by Amity Cross
IGNITE
#11 The Beat and The Pulse
1
Alison
“They say the men there are hot as hell.”
I glanced up, my ears pricking. Another water cooler gossip session was in full swing, and no surprises…I wasn’t included.
Opening the cupboard in the kitchenette, I took down a tin of instant coffee and tried not to let it get to me. To everyone in the office, I was just the weirdo, Alison Anders. Only valuable because I didn’t complain about being overworked.
“It’s completely illegal,” Susan said. Susan worked in my department and made it her life’s mission to belittle me. She had stringy brown hair, thin lips, and a sour personality. “They throw money around like it’s confetti.”
“Would you go?” Fiona asked. She was one of the receptionists. Airy but not in an ethereal beauty kind of way. Airy as in there was a lot of vacant space in her brain.
“No,” Susan replied, looking shocked. “They fight till they drop, I heard. It’s barbaric!”
I rolled my eyes. It was always the same. Drama, hot guys, and more drama.
How did I even get here?
Three years ago, I was given the position of Customer Service Officer at a shipping company in the inner city suburb of Prahran in Melbourne. Things started off just fine. I turned up, learned the job, did my work, and I excelled. I was a good employee. I was never late. In fact, I was always early. Maybe that was why everyone hated me.
I’d quickly become isolated, not having the guts to stand up to the bullies or to quit. I needed the job to pay my astronomical rent, and because I was living pay to pay, I didn’t have enough money to move. It was a catch-22.
So I put my head down and did my work, often ending up doing enough for two people, so I didn’t have to deal with the snide comments. I would empty out my email inbox by lunchtime, and like magic, another pile of tasks would be forwarded to me. It was like IT knew and had an alert set up on my manager’s computer. I never complained even though I usually went home in tears because of stress.
I was pretty sure I was the definition of a pushover.
“You don’t want to take a little walk on the wild side?” Fiona asked. “Have a one-night stand with a Greek God?”
“A woman needs standards,” Susan replied with a humph and flicked her hair. “Pashing a man covered in sweat and blood? Ew.”
“I bet you wouldn’t say that if you saw them,” Fiona declared. “My boyfriend’s mate Tony went there once and said it’s hardcore. The guys who fight are ripped. Forget six-packs…apparently, they’ve got eighteen-packs.”
I rolled my eyes again and turned back to the tin of instant coffee. Prying off the lid, I stared at the granules inside, my shoulders heavy. I didn’t care much about their topic of conversation, but I cared about being constantly excluded. I was so isolated in all parts of my life it was beyond a joke.
I wasn’t exactly the life of the party, but I was interesting, wasn’t I? Even I was smart enough to know the answer to that question was a big, fat no.
“Hey, do you think Alison would go?” Susan asked, forcing the group to start giggling. She didn’t exactly keep her voice lowered, either. They knew I was listening. I always listened, pretending to be a part of something I was never invited to.
“Alison at The Underground?” Fiona sniggered. “Fat chance.”
“Do you think she’s ever had sex?” Susan asked.
“Eww!”
Embarrassment seared through me, my cheeks flaring. I was far from a virgin, but how would they know? They didn’t even see past their own noses, let alone care enough to want to know who I was.
Dumping a teaspoon of coffee into my mug, I poured in some boiling water from the urn. As it filled, the liquid turning the color of tar, I sighed again. What did I ever do to these people?
Looking down at myself, I could take a stab. For lack of a better word, I was frumpy. Frumpy, shy, overemotional, stressed…the list went on. I looked at the person I’d become, and I didn’t see one positive. Unlike the women who worked around me, I’d never been told I was beautiful.
My entire wardrobe was full of cheap skirts, scratchy polyester sweaters, and ill-fitting shirts that gaped over my breasts. My shoes looked like bricks, my chestnut hair was frizzy at best, my makeup was bland, and my hazel eyes were dull. I had no family, no friends, a job that was dragging me down, and no way out. My confidence was non-existent, and my spirit had died a long time ago.
Alison Anders was a shell.
Picking up my coffee, I went back to my desk, trying to ignore the sniggering at the water cooler. One of these days I was going to snap, and it wouldn’t be pretty. I would totally do a Carrie on them. The doors would slam shut, and body parts would fly. Or, more realistically, I would just gather up enough courage to finally tell them where to stick their shitty job.
With my coffee warming my hands, I stared at my computer and began to wonder about this mysterious Underground the water cooler bitches were talking about.
It sounded like cage fighting to me. Illegal betting, hot men, danger, and a place to score a steamy one-night stand with a bad boy Adonis…everything I would usually hide from.
“Alison?”
I glanced up and saw Susan hovering over my desk. Queen bitch herself.
“Did you finish those reports yesterday?” she asked, raising an eyebrow when I didn’t reply.
“Yes,” I replied. “They were submitted last night.”
Susan flicked her awful stringy hair over her shoulder and smiled. “Perfect.” She reached down below the partition where I couldn’t see and produced a stack of hard copy files. “If you’ve done those, then you won’t mind doing these.” She dumped them onto my desk without so much as a flourish.
They fell half on the desk and half on the floor, and I bit my lip to stifle the groan that was about to burst forth.
“Five o’clock!” Susan exclaimed, giving me a little wave before shimmying off to her own desk.
What a bitch.
Setting my coffee down, I bent over to retrieve the folders, scooping up the papers that had fallen across the floor. There was a pop, and I groaned as the safety pin holding my shirt in place over my boobs fell to the floor. It hit the carpet, the metal bent out of shape, and I felt like crawling under the desk and never coming out.
I was a complete and utter mess.
That night, half an hour of Internet sleuthing gave me the location of The Underground.
The illegal cage fighting operation was set up in a warehouse in Abbotsford, just north of Melbourne’s central business district. Or just up a little from the bit with all the skyscrapers. It was a pocket of industrialization the inner-city hipsters forgot, and developers overlooked it for more accessible plots of land by the docks to the southwest. It was the perfect place to conduct shady business if you asked me.
I’d totally looked up the place with the intention of going. It was a terrible idea, but I was at my wits’ end. My life had been a slow simmer up until this point, and now the pressure had finally reached my brain. Something had popped today, the safety pin holding my boobs in place a metaphor for something a lot larger than my tits.
I had to do something because so far, excuses had gotten me nowhere.
This steaming pile could not be my life.
So, I got into my car—the car I only used once a week to go grocery shopping—and drove across the city. I was never out this late, and it was thrilling even if it was all a little sad.
I found a spot to park a block away, and when I got out, I was surprised to see quite a few people on the street for such a barren area. They were all moving in the same direction I was headed, and I wondered if they were there for The Underground, as well. Thrusting my hands into my jacket pockets, I followed them toward the warehouse.
I’d put on a pair of black jeans, a plain navy singlet, a silver necklace, a pair of boots I’d found at a secondhand shop, and a che
ap leather-look biker jacket. My hair was scraped back into a loose plait that swung down my back, and my makeup was just as plain as usual. A bit of foundation and some mascara. Glancing at the people around me, I fit right in, and it was the first time I didn’t feel ashamed of what I looked like. Poor and ordinary.
Rounding the corner, I saw the warehouse ahead, and it was a hive of activity. Music filtered out onto the street where people milled, moving to and from the entrance. On first glance at the exterior, it was nothing like I’d expected. I was ready for cloak and dagger espionage and secret code words to get inside, not this. I wondered why the cops never shut it down because it wasn’t exactly a covert operation. Bribes—had to be.
There didn’t seem to be an entry fee, but a huge man with a shiny bald head eyed me as I slipped inside with the group of people I’d followed. I swore he rolled his eyes as I passed, but there was no way I was looking twice at the guy.
Standing just inside, I shifted nervously, my hands shoved into my pockets. I fiddled with my car keys, my gaze darting around, but no one paid me any attention. Just a normal day in paradise, then. I took a deep breath and did what I did best. Became invisible.
On the surface, The Underground looked like any sports club slash warehouse nightclub I’d seen on TV. There was a large wire cage surrounded by bleachers and a generous standing area—this was where the fights took place. To the side was a full bar that was pumping with customers and staff, and next to that, there was a lineup of bookies taking bets. A large digital board above them listed the fights for the night with odds being shouted out above the din. Toilets seemed to be further to the back, a set of doors guarded by a pair of security guards led someplace else, and there was plenty of other seating scattered around.
Passing by the bookies, I stared up at the board. All the fighters had names like Goblin, Viper, Storm, Sabre, and Roar. If the setup here weren’t so high tech, I would’ve laughed at the absurdity of it all. Calling yourself Goblin. Seriously?
“Hey, lady,” a man called out, causing me to pause. “You want to place a bet?”
I hesitated, glancing up at the board again.
“We’ve got Blade against Sabre starting in ten minutes,” he went on, trying to reel me in. “Blade is two to one. Good odds, low risk.”
I grasped the coin purse in my jacket pocket. Why not? What did I have to lose? Maybe twenty bucks. I would just have to eat a few packets of instant noodles instead of chicken drumsticks this week. In the spirit of winning back my life, I decided to give it a shot.
“Put me down for twenty, then,” I said.
“Twenty on Blade for the win?” he asked, and I nodded.
Handing over the cash, he gave me a ticket stub and immediately turned to call out the odds to another person behind me. Moving away, I stared at the bet and shivered. Who knew such a little thing could make me feel so…alive.
Deciding to find a spot on the bleachers to watch the fight, I sidled through the press of people, loving the anonymity. I didn’t know a single person, and they didn’t know me. I wasn’t the butt of anyone’s jokes, no one gave me bitchy side-eye, and no one definitely looked at me as if I was beneath them.
Finding a spot halfway up the bleachers, I sat, watching as a man walked into the cage with a microphone in his hand. The people around me craned their necks, their attention turning forward.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” the ringmaster—was that even what he was?—roared into the microphone. “The next fight of the evening sees two of your favorites go head-to-head. Fighting for Championship points, this bout is going to be brutal.”
I squirmed in my seat, my body picking up on the energy in the air. This whole thing seemed like a big deal. People were invested, calling out the names of their favorite fighters…it was a whole underground movement happening right under the city’s nose. It was incredible.
“Our first fighter cuts like a samurai sword and moves like a ninja…it’s Sabre!”
The crowd roared, the bleachers shaking as everyone stamped their feet. Watching the cage, I saw the door open, and a man strode into the spotlight. Gasping as I saw how ripped he was, all my womanly bits zinged in appreciation. The fighter known as Sabre wore nothing but a pair of silk shorts with a wide waistband, a patch of some sort sewn on the front. His muscles rippled as he flexed, moving to the far side of the cage.
Wow. Just…wow.
“And challenging for the points is your favorite pair of fists, the man who’s right hook is sharper than diamond-cut steel, the man who’s remained undefeated in his last ten bouts…the one, the only, Blade!”
The second fighter prowled into the cage, and there were enthusiastic screams from the female portion of the crowd.
“Do me, Blade!”
“Fuck me!”
“Let me suck your cock!”
I narrowed my eyes at the blatant sexual advances and studied the fighter known as Blade.
Immediately, I could see the difference between him and the other guy. He was just as built, his muscles well defined and enhanced with two full sleeves of black and gray tattoos, but there was something in the way he moved. Something I couldn’t put my finger on.
I studied his face, his short messy hair, his eyes, and the stubble on his jaw and decided he was completely my type of man. As if I would ever have a chance with all the glamazons throwing themselves at him.
As the two fighters faced off, I saw the stains on the ground—it was concrete, no mats or padding in sight—and realized the brown splatters were old bloodstains. Fiona’s boyfriend’s mate Tony wasn’t kidding, then. This place was serious business.
I began to feel uneasy about the fight, but I was here now, and it would look weird if I got up and left while everyone was glued to the cage. If I wanted to live, then I had to watch.
A bell rang, signaling the start of the fight, and the two men launched themselves at each other, punching, kicking, and dancing around one another like lethal weapons. The crowd cheered as Blade sank his fist into Sabre’s stomach. They called for blood as he slammed his opponent onto the concrete and chanted his name as he dominated the fight within minutes.
To me, the scared little mouse that I was, it was a bloodbath. Raw male aggression filled the air, whipping the entire place into a frenzy. I felt like a little fish in a pool of sharks.
Blood dripped from Blade’s face, but it poured from Sabre. He was on the ground, his hand slamming against the concrete as he spat to the side. Red smeared across his lips, and I felt sick. As the fight was called in Blade’s favor, I rose to my feet, horrified.
Pushing through the crowd, I turned, searching for the way out. That…it was confronting. The brutality of it all. People came here for fun? What was I thinking coming here?
In my haste to find the exit, I found myself in a secluded area of the warehouse. I didn’t know how long I’d been walking around in circles, but I was glad for a little breathing space. That was until I realized where I was. A few people lingered, but they all looked hard as hell. Bad guys and their women. It felt like I would be flogged with a chain at any second.
Turning, I smacked into a hard chest and squeaked as two big hands grasped my shoulders. Staring up into the scarred face of an extremely tall, built, and mean-looking man, I began to tremble.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he drawled, his gaze lowering to my breasts. “Lookin’ for someone?”
“N-no,” I stammered. He looked like Vin Diesel served with a side of ugly.
“Are you lost?” he asked, licking his lips. “I can help you find nirvana, baby. It’s right here on my cock.”
I froze, fear starting to overcome reason.
“No need to be frightened,” the man said. “I’m a fighter here. I’ll look after you. We’ll have a good time. I’ll even let you be on top for a while.”
“Hey, Mountain.” A loud voice from behind the man drew his attention, and he let me go as a hand slapped on his shoulder. “I see you found my girl.”
“She’s yours?” the man asked, his eyes narrowing in annoyance.
I raised my head and hesitated when I saw the man who’d approached us. It was Blade. The guy from the cage with the right hook from hell.
His eyebrow was split from the fight, and a few drops of blood were smeared across his forehead. Up close, he was better looking than from my vantage point on the bleachers. He’d put on a T-shirt and jeans since, and his hair was damp.
“Thanks for keeping her warm for me, but I reckon you should fuck off,” he said to Mountain. “You’re going to scare her off, mate.”
“Pussy,” he growled. “Prove it.”
Blade sighed and then glanced at me. Before I knew what was happening, he reached out and wrapped his hand around my braid, pulling me against his chest. His mouth covered mine, his lips hard and commanding. When his tongue swept into my mouth, I melted, letting him kiss me like I was nothing more than a thing. And fuck me if it wasn’t hot as hell…and completely bloody stupid.
When he pulled away, he stared at me almost apologetically.
“Blade, mate, c’mon. Share your pussy around for once in your sorry life.”
“Fuck off, Mountain,” he said with a snarl, not breaking eye contact with me. “I’m not into group situations, and I definitely don’t want to see your cock.”
Wrapping his arm around my shoulders, Blade guided me away from the danger zone and back out into the warehouse. It felt safer out here, but now I knew it was an illusion.
“I’m sorry,” I muttered. “I got lost…”
Turning, he looked me over and raised an eyebrow. “You here alone?”
I nodded, starting to feel exceptionally stupid.
He grinned like he already knew my answer. “What’s your name?” I opened my mouth to reply, but he placed a finger over my lips, and I shivered at the contact. “You can be whoever you want here.”
I was plain Alison Anders, the butt of all the office jokes, demure, straitlaced, alone, a shell of her former self. There wasn’t a wild bone in my body, but suddenly, I felt like I could be anyone.
