I got out of the car and ran after him.
* * *
“Malcolm!”
He turned around and saw me running. He stopped walking so that I could catch up. “Jessica,” he said.
“I’m coming with you. I don’t care if my life gets flipped upside down.”
We both kept walking. “No guarantees on that,” he said, “by the way.”
“That’s fine,” I said.
He started to veer a little, not pointing towards the entrance anymore. Then he pulled off his hoodie. Underneath he was just wearing a thin white t-shirt. It wasn’t the kind that was made to be tight, but on his body it was.
He was ripped. He had tattoos. They ran down each of his arms, from the shoulder to the elbow. Some of them looked a little distorted by the size of his muscles.
But it wasn’t a gross kind of buff. It wasn’t the kind of muscle you get by hitting the gym three times a day and working out one muscle at a time. No. These were the kind of muscles you get by doing some physical. Using your whole body to accomplish something.
“Can you hold this?” he asked, as we walked around the side of the building.
“Sure,” I said.
He handed it to me and then I saw what we were walking towards. “I need to get pumped up for a minute. You can watch if you want.”
At the side of the building, underneath the one light that did a terrible job of lighting the place, was a punching bag. One of those full-length ones, that hung from a chain off one of the rafters that stuck out the side of the building.
He pulled some tensor bandage from his pocket and wrapped his hands as we got closer. Tight. “So,” he said. “I guess you’re going to find out soon anyway, so I might as well tell you.” He looked me in the eyes and said the following words. “I’m a fighter.”
I had no idea what that meant.
But before I could ask, he was at the punching bag. He got into position. Knees slightly bent. One leg forward, one leg back. Hands up, in fists. Thumbs on the outsides. He bobbed up and down slightly.
And then, lightning fast, he took two steps and threw a punch. It was so fast that I could hardly see it happen, but the bag swung violently. As it swung back towards him he took a few more fast steps and threw another fight of punches. The loud thumps echoed through the streets and the buildings around us.
Then again, as it swung back towards him, he hit it hard enough to turn it around. It swung and hit the side of the building.
Then he looked back at me. And his face said that he was only getting started.
And then. Bam bam bam. Punch after punch after punch. Non-stop. Maybe four or five hits landed every second. It sounded like a loud, steady drumbeat. Beating faster than my heart.
He started breathing heavily. And his feet kept moving at a ridiculous speed. Always landing sturdily before his next barrage of punches, giving him optimal force and strength. He moved from one side of the bag to the other, faster than I could imagine reacting to.
Then the kicks started. One kick and then, like, thirty punches. Then another. Then a jump and a kick with both feet at the same time. Then he landed sturdy and threw another couple of punches.
His pump-up session lasted five minutes, and I couldn’t tear my eyes away. The way every movement blended into the next. How coordinated everything was. He did everything perfectly. Like he’d done it a million times before. He wasn’t slowing down at the end. He hadn’t tired himself out. This was his warm up.
I’d never seen anything like it. I’d never seen anyone so skilled. They say it takes ten thousand hours to become an expert at something, and it looked like Malcolm had done this for at least a hundred thousand hours.
Eventually he did stop though. He steadied the wildly swinging bag, and then walked back towards me. There was a hop in his step now. Something wild in his eyes. His skin was shiny with sweat. He had a huge grin on his face. “Well,” he said, “Let’s go.”
We walked around back to the front of the building. I had nothing to say. I was stunned.
The two huge men, I realized, both had baseball bats. But they recognized Malcolm, I guess, and they let us both by without moving a muscle.
The building was like nothing I’d ever been inside before. The floor was sticky, probably from a combination of booze, blood, sweat, and piss. There was a crowd of at least a hundred people, loudly babbling amongst themselves. There were only a few lights that dangled from the ceiling. The whole place smelled like a highschool change room with a lot more alcohol and a bit more pot.
I looked around, but then I realized that Malcolm had me by both shoulders. Over the noise of the crowd, he said, “Don’t worry, no one is going to hurt you. I’ll be in the ring. You can watch if you want.”
I just nodded. I clung onto his hoodie tightly as he walked away. I watched him walk through the crowd and saw many women putting their hands on him. Groping at him. But he didn’t respond. He just kept walking.
A short man in a cheap suit walked into the center of the ring. “Last call for bets!” he yelled through a megaphone. “Last call. The Beast versus The Destroyer. Two minutes.”
There were several hands that went up into the air with wads of cash as the man stepped back out of the ring. The ring itself was just some mats on the floor with a rope fence up around it.
I navigated through the crowd to get a bit closer. In one corner I saw Malcolm. I looked in the opposite corner and saw the other man. And then I was worried. Malcolm is a big guy. Tall. Strong. But this other guy was taller. And stronger. He was the kind of guy who must hit the gym three times a day. They could use his body to teach student about all the muscles in the body. He stood there flexing at the crowd, several of the women yelling for every pose he struck.
Malcolm wasn’t showing off. He was just standing there, bouncing up and down a bit. Eyes focused on nothing. He was ready. But I was still worried. It was going to be like a black bear fighting a grizzly. Both very scary, but one definitely had the upper hand.
The short man got back into the ring. He outstretched one arm towards Malcolm and yelled into the megaphone. “In this corner with have our own Malcolm ‘The Beast’ Thomson!”
Malcolm stepped into the ring and there was some applause. I clapped loudly. He didn’t look at the audience though. His eyes were locked, like a heat-seeking missile, on his target.
“And in this corner we have tonight’s contender. Jonny ‘The Destroyer’ O’Neil!”
Jonny stepped into the ring, and there was more applause. I did not clap, but most people did. It occurred to me that most people probably clapped for the man they’d bet money on.
They walked towards each other in the ring. “Let’s make it a clean fight, boys,” shouted the announcer. “Or not. Fuck each other up.”
He had his hand down between them, and both men assumed a fighter’s stance. Then he started to count. “Ten, nine, eight…”
The whole crowd started chanting. One hundred voice, in unison, shouted the count down. “Seven. Six. Five. Four.”
Both men got more tense. They were staring at each other. Sizing each other up. Malcolm moved his feet side to side, just the slightest bit.
“Three. Two. One!”
The announcer pulled his hand away and ran to the corner. The whole audience went dead quiet. Not a noise was made in the whole building.
For a second, neither man moved. The stared. No one wanted to make the first move. The Destroyer stood a head above Malcolm. Malcolm looked up at him.
Malcolm watched carefully as the man brought back his left hand, in a fist, winding up for his first bone-shattering blow.
But before he got a chance, Malcolm’s fist flew forward. It made contact with The Destroyer’s chin, low enough that he only hit the jaw, but high enough that he hit it hard.
There was a sickening crack noise, and the man’s head rotated a full ninety degree. The fist that he had been winding up fell limp, and his whole body crashed to the ground. Out co
ld.
The crowd erupted. Yelling and screaming and clapping and laughing. No one was silent. I burst out clapping and cheering as well. He’d done it. Malcolm had done it.
I looked at him and he still had that glint in his eye. The bounce in his step.
The announcer walked out and held up Malcolm’s arm, and the crowd somehow got even louder. “The Beast has won again!” The man let go of his arm but it didn’t fall. He kept it up, every muscle in his body still tensed.
Once the crowd died down a bit and all the gamblers were collecting or doling out money, Malcolm left the ring. He looked at me but then walked right past. I followed him as he carried on out of the building and then back around to the side. Back to the punching bag.
He walked faster than me, and was in full fight-mode before I caught up. He was hitting it even faster than before the fight. Destroying it. I just watched from a distance. He was doing quick jabs. One after another after another.
Slowly he started to make a noise. Just a grunt at first. Then he got louder. It turned into more of a yell. As he got louder, the hits became faster. The thumps got louder. The growling turned into an all out yell that last a good ten seconds, during which he hit the bag well over one hundred times.
Then he turned to face me. Looked me in the eyes. He unbandaged his hands as he walked towards me. “Well,” he said in a strange voice. “Thanks for sticking around. Too bad there wasn’t more of a show.”
“I still enjoyed it,” I said.
The bandages went back in his pockets. “That was nothing,” he said. “I got myself all pumped up. That fucking Destroyer. I was expecting a fucking fight. Now I’m pumped up for nothing.”
I looked at him. His eyes were on fire. He was walking with a tense posture, like he was about to fight. Even though the fight was over. He was done for the night. He had nothing left to punch.
Then he looked over at me. I looked at him. “So what do you want to do now?” I asked, taking the keys out of my purse.
“I know a place,” he said. “Can I drive?”
“Sure,” I said. My keys were in his hand before I even finished the word.
He got into the driver’s seat and the car was running before I sat down. The second my seatbelt click, we were off. Speeding into the cool dark night.
The car whipped around corners. He ignored stop signs completely.
“Malcolm?” I said. “Where are we going?”
He looked at me. “It’s up to you,” he said.
“You said you knew a place.”
“I do,” he said, “but if you don’t want to go there that’s fine.” It was like he was trying to convince himself.
“Well what are you suggesting?” I asked.
“That we go to my place,” he said. “And I fuck you till you can’t stand.”
No one had ever said anything like that. I hadn’t even gotten laid in years. I looked at the man driving. Ripped. Sweaty. Tattooed. A professional underground fighter.
“So where are we going?” he asked.
“Your place,” I said. Those words surprised even me.
Chapter 3
Once those words had left my mouth, he stepped down even harder on the gas. We were going twenty, maybe thirty over the speed limit. And he was not going to slow down.
He stayed off the freeway. Stayed on the back roads. Bumping over the curb. Driving like a madman.
“You need to understand,” he said, “that this isn’t going to be a relationship. Nothing like that. We aren’t going to start dating because of this.”
I was holding onto the sides of my seat, constantly bracing for an impact that never came. “I understand.”
“I’m just going to use you,” he said. “But you can use me too. We can use each other.”
I nodded, but he didn’t see me. I was glad though - I did not want him to take his eyes off the road.
Eventually we were off of Terminal Island, tearing through some neighborhood I’d never been too. It was still mainly warehouses and manufacturing plants. I think I saw a slaughter house. But then, in the middle of it all, was an old house. Almost a mansion. Between one huge steel building and another was one house. I guess the original owner didn’t want to sell or something, so it stayed the same as the land all around was bought up and industrialized.
“Here we are,” he said, slamming on the breaks. The car bumped into the curb and then it was off, as was his seat belt. The keys landed in my lap and then the next thing I knew he was holding my door open for me.
I dropped my keys into my purse and then stepped out of the car. I closed the door behind myself, and then I guess he decided that I was moving too slowly. I felt one arm at the back of my knees, another across my back, and then I was in the air. He carried me like a fireman. Kicked his front door open. I hardly got a chance to look around the place before we were in his bedroom and he tossed me onto the bed.
Once I was there he paused for a second. Looking down at me. Staring me up and down. Me. Earlier today I thought I wasn’t attractive enough for anyone to want me. And now this model man, this Adonis, was taking me in like a piece of meat.
“You sure?” he asked.
I lay on his bed and looked up at him. Standing over me. “I’m sure,” I said.
His hands were on my hips, then his fingers slid into my belt loops. He pulled down my pants, and my panties went with them. He tossed them aside and then looked at me. Looked at a part of me that no one had ever given much attention.
I thought he was just going to drop his pants and go for it. I looked down and saw a bulge - so he was definitely ready. But he didn’t. He licked his lips. Then he pulled me too the edge of the bed and got onto his knees.
My feet dangled above the ground and he got to work. It was rhythmic. It was wet. His head moved up and down. He wasn’t going fast. He wasn’t rushing. But what he was doing, he was doing perfectly. Hitting the perfect spot in the perfect way again and again and again.
He felt like an unstoppable force. He wrapped an arm around one of my legs, hand landing on my curvy hip, and he could feel the pleasure waving through my body. But he didn’t let it affect him. He was set in what he was going to do, and there was nothing that I could do to stop him.
So I joined in. Moving my hips up and down, I began to grind his face in the same rhythm that he was licking. His range increased, and it felt so good. My quick shallow gasps slowly turned into full-on moans. Noises that I hadn’t made in years. No one ever made me feel this good.
I couldn’t believe this was happening. With a stranger. A man I’d met meer hours ago. A man who could have any woman he wanted. He was taking me. He was making me feel good. And I loved it, even if he wasn’t the kind of man I’d ever want to date. This wasn’t about dating. This wasn’t about love at first site. This was about feeling good. And damn did it feel good.
I felt his hand crawl up my inner thigh, and then two of his fingers were inside of me. The feeling was so much that I couldn’t keep up with the grinding. My back arched and my hands stretched out to either side, gripping the sheets tightly.
He curled and uncurled. Rubbing the part of me opposite where his tongue was. And then I could feel it building. I could feel the pleasure building up. One by one, the muscles in my body started to tense up. It was almost painful.
First it was just the extremities. My fingers and toes curled. And then it moved in. My arms. My legs. And then every muscles in my body was tense, right down the my innermost core.
He did not stop. He did not slow down. He kept on lapping with his wide, wet tongue. And then it happened.
There was a blinding, pulsing moment of release. A wave spread through my body that left every muscle much more relaxed than it had been in the first place.
He could tell it had happened. I’d been vocal about it. More vocal than I thought I’d be comfortable with, but he really hadn’t given me an option. There was no way I could have stayed quiet during that.
He stood up
and grabbed a towel. Wiped off his face. And then he dropped his pants. And pulled off his shirt.
Every single part of him was rock hard. He must have had, like, two percent body fat or something. I could actually see all six parts of his six pack. I’d never been with a man who looked anything like him. He slid on a condom.
As he got closer I saw more. I saw scars, all over him. Big ones and little ones. Scratches and stabs. There were still several fresh bruises on his skin, I can only assume from recent fights.
He pushed me down the bed, so my head rested on his pillow. He planted his hands firmly on either side of my curvy body. I felt it brush against me, and then press, and then all of the sudden it was inside of me. He went fully deep - filling me up and make my eyes roll back in my head.
I was still wearing my shirt, but he pulled it up as he began thrusting. He unclipped my bra and touched me - I’m so sensitive there.
We stared into each other’s eyes and I bit my lip. It was almost too much. What he’d done to me before, and now this. Him. Inside of me. Every inch of his body as hard as a statue. The same fluid, expert motion that he’d performed on that punching bag. But now the mission wasn’t destruction. It was pleasure.
I could feel his arousal growing inside as he stared down at me. He started going so fast. I didn’t mind - there was plenty of wetness. He muscular body had no barriers in this regard. He didn’t need to slow down or take breaks. He pumped away at full speed, letting the pleasure build up inside as I writhed and gasped beneath him.
Then it began. Throbbing at first. And growth. I didn’t think it was possible for him to grow anymore, but then he did. And again. And again. Stretching me wide open inside, reaching parts of me that had never been touched before.
Suddenly his body began to convulse. And for the first time, his rhythm faltered. It was too much. It felt too good for his pace to remain perfect. The throbbing sensation turned to pumping, as he pressed himself as deep into me as possible, the final culmination of our agreement sending shivers down my spine.
He held himself deep inside of me for a moment, and then looked down at me with a smile. He looked different. Satisfied. All that pent-up energy that he’d been left with after the short fight had been used up. He was finished.
Never Choose Flight (A Fighter Romance Novel) Page 2
