CHAPTER SIXTEEN
DAWN
I’d never considered using the word ‘excruciating’ to describe sex until last night. I came… and came, and came. By the end of it I could barely move. I kept telling Max to save his energy, but he wouldn’t have it. He couldn’t get enough of me, of my body and lips.
I roll over, the sheets wrapping around my waist. I place my hand on his chest, holding it there until he stirs.
His eyes flutter open. He smiles. “Morning, beautiful.”
I pull close to his side. “Morning, you. How are you feeling?”
An arm shifts behind his head, his bicep ballooning. “Never been better.”
“I thought you might do a runner, had your fill and all that.”
He reaches up to stroke the side of his face, eyes darting down to my breasts. “I don’t think I could ever get enough of you. Now that I’ve visited the Garden of Eden, I never want to go back.”
Should I? “Are you saying you can see yourself with me?”
He sits up on one elbow. “I do want to be with you, Dawn. I want to protect you, pleasure you, and I’ve never wanted anything more, but…”
Here it comes.
“You have to understand the risk.”
“What?” I say. “Do you think I’m making you soft or something?”
He glances down at the sheets tented around his crotch. “Do I look soft to you? No, I’m a Hershey’s bar.”
“Hard on the outside, soft on the inside?” I suggest.
“Unhealthy.”
I run my hand under the sheets, lightly stroking his cock. “Unhealthy or not, I could do with a little excitement in my life.”
He laughs, his cock thickening in my hand. “I wouldn’t call near-death experiences ‘a little excitement.’ I’ve done a lot of bad shit to a lot of bad people. One day it’s going to catch up with me. I don’t know if I want you in the way.”
His head falls against the pillow. He thrusts up into my fingers.
I stroke faster. “And what about what I want?”
My yellow wristband bounces up and down as I jerk him off.
“And that is?” comes his disjointed reply.
“You.”
He reaches down and pulls my hand away, rolling us to the side so he’s on top. He runs his hand between my legs, pulling my panties to the side.
I wait, breath held. “I’m yours.”
He drives inside my wetness, runs into me until I’m full once more.
*
We order room service for breakfast. I’ve never seen such a selection of food.
“You really go all out, don’t you?” I say, stuffing another croissant into my mouth.
Max laughs, standing by the window. “Nothing’s free. It always comes at a price.”
I place the rest of the croissant down and stand, walking over to the window, wrapping my arms around his waist and resting my head on his shoulder. “Are you going to be okay today? This O’Neil guy sounds serious.”
He turns, planting a single kiss on the side of my head. “I’ll be fine. That said, if things go south I want you to call the number on the card over there by the phone.” He points to the breakfast bar. “Take it. Keep it on you. Sam’s an old friend. He’ll help you out.”
“And you?”
“Don’t worry about me. It might get ugly. That’s all I’m saying—worse before it gets better.”
I nod against his back, wishing Max didn’t have to fight, that I’d never met Rick in the first place.
But then you never would have met Max.
That’s true, but has it been worth it? I think back to last night. Oh, hell yes.
Rick never went down on me, never considered my pleasure for a single second. He’d get behind me and pound flat out for what seemed like hours. It was a relief when he finally came. That’s all I knew, but now my eyes have been opened, there’s no going back.
There’s more to a relationship than sex, you know.
I do, but the more time I spend with Max, the more that hard exterior begins to crack and the real Max shines through. I see him for what he is now—a good, honorable man forced into a bad situation by circumstance and poor choices, but no one should be defined by their past.
A limo picks us up downstairs just before lunch. I don’t recognize the streets outside from any brochures or postcards. Wherever we’re going, it’s a place far from the tourist traps, the slots, and the overpriced drinks. “Where are we?” I ask.
Max continues to stare out the window. “Getting further away from Kansas, that’s for sure.”
We arrive at a large factory quite literally sided by desert. It’s desolate out here save for a string of high-end cars parked in the lot, men milling about in suits, bikers by the side door, all kinds of shady individuals.
The driver opens the door and I step out after Max. There’s a guy with a ponytail standing there. “This way,” he says.
I follow Max around the back of the factory, through a door and down a hall. As we walk, we pass a window that looks out onto the factory floor, but there’s no machinery here. It’s been turned into an arena complete with lighting and cage at its center. My stomach drops. This is real underground. If Max falls, there aren’t going to be any emergency services to come to his aid. He’s on his own.
We’re led into a small white room and the door closes behind us. There’s water and towels on a table, but that’s it.
Max takes me aside. “Are you okay?”
“Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that?”
Max bounces away, pulling off his shirt and jumping on the spot, shaking out his limbs. “Like I said, I’m fine.”
“You keep saying that.” I see the bruising on his ribs and cringe inside. “You don’t have to do this.”
He stops. “Dawn…”
I put my hands out. “Okay, okay, but promise me you’ll watch yourself out there.”
“I will.”
There’s a knock on the door. Bobby enters with the ponytail guy. He lights a cigarette and leans against the doorway, Ponytail standing to the side. “Feeling up to it, New York?”
Max nods. “Bring it on.”
Bobby smiles, sucking on the cigarette, sucking the life out of it. He holds it away from his face, eyes darting towards me. “I trust your accommodation was suitable?”
“It was,” comes Max’s stony reply.
Bobby waves me over. “Come now, my love. The show’s about to begin and you have front-row seats.”
I look to Max. “It’s okay,” he says. “Go.”
I run forward, giving Max one last kiss before following Bobby and Ponytail out.
An elderly man bumps into me in the hallway outside.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I apologize, but he simply holds my arm and smiles. “It’s going to be okay. Wait and see.”
“Wh—” I begin, but he’s already gone.
Bobby wasn’t kidding. I’m led to a seat front and center wedged between a suit on one side and an Arab man on the other. He nods and smiles when I sit.
“Where will you be?” I ask Bobby.
He points to a box up by the roof, the factory’s main office. “In the clouds, little one.” He stoops down low. “For your sake, let’s hope your boy comes through.”
He leaves.
I stand and look around. The rest of the arena is filling up. I spy the elderly man up the back to the right, in the standing room. He doesn’t see me.
I go to stand myself, but a heavy hand presses me back down into my seat. “Let’s stay seated, shall we?” smiles Ponytail, moving away to hover by the cage, snake eyes trained on me. There goes your escape plan.
The lights dim in the arena save for the cage, cast neon blue. Two porny women in thongs and nothing else hold up cards in the ring before a referee in black and white takes the stage, announcing the first fighters. I don’t hear Max’s name.
A buzzer sounds and the fighting starts.
It’s brutal.
The cage’s within arm’s reach. I can smell the sweat, the blood. The first fight lasts less than a minute, one fighter bringing the other to the ground in front of me and using his knee to hammer down on his opponents face until it’s a bloody mess. I close my eyes, unable to stomach it.
The crowd roars with approval, the Arab man beside me leaps up, applauding. The loser, limp, is dragged away. The blood is mopped up with a towel, but the stain remains, the iron stench heavy in the air.
The next fight starts and once more there is no sign of Max. This one is evenly matched. The two fighters are equally skilled. Five minutes pass, ten, the crowd growing restless, their hunger for blood and violence growing.
I want to be somewhere else. I don’t want to be witness to this, but I’m trapped.
I flinch as one of the fighters is crushed up against the cage, his mouth guard coming free, his teeth gnashing against the metal just feet away. His eyes open, wide, and look into mine. I see the fear there. He’s lost.
He goes down in less than a minute, one of his legs bent awkwardly away from his body.
God, let it end. Please.
Another fight and another pass. I’ve been sitting here for over an hour now. I’m nervous and on edge.
And then the call comes.
“And now for the main event,” calls the announcer. “Kurt ‘Crusher’ O’Neil against the Wild Horse wild card, Max Davis from New York City.”
There’s a murmur through the crowd, rumblings. No one seems to know who Max is.
I look around again. The elderly man is still there, watching intently.
I tighten in my seat.
O’Neil is the first into the cage, stripping away his robe. My throat closes, hands gripping the chair.
O’Neil’s a monster. I thought Dale back at the biker bar was big, but this guy’s a giant. He’s covered from head to foot in tattoos, more ink than skin. His face in particular is designed to look like a skull.
The crowd erupts. He’s clearly a favorite, slamming his hands against the cage, grabbing the ass of the closest ring girl.
There’s no such entrance for Max. He’s nothing compared to O’Neil. They look completely mismatched. It’s unfair! He’s going to kill him! I want to scream, but I hold my tongue.
Max told you to trust him.
It’s all I can do.
Max sees me and nods, wrapping tape around his fists and eyeing off his opponent.
The two separate. “Come on!” screams O’Neil.
The buzzer sounds.
It’s on.
In previous rounds, the fighters were slow to engage, feeling each other out before attacking, but O’Neil comes in full force from the start, roaring and lashing out at Max with a wide kick.
Max is ready for it, bringing his hands up for the block, but the force of it smashes him against the cage. He barely has enough time to get his hands up again before O’Neil is there, punching away like a man possessed, his hands moving like lightning.
Seconds into the fight and already Max is on the back foot.
Max ducks and manages to get away from the cage, landing a cutting blow down O’Neil’s side, but O’Neil whips around with another kick, forcing Max away.
Now the two dance.
“You’re fucking dead,” sneers O’Neil, smiling with golden fronts on. “I’m going send you to the fucking meat floor, Yankee.”
“So stop dancing around like a fucking fairy,” replies Max.
O’Neil bellows again, running forward and collecting Max around the waist, lifting him against the cage and squeezing.
The crowd roars with approval again, people starting to stand from their seats. They’re loving it.
Max’s face is twisted in agony, O’Neil adding more pressure to his ribs.
Come on, I start to chant internally, willing Max to break free. Come on.
I look up at the boxed office. Bobby is standing in the window. It’s dark save for the glowing tip of his cigarette.
Max cries out in pain, attempting to head-butt his opponent. O’Neil’s head splits, blood pouring down his face, but he simply laughs and continues to squeeze.
I don’t like where this is going.
Oh, god.
Max hammers at O’Neil’s back, but the blows fall uselessly.
“Kill that little cunt,” someone yells behind me. “Fuck him up.”
Just when I think Max is about to give in, he manages to get a knee up into O’Neil’s groin, sending him sprawling back.
O’Neil lets go, Max falling to the floor in a heap, staggering on his knees to get away.
O’Neil is crumpled in half, but he’s not down. His teeth, stained red, are gritted together. He growls, slowly stepping back to Max.
“Go!” I call out, but it’s too late.
O’Neil stands over Max, hard against cage. “You’re going to pay for that.”
He kicks him hard in the ribs, enough to force him up the side of the cage.
Max grimaces in pain and continues to crawl.
O’Neil kicks him again, and again, another into the side of Max’s head.
I look away, eyes wet.
Trust him.
I force my eyes back, but any hope I had is leaving fast. Max is in serious trouble.
Face bloody, crimson drops falling from his chin, Max manages to crawl around to the side of the cage until he’s only feet away. I want to reach out to him, tell him it’s going to be okay, but he’s pulled away by O’Neil into the center of the cage.
“Finish him,” the crowd begins to chant. “Finish him.”
The Arab beside me is jumping up and down, adding his voice.
Everyone thinks Max is going to lose.
I look around. They’re all smiling, chanting, everyone except the old man. He stands there watching silently.
O’Neil drops onto Max’s back, slamming his elbow down into his spine. Max flattens, and for a terrible second I think he’s been paralyzed, until he starts to peel himself from the floor. He’s driven back down by the same elbow.
A punch to the side of the head.
I force myself to watch, sick to the stomach.
“Finish him! Finish him!”
O’Neil’s nodding his head, straddling Max’s back, pandering to the crowd. He takes a fistful of Max’s hair and lifts his head up, holding his fist high for the final blow.
It’s over.
Suddenly, Max’s eyes snap open, his hands flattening out before him.
The crowd stops chanting, the expression on O’Neil’s face changing in an instant.
I remember Max’s words: It’s going to get worse before it gets better.
Using the leverage of his hands, Max kicks his head back into O’Neil’s nose. I hear the crunch of it, bone against bone, blood fanning out from O’Neil’s face as his hands come up to his nose. Max uses the opportunity to twist his body, throwing O’Neil off and standing in one smooth motion.
O’Neil’s getting to his feet, but he’s disorientated. Max is already there, energized, prepared. It was all a ruse.
Max works only on O’Neil’s head, unleashing blow after blow, holding his opponent in place until he can no longer defend himself.
The arena is dead silent save for the wet sound of flesh on flesh.
Finally, Max stands, lifting his foot and bringing it down hard on O’Neil’s head, knocking him out.
He stands there breathing hard, wiping blood from his mouth. I don’t know how, but he’s done it.
I look back to the elderly man. He’s smiling now. He knew all along Max was going to win. He sees me and winks.
Max turns to me and nods, once.
It’s done.