Feint and Misdirection

by Helena Maeve

  “At first,” he said. “If you put in a convincing enough effort, I’d let you climb into bed beside me and put my fingers in your cunt.” The final consonant rang out sharply, like the swat of his hand against Imogen’s ass.

  She placed her own fingers delicately over her mound, feeling her muscles clench in anticipation. “And what if I asked for more than just your fingers?” Imogen wondered. “Would you give in?”

  “Perhaps… But not before I made sure you couldn’t move your hands from the bedposts. I’d have you at my mercy, those strong legs of yours tied with a spreader bar,” Jaime growled. “You’d be begging me to go faster, to let you come—”

  “Please,” Imogen whimpered, rocking her hips forward and up to take more than the tips of her fingers into her pussy. She imagined Jaime’s hand instead of her own, his tongue on her clit instead of the heel of her palm, and felt a warm wave spill through her body in a delicious torrent.

  “Are you stroking yourself, Imogen?”

  She couldn’t lie, not even if she’d wanted to. “Y-yeah. It feels so good—”

  “Does it? Tell me what it’s like. Are you fucking yourself with your fingers?”

  Imogen groaned, closing her knees around her hand. “Yes.” She had barely touched herself and she already felt like she was teetering on the edge. “I’m picturing your hands instead of mine. I-I wonder how you’d touch me. If you’d fuck me hard and fast… If you’d take your time.”

  “I’d tease you, at first,” said Jaime. “I’d want to feel your cunt squeezing down around my fingers before I pulled them out and watched you writhe and plead for me. I’d kiss my way up your body while you tried to break loose from your bonds…”

  It was almost too much, but Imogen found it within herself to gasp, “And-and after that?” She could see herself splayed out and struggling on his bed while Jaime loomed over her with almost detached curiosity. He’d play her like a spinet before he let her find her pleasure. The thought was heady, overwhelming.

  “I’d stroke my fingers into you again. Faster this time,” Jaime said, a note of urgency in his voice, like he was straining for something. “I’d watch your pretty mouth fall open. You’d worry it was just another one of my tricks, but then you’d feel it, the scrape of my finger against your clit.”

  “Oh, fuck,” Imogen swore. She nearly dropped the phone as she pressed the heel of her palm down against that bundle of nerves at the summit of her sex, reveling in the pleasure that skittered ferociously down her spine. It was a zing of electricity, her whole body singing with it as she rode the sensation into the hazy, breathless tremors of an orgasm.

  She came like that, with Jaime’s breaths loud in her ear and his moans joining hers in a long distance chorus. She felt her cunt clench tight around her fingers, every aftershock tearing another treacherous little gasp from her throat, until, exhausted, Imogen collapsed back into the sheets.

  Jaime had gone quiet on the other end of the line.

  “So…that was hot,” Imogen murmured. “Wasn’t it hot?”

  “I have to wash sheets now,” said Jaime. She could picture his sardonic grin, the slant of his eyebrows. A pang of loneliness crept into her belly as she suddenly wished she could roll over and find herself in the warm shelter of his arms.

  “Come to the fight tomorrow night,” she breathed instead.

  Jaime was silent for the space of a heartbeat? “You sure? Russ didn’t seem very—”

  “Russ will learn to live with it,” Imogen said, animated by conviction she didn’t particularly feel. She only knew that she wanted Jaime there in case she was knocked out of the competition and that, with the sweet bliss of her climax still blurring the sharper edges of her predicament, she didn’t feel too proud to ask him.

  “Okay. If that’s what you want.” He didn’t sound certain, but something told Imogen he wouldn’t renege on his promise. He would be there to watch her fall—or win, however unlikely that was.

  “I should get cleaned up,” Imogen mused. ”I’m getting sticky…”

  Jaime chuckled. “All right, I’ll leave you to it. And, Imogen? Don’t worry about tomorrow. You’re going home with me whatever happens.”

  “Oh, I will, will I? You cocky bastard.” However incredulous, there was no heat in Imogen’s retort. She hung up feeling lighter than she had when she’d picked up the phone. Sex had something with it, but a part of it Imogen was sure she owed to Jaime.

  He had a calming presence and a voice like velvet. What hot-blooded woman wouldn’t fall for him?

  Imogen stilled abruptly, phone still clutched in one hand. Was that what she was doing? It felt like someone had dunked a bucket of cold water down the back of her shirt. She couldn’t afford a love affair right now. There was every chance she’d get beaten to a pulp in the next two fights, that she would be eliminated from the tournament with nothing to show for it.

  Jaime was sweet and attentive, but the thought of him being interested in a McDonald’s waitress seemed like fiction. No doubt he found excitement in sleeping with a woman like her, but that was purely carnal. They didn’t talk. They didn’t have friends in common. When Imogen went to the gym to train, Jaime disappeared into the chrome-and-glass towers of the corporate world.

  I’m a fling for him, Imogen told herself. Nothing good could come of wishing for more.

  Chapter Six

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?” Desiree asked for the umpteenth time. “All these broads come with a coterie of people and you only ever have Russell… I’m pretty sure I have a cheerleader’s outfit around here somewhere.”

  It was a sweet offer, but Imogen shook her head. “You have to work. One of us should keep a steady job. Something tells me I’ll start fixing up my résumé in a few hours…”

  “Stop talking like you’re going to lose. You’re not going to lose.”

  There was certitude born of fact and there was Desiree’s staunch faith in her own version of events regardless of the evidence. Imogen said nothing as she tied up her laces and tucked the loose ends.

  Desiree sighed. “What does Russ say?” Considering her dislike for him, it was telling that she asked.

  “He thinks I have a shot—”

  “See?” Des snapped her fingers. “What did I tell you? You’re worrying for nothing!”

  “—but he’d say I have a shot against Mike Tyson if it meant getting me into the ring,” Imogen finished with an apathetic smirk. “It’s not a rosy picture, Des. Chernayevska’s got nerves of steel. She’s impossible to rattle.” The one time Luz had done it, the victory had been hard-won in the last stretch of a five-round fight. Most other fighters would’ve lost their patience by then and spent themselves trying to snag a quick triumph from the jaws of defeat.

  Therein lay the rub. The more they gave Chernayevska the run-around, the more they grew tired, antsy.

  “Nearly impossible,” Desiree corrected. She bounded from the bed to squint at her reflection in the mirror above Imogen’s dresser. “Oh, God, I’m breaking out.”

  “Stress’ll do that.”

  Desiree nodded. “So how about you stop stressing me out? The last thing I want is to end up revisiting puberty…especially since I have a date tonight.”

  “The stripper? Again?”

  “Sounds dirty when you put it like that,” Desiree said, folding her arms across her chest. “Do we need to have the talk again?”

  Imogen shook her head. Better to avoid opening that can of worms and being reminded that flinging mud at folks on account of their profession was wrong. She didn’t have room to talk—the man she was maybe-seeing had made his fortunes on Wall Street.

  “I’m sorry,” Imogen said. “Honest, I’m just—okay, maybe I am a little freaked out.”

  That was putting it mildly. There had been moments in the past hours when she’d felt like packing her bags and moving back in with her parents. She could abandon the dream, but she had harder time giving up on Russell.

>   Desiree squeezed her into a tight hug. “You’re going to be awesome. And I’m going to make the whole club watch, whether they want to or not.”

  The doorbell shrilled before Imogen could muster a thank you that wouldn’t involve her blubbering all over Desiree’s silk shirt.

  “I think that’s your ride.” Des kissed her square on the lips. “Give ’em hell, tiger.”

  “You know, it’s times like these I understand why neither of us has any friends…” Imogen grinned, far from surprised when that earned her a raised middle finger. She snagged her hoodie and tugged it on just as she was opening the door.

  Russ appeared in the gap, his hulking form filling the doorway like a celestial body blotting out the sun. “You ready?” He was wearing a cardigan over a cheap cotton tee, his hands thrust deep into his pockets. Not exactly MMA attire, but it would have to do.

  Imogen brushed the hair from her eyes and nodded. She was determined not to think about the last time Russ had been here or how he’d wound up in her bed.

  “Make sure my girl doesn’t break anything,” Desiree called out as they were making their way down the stairs.

  “That’s her job,” Russell shot back, gruff as he always seemed to be around Desiree. Imogen was in no mood to navigate their relationship—and too wary of taking sides when she so desperately needed Russ on hers. She was relieved when they hit the street, a sentiment that quickly morphed into disbelief when she saw the white stretch limo idling incongruously by the curb.

  “Is that—? I think I’m having a seizure.”

  Russell huffed out a breath. “Get in.”

  “That’s my ride?” Imogen gaped at him. Sure enough, a white-gloved chauffeur had stepped out of the front seat and was rounding the car to open the back door.

  A couple of street kids were gawking from the other side of the road and Imogen could only imagine what the neighbors might say. I knew those girls were hookers would probably be in the top three. She imagined Des drawing a parallel between this—impossible, expensive—luxury ride and the final scenes of Pretty Woman. It was a sobering thought.

  Imogen picked her jaw up off the tarmac and scooted her way into the backseat. She managed to keep silent for a respectable thirty seconds before the dam broke. “How did you afford this?” It must’ve cost a pretty penny and she knew better than anyone the financial difficulties Russell was battling.

  “I was owed a favor,” he said, sliding in beside her. Discomfort radiated from him in waves, but it wasn’t enough to placate Imogen’s bewilderment.

  “From what? The mob?” She stretched out over the leather backseat. She had never before ridden in a car so roomy that she could stretch out her legs and arms like a starfish. “I feel like I’m in Hollywood!”

  The car lurched slowly into motion, more like a bus than Jaime’s BMW.

  “This way you can’t complain that folks won’t notice you,” Russell said, sidestepping her questions more or less artfully. “Let me know when you’re ready to talk about the fight.”

  “Sorry, you know how I react to shiny new toys.” Besides, what was wrong with a little excitement? Imogen settled more comfortably into her seat. “I feel like I should be wearing a silk robe and walk out to O Fortuna or something…”

  Russell shot her a withering glance. “Because you’re to turn us into a sideshow?”

  He could be cruel when the mood struck him, but it was tension that made his more abrasive side come out. Imogen’s smile dimmed. “You’re terrified, aren’t you?”

  “Spare me the armchair psych—”

  “You think I’m going to lose.” There was no call to raise her voice. She did it anyway. She had listened to Jaime’s encouragement and Desiree’s strongly worded assurances, but neither of them wielded half as much power over her as Russell. Knowing he had written her off already was a sobering thought.

  To his credit, he didn’t deny it.

  They were silent for the rest of the ride. Imogen could barely stand to glance out of the tinted windows as the scenery changed from derelict shop fronts tagged by generations of vandals to billboards and glimmering streetlights. Chicago was a city of contrasts, of extreme hardship and penthouses like Jaime’s, and there was room in it for stretch limos and rumbling wrecks held together with duct tape and willpower—much like the people themselves.

  “You’re wrong,” Imogen said as the crowds outside the Coliseum came into view. The stream of traffic was ebbing one way, but she still thought of salmon swimming upstream as the white limo lumbered closer and closer to the wide double doors.

  “Wrong about what?” Russell asked. There was genuine confusion in his eyes, none of that reverse psychology crap he’d attempted early on in their partnership, before he’d realized there were hyenas more amenable to being led than Imogen.

  “We’re going to win,” she said, as they came to a stop.

  She stepped out before Russell’s expression could mark her for a liar.

  * * * *

  The click-clack of footsteps outside the locker room door had Imogen perking her head up like a dog hoping to catch sight of its master.

  “Five minutes,” said the usher. His neon yellow T-shirt was an affront to fashion.

  Imogen despised it on sight.

  Russell scowled as soon as they were alone. “Are you waiting for someone?”

  “No.” It wasn’t the most convincing lie she’d ever uttered and her tone gave her away, but Imogen had no desire to share. Not now. They had been doing a great job practicing silence.

  For a moment, she could embrace the comfortable illusion that Russell’s convenient taciturnity would help in that regard, but then he sighed, cleared his throat and said, “If you want to call your boyfriend, now’s the time to do it.” He wasn’t wrong. In less than five minutes she would be in the ring and getting in touch with Jaime would reasonably be the last thing on her mind.

  “You know, I don’t know if he is.”

  “What?” Russell asked, furrowing his brows.

  “My boyfriend,” Imogen reasoned. “I’ve slept with him a few times, sure, but if that were the litmus test for dating someone, then you and I would be practically married by now.” She arched her brows. “Right?”

  “I don’t know that now is the best time to define the parameters of your romantic relationship…”

  “Yeah, but if I don’t do it now, then I may go into the ring thinking I’ve got a cushy place to land whatever the outcome. We wouldn’t want that.” Imogen righted herself, digging her bruised elbow into the wooden bench. “What do you think?”

  “About the outcome?”

  “About me and Jaime,” she corrected, rolling her eyes. “Come on, I know you have an opinion. You’ve been huffing and puffing ever since he came into the picture. I keep waiting for you to challenge him to a duel.” It must’ve been the adrenaline talking because Imogen could barely believe the words coming out of her mouth. “Does it bug you that I’m fucking him?” She reveled in the vulgarity of the question more than she did the sight of Russell’s shuttering expression.

  He stood from his seat, lips pursed as though he would rather be chewing sand. “You should warm up. We’ll be heading in any second now.”

  Imogen didn’t push her luck. She had a vested interest in getting through this fight, same as Russell, and she was going to prove that his doubts were unwarranted.

  Finding Chernayevska already waiting in the ring took the wind out of her sails a little, but not enough to slow her steps. Imogen submitted to the final check by the ref, happy to show that she wasn’t concealing nails or razors anywhere on her persona. She was no cheat.

  The judges waved her into the ring and the cloud of anticipation dispelled. The semi-final was hers to lose.

  “Don’t let her get to you,” Russell said from the other side of the chain-link fence. “Keep your distance, all right?”

  Relax, I’ve got this. It wasn’t fear of sounding arrogant that kept her silent, but the piece
of plastic in her mouth. Imogen bit down and stepped up to meet her opponent.

  In real life, Chernayevska was even taller than she seemed on screen. She must’ve been five-seven, five-eight, which for an average-sized woman wouldn’t have been such a problem, but Imogen was only five-one and she felt the disadvantage keenly as they touched gloves.

  Chernayevska blew her a kiss just as the claxon rang out to the tune of thunderous cheers. Mendoza’s supporters had come out in force—against Chernayevska and in favor of Imogen.

  I have fans. She was giddy with the thought before she put it completely out of her mind to concentrate on earning their support for more reason than the woman she was fighting.

  The first twenty, thirty seconds were spent dodging in and out of reach of Chernayevska’s long arms. Imogen parried the blows with her forearms, ducking when it was easier and sneaking in a kick or two of her own. She aimed the sharp jabs at Chernayevska’s gut. Her success was trivial. Chernayevska darted back after the third attempt, having decoded Imogen’s plans, adapting to deny her satisfaction.

  She was clever. Imogen noticed only too late that she was being goaded into attacking while Chernayevska settled comfortably on the defensive and by then she was already breathing hard. Chernayevska planted a kick into the meat of her thigh, sending tendrils of pain arcing up her spine.

  Imogen blocked a second attempt, but she couldn’t catch the left cross that followed it. The claxon couldn’t sound quickly enough.

  She staggered back to her corner with one ear ringing and what felt like the mother of all bruises blooming on her thigh.

  Russell materialized into view with a much-needed drink of water. “She’s making you work for it.”

  “Isn’t she, though? Fuck, my head hurts. Am I bleeding?”

  “No,” Russ said, folding the towel he’d used to dab at the slimy, hot trickle seeping down her neck. He was more worried than Imogen had seen him in a long time. “What’s the plan, buttercup?”