I know I'd volunteer.
As I study his body with the zoom on my camera, I am well aware of how lucky I am to have such a privileged view. If I wanted to, I could count the pores on his perfect skin with this thing. If I could only get that close. I notice down below his ribcage that there's a round...scar, I guess. There’s only one thing I can think of that makes a scar like that: a bullet. I wonder what the story is behind that. Slowly, I pan up to his pecs, his brownish nipples, his perfect collarbones, and the nape of his neck. I can feel my pulse quicken as I study the perfection. I scan up to his face and then stop.
“Oh shit...” I murmur to myself. He is staring right at me.
I lift my face up from the camera. He really is watching me. When he sees he has my attention he winks, and a million dollar smile creeps over his face. My heart is hammering in my chest. I’ve been spotted. I feel like a kid who's just been caught with their hand in a cookie jar.
I’m not the type of girl to go gaga over a man, but I can feel myself being drawn in by him. I’ve always been a feminist, totally for the empowerment and self-actualization of women. I refuse to give any man power over my personal or financial affairs, and especially my body. But in these circumstances...do I really need to have such stringent values? Something inside of me desperately wants to be given up to this man. Deep down, I want him to have his way with me, whatever way he wants.
He’s still looking at me. I feel like the whole world has melted away and we’re the only two people in this vast arena. Someone taps him on the shoulder and hands him a cell phone. He glances down, quickly dials a number and puts the phone to his ear as he looks back up to me. For some crazy reason, I think my phone’s going to start ringing and he’s going to be on the other end of the line.
When it doesn’t ring, I’m crushed. How stupid. I actually think that he would call me out of the thousands of beautiful women here; yeah right. But I can still hope. He is talking to someone now. Probably some hot piece of ass he has sitting in the audience cheering him on. He’ll be inviting her to his dressing room back stage where they’ll make hot passionate love all night long.
Someone taps me on the shoulder and I jump in spite of myself. Annoyed at being taken away from the view, I start to form a caustic remark, but catch myself. It’s The Archer’s brother, and he has a phone in his hand extended to me.
Suddenly my knees go weak, and I feel like I am going to faint. This can only be one thing. It’s Archer on the other end of the line—it has to be. I wonder absentmindedly if he can see my heart pounding in my chest. I’m breathing so fast that I feel like I can't possibly get enough oxygen. It’s happening. I can’t believe this is happening, The Archer wants to talk to me. It is almost too much to take in.
I take the phone, but don’t put it to my ear right away. The rational side of me has kicked in. So his brother’s other responsibility is to arrange booty calls, is that it? And I am just another booty call in a long line of women to be graced with his manhood?
No thanks.
I snap the phone closed and hand it back to the brother. When I look back up at The Archer, he seems genuinely surprised, maybe even a little hurt. Have I misjudged this man?
“What did you do that for?" His brother asks. "He wants to talk to you.”
“I’m no one’s booty call, thank you very much!”
“That’s what you think? That he’ll just jump into the sack with the first available woman? You really don’t know anything about him.”
I am still fuming. “Enlighten me.”
“Well, first of all, I’m pretty sure his fiancée would object to me arranging booty calls for him.”
Oops…
“And second, we just want to talk to you after the fights are over. It's related to business, I promise. You have nothing to worry about, he’ll be the perfect gentleman.”
I feel devastated. The only word I registered out of his brother's mouth was "fiancée". He has a fiancée. I can't believe it. Now I just want to go home. How could I have gotten my hopes up so quickly?
I came here looking for a scandal, and would have been ecstatic to find one fifteen minutes ago. Now I get myself all worked up for nothing, and I'm thinking about leaving? No, I have to see where this is going. At least I’ll get my interview.
His brother is still standing there looking at me, waiting for an answer.
“Fine, I’ll hear you guys out, but then I’m leaving.”
“That’s all we ask Eva, that’s all we ask.”
Chapter Three
The Job Offer
The last fight of the night is the one everyone has come to see. While the women are all fanatical Archer fans, he seems to have very few male fans. According to Andy, The Archer’s older brother, it’s the men who want to see him knocked down a peg or two.
"They want to know that he is real. That he has faults just like they do. Men don’t like to think that anyone is above them. They want to know that The Archer’s shit stinks just like everyone else’s," Andy says. "He is the most polarizing fighter I have ever seen. The more success he has, the more the male population dislikes him, and the more the women love him."
The Archer is pacing the ring as his opponent receives last minute instructions. Even after the last fight, Archer still looks light on his feet, and that’s a good sign. A weary fighter settles back on his feet more and is slower to strike. The Archer looks completely relaxed—ready for a fight.
His challenger apparently goes by the name "Crazy Horse".
"Andy, is this guy any good?" I ask. I can feel my pulse quickening.
"Crazy Horse is an up and coming fighter with only a dozen professional wins to his name." He says assuredly, "However, he has knocked off some of the best, and has handed many a champion his first loss. He fully expects to give The Archer his first ever loss as a professional cage fighter. So we'll see about that."
The Archer’s wound has been closed up with a hasty stitching job, but a square hit will surely burst it open again. I watch nervously as Crazy Horse approaches the center of the ring where the judge is giving instructions to both fighters. What he says to them, I’m not too sure. It’s not like in boxing where the referee might say, okay boys let’s keep it a clean fight. He's probably reminding them not to gouge each other's eyes out.
Both fighters tap hands like boxers do with their gloves, then step back, sizing each other up. Crazy Horse is not a big man. He's maybe five foot ten, and not even two hundred pounds, I think. Archer must be about six-three, and at least two forty.
Crazy Horse attacks first, and he is blindingly fast. The guy gets inside Archer’s guard and is striking as he spins around him, using the torque of his moving body to add additional power to his punches. The challenger incorporates his knees and elbows into each volley. I've never seen anything like it before.
One second he’s in front of Archer, and the next he’s off to the side, then completely behind him—striking all the while. It's clear that The Archer has never faced this kind of assault before, and for a moment he seems a bit confused as he twirls around, trying to get a bearing on the guy.
It’s not long before Crazy lands a blow that counts. It’s a typical right cross. He steps in so that his weight is transferred into his fist. It’s a straight punch right at Archer's face. Archer easily bats it off to the side, but as he does, Crazy tucks his fist into his chest and uses his forward momentum to get closer to his target. He spins at Archer and whips his left elbow right into Archer's freshly closed cut.
Several girls sitting up close to the ring shriek as they are splashed with a spray of blood from Archer's head. And Crazy hasn’t stopped. He continues spinning and catches Archer in the back of his head with his other elbow as he does a complete 360 degree spin.
“Dammit!” I curse under my breath. This is all happening because he saved that little protester earlier in the evening, and now Crazy Horse is using that to his advantage.
The impact of the blow to the back of
his head would have taken a normal person to the ground. It's as if his head were struck by a sledge hammer, and it probably felt that way too. I try not to let loose a string of curses. I really don’t want my voice messing up the footage I’m getting now, and it’s pretty spectacular.
Crazy Horse is still spinning circles around Archer who is constantly using his forearm to clear the blood from his eyes. Don’t they have rounds or something like boxers do? I can’t remember from the other fights if they have rounds or not. Luckily, my thoughts are interrupted by the sound of a bell. I guess none of the other fights lasted long enough for rounds to apply.
I watch Archer as he sits down wearily on the stool. His team immediately goes to work on the cut. It looks nastier than ever. I’m sure it’s wider than it was originally, and probably deeper now. It’s gonna leave an ugly scar. As they continue to rub salve over his face I use the time to zoom in and see what some other woman actually gets to touch every night.
I wonder what she’s like, and if she manages to spend any time with him that’s not in some gym or arena? From what I understand, the guys who actually make any decent money in this business have a pretty exhaustive schedule. Not only do they fight in multiple tournaments per week, they may fight several bouts in each tournament. Archer fought yesterday, today, and he’ll probably fight again tomorrow. It's fucking insane. I hope the money's worth it.
Another tap on my shoulder tears me away from my subject. What now?
“You have a call, Miss.”
It’s Andy. He’s holding the phone out to me. I take it, but before putting it to my ear I look back up to the ring. The Archer is holding his phone to his ear. He smiles and indicates I should take his call. I wonder what his fiancée thinks about these calls he’s making to other women. I assume she has to be somewhere in the crowd.
I decide to take his call anyway.
“Hello?”
“Finally you answer.” His voice is low and throaty and I realize that his accent is German too. I fucking love German accents.
“Well I’ve been busy,” I reply stiffly.
“Yes, I’ve noticed. I’m sure with that zoom of yours you don’t miss a thing, do you?”
“Are you flirting with me, Bobby?”
His voice hardens a little bit. “I see you’ve been talking to my big-mouthed brother. You should focus more on the fights and less on what he says.” He scolds me.
“I would if you’d make it interesting. Right now, you seem to be letting that Crazy bastard use your head as a punching bag. Not so compelling.”
“Fine, you're bored? I’ll make it interesting. I’m not going to use my hands. I’m gonna keep them tucked into my trunks the entire rest of the fight. Is that interesting enough for you Eva?”
Even though he is chastising me, I find it incredibly sexy the way my name rolls off his tongue. I find myself wishing that some other parts of me could be rolled with his tongue.
“That’s not interesting,” I protest, “That’s suicidal.”
“Not for me it’s not.”
He tosses his phone to the mat and springs up. Something has changed, I can see it in his eyes. For the first time during this fight, I am actually afraid for his opponent.
“The guy’s gonna go home in a body bag,” I say under my breath as I hand my phone back to his brother.
“Come again?” Andy asks.
“Nothing. Just talking to myself.”
“Well I don’t know what you said to him, but you certainly got him all fired up. I almost feel sorry for Crazy bastard.”
The roar of the crowd pulls my attention back to the ring where The Archer has just blocked a strike to his head with a sweep of his foot. Even Crazy Horse can’t believe it. This is not the way you win a fight. Encouraged by what Archer is doing, Crazy Horse goes on the offensive.
However, before Crazy can even get close to his opponent, The Archer takes a single step forward with his left foot and shoots his right knee up onto the air, forcing his body into an incredible horizontal leap as he brings up his left knee level to the other man’s head and strikes out with his left foot. The ball of The Archer’s foot strikes just underneath Crazy’s chin.
Crazy Horse's head snaps back with such ferocity that his body arches backward and he is lifted off of his feet. He lands with a solid thud onto the canvas, knocked out cold.
The crowd roars to life, and thousands chant The Archer’s name.
The Archer doesn’t even glance to see if his opponent is going to get back up. Instead he just goes over to his corner, sits down on the stool and closes his eyes. He appears to be drinking in the adulation that is coming at him from all sides. Even the haters are silenced. They cannot deny what they have just witnessed. No other athlete they know of could have pulled that one off. The women in the arena can't get enough of the raw power Archer just displayed, myself included.
It’s a full ten minutes before Crazy Horse begins to stir. They have strapped him to some kind of backboard to keep his spine mobilized. I guess they’re afraid he may have suffered a neck injury with the force of the kick.
I look back over to The Archer to see how he is reacting to it all. He seems to be more interested in the adulation of the crowd than the man he nearly killed. I guess he's used to it, nearly bringing men to their deaths day in and day out. Suddenly I am less interested in meeting and talking to him. I certainly don’t want to get dragged into a conversation about how amazing of a fighter he is, blah, blah, blah. I’m not here to stroke his ego, though he’s got something else I’d like to stroke.
I don’t know what it is about the guy, but he seems to have this ability to make me want to compromise my principles. It’s not his good looks. I’ve been with beautiful men before. It’s not that he can fight. I had a boyfriend who was a black belt in Tae Kwon Do, and it wasn’t such a big turn on; although, Archer could definitely pulverize my ex- boyfriend. There is something about him that I can’t put my finger on. But there's got to be a reason I'm so intrigued and feel this pull towards him. The fact that he has a fiancée really makes this situation pretty cut and dry. In fact, there is no situation, this whole thing is completely in my head right now.
I am still mulling things over when Andy comes over to let me know it’s time to go. I follow him through the surging crowd, surrounded by security staff who make sure no one else but Andy and I make it back to the locker rooms. He leads me to some kind of lounge, thank God it's not as crowded back here.
"Would you like something to drink?" Andy asks politely. "The Archer should be out to see us shortly."
I smile and shake my head, "No thanks. I'm fine for now, I'll just sit down here and wait."
Shortly turns out to be nearly 45 minutes. Finally, someone from his security staff comes to retrieve us. We're led down a long hall and into another room where Archer is lounging on a couch, alone and deep in thought. He looks to me like man who is deeply troubled. I wonder if he’s just been informed that his opponent has died, or something equally awful.
He stands up as we approach and extends his hand. I am surprised to find that his skin is soft. I guess I was expecting his hands to be covered in rock hard calluses.
“Thank you for coming, Miss Vanderbilt,” he says steadily.
He had me at thank you.
“Please, call me Eva. But how do you know my name?” I ask.
“Very well Eva. We authorized your press pass, of course.”
Over the phone back in the arena, it was hard to really hear the tonal quality and timbre of his voice. I can tell immediately that I’ll have to draw him out if I want to get anything. Like my father, Archer here is a man of few words.
“Do you think your fiancée minds you calling other girls during your fights?” I ask.
He ignores my question completely, and I catch him eyeing my chest.
“I’d like to make you an offer for—”
“Just wait one second," I interrupt him, "I don’t know what kind of signals you think
I'm giving off, but you're sadly mistaken. I think you need to fix your antennae because I'm no groupie. So, it’s been nice chatting, but I really have to go now.”
“Your brother really needs help,” I say, looking at Andy.
As I turn to leave, I hear the last thing I expected—laughter. I whirl around, ready to let him have it, but the expression on his face stops me short. He seems genuinely amused, and surprised at my reaction. Was I missing something here? I sit back down and wait for him to explain himself.
Instead Andy offers an explanation. “Eva, we are just looking for someone to document my brother’s rise to the top in a sport that most think of as barbaric. We want to open the doors to sponsorship just like in every other sport in the world. Sponsorship will bring in money and then we fighters will be able to afford to take care of ourselves, and retire before we are old men. I plan on bringing in a union—”
I have to laugh. A union to represent the interests of illegal street fighters? Where does this guy come up with this stuff?
“Are you serious? You want me to film The Archer's rise to the top?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.
“Lots of sports were either illegal, or on the fringe of society until big companies got interested.”
At this point I’m not sold yet. It sounds intriguing but...“I have to warn you. If I do take the job, and I doubt I will, but if I do, I’m not going to give it some slant to make you look good or anything like that," I say, "I tape what I see, no matter how unflattering it is.”
“We would expect nothing less from you, Eva.”
“And I get the final say on the edits. I’m not here to make you look good, I’m here to expose the truth, whatever that may be. If I take the job, that is.”
“Deal. I’ll send a car with you to get your things. We leave tonight. We have to be in Tempe, Arizona tomorrow for another tournament.”
“What? You mean if I take the job, and right now I’m not real—”
Beautifully Dangerous Page 3
