by Carol Devine
"Well, what do you think?"
"Nice tiger. Now can we go?"
"Not the tiger, Amanda, the man. You haven't even looked at him.”
Refusing to deny what wasn't true, Amanda scanned the ring. Thankfully, he'd shifted to center stage, his eyes glittering in the spotlight as he pivoted with the tiger in time with the drums, showing defiance in the face of the jeering crowd. The loudspeakers crackled with the announcer's voice.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present, the Evil Master of All Beasts Great and Small, holder of the Global Wrestling League's Intercontinental Championship Title, winner of ..."
The voice faded as she catalogued his features. The strong, masculine nose appeared to have been broken more than once, making the handsome face more virile. The rugged jaw would have been heavy on a smaller man, a less muscled man, but somehow looked perfect on him. His sheer size disconcerted Amanda and she hated the awe rippling through her as she studied the wide shoulders and thick biceps. Amanda did not like to think herself easily awed.
His hair's too long, she judged, and the eyes too green. He had to be wearing colored contacts. His deep tan spoke of time spent in one of those ultra-violet sun beds. The spotlight burnished his skin, showing each bulging muscle half shadow, half bronze. Probably steroid induced, she concluded. He didn't wear much in the way of clothes--but then, to give him some credit, he didn't have to. The leopard skin girding his waist and the obligatory kneepads and boots were more than enough.
" ... May I present to you, the Beastmaster, and his Siberian tiger, Naaa ...taaaa ...shaaaa!"
The animal's name drowned beneath a deafening bellow from the audience. Amanda winced and watched the Beastmaster raise his chain wrapped fist. As if annoyed by the human roar of disapproval, the tiger sat back on its haunches and pawed the air. The belly fur was thick and white, like the finest Australian sheepskin. Although the animal looked well-cared for, disquiet pricked Amanda's conscience. She had never considered herself an animal-rights fanatic, but the sight of this magnificent creature being used in a show as phony as this appalled her. She grabbed Julie's arm.
"Does the tiger fight, too?"
Julie’s answer was drowned out by a sudden blare of trumpets.
Amanda rose on tip-toe to see what the commotion was all about. Spotlights searched the arena before landing on another wrestler wending his way up the aisle. A sea of hands and boisterous cheers helped him along. Noise like this would damage the hearing of the hardiest head banger, never mind that of a sensitive animal.
Concerned, Amanda glanced back toward the ring. There in the relative darkness, she saw the gleaming arc of the Beastmaster's broad back as he knelt in the near corner not ten feet away and handed the end of the tiger's leash to a cowboy hatted man standing on the arena floor. After speaking a few emphatic words to the man, the Beastmaster helped the tiger climb from the ring, his fingers lost in thick fur as he eased the hindquarters down, care written in every line of his intent body. When he let the animal go with a soft pat, Amanda felt the caress in the heat firing her face. She swallowed, wanting to be rid of the feeling, aware that the way he handled the tiger affected her in some indescribable way.
Beyond him, she could just see the cowboy hat above the heads of the audience, hurrying up the aisle toward the exit, followed by a striped tail. Relieved to see the tiger safe, Amanda decided she'd follow up by issuing an inquiry on the use of tigers in a show like this. First thing Monday morning, she'd assign a paralegal to do some research. Presumably there was a federal or state statute written somewhere prohibiting such exploitation.
Spotlights swept by her front row seat as the second wrestler vaulted into the ring. Covered in a long shiny cape striped in red, white and blue, he doffed a red spangled top hat with a beefy hand and waved to the stomping, clapping crowd, his blond hair spiked in a short crew cut. His teeth looked iridescent against his ruddy face and he spun off the cape with a flourish. He wore blue satin bike shorts, embroidered with large white stars. Silver glitter sparkled on his boots. A huge man, he was even bigger and bulkier than the Beastmaster.
Good, Amanda thought.
"Ladies and Gentleman," boomed the announcer. "May I have your attention please."
Julie tugged Amanda's sleeve. "What do you think of this one?" she asked, her red head tilting toward the giant .
"You know how I go for these blond, All American types. What's his name?"
"Darren Do-Right."
Amanda could not keep a straight face. "Darren Do-right?"
"Yes, Darren Do-right. Fighter for Truth, the Righter of Wrongs -- Daring Darren Do-right."
Daring Darren Do-right? An uncharacteristic giggle shook Amanda. "Any relation to Dudley?"
"Here I come to save the day!" sang a Nelson Eddy sound-a-like from the loudspeakers. Darren grabbed the announcer's microphone and began to lip-sync the words of the song.
Why the situation struck her as hysterically funny she didn't know. So far tonight, she'd endured a procession of wrestlers with similar outlandish names and attitudes and hadn't cracked a smile. But the laughter was real, coming from deep in her belly, causing her eyes to water and her body to relax. The release of tension felt wonderful. After a minute, she gasped to catch her breath.
"Well, look at you. You're finally having a good time," Julie shouted over the corny music blasting throughout the arena.
Amanda wiped her eyes, heedless of her carefully-applied makeup. "I give up. This wet blanket is finally going to dry. Daring Darren got to me."
"I should have known a patriot like you would go for the man wearing red, white and blue. Me, I like them tall, dark and handsome." Julie placed her hands over her heart and fluttered her eyelashes dramatically. "I'm a true Beastmaster fan."
"The Beastmaster more than lives up to his name. He's a villain of the highest order. I hope he loses."
"He won't. Darren's never fought him before."
"What does that have to do with winning and losing?"
Julie snapped her fingers in front of Amanda' s face. "Have you learned nothing tonight? Darren's the good guy. The Beastmaster has to cheat to win so we can see how evil he is. He's got a great stunt that he does at the end of the match to prove it. Darren must lose to set up the grudge match."
"Grudge match?"
"Sure. Grudge matches really draw the fans. When Darren loses tonight, he'll vow revenge. Next week, these two will fight again in some other city. The Beastmaster will lose and then he'll vow revenge, preserving the rivalry. Geez, Amanda, if I didn't know better, I'd think you actually thought these matches were for real."
"You mean they aren't?"
"You're kidding, right?" Julie peered into Amanda's face, her light blue gaze uncertain. "You can't believe pro wrestling is truly competitive, can you?"
"Isn't it?"
"Is it?"
"You tell me. "
"I can never tell whether you're joking or not," Julie grumbled. "You've got the face of a poker player."
"Thank you," Amanda said with a smile. "It comes in handy, especially when my opponent at the defense table calls a witness who's not on my list. To answer your question, I do realize that these fights are completely fake. What I can't figure out is why you enjoy watching them when you already know the outcome."
"Amanda, pro wrestling isn't about sport. It's about good and evil, about having someone to cheer for and boo against. It's a modern morality play."
Morality? Amanda’s gaze swung from Julie’s face to the two combatants in the ring. Darren Do-right stood in one corner, carefully folding his cape as the announcer finished his spiel. The Beastmaster prowled on the other side of the ring, watching the entire proceeding, menace in his eyes.
Bram ran his first move through his mind, aware that Amanda Tarkenton had distracted him from his usual concentration. He took great pride in making his fights look real and the planning he put into his performances was proof of that pride. Darren was a heavy man, big-boned and well-m
uscled, which made the physical demands greater tonight. Not many of the other wrestlers could lift him. The final body slam they'd practiced was especially difficult.
The referee bent to clear the top rope of the ring, which was Bram's cue. He charged Darren without warning and knocked him flat with a straight armed clothesline. Darren fell dramatically and bounced on the special surface of the mat which absorbed shock, much like a gymnast's mat. The crowd was immediately into the match, screaming for Darren.
Bram launched himself in a flying leap. At the last second, Darren rolled away and scrambled to his feet. Bram landed face down and stayed there for the seconds it took Darren to attack.
A sharp elbow landed on the small of Bram's back and ground into his spine. The audience roared their approval.
Bram lifted his head and grimaced, treating the fans to the effects of what looked like excruciating pain. Through slitted eyes he caught a flare of golden hair. She sat like a statue, unmoved. He twisted sharply, butting Darren in the face with a two-fisted roundhouse punch. Darren looked surprised but fell back to the mat as planned. Bram threw himself on top, going for the pin.
"Sorry about that, man," he murmured close to Darren's ear.
"Better not happen again."
The referee's count reached two before Darren exploded, forcing both men back on their feet. Bram staggered around like a drunk before Darren charged. The shoulder block connected in his solar plexus and Bram closed his eyes, grateful for the blast to his gut. He needed something to bring him back to the present. During his staggered circuit around the ring, he'd glimpsed Amanda Tarkenton again, her face devoid of expression. What would it take to get her to react? Blood and guts?
Bram grimaced as Darren punched him, first left, then right, then left again. Bram swayed as if stunned to give Darren time to climb the ropes and stand atop the nearest turnbuckle, ready to jump. Anticipation careened through the audience. Some were chanting "body slam" over and over, always a good sign. The more the fans participated, the better. While he waited, Bram scanned the front row. She was easy to pick out because she was yawning.
Darren launched himself from the turnbuckle. Bram bent his knees so his legs would take the brunt of the blow and bellowed when he crashed to the mat, Darren on top. The ref ran over to make the pin official. Bram waited until the last possible moment, then butted the ref in the face with an elbow as he threw Darren off.
The crowd booed, their outrage like a physical wave. Noise washed over him. He used their emotion to feed his own, charging like an angry bull. He whipped Darren around in a vicious-looking headlock. While the referee writhed on the floor in agony, his hands placed conveniently over his eyes, Bram pummeled Darren using a variety of punches, most of them illegal under the rules. The fans were really into the match now.
As Bram circled Darren before the final body slam, he glanced at the golden head. She lifted her chin as their eyes locked.
Bram read utter contempt on her face.
It was then he got an idea. An awful, wonderful idea.
Chapter Three
The idea took shape as Bram completed the final moves of the fight. Dropkick. Miss. Get up, feint left. Knee slap from Darren, then the final move as Bram flipped him on his back. Brace and lift, one thousand one, one thousand two. Duck while Darren crashed. Fall and hold. The ref leaned down and counted to three to make the pin official.
Fans screamed for Darren to get up but Bram held him securely. The ref waved his arm, declaring the fight over. Bram leaped to his feet, fists raised as he was announced the winner. He liked the sound of the crowd… the boos were loud but not rabid. Scanning the periphery of the ring, he heard the first blare of guitar chords from "Wild Thing", his theme song. And she was still there. It was now or never.
Amanda watched the Beastmaster jog a victory lap in the ring before halting in front of her, his arms up in triumph. He tipped his head back and whooped, then leered at her, his black brows raised in boastful arrogance. He even had the audacity to open his mouth and lick his chops. Offended, she eyed him with loathing and fought against her natural instinct to back away. She'd never retreated from a fight in her life and this man was most definitely daring her into one. It was obvious what the Beastmaster was thinking. It was obvious to everyone what he was thinking. That insolent gaze was undressing her in front of all these people. A hand from behind jabbed her shoulder. She heard giggles, murmurs saying she must be the one.
Julie tugged her elbow. "Amanda?"
"What?" Amanda refused to break eye contact with the Beastmaster until he bent to duck under the top rope of the ring. "What?" she asked again, turning toward Julie.
Julie sat down heavily. Amanda had never seen her friend look so… astonished. Her reddish eyebrows arched like question marks. Her mouth hung half open and she stared at Amanda as if she'd grown two heads. "Amanda?"
"Yes, I'm right here. What' s wrong?"
"He stared at you, Amanda."
"Oh, for heaven's sake, Julie. It didn't mean anything," Amanda said, thinking Julie was crazy to be jealous. As far as she was concerned, the Beastmaster was a total jerk. She grabbed her purse in one hand and her friend's arm in the other. "Let's go now, okay?"
"But we can't. You can't. Don't you understand? He's picked you. I don’t know why but he’s picked you."
"Who's picked me?"
Bram kept his eye on Amanda and jumped from the ring onto the arena floor. She'd turned her back on him with a dismissive wave of her hand to talk to a redhead seated in the chair next to hers. He stalked her in three strides and seized her around the middle, his big hands a vise at her waist. Shrieking, she dropped her purse.
Bram sensed her immediate panic, felt the give of the feminine bones, and recalled a young golden eagle he'd caught once -- his first. Unable to fly, she'd scuttled away on the ground whenever he dared come near. Some damn fool hunter had shot through her wing. After many hours of patient stalking, she'd become exhausted and he'd managed to grab her and hold her against his chest, protecting her with his coat. When he'd finally gotten her back to the ranch, he discovered the fright had killed her.
After Amanda's first initial shock was over, she struggled, lashing out with arms and legs. Her spirit surprised him. Not that he couldn't handle her--he was a large man, weighing well over two hundred and fifty pounds. He doubted she weighed half that. But he sensed her mortification in the desperate way she fought. Bram almost put her down. Except she wasn't a defenseless wild bird and he knew she wouldn't die. She'd protest. He'd picked her for that very reason.
She didn't disappoint. Swearing, she twisted backward and tried to gouge his face. That decided him. He jerked her around and swung her up over his shoulder in one quick motion, then headed for the nearest exit. It was the wrong door and would put him on the back side of the arena, opposite the locker room, but at this point, he didn't care.
"Put me down this instant!" she screamed.
Fingers stabbed and clawed his back. Her nails must have been short because they caused little pain. Bram held her firmly over his left shoulder, his left arm circling the back of her thighs. Fans were taking pictures, videos. His right hand smoothed her skirt down. The material was butter-soft. Silk. Again he wondered why a woman like her would come to the arena for anything having to do with sports, much less pro wrestling. His ex-wife had hated his profession so much she had never seen him fight.
Squirming, she twisted against his shoulder, but her position didn't allow her enough leverage to do much. She bucked and went for his groin with a vicious kick. Pointy-toed shoes bounced off his washboard abdominals. Bram hitched her up higher on his shoulder just to let her know he wasn't amused and knocked off her pumps with his free hand. If she got hold of one of those heels, she was strong enough to inflict serious damage.
Her fists pummeled his back. Her screams could wake the dead. In desperation, she grabbed the back of his costume and tried to rip it off. Bram didn't shorten his stride as he barreled his wa
y up the aisle. Even if she'd been successful at tearing the reinforced spandex, he wouldn't have put her down. Nudity would have fit the Neanderthal picture he was trying to create. As it was, Hardy and the GWL couldn't help but get the message about the inappropriateness of this stunt, Bram thought wryly. When he got Amanda Tarkenton out of the arena, he was sure she'd complain to anyone who'd listen. Best of all, her last name insured plenty of people would.
The swinging doors of the exit loomed before him. Cameras flashed all around. Arena security was supposed to keep the fans from hurling trash while he strode up the aisle. They didn't seem to be having much trouble tonight. In fact, the crowd was cheering, not jeering. That gave him pause.
Puzzled, Bram slowed his step and let his gaze linger over individual faces in order to divine what the hell was going on. The arena lights had been up since the beginning of the fight to insure everyone could see the action. He didn't need to be a genius to gauge their expressions. They were cheering for Amanda.
"Whip his butt, lady!"
"Tame the Beast!"
Bram swore and exploded through the exit, letting her backside take the brunt of his burst past the double doors. Dread spread through his gut. If the fans were cheering, that meant they liked what they saw. And if they liked what they saw, they'd demand to see it again and again and again.
Amanda' s breath tore away when he dumped her on the floor. The shock of having the ground under her again sent her reeling backward. She hit the wall and froze, pinned by his condemning glower.
"Satisfied, Masterson?" he yelled.
The man was certifiably insane. She sidled along the wall, looking for escape. They were alone in a dingy doorless hallway, lit by metal lamps which dropped from the ceiling. Not all of them worked. The stink of stale beer and spent tobacco made her want to gag.
She took off at a run. Her nylon clad feet slid on the grimy concrete floor. Grunting with effort, she staggered and picked herself up, desperate to get away from him. She had no idea what he was after, nor did she care. Since her father's death, her life had been threatened by crazies and hard-core criminals enough times to know that speculation at this point was moot.
