by Nicole Snow
Moral support? I don't fucking need it. I'm used to doing everything myself. I know what the old man thinks of my shit, and I resigned myself to blazing my own path a long time ago.
This isn't about that. This is about an invitation to sort out our problems with raw, hard, frequent fucking. It's the best medicine – hell, the only medicine – I've ever known since my balls started pumping come.
I sink backward against the wall, so wound up I'm about to explode. I'm gonna run and punch and swim myself into a goddamned coma before she comes home. We both know what's on the line.
And the idea I might actually get what I want makes my muscles tremble 'til I stop and clench everything from head to toe.
If Claire gives me a yes tonight, then she might as well sneak into my room, strip off everything except those bitching heels, and straddle my face.
If she says yes, it's only gonna feed the fire. It won't really resolve shit between us.
Yeah, I'm a bastard for lying, but she's a smart girl. We know damned well there's no extinguishing this shit once it gets going without us all over each other, every fucking hour.
I grab my dick one more time and lick my lips, heading for the gym. I've never wanted to know what a girl tastes like this bad while I'm warming her up to fuck.
Before the weekend's gone, I swear I'm gonna find out.
I don't hear shit. I shouldn't be surprised.
By evening, right before I'm supposed to head to Club Zing for the match, I'm going berserk. I'm scared for my opponent in the ring, and whatever skanks I find after it's done.
I'm gonna fucking kill somebody tonight, and it's all because of her.
Little Miss Perfect, the only woman who can't be bothered to give me the goddamned time of day. Little Miss Perfect, chickenshit as she is hot, the most infuriating bitch on the face of the earth. Little Miss Perfect, who won't stop burning up my balls, even when she's leaving me high and dry.
I'm seething. I nearly rip my clothes dressing, feeling the lust and disappointment come raging into my knuckles.
There's a knock at my door, and for a second, I stop. Could it be?
I fling it the fuck open and my heart dives like a hawk. There's my old man standing there, a sour look on his face.
Goddamn. This isn't the night. If he wags his finger at me, I swear I'll break the fucking thing right off.
“What's up, Dad?” It's all I can manage without letting out my volcanic smoke.
“Message from Claire, relayed through Mandy. She asked me to come down here and tell you myself.”
Now, my ears are up. I step aside, letting him into my room. He hardly ever comes into this space, and he can't hide his disdain either. He takes one look at my messy bed and the gloves I use for practice, and turns up his nose.
Fucking asshole. Messenger or not, some things never change.
“Your sister says she'll be at your club tonight. It's just taking her a little longer than usual to get home from work. She's doing overtime today for the internship.” He says it like it's supposed to mean something to me.
“Whatever, Pops. So am I. You think these charity things aren't good for business? I'm all about giving as much as the next guy with a heart, but it's good for building the club's cred too.”
“Ty, come on.” He slowly blinks and rushes back toward the entrance, ready to leave just as suddenly as he arrived. “I know all about the PR value a little charity brings. Spree raised fifty million a few months ago for –“
“I know. You crowed about it all over the press while I was celebrating my last birthday.”
He stops, turns, and sniffs. “Now, Son, you know I'm a very busy man. That's the price for lifting up our name and giving us this lifestyle. Someone's got to do it. There's no need to get angry.”
Not you, the fuck's preaching between the lines, throwing it in my face like he always does. He doesn't think I'll ever match his lofty heights.
Well, fuck him, I don't need to. I'm gonna live my life as more than a slave to the shareholders, and I'm sure as shit never marrying a gold digger looking for a few more cash injections to fluff her political career.
“I wasn't getting pissy about it. I'm a big boy, Dad. It's not like I need you to light the candles on my cake. Don't need your help running my club either. I know what works.”
“Of course you do, Ty. I'll be right behind you whenever you announce an expansion in the near future.” He cocks his head slightly, knowing I've refused that shit a thousand times. “Try not to bring your sister home drunk or damaged. She's a good girl. Much too good for this family, I'm afraid.”
There's no point to screaming in his face. I grab the door and slam it so hard in his face it rattles the whole basement. I'm lucky it didn't break the frame or splinter the wood – wouldn't be the first time.
I wait 'til my old man's footsteps are on the stairs before I move. Shit, I haven't even had time to think about what he said.
She's gonna be there. She's accepted my invitation. That's something, yeah? Even if she's either too busy or chickenshit to say it to my face.
Fuck. It's happening.
I finish packing up my shit, polishing my little speech to the donors from a few notes I've scribbled on my desk, and then I'm gone. I'm not gonna blow tonight and squander this chance to get my lips all over the hottest chick I've ever met.
The weekend traffic going into Seattle slows me down. I'm roaring into my private parking space with less than ten minutes to spare. My boys meet me at the door and start ushering me to the back.
Ed, Mike, and Tommy keep this place in one piece when I'm away. They've been my brothers since high school, and the only thing that keeps this place from running on auto-pilot without me are their own egos butting heads. That's why I've put the big Swede over them as head manager, a guy named Karl.
It's like half a dozen people are trying to talk at once amid the endless clatter of their phones going off.
“Shut the fuck up, guys! One at a time, and nobody speaks if it's not important,” I finally say, coming to a dead stop in the middle of the hall, ripping off my shirt and pants. I strip down to nothing but the trunks I'm wearing into the ring.
Nobody says shit. Yeah, that's what I thought. Just a bunch of overeager friends jockeying for my attention. I'm used to it by now, but it still gets grating before I head into the ring.
“I'm ready to go. Karl!” I point to the muscular Swede with blonde hair and baby blue eyes just slightly duller than mine. “You're telling me what's what. Is everything out there set, without any problems?”
“Sure is, boss. The turnout's looking fantastic. Fat Boy wanted to say a few words before you climbed in together, but it doesn't look like there'll be time for that.”
I nod, remembering my opponent's moniker. I don't study up on this shit beforehand because I like a surprise, a challenge. I don't use those silly fucking wrestling names either.
Maybe it's a good thing the guys on the receiving end of my fists do because it always seems to go over well with the crowd. As for me, I'm just Ty, undefeated owner who keeps bringing these hungry bastards in, trying to knock me out.
They always lose, and that's not changing tonight. I'm the one who wins, and so does my club and the charity we're raising cold hard cash for.
“What about the chick I texted you about?” He shakes his head like hasn't gotten the message. “Find her and make sure she's safe and sound in her VIP box. That's Claire Frost, my new step-sister. I gotta know she's safe and sound, without any hitches.”
“I'm on it.” He breaks and starts running down the hall.
A couple guys are at my side, and they walk with me toward the big door leading into the storage area behind the bar. It's the only place big enough to accommodate the ring and several hundred chairs. The back of the club's an old, heavily remodeled theater, and it could've seated twice the crowd in its prime.
My boys open up the big door and I walk through with my fists in the air. People flip the fuc
k out and come close to bursting their lungs, guys and their gals alike. There's lots of scanty clad sluts in low tops and even lower skirts lining my path. They all reach out and brush their drunken nails over my skin while I walk past. They must think I'm a lucky fucking charm, or else they've got some magic touch that'll make me climb into bed with 'em later tonight.
Most nights, they'd be right. Many times, I've simply gone down the ranks and chosen two or three girls for the night.
But if Claire's out there, just like she said, then...there's no fucking way. There's just one woman I'm interested in bedding tonight, and I'm focusing all my energy on her sweet ass like a goddamned laser.
I bound up the steps and swing through the ropes. Fat Boy's already in his corner.
He's about five years older than me and he's got a gut like a medicine ball. Chubby or not, the dude has arms and legs as big as mine with huge veins popping out. Reminds me of those gorilla-like Russians you used to see competing in weight lifting world championships.
The spotlights shine blinding bright. The crowd's screaming. Those lights are hot too, like miniature suns beating down on my skin in the desert. I start to sweat as I look around.
The referee comes out in an old timey striped shirt, shoving a microphone into my hand. He's more announcer than referee, but again, everything's about appearances here. Whatever it takes to rile up the crowd, keep the money flowing, and make damned sure the name Club Zing winds up burned in their frigging skulls is game.
“Yo, the air's humid as fuck up here,” I growl, letting the reverberations sweep over the crowd and bring them to silence. “I said – it's thick. Swampy. Suffocating. Ladies and gentleman, I'm gonna give you a fight that'll blow your hair back, and I need each and every one of you to make it rain tonight. Let's cool this motherfucker down.”
Laughter rings out. I've still got my money clip strategically placed on my trunks. I rip it off and walk over to an attendant, not far from the side that gives me a direct view of the VIP seating.
“You hear that shit?” I wait 'til he holds up the collection plate.
That's right. We use collection plates, just like in church, except ours are silver plated and managed by boys who'll start cracking the skulls of anybody who thinks about stealing one red cent.
“You hear that, ladies and gentleman?” I slam fifties and hundreds in, one after another. “That's the patter of rain, friends. Tink-tink-tink-tink-fucking-tink! But why the hell's it so lonely up here? Why the fuck am I the only bastard making noise? I'm not looking for a little sprinkle tonight. Fat Boy and I need a goddamned deluge! Stand up, open your wallets, crack your purses, and let it fucking pour!”
I scream the last line. The crowd goes wild. In the commotion of people standing up, milling around, and digging for their cash, I see her. My eyes lock.
Claire's there in her box, sitting next to Karl. She looks totally out of place in her professional blouse and skirt. She's dressed too smart for Club Zing, but just smart enough to set my dick on edge.
Fucking shit. Her soft pink lips pull up in a bashful smile. I wonder if she can see my dick springing to life, pressing against my trunks. Hell, if the crowd weren't going apeshit, they'd see it too.
I decide right then I don't give a fuck. Not one.
If the thousand people jammed in here want to see the hard-on I've got for my Sis, then they will. It only matters to Claire and me. We're the only ones who'll remember after the fight. The instant I get down to business with Fat Boy, they'll forget all about what's flexing below the belt.
“Keep it coming, you crazy motherfuckers!” I roar, listening to my voice break in the speakers. “I wanna hear your pockets turn inside out before this night's over! I wanna see moths flying outta your clothes!” They love the shit talk, so I pour it on.
Then I tear my eyes away from Claire. It's not easy because I can still feel her locked onto me, even when my back's turned. Unfortunately, business calls.
I walk up to Fat Boy and give him a shallow, respectful nod. He stares at me glumly.
Fine, jackoff. Be that way.
Some of these guys are like that. Charity events aren't supposed to be career builders, but some of these assholes treat it that way. Any man who punches out Ty Sterner, heir to daddy's billions, is guaranteed some wild media ass kissing.
“I hope you've brought your game, big ace. Club Zing doesn't quit rockin' 'til one us is flat and we've broken a few records with our money storm.” I spin around, facing the crowd again. “Don't stop! Keep it the fuck coming! We've got some sick kids out there tonight who need that shit way more than any sorry fucks here do.”
Tug at their conscience. Pluck their heartstrings. Bully them 'til I get the nod from Karl out in the boxes – the one that lets me know we've shattered our old record.
It's persuasion 101. And it's going to a good cause too. We're supporting the local children's hospitals tonight, and everything we raise gets split between research and boosting quality of life.
Fat Boy's still not talking. Usually, my rivals get in on the act and join me, but I don't think this fucker's here for charity. He's here to rumble for glory, and nothing else.
The referee crawls back in the center, waiting for me. I give everybody one more roar of thanks, push the mic into the ref's hands, and watch as Fat Boy lumbers up to the center.
“It's the moment you've all been waiting for!” The old man in the pinstripes shouts. “If you've been here before, folks, then you already know the rules – there aren't any 'til a man goes down! Anything, and I mean anything, can happen tonight! Will we see our boss pull out another big win, or is this the first night Club Zing gains a new reigning champion?”
More explosions from the crowd. It's so loud my eardrums are about to break. Good, because that means more money flowing in too. There's a direct, no shit correlation between decibels and dollars. Judging by the noise, tonight's gonna be a bank buster.
I take one last quick look at Claire, surrounded by all the chaos. Her eyes are big, excited, pleading. I can't tell if she's getting into the fight, or if it's the hunger she showed me the other morning on steroids.
“No more talk! Keep those dollars flowing, folks, and pop your last few cents when it's all over.” The ref pauses and looks at us carefully before he says the last important line. “Let's. Fucking. Go!”
Ref gives us both a nod and steps back, sinking toward the edge. He's really there for show, and to officially put an end to the fight when I've laid out another bastard.
There are no rules in this box short of killing a man.
Fat Boy looks like he wants to do exactly that. The big bastard lunges and swings, strong but slow. I dodge and get off a few good whacks at his side.
I can practically see the steam shooting out his ears. He hops up and charges me like a bull. This time, he's a little faster.
It's like a screaming meteor slamming into me. I hit the floor, and the next thing I feel are fists landing on my face. It's seriously like a three hundred pound bear squatting on my chest, holding me down, pounding me right in the fucking face, over and over and over.
Thinking about Claire all the time's put me off my game. I've left myself open.
I rock up with all my might, punch him right in his saggy gut. Fat Boy grunts and topples off. His weight works to my advantage while I'm struggling to get on my feet. The audience starts to scream when I stand up, and the whole damned world's spinning.
Something hot and thick trickles all the way down to my chest. I realize he's given me a bad nose bleed, something no other man in this ring has ever managed.
Fuck.
I can't let it stop me. I charge the asshole just as he's getting up, beaming his dark boar eyes at me. I should have a dead bullzeye on the back of his head.
I'm ready to pound him flat now if I have to, ending the fight early. It's not ideal for donations, but the crowd just cares about the excitement. They'll spend the rest of the night re-hashing a five minute fight and
throwing down more money at the bar if it's exciting enough. Then I can throw a good portion at the children's fund.
The boulder in front of me moves. He rolls right into me when I'm coming at him, and I go crashing on the floor, one inch away from smashing my tender face.
Mother-fuck. I should've seen it coming.
I also should've known Fat Boy isn't moving an inch further than he needs to. Before I can force my bruised elbows to get my ass up, he's on me again, throwing his fists into my abs. He hits me so hard I choke, knocking my wind out, holding his ass on my legs so my desperate attempts to break out are total failures.
Christ. He's gonna fucking do it, I realize, as soon as the blows I'm trying to block start getting through, smashing me in the face.
There's a ringing sound like the end of the world. Everything goes black.
I'm drowning. Falling into an empty, desolate, bottomless pit. For some reason, I'm not that concerned about being beaten or even dying.
What really, really pisses me off is the idea that I'm about to leave this world without ever having Claire. I need to taste her. Need to feel her. Need to fuck her.
I can't let it end like this. I can't go down. I can't humiliate myself and leave before I've done everything I mean to in this life – starting with her.
Is there more to this weird shit between us than lust? I need to think about it, and I mean seriously fucking think. But not 'til I gasp awake and find myself with my neck snapped to the side, drool and blood streaming out my mouth.
The referee's face is crooked, upside down. He's standing over me, giving Fat Boy an uneasy look, like he's about to call it so the fucker doesn't murder me.
These fights are rough, brutal, and borderline illegal because it brings us crowds like nobody else. Too bad my whole damned operation will be in hot water if anybody suffers a serious injury here tonight, much less a dead owner.
I think about my asshole father, standing over me in the hospital, gloating like the summer sun. Congresswoman wifey'll be at his side, giving me that fake sympathy she does so well. And she'll have all the confirmation that I'm scum underneath it, a fucking moron who couldn't stand flirting with danger.
