Full Contact
Page 2
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I groan. She laughs. The crowd cheers, but not for me.
After Jess leaves to flirt with Blade Saw, I lean against a pillar and focus again on the fight. The Predator is holding his opponent on the ground in a painful-looking submission, and by all appearances, he’s just waiting the guy out. Disappointing. I like a bit of action, and usually the Predator gives a good show.
Although he does nothing to play to the crowd, his gruff recalcitrance and the speed and ferocity with which he defeats his opponents have won him legions of fans. No fighter has ever moved up through the underground league as quickly as the Predator. And I’m sure no fighter has ever had a more secret or dedicated fan than me.
Miraculously, Tiny Tim breaks the Predator’s hold, rolls, and pushes himself to his feet. His freedom is short-lived. The Predator feints to the left and grabs Tiny Tim by the shoulders, using his momentum to carry him to the ground. Within seconds, he locks poor Tiny Tim in a quick triangle, his thigh against Tiny Tim’s throat. He pulls Tiny Tim’s arm across his body, tightening the hold, cutting off his air.
My breath leaves me in a rush and suddenly I’m Tiny Tim on the mat and the Predator has me in a different hold, his hand on my neck, his fingers splayed over my throat, forcing my head back. His grip is firm, but gentle, one finger resting in the hollow of my throat. My pulse kicks up a notch. Oh God. To be that vulnerable and not feel afraid. To trust. My ultimate fantasy.
Cheers echo through the boathouse, pulling me back to reality. From the camaraderie of the crowd to the glisten of bloodstained concrete, and from the sound of knees slamming into ribs to the crash of elbows against cheeks, nothing fires my blood or inspires my art as much as a good old down-and-dirty brawl. Nothing except the Predator himself.
Tiny Tim writhes and struggles, but in the end he succumbs, as all fighters do, to the power of the Predator.
The ref blows the whistle and raises the Predator’s arm in a victory salute. Moments later the Predator disappears behind the screens set up as a makeshift changing room.
Show’s over, folks. The Predator has left the building.
After saying good-bye to Jess, I leave through the side entrance and walk along the wharf toward my car. Water laps against the worn wooden pilings, and in the distance sea lions serenade the moon. Pausing for a moment to breathe in the salty scent of the ocean, I pull my leather jacket around me against the late-night autumn chill and tighten the red scarf around my neck.
And then he comes.
The whoop whoop of a police siren and the glare of headlights destroy my peaceful moment in the dark. With an irritated snort, I turn and continue my walk along the wharf. I always feel brave after watching the Predator.
The police car pulls up beside me, and the window slides down with a grating squeak. Eyes focused on my drab gray Volvo, only fifty feet away, I keep walking. Maybe I’ll be able to make a clean getaway. He’s not going to engage in a high-speed chase with so many people around.
“Sia. Stop.” His voice hits me like one of the Predator’s punches, stealing my breath away. I hate that tone of voice—bossy, commanding. The last thing it makes me want to do is obey.
So I don’t.
When I hear the crunch of tires as the vehicle pulls over, I have to fight back the urge to run. It’s not that I’m afraid of being taken down, but I hate confrontation, and I can smell it coming like my mother can smell a lie.
The car door slams. Police-issue shoes thud behind me, shaking the wharf. Although I know what’s about to happen, I can’t stop my heart from beating that little bit faster. When a meaty paw clamps down on my shoulder, my breath catches in my throat. Steeling myself, I turn around and glare at my brother, Tag.
“Seriously? Did you have to use the siren? Why all the drama? Everyone will think I’m a criminal.”
My attempt to take control of the situation fails miserably in the face of Tag’s anger.
“What the hell are you doing here? I told you I never wanted to see you at an underground fight again. It’s after midnight, and you’re walking alone in the dark.”
Tag’s glowering face ruins my evening, as it has ruined many evenings in my life, from my first kiss, to my first fumble in the dark, to my abruptly terminated first time in the basement of my parents’ house when I was sixteen. Overprotective does not even begin to describe my older brother, and now that he’s a cop, I can run, but I can never hide.
“Well?” His hands find his hips, drawing my attention to the weapon holstered on his belt, an unconscious gesture I’m sure, but effective just the same.
“Well…” I am very selective about the opportunities in which I defy Tag, but watching the Predator fight is always worth the drama. Not that I would ever tell Tag that I’ve been crushing on his Redemption teammate for over a year. I like my life. Sort of.
“I have a lot of fighter clients, and I needed inspiration. I’ve gone to sanctioned fights, but they just don’t have the same ambience. My clients want gritty. They want real. They want something that reflects their primitive side. I can’t find it in a sanitized ring with ads plastered on every surface and so many rules most of the fights turn into boring grapples on the mat.”
Tag huffs and his cheeks redden, which means I can see right through you in Tag-speak. Jess, who practically lived at my house after we met, is intimately familiar with Tag-speak and thinks he’s beyond cute when he’s angry. If I weren’t his sister, I’d probably say he is moderately handsome. Shorter and broader than the Predator, with a square jaw and warm brown eyes, he shaved his head when he joined the Oakland Police Department, and after six years, I’ve almost forgotten he used to have thick, dark hair like mine.
After Jess leaves to flirt with Blade Saw, I lean against a pillar and focus again on the fight. The Predator is holding his opponent on the ground in a painful-looking submission, and by all appearances, he’s just waiting the guy out. Disappointing. I like a bit of action, and usually the Predator gives a good show.
Although he does nothing to play to the crowd, his gruff recalcitrance and the speed and ferocity with which he defeats his opponents have won him legions of fans. No fighter has ever moved up through the underground league as quickly as the Predator. And I’m sure no fighter has ever had a more secret or dedicated fan than me.
Miraculously, Tiny Tim breaks the Predator’s hold, rolls, and pushes himself to his feet. His freedom is short-lived. The Predator feints to the left and grabs Tiny Tim by the shoulders, using his momentum to carry him to the ground. Within seconds, he locks poor Tiny Tim in a quick triangle, his thigh against Tiny Tim’s throat. He pulls Tiny Tim’s arm across his body, tightening the hold, cutting off his air.
My breath leaves me in a rush and suddenly I’m Tiny Tim on the mat and the Predator has me in a different hold, his hand on my neck, his fingers splayed over my throat, forcing my head back. His grip is firm, but gentle, one finger resting in the hollow of my throat. My pulse kicks up a notch. Oh God. To be that vulnerable and not feel afraid. To trust. My ultimate fantasy.
Cheers echo through the boathouse, pulling me back to reality. From the camaraderie of the crowd to the glisten of bloodstained concrete, and from the sound of knees slamming into ribs to the crash of elbows against cheeks, nothing fires my blood or inspires my art as much as a good old down-and-dirty brawl. Nothing except the Predator himself.
Tiny Tim writhes and struggles, but in the end he succumbs, as all fighters do, to the power of the Predator.
The ref blows the whistle and raises the Predator’s arm in a victory salute. Moments later the Predator disappears behind the screens set up as a makeshift changing room.
Show’s over, folks. The Predator has left the building.
After saying good-bye to Jess, I leave through the side entrance and walk along the wharf toward my car. Water laps against the worn wooden pilings, and in the distance sea lions serenade the moon. Pausing for a moment to breathe in the salty scent of the ocean, I pull my leather jacket around me against the late-night autumn chill and tighten the red scarf around my neck.
And then he comes.
The whoop whoop of a police siren and the glare of headlights destroy my peaceful moment in the dark. With an irritated snort, I turn and continue my walk along the wharf. I always feel brave after watching the Predator.
The police car pulls up beside me, and the window slides down with a grating squeak. Eyes focused on my drab gray Volvo, only fifty feet away, I keep walking. Maybe I’ll be able to make a clean getaway. He’s not going to engage in a high-speed chase with so many people around.
“Sia. Stop.” His voice hits me like one of the Predator’s punches, stealing my breath away. I hate that tone of voice—bossy, commanding. The last thing it makes me want to do is obey.
So I don’t.
When I hear the crunch of tires as the vehicle pulls over, I have to fight back the urge to run. It’s not that I’m afraid of being taken down, but I hate confrontation, and I can smell it coming like my mother can smell a lie.
The car door slams. Police-issue shoes thud behind me, shaking the wharf. Although I know what’s about to happen, I can’t stop my heart from beating that little bit faster. When a meaty paw clamps down on my shoulder, my breath catches in my throat. Steeling myself, I turn around and glare at my brother, Tag.
“Seriously? Did you have to use the siren? Why all the drama? Everyone will think I’m a criminal.”
My attempt to take control of the situation fails miserably in the face of Tag’s anger.
“What the hell are you doing here? I told you I never wanted to see you at an underground fight again. It’s after midnight, and you’re walking alone in the dark.”
Tag’s glowering face ruins my evening, as it has ruined many evenings in my life, from my first kiss, to my first fumble in the dark, to my abruptly terminated first time in the basement of my parents’ house when I was sixteen. Overprotective does not even begin to describe my older brother, and now that he’s a cop, I can run, but I can never hide.
“Well?” His hands find his hips, drawing my attention to the weapon holstered on his belt, an unconscious gesture I’m sure, but effective just the same.
“Well…” I am very selective about the opportunities in which I defy Tag, but watching the Predator fight is always worth the drama. Not that I would ever tell Tag that I’ve been crushing on his Redemption teammate for over a year. I like my life. Sort of.
“I have a lot of fighter clients, and I needed inspiration. I’ve gone to sanctioned fights, but they just don’t have the same ambience. My clients want gritty. They want real. They want something that reflects their primitive side. I can’t find it in a sanitized ring with ads plastered on every surface and so many rules most of the fights turn into boring grapples on the mat.”
Tag huffs and his cheeks redden, which means I can see right through you in Tag-speak. Jess, who practically lived at my house after we met, is intimately familiar with Tag-speak and thinks he’s beyond cute when he’s angry. If I weren’t his sister, I’d probably say he is moderately handsome. Shorter and broader than the Predator, with a square jaw and warm brown eyes, he shaved his head when he joined the Oakland Police Department, and after six years, I’ve almost forgotten he used to have thick, dark hair like mine.
