Dario

 

 

January 10, 2015

 

“Awww, shit! I just know that ain’t who the hell I think it is! My man!” the DJ shouted over the thumping beat of David Guetta’s Hey Mama, featuring Nicki Minaj. “Aye, y’all, we got muthafuckin Dario “DC” Caivano in the building! Homegrown, knock-a-muthafucka-out, DC!” he shouted, fist pumping the air.

I won’t even lie. The reception from home was always the best, no matter what the venue was. Hometown appreciation was the best euphoria that money could buy. The rounds of applause from the clubbers could be heard decibels above the music as I entered with my entourage behind me. There were at least fifteen of us. I usually traveled in a group way smaller than that. I didn’t like rolling like the rappers and a lot of the other athletes that I knew; that just wasn’t my style.

I looked in the direction of the DJ booth and threw up the peace sign over my head, in his direction to acknowledge his shout-out, then casually made my way through to the VIP section of the club where bottle service and a large buffet of food awaited me and my guests. Seconds after I made it to my seat, swarm season began—with men and women trying to finagle their way past my security for autographs, pictures, and whatever amount of attention they could get.

I was mildly unfazed by it all. It wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate my fans, but sometimes, I just wanted to get out and be left alone. The only reason we were out tonight was because my manager, and one of my good friends, Wayne, had talked me into it, citing, “Man, I need to get out and grab me something sweet to eat. And you know if I get out with you, it’ll happen way faster than if I tried to hit the club solo.” So, at Wayne’s insistence, I complied because had it not been for Wayne, my purse bids per fight wouldn’t have made it into the big leagues where I now resided. That was why, if Wayne wanted to get out and be seen, then I was willing to be his wing man and make that happen . . . even if only for a few hours . . . which was all that I planned to contribute to his cause.

I was leaned over, about to have a few words with someone in my party, when I heard, “You are so fucking beautiful,” from a woman’s voice that was way too close for my comfort. I shot around to look at her. I was seconds from telling her to give me back a few inches of my personal space, but I refrained. While she was a pretty girl, I still wore a look of annoyance, that I was sure she had seen. “You’re a beautiful man,” she repeated, this time offering a smile much too wide for the non-occasion. “Caivano . . . what is that, exactly?” she purred. “Are you Italian? Sounds Italian . . .” she observed.

“It’s Italian, yeah.”

“All Italian?” she asked.

“And Russian.”

“Wow, an Italian and Russian mix, huh? How’d that happen?”

I almost . . . almost told her just how stupid she sounded, but decided against it. She’d be gone soon enough.

“What can I do for you, sweetheart?” I asked her.

“I was thinking that it was more about what I could do for you,” she flirted. I looked at her and didn’t bother with questioning why she was allowed access, because she was gorgeous. She was a dark-haired, petite girl with big breasts, and a pair of innocent blue eyes; yet her actions were anything but. “I was thinking that since you’re undefeated and all, that you should be rewarded.” She slid a little closer. “They should’ve at least given you a key to the city by now. But it’s okay, because I’m willing to give you my key . . . the one that opens my treasure box.”

Treasure box? What the fuck?! That’s the cheesiest shit I ever fucking heard in all thirty of my fucking years! And they say that men have weak pick-up lines.

I pushed back a little to put some space between her and me, and then looked her square in the eyes. “Look, sweetheart, I don’t know if you know it or not, but you sound desperate. When I want pussy, I like to do the chasing.”

“Well . . .” she started, tossing her hair back and straightening her back as if trying to reclaim some dignity. “I’m nowhere near desperate, and I don’t see anything wrong with a woman doing the chasing. These are different times.”

I shrugged. “If you say so. Maybe if you would’ve at least let me see if I was interested first, shit might be a little different, but now . . .”

“Now what?” she asked, standing from her seat and bearing down at me. “I guess I ‘missed out’, she said, demonstrating with air quotes. “Sounds a lot like you can’t handle a real woman,” she snapped.

“I have no problem handling real women. It’s thirsty women that I prefer not to handle.”

“Thirsty!” she yelled out in anger.

I guess she was about to throw a tantrum, but the same security that shouldn’t have let her through in the first place, was right there to escort her ass back through the glass doors.

“What the fuck just happened?” Wayne questioned.

“Shut up, man!” I laughed out loud. “That’s all your fault that she got in here in the first place!”

“Don’t blame that on me! I got my hands full!” he said, looking over at the two women that had been keeping him company since we had arrived at the club.

“Yeah, okay. I’ll be back. I’m going to the restroom real quick.” I stood up, feeling like I had just been through some kind of intake that left a bad taste in my mouth. I needed a break.

“Take your time, my friend!” he called after me.

After I’d walked away from Wayne and was headed to the other side of the room to make my exit, a hand rested on my forearm. “Excuse me, Mr. Caivano.” The voice was just as soft as the touch, and when I turned to meet her, I was immediately struck with her obvious beauty. “I just wanted to come and thank you and your party for your patronage this evening and to congratulate you on your most recent victory.”

I was quiet for a few seconds trying my damnedest not to scan this woman from top to bottom without making her feel objectified, but the shit was hard. Her almond brown complexion was striking, smooth, and just downright beautiful and held a stunning pair of light-brown eyes, almost the color of her skin. She had on a white, fitted button-down blouse that exposed a sensible amount of cleavage. It was tucked into a pair of dark, denim skinny jeans with a red belt securing a small waist, and a matching pair of high-heeled shoes. Her outfit was simple, and not too overstated, but she didn’t need overstatement of any kind, to be noticed. The smile she wore was an infectious one, actually causing me to stammer for a second or two.

“Thank you, for the welcome and the congrats. I . . . uhh . . . really appreciate that. And your name is?” I asked, extending my hand to her.

“My name is Chanel Norwood,” she responded, shaking my hand. “I’m the owner of Suite 713.”

“Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Chanel. And please . . . . call me Dario.” I couldn’t help but smile at her, and didn’t even realize that I still held her hand in mine, until she pulled back slightly. “Oh! My bad,” I said, folding my arms across my chest. “I woulda let go eventually.”

She shifted her gaze away from mine, momentarily, as a more bashful smile replaced the previous and spread across her pretty face. “Well, I’ll let you get back to your celebration.”

When she turned on her heels and headed out of the VIP suite, I was stunned into silence. All I could do was watch in amazement. Right as she neared the doors, she slowed the pep in her step, then turned back to look at me. She must’ve felt me watching. I didn’t even bother to turn away. The view was too nice to abandon. It was the effortless sway of her hips in that pair of jeans, and the way they hugged her ass so perfectly. I’ve never been so damn attracted to denim in all my fucking life…

 

A few hours had passed and it was almost one in the morning. I’d gone above and beyond for Wayne and it was time to call it a night so that I could get me some much-needed rest. As we made our way out, I found myself looking around the area for Chanel, but I didn’t see her. But as the owner of the club, she was probably long gone by now. I should’ve gotten her number, but I made a mental note to get it on my own—whether that meant coming back or having my people find her people.

On the way to the car, we passed a bunch of clubbers who looked like the night was just starting for them. They kind of had me feeling like the boring, old guy when I knew I was neither of those things. Club life just wasn’t in my blood like it once was. Boxing, training, trying to get my boxing gym up and running, while getting in a few fucks here and there, were the things much closer to the regular for me.

“You stayed waaay longer than you wanted to, DC. I appreciate you, guy,” Wayne commented, with way too much enthusiasm.

“Yeah, you just remember that, next time I ask you for something!” I laughed.

“It’s as good as done.”

“Long as you remember that when the time comes!”

When we got to our row of cars, I was already mentally preparing myself to get in the car and lay my head back into the seat to get comfortable. I couldn’t wait to relax and be chauffeured. But as we neared our stopping point, something caught my eye. It was Chanel. She was new to me, but her form was something I was already quite familiar with. My interest was piqued. She was talking to someone—a guy—and I was curious as hell to know who he was to her, especially since he appeared to be somebody that she knew.

Suddenly, the urgency to get in the car and leave, had left and I was more interested in investigating for as long as I could. And it was a good thing that I did because the more that I spied, the more it seemed that she didn’t appear as relaxed as she had earlier, when I saw her inside the club. In fact, she looked tense . . . as though it wasn’t really a conversation that she wanted to even have. Her arms were wrapped around her body, and her head was slightly cocked to the side. It made me wonder if the exchange was heated.

“What are you looking at, DC?” Wayne asked, as he came up on my side with his two female companions; one on each arm. “Ohhh, I see . . .” he said, with a slight chuckle. You were talking to her earlier, weren’t you?”

“Yeah,” I answered, half-listening and half-not. “I’m gonna hang back for a few minutes. You guys can go ahead.”

Wayne signaled Roger, one of the security guys that accompanied us. “Nah, DC, I’m gonna stick around. I know you, and I can’t afford to have to get you out of legal trouble because of your temper if this shit escalates.”

“It won’t come to that. I assur—”

My sentence was cut short when I saw Chanel move to get inside her car, but was blocked by the guy who had now placed his hand on her door handle. When her hands began to flail in anger, I started a slow jog in her direction, Roger right next to me.

As soon as I made it to them, I stepped almost in between the man and Chanel, acting as a barrier for her.

“The fuck you doin’, homeboy?” he angrily probed. “This right here . . . is a private matter.”

“Are you okay?” I asked a shaken Chanel, who offered me a slight shake of her head. My attention was more focused on her than the guy, who I felt like knocking flat on his ass.

“Aye . . . dude,” he started, before Roger stepped to him.

I held my hand up. “It’s cool, Roger,” I instructed. Roger then took a few steps backwards at my words. Then I addressed the guy. “If she tells me that it’s private, then it’s private, and I’ll walk away. If she tells me it’s not, then that’s a different story altogether and it becomes about me and you.” I turned to Chanel. “So, what is it?” I asked her.

She shot the guy a look and slowly slid from his trap, and then proceeded to get into her car where she mouthed the words, “Thank you,” before pulling out of her parking space and heading out of the lot. At the same time that she drove away, I signaled to one of my other security to follow her. He knew it was a gesture that meant to ensure her safety all the way home.

I turned back to give my attention to the guy who had so boldly remained behind. “So, judging by the way she sped out of here and took the opportunity to get away from you, shit wasn’t as private as you thought. That means you lied and I fucking hate a liar . . .”