you both ran into earlier. You say just about anything to avoid the elephant in the room.
I chalk it all up to the strange events of last night. Bringing a girl around to the club is a big fucking deal. So is robbing your arch rival of his prized diamond collection while also hoarding away a ruby stash enough to get you out of this damn town. Then seeing her dad like that… I just wasn’t me. That’s all there is to say about it. I just wasn’t the same Liam Murphy, president of Steel Saints, known killer, and prized fighter that everyone else knew me as.
Still, I spend the rest of the day tracing through the events of yesterday. Even on my warm up run around the MGM Grand Arena with music blaring through my headset, I can hear her voice, the frightened shrieks as I place the gun to her head and tell her to drive. As I sign autographs, I see her watching me with that little boy outside the ice cream truck. When girls wrap me in huge hugs, their tits pressed firmly into me, I feel her warm skin clinging to my neck with the smell of her orgasm wafting through my nostrils.
When I see her in the flesh, it’s almost a relief. These constant visions weren’t exactly helping me concentrate. Now that she was here, I could get her out of my head and focus on the fight to come.
She stands behind Steel Saints security guard I had hired for the event tonight. Her head peaks around the corner of his large arm with this wide yet out of place smile. “Can you tell him that we’re with you?” she asks slyly, pointing at him as she rolls her eyes dramatically. I shoo him away quickly as he retreats back to his post outside the dressing room. I grab her hand and yank her towards me as she tumbles towards the bench in those ridiculous wedge shoes she’s wearing.
This isn’t exactly like the girl in the ice cream truck from last night with the scuffed up sneakers and messy hair. She’s looking sleeker, sexier, and more dolled up. The red dress she’s wearing clings to all the right curves of her body as if it’s been painted on her. The dark eyeliner gives her those cat eyes that only make her pearly blue eyes sparkle brighter. And those red lips. Those haven’t changed at all -- if anything, they’re plumper and more ready to be taken to places she can only imagine. I wonder if she thought about my cock when she painted that on. Last night, I had to practically scrub her lip marks from around the base of my shaft….
Damn. Where is my mind?! I can’t be doing this -- not tonight. I’m fighting Coltrane Washington. He’s one of the top am-pros out there and is ranked number three on the circuit for the West Coast. If I can beat him, there’s no doubt in my mind that I’m going pro. Already my coach and manager have given me this lecture about distractions and the importance of the match during my warm-up this afternoon. “Where the fuck is your head, Murphy?! Get in the damn game! Your whole career is going to depend on if you KO tonight.”
He wasn’t exactly thrilled to see Alana or her friend enter my locker room. As she sat next to me, pulling out her laptop from that black bag of hers, he stood up out of his chair and began to pace. “We’re not doing this right now, kid. You know the rules about broads. I let it slide before, and you’ve always lost those matches!”
The muscles in my jaw twitched. Ricky couldn’t care less if Alana or the others hanging around my dressing room heard him running his damn mouth. This was an ongoing issue for him. Ricky believed firmly that fooling around before a big match was a complete dealbreaker, a fast way to guarantee a blow out match against yourself. Pussy was a distraction, but he didn’t know Alana.
She wasn’t like those girls I occasionally let through for a real quick pick me up before a session. She wasn’t even like the one I let stay around more frequently than the rest. Crazy Amy wasn’t exactly my steady or anything like that, but she was a good luck charm for a short run. When I started losing, and Ricky gave me a hard time, I followed his lead and dropped her. Too bad. Amy was good at conversation in between rounds in the private lounges and she certainly knew how to roll with Steel Saints.
“Back off, Ricky,” I say as firmly as possible. “This is Alana. She’s going to be sticking around for awhile.” Awhile. I had no idea what that meant. Was it until I sold off all the diamonds and paid her for her work? Or was it until she said so? Right now, I just wanted to get her through this match so that a while could be longer than business close.
“I don’t give a fuck who she is! We’ve got an hour before we go out there for intros. You wanna act a fool and risk everything? Diamond Dog Talent is out there scouting for you! That’s the big leagues, boy!” My manager, Eric, leaves the room, obviously tired of hearing about this. He knows that I’m in control. Ricky, on the other hand, still sees that kid in me that needs a bit of discipline and an occasional smack in the face with a bare fist.
“Maybe we should go. Jana and I can go find our seats. I thought I would just come and ask you some questions for the site.” She gestures to her laptop, which is already open on a blank Word document. Her friend, a lanky raven-haired girl about the same age as Alana, is already standing to go. I can tell that just being near me is making her uncomfortable. I wonder how much Alana told her about how we met and why she scored those tickets.
“No. You’re staying. Ricky is going to work the press line. He’ll come get me when it’s time for me to get into the arena. Right, Ricky?” He scuffs at the ground with his trainers and walks out silently. The door slams behind him as I hear him scream towards the crowd in that way only Ricky can. All eyes on him. Lights flashing. Both men and women are nearly beside themselves. This is how Ricky loved to play the role of agent and coach.
“Sorry about that,” I murmur. “He can be a fucking asshole.”
“No. No,” Alana says as she pushes a strand of hair from her eyes. “I shouldn’t be here. I just thought --”
“I want you to be here,” I interrupt. “You’re supposed to be here.” I know I’m doing that thing again. I’m getting too close. I’m making this too real. This is just like last night. I need to save face. I quickly add, “You remember what I told you about my ex? She’s probably here causing drama as we speak.”
“Yeah. What exactly do you want me to do? I’m not exactly up for a catfight or anything.”
“For real,” her friend Jana interjects. “She got into this fight with a drunk sorority girl once, and she almost got knifed. It was horrific.”
“Jana!” Alana exclaims, her face blushing darkly. “Don’t tell him that.”
I laugh. The thought of Alana with those thin arms and chicken legs rolling on the floor with some boozy co-ed is both hilarious and totally hot. I brush away a tear as I say, “Don’t worry about fighting her. I don’t think she’s that beyond… I just need you to listen and look out. If she finds out that you’re with me, she may try to make your life hell. If she gets to be too much, you tell me or one of the security guards. They already know to be looking out for Crazy Amy.”
“Crazy Amy? Really?” Alana looks at me skeptically. “Crazy Amy” was the tamest of the nicknames we gave her after the breakup where she went over to the other side, sleeping with the heads of the mafia and other motorcycle clubs. The bitch couldn’t figure out why the other guys wouldn’t take her when they heard she was damaged goods from Liam Murphy’s stash.
I scroll through my phone and pull up a picture of Amy. It’s the only one I got. I kept it just in case I ever needed to show it to some cops or a hitman. It’s her smiling with her open mouth, the purple-red lipstick smeared across her oversized lips. Her red hair falls on my shoulders as I’m holding her up by her legs and her tube top just barely covers the fake tits she always swore were real. She looked the part of some MC’s old lady.
Alana and Jana take the phone out of my hand and study it for memory. They point out things I’ve never really noticed or remembered, like the heart tattoo on her shoulder or the scar on her cheek. I honestly can’t tell if they’re just trying to get info on this girl they know I dated or if Alana is taking her job very seriously. Either way, the sight of Alana measuring up Amy is making me uneasy.
“Hey,” I interject, “I’ve got to get in the right headspace now, and you guys should find your seats.”
“Yeah, you’re right. Plus, I’ve got some writing to do.” Alana winks my way.
“You’re not writing during the match, Alana,” her friend scolds. “You’re actually going to watch the damn thing.”
“I know nothing about boxing, and I couldn’t care less either. I’d rather write about all this drama.” She stands to leave, following her friend towards the door. I don’t know what comes over me as I take a few giant steps towards her, my wrapped hands pulling her back towards me.
“You’re going to watch. You’re going to cheer for me,” I command, my voice darker than before. She blinks at me, completely stunned. Her frame goes stiff in my arms and her eyes fixate in on mine. They close softly as I lean into her, pressing my lips against her for one deep, frenzied kiss. She floats above the ground in my grip but manages to give in restlessly to the heat between us.
When I pull away, she sighs heavily with her breath still stuck in her throat. I can barely make it out when she promises, “I’ll watch. I guess.” Alana slips down towards the ground, adjusts the neckline of her dress, and practically stumbles out of the dressing room behind her friend. I turn towards the mirror and use the white tape around my wrists, palms, and knuckles to wipe away that deep red lipstick that has been implanted on my own lips. That kiss was going to stay with me the whole fight.