by Xenia Melzer
“Next round!” his friend hissed.
Jonathan glanced to his right, where Martin, Richard, Dean, Curtis, and Emilio were seated. They always made sure some of them were with Leeland to show him their support, and Richard and Martin hadn’t missed a single fight. They were almost as proud of Leeland as Jonathan himself and paid for any extra amenities Smash! wouldn’t grant Leeland, such as a suite with a Jacuzzi and a personal attendant. Jonathan could have afforded giving these luxuries to his boy, but Richard and Martin always insisted, though they had no problem with Jonathan paying his share of the rooms they booked.
Routa and Layla Drake weren’t there today, both working on cases that demanded their full attention. They had talked to Leeland via Skype before the fight, wished him good luck, and given him some last-minute fighting advice.
Suddenly the crowd roared, dragging Jonathan’s attention back to the fight, where he saw Noah staggering backward. The way Leeland was gracefully lowering his left leg to the canvas suggested he had just performed a high kick and found his mark. Noah roared. Even from the distance, Jonathan could see the fury shining in his eyes. He ran toward Leeland, fists raised, clearly wanting to get him square in the face and obviously not caring—or realizing—how stupid that move was. As Jonathan had expected, Leeland sidestepped and sent Noah forward with a vicious elbow strike to his rib cage. But Noah managed to spin around quicker than Jonathan would have thought he could. This time he got Leeland with a hammer fist to the ribs that Leeland couldn’t block entirely. Knowing how painful this particular method of striking an opponent was, Jonathan grabbed the sides of his chair so hard his knuckles were shining white. He hated seeing his boy, his lover, getting hurt, especially by a scumbag like Noah Adams.
The whistle sounded again, announcing the second sixty-second break in the fight.
Noah stomped over to his side of the ring, cursing and spitting like a rabid dog. He was bleeding from a cut above his left eye, and his pale skin was glowing in different shades of red where Leeland had hit him. Through his short, light brown hair, Jonathan could see sweat glistening on his scalp. Leeland was definitely forcing him to give this fight his all, and Noah clearly resented the way things were going. Given how he had boasted about sweeping the floor with Leeland, Jonathan wasn’t surprised.
Leeland was slumped against the cage, his chest heaving, while he drank some water from the bottle Greg was offering him. He, too, was bleeding from a cut below his hairline, the blood trickling slowly toward the bridge of his nose. Misaki was wiping the blood away and tending to the cut while talking urgently to Leeland, and Jonathan would have loved to know what he was saying. But he couldn’t be down there, couldn’t be close to his beloved boy, and he resented it deeply. Only the knowledge that this was a temporary arrangement meant to protect Leeland kept him from running over to Leeland’s side and showing him his support in a more direct way.
Too soon the break was over, and Leeland and Noah met in the middle of the octagon for the last five minutes. Noah’s body language showed how agitated he was, trembling with barely suppressed rage, while Leeland appeared to be completely calm, which made Jonathan’s chest swell with pride.
The referee stepped back, and again Noah tried to end the fight with a quick, hard punch. His movements were slower than at the beginning of the fight; the many kicks and blows Leeland had gotten in had to be taking their toll. Leeland didn’t move with his usual quick grace either. Both fighters acted as if they were drunk, stumbling around more than executing controlled attacks. Some of the audience started booing, not impressed with the turn the fight had taken. Jonathan was only worried about his lover. In all the fights before, Leeland had never looked so sluggish. Noah must have hit him more severely than Jonathan had thought. The only consolation was that Noah didn’t look good either. Since neither Leeland nor Noah were any longer in a condition to throw effective punches or kicks, they went into a clinch, each man trying to get into a position where he could take his opponent down or force him into a submission hold. Jonathan watched with worry as Leeland tried to keep his balance when Noah Adams attempted an ankle hook, while at the same time, Leeland twisted his hips in order to throw Noah on the mat. Both men looked as if they would fall over any second, and Jonathan wondered why the referee didn’t end the match.
He breathed a sigh of relief when the whistle finally marked the end of the fight. Leeland and Noah tumbled back, both panting heavily. Leeland braced his hands on his knees, and Jonathan saw blood dripping on the mat between Leeland’s feet. His heart yearned to get down to his boy, take him in his arms, and make all the hurt go away. Of all the hardships Leeland’s time as a pro had brought with it, Jonathan found this was the worst—not being able to be where he belonged. At his boy’s side.
Since both opponents were still standing, and the referee hadn’t ruled one of them out with a technical KO, the decision of who would be named the winner lay with the judges. After a few agonizing minutes, during which the three men did the calculations on the points they had deducted during the fight, they signaled the outcome.
It was a draw.
Jonathan wasn’t sure how to feel about that, because at the moment he was overwhelmed with clashing emotions. Relief that the fight was over and Leeland wasn’t too badly hurt. Worried about the hits Leeland had taken. Glad he hadn’t lost against this unpleasant opponent. Angry because the referee hadn’t seen all the fouls Noah Adams had committed.
Noah Adams, on the other hand, didn’t seem to have the same problem. He roared in anger, threw his balled fists up in the air, stepped around the referee, and screamed something in Leeland’s face that Jonathan couldn’t understand over the ruckus the audience was making, some of them booing, others whistling and cheering. Leeland just slightly bowed his head in the direction of the judges, completely ignoring his raging opponent, once more showing his class, which became even more apparent next to the snarling, spitting Noah Adams. Even though the entire fight felt wrong to Jonathan, he was proud of his boy and the way he carried himself in this difficult situation.
The referee backed the still-shouting Noah into his corner of the octagon while Greg and Misaki approached Leeland and led him to his changing room. Jonathan felt a stab in his heart at not being able to follow them. He had to wait at least two more hours until all the interviews were done—probably more, given how the crowd had reacted. He felt a pat on the shoulder and turned around to see Martin standing behind him.
“We’re out of here. Let’s go back to the hotel.”
Jonathan nodded his agreement. At the entrance to the arena, Richard’s limousine was already waiting. When he sank back into the soft leather seat, Jonathan had to admit being friends with a billionaire had its perks.
“This whole fight was a total sham!”
Curtis was the first to speak his mind. To Jonathan’s surprise, the distinguished British gentleman had quite a violent streak. He also knew a lot about boxing, since this was apparently a sport even the upper crust in Britain enjoyed, and he had therefore quickly immersed himself in the world of MMA.
“I don’t understand why the referee didn’t end the whole thing. I mean, this Adams character committed more fouls than I’ve ever seen. That the referee didn’t see them all, I can understand, but the judges? By any rights, Leeland should have won, even with this stupid scoring system.” Dean sounded uncharacteristically aggressive, something Jonathan attributed to all the testosterone flying around in the arena.
“It’s fine, baby. I think nobody really understands the system they’re using.” Richard stroked Dean’s back soothingly.
Jonathan rolled his eyes. No, nobody understood that system. The judges were there as a kind of backup when a fight didn’t end with a clear winner—like tonight. For each round, a fighter started out with ten points, from which the judges deduced some for fouls, timid fighting, bad style, or whatever else they didn’t like. To Jonathan the system seemed as bad as the scores in figure skating or gymnastics�
�two sports he didn’t watch for that exact reason.
“They should be forced to explain every point they deduct or not. With all the fouls this Adams guy made, he should have gotten negative points.” Dean was obviously not in the mood to calm down or let go of what he seemed to think was a valid point. Even when Richard pulled him into his lap, he kept on ranting under his breath about how unfair it all was, encouraged by Curtis, whose opinion of the system was equally low. They were already close to the hotel when Martin suddenly held his hand up.
“Shh, the interviews have started.”
Immediately they all shut their mouths. Martin turned up the volume on his smartphone, with which he had found the live feed from the press conference. The first voice they heard was that of Noah Adams, who worked himself into a rage right at the first question. With every word he spoke, his voice got higher, which made him sound more like an angry pig than the manly stud he normally tried to project. Not that he had any success, in Jonathan’s opinion, but he sure made one hell of an effort.
“Mr. Adams,” Jonathan heard a reporter ask, his voice slightly distorted through the speakers on Martin’s phone, “what do you think about the decision of the judges?”
“Total bullshit! I mean, you all saw this fight! I was clearly the one in control, not sissy boy with his beautiful hair. If this were a hairdo contest, he would have stood a chance, but no, this is the UFC, not ‘find the beauty queen,’ and there’s no way I haven’t won against this little cunt.”
Jonathan felt anger rise inside him when he heard Noah’s insults. Personally he found Leeland’s hairdo for the fights beautiful—he braided his silky long hair into four cornrows close to his scalp, combining the strands to one when they reached his neck, which he then slung into a bun at the base of his skull.
Somehow the reporter managed to get another question in before Noah worked himself into an epileptic episode. Even though Jonathan could only listen to the interview, he had seen enough of them to picture what was going on. His only consolation was the hope that Noah would collapse from working himself up before he could spew any more hatred. As it turned out, there was no such luck.
“So you’re saying the judges are wrong, Mr. Adams?”
“Damn right they are! Stupid motherfuckers. How anybody could see that fag boy as equal to me and my fighting skills is beyond me. They had no right to call this a draw. That man is not a fighter, he’s some pretty little boy, and my guess is the judges liked the shape of his ass. Nothing else explains their decision.”
On and on it went, insult after insult, many of them homophobic slurs, even though nobody knew yet about Leeland’s sexual orientation, until finally the live feed was cut off. After listening to Noah, Jonathan prayed Leeland’s being gay would stay a secret until he dropped out of the UFC. The idea of what people like Noah Adams, who seemed more than content to use anti-LGBTQ phrases to insult others, would do once the truth was out made him shiver. Any athlete who exposed him- or herself to this type of hatred deserved to be sainted.
The calm voice of an announcer informed the audience they would now switch to Leeland Drake. When Leeland’s melodic timbre filled the car, Jonathan felt his heart swell. Only he could tell from the slight trembling on some syllables how agitated his boy was. In that moment Jonathan wanted nothing more than to be at Leeland’s side. It was a feeling he was becoming all too familiar with.
The reporter asked the same questions Noah Adams had answered, though the difference between the two answers couldn’t have been greater. Where Noah had ranted like an angry bull, Leeland’s replies were measured and polite.
“Mr. Drake, what do you think about the decision of the judges?”
“Well, it was certainly not what everybody had expected, but I trust them to be fair and know what they’re doing.”
“It seems as if Noah Adams doesn’t share that sentiment.”
“I can’t speak for my opponent. When I signed the contract with the UFC, I knew the rules and accepted them. It’s no use musing about what-ifs. Things are the way they are.”
The interviewer tried a few more times to get a more violent reaction from Leeland with carefully phrased questions, which Leeland answered as shortly as possible and always avoided sounding hateful or angry. He definitely lived up to his nickname, and Jonathan pictured him holding court like a real prince. The image had him smiling.
Finally the reporter gave up. While they had been listening to the interviews, the limousine pulled up in front of their hotel. They got out and bid each other good night. Jonathan hurried to the suite Richard had booked for him and Leeland. He took a quick shower before he sat down in front of the huge TV, flipping through endless channels without seeing what was on, waiting for his lover to come to him.
WHEN LEELAND finally arrived, he was so exhausted he could barely stand. Jonathan swooped him up in his arms to carry him to the bed.
“You were so good tonight, honey.”
Leeland buried his nose in the crook of Jonathan’s neck, a gesture that made goose bumps appear on Jonathan’s naked back.
“I didn’t win.” Leeland sounded half-asleep.
“You didn’t lose either, and with an asshole like Noah Adams as your opponent, that means a lot.”
“Uhm-hmm.”
Jonathan didn’t try to get any more words out of his boy, simply put him on the bed, took off his clothes, and then snuggled in behind him.
This was how things were supposed to be.
Chapter 14
LEELAND WOKE to the wonderful smell of omelets and pancakes. He stretched luxuriously on the bed, basking in the scent of Jonathan that clung to the sheets. As a reward for the fight against Noah Adams, his ojisan had given him an entire week off. On second thought, this had probably less to do with Misaki wanting to be kind to Leeland and more with Leeland being too sore to even think about training. Noah Adams’s fists were hard. Leeland had spent the first three days of his holiday commuting between their bed, the couch, and the bathtub, while eating everything he had been denied for the past months. He knew he would pay the price for his binge eating when he had to go back to training, but at the moment he couldn’t care less. Jonathan had taken the week off as well, to pamper him to the best of his ability. Leeland didn’t complain. His master was an expert at spoiling him and loved to show off his skills.
Leeland left the bed to follow the enticing smells from the kitchen. When he entered, he found Jonathan standing at the stove, flipping pancakes. The sight of his Dom’s muscular back in a tight black muscle shirt, wielding the spatula like a pro, had his cock hardening in his pajama pants. This was his man, his lover, preparing breakfast for him. Leeland was no doubt the luckiest man on earth. And the horniest.
As if he had somehow sensed the indecent direction Leeland’s thoughts were going, Jonathan turned around, a bright smile on his face.
“Good morning, honey! How do you feel today?”
Leeland smiled back, full of love. “Good morning to you too, Master. I’m feeling a lot better. The bruises hardly hurt anymore.”
For a moment Leeland saw a shadow cross Jonathan’s features. Apparently his Dom had a hard time seeing him injured.
“So you’re up for something else besides lazing on the couch today?”
The teasing tone immediately woke Leeland’s interest. “Why? Do you have something planned?” He couldn’t help the sultry tone that crept into his voice.
Jonathan grinned, as if he had an inkling what Leeland was thinking. “It could be that I made some plans for today, but only if you feel well enough.”
“Oh, I so do feel well enough!” Leeland meant every word. “Are we going to Whisper?”
“Not today, no.” Leeland pouted and watched Jonathan raise a brow. “We’ll go there at the end of the week. I want you to be one hundred percent when I have my wicked way with you.”
The lascivious tone had Leeland’s entire body screaming for hot, rough sex, right here, right now, and pancakes be damn
ed. Jonathan winked, obviously knowing exactly what was going on in Leeland’s mind.
“Patience, honey. It’s supposedly a virtue.”
“Not in my book. So if you don’t plan on fucking me over the kitchen table, what are we going to do?”
Jonathan laughed out loud. “I love your directness. It’s like a breath of fresh air. First, we’re going to eat our omelets and pancakes. I made chocolate chip ones. After that—a surprise.”
“What? Come on, Jonathan, you know how bad I am with surprises! The suspense is going to kill me before I can have a bite of the pancakes, and wouldn’t that be too bad?”
Jonathan hummed. “We’re going outside.” He raised a finger. “I’m not telling you more, boy.”
He was using his stern Dom voice, so Leeland knew better than to keep wheedling. Instead he sat down and enjoyed his breakfast.
When they were done, they did the dishes before Jonathan led Leeland back into their bedroom.
“Put on your leather gear. We’re going for a ride.”
Leeland felt giddy with joy upon hearing those words. Riding with Jonathan was among his top five things to do. In fact, it ranked third after cuddling with his master and having hot, kinky sex with the man. He slipped into his tight black leather pants, the matching boots, and a black tank top before putting on his black leather jacket—why ruin a good color scheme when you had one? Jonathan had done the same and took his hand. Together they went downstairs through the garage, where Jonathan’s mechanics were working on obscenely expensive cars and bikes, making them even more valuable. Why people would invest so much money in what essentially was an assortment of metal pieces and bolts was beyond Leeland. He fell firmly in the “it’s got a motor so I can use it to make my life easier” category, but since Jonathan made quite a lot of money by tinkering with cars and bikes, he never complained.
