Choosing Henley

by Anne Jolin

  “Give me a kiss and let’s go inside. We’re going to be late.” He stands there expectantly as I stare at him. “Doll…” he trails off.

  I feel my willpower dissipating rapidly as I look into his baby blues.

  I give in—like I’ve done so many times this last month—and wrap my arms around his neck. After pecking him lightly on the lips, I level my green gaze at him. “Don’t touch me like that again, Kyle. I’m not some rag doll you can throw around. I’m your girlfriend. Are we clear?”

  “You know I’d never hurt you.” His voice is sugary sweet, dripping with honey just like every other time he’s apologized after scaring me. Each apology more convincing than the last.

  I open my mouth to say something else when the heavy, metal door no less than ten feet away slams against the brick alley wall. A few tipsy socialites who, I’m guessing, came down here to ‘slum it’ or take a walk on the wild side stumble out into the darkness, talking at a rapid-fire pace about someone called CM.

  I feel Kyle’s hand settle into the small of my back as he leads us towards the closing door. He catches it with his opposite hand and opens it to reveal a hulking black man. I try to refrain from letting my eyeballs bug out of my head at the sight of him. I’m almost certain that the man’s biceps alone could literally be used to crush skulls.

  “Name,” he huffs out, looking directly at Kyle and ignoring me.

  “Kyle Nathaniel Davis the third,” he answers.

  I can see the Hulk roll his eyes before he directs them down to his clipboard. “Buy in. 3K.” It’s less of a question and more of a statement as he opens his palm.

  Kyle reaches into his pocket, pulling out what looks like a roll of hundreds, before placing it in the bouncer’s outstretched palm. The Hulk quickly counts it before speaking again.

  “Go to the end of the hall. It’s the first door on the left,” he clips out, stepping aside to let us by.

  I grip the back of Kyle’s dress shirt as we follow the directions he gave. The hallway is nearly pitch black, but as we get closer, I can feel a pounding bass under my feet.

  It isn’t unlike Kyle to drag me along with him to a number of weird events. He is filthy rich, and so are his friends. They love to gamble and drop money fast enough to make your head spin. To anyone without a trust fund, their pastimes seem completely absurd. But nothing could have prepared me for this.

  “What are we doing here?” I question, shivering inwardly at the rank smell of the old building.

  “You’ll see.” He chuckles again, gripping the handle of another steel door and throwing it open.

  My eyes are temporarily blinded by the light flooding the room, my ears assaulted with a combination of wild screams and the distinct rifts of metal music. Kyle starts to move through the crowd as a repeating line blasts through the speakers. “Let the bodies hit the floor. Let the bodies hit the floor. Let the bodies hit the floor.” Each time, the repeat is followed by what sounds like a growl into the microphone.

  I choke back a cough as we pass through a cloud of cigarette smoke, waving my free hand in front of my face in an attempt at fresh air. We descend down a short, metal staircase into the bowels of the building’s basement. Set in the middle of what looks like a concrete prison is a large boxing ring. Ten rows nearest the front contain folding-chair seating while the rest looks like standing-room only.

  I hear a catcall to my left and turn to find a potbellied biker giving me the once-over.

  “I’d like to taste you.” He smacks his lips, reaching out a finger to stroke my thigh.

  I plaster myself closer into Kyle’s back as he continues to push through the people, oblivious to my exchange with the leather rat. It’s not lost on me that, although his hand is in mine, our bodies merely inches apart, I don’t feel safe with him in this dragons’ den.

  The chorus rings through the speakers flanking the ring again. “Let the bodies hit the floor. Let the bodies hit the floor. Let the bodies hit the floor,” and I realize that I’ve heard it before. It’s “Bodies” by Drowning Pool. My little brother Kai went through a brief metal phase. It isn’t the first time I’ve felt like my ears are bleeding to this song.

  The bass vibrates in my chest as we approach our seats in the front row. It’s a requirement of Kyle’s to always have the best no matter what it is we are doing. I see a few of his trust-fund buddies huddled together, exchanging wads of cash with a shady-looking old man. If Sean Connery were a serial killer, I imagine this man is what he would look like. I don’t bother saying anything to them. Kyle doesn’t like it when they talk to me, and quite frankly, I can barely hear myself think let alone try to converse with anyone else.

  Kyle points to the seat on the end, holding up his hand to signal ‘one minute,’ before he disappears into the group of gambling men. I sit down on the folded chair, crossing and uncrossing my legs uncomfortably. I feel naked and completely overdressed at the same time. My black, strapless dress suddenly feels too short and fancy. My Louboutin shoes make me appear ridiculous as I take in the filth of this makeshift arena. I said that Kyle always has to have the best—that goes for me looking my best as well. It’s not a far cry from who I am naturally, but that doesn’t stop him from enjoying dressing me up exactly how he likes me.

  The music stops and my ears say a silent prayer as the announcer steps into the ring. “Ladies and gentleman”—he pauses for dramatic effect—“welcome to The Underground!” he shouts, and the crowd surrounding me roars to life. “We have a special treat for you this evening,” he brags, drawing out what I assume is going to be his punch line. “The brawl you’ve all been dying to see.”

  I’m irritated by the short, bald man who continues to taunt the crowd. I’d yell at him to get on with it already, but Kyle doesn’t like outbursts of any kind, especially not in public.

  “Coming to us from our neighbors down south, from the home of the brave, from Seattle, I give you”—the lights dim and a spotlight appears on the hallway farthest from me to my left—“Mack Truck!” he roars into the microphone as Tupac’s “Ghost” pumps out of the speakers.

  The crowd is a mixture of cheering and booing as the first competitor makes his entrance into the ring. He’s a brute in every description of the word. Mack Truck—What a ridiculous name—is over six feet tall, and every inch is bulky muscle. He has a phoenix tattoo that wraps around his neck, and as he grins at the audience, I notice that he’s missing a few teeth. Mr. Truck is not an attractive man, and I would not want to be caught in a dark room alone with him. The competitor parades around the ring, soaking in his own glory.

  The music cuts off again and the spotlight appears on the hallway to my right. The announcer speaks again. “Here he is. Our hometown hero. Our rags-to-riches story. Ladies, hold on to your panties!”

  As if on cue, the women in the crowd shriek and begin to literally toss their panties towards the ring.

  “You’re a bunch of naughty girls. You never listen,” the little, bald announcer croons at them. “But I’ll give you what you’ve been waiting for anyway”—he winks at them—“the undefeated champion of our underground. I give you Cinderella Man!” He barely has the last words out before the crowd erupts into a frenzy.

  The stomping of feet beneath me literally shakes my chair, and I’m caught off guard as rather large D cup bra slaps me in the face. Everyone in this shithole is standing, desperate to get a look at the next fighter. “Cinderella Man” by Eminem is playing at a deafening volume, the words of the song tangling together with the screaming voices of the crowd.

  I give up trying to remain in my seat and stand to get a better look. Curiosity getting the better of me, I crane my neck, and after a few seconds, he comes into view. I may have been more eagerly looking around for Russell Crowe if the sight of the man coming through the crowd didn’t completely captivate me.

  His head is bent down, the hood of his grey sweatshirt shadowing his face as he prowls towards the ring. What he does couldn’t be called walk
ing. It’s far more seductive than that. He’s wearing black shorts that hit just below the knee, and tattoos snake around the base of his left leg. His tall body bends at the waist, spreading the ropes as he steps inside the ring. His back is to me as his hands reach up to remove the grey hood, displaying jet-black hair that I imagine is slightly too long for a fighter to have. He spins slowly, as if he’s an item on the menu for the blood-thirsty crowd, and they love every second of it as they scream at him.

  I quickly look to my left to make sure Kyle isn’t paying attention to my blatant ogling of this man. Not that it’s entirely unreasonable for someone to watch this closely at a spectator sport, but nonetheless, I’m certain that he wouldn’t approve of it. I take note that he’s deeply engrossed in a conversation with one of the trust-fund babies before returning my gaze to the ring.

  I catch Cinderella in the final part of his spin as he slides the sweatshirt the rest of the way off his broad shoulders, tossing it on the floor. I can’t settle on which emotion I feel more strongly: fear or lust. He’s absolutely beautiful. Lean, hard muscle under tan skin that shows between the array of brilliant tattoos covering his body.

  I cross my legs to relieve the pressure building between my thighs as I move up his body. His strong jaw is made of the kind of steel that gives women weak knees, and his plump lips curve into a cocky grin that has the women tossing their panties into the ring. I’ve never felt this attracted to a man in my entire life, which is certainly a mistake because the man before me is equally as terrifying as he is handsome. There’s no fear behind his dark-grey eyes, and the panty-dropping smile has a menacing undertone that’s impossible to miss.

  As Eminem’s rapping begins to fade out and give way to the voices of the crowd, Cinderella’s eyes land on me. I shiver under the heat of them. Something passes behind the storm that’s brewing in his beautiful, grey depths. But no sooner than it came, it’s gone again, his face schooled back into the hauntingly gorgeous mask once again. He winks at me before turning back around.

  “There are no rules, gentleman. The man left standing wins,” the announcer says, addressing the two men, and they each nod in confirmation. “Good luck,” he offers, backing out of the ring as the bell sounds.

  This is when I notice that they aren’t wearing gloves. This is bareknuckle boxing with no rules. Jesus Christ.

  The brute starts to bounce from foot to foot as he circles around the dark-haired man I can’t seem to take my eyes off of. The man they call Cinderella is just standing there, wearing that same shit-eating grin as he was when he entered the ring. The larger man circling him looks like a lion stalking its prey, although he lacks the grace of the large cat as he swings out a choppy jab.

  Cinderella easily evades the attack, swaying backwards but unmoving from his position in the ring. He’s taunting his opponent, allowing him to get close enough to swing but never land a hit. Mack looks pissed. I imagine he doesn’t much enjoy being toyed with like this in front of the hungry crowd.

  Mack steps closer, and in a split second, it’s evident that he knows he’s made a fatal mistake—the lion instantly becoming the prey. When he swings a cross punch towards his opponent’s face, a dark chuckle fills the concrete space as Cinderella bobs down, the hit clearing just above his hair. He moves quickly after that, weaving before stepping in towards his opponent. Poised for attack.

  The cracking sound is brutal as his fist connects with side of Mack’s head in a punishing right hook. The brute stumbles backwards, his hands coming up to guard his now bleeding face. He tosses a wild elbow out in the direction of his attacker, but it only swings through air. Cinderella hits him hard in the stomach, a combination of one-two hits landing at a rapid-fire pace. Coming in on his next hook to the side, Mack grabs Cinderella by the forearm, dragging the lean fighter into a tight hold. I see Mack’s knee come up, but his opponent is too close now and the feeble hit barely connects.

  Cinderella’s head rears back before slamming into the brute’s face. The head butt is so hard that the entire room hears Mack’s nose break, and if they didn’t, the blood pouring from it is a dead giveaway. In panic, he flails, dropping his hold on Cinderella as he stumbles backwards.

  I’ve never seen anything like this fight in person, and nothing could have prepared me for it.

  “It’s almost midnight!” the crowd roars.

  Cinderella’s eyes shine as his right uppercut connects with Mack’s chin, teeth slamming together in brutal force. He grins again and a shudder courses through my body. He’s enjoying it.

  “Finish him!” they scream just as his left hook destroys the side of the brutes face. It’s a powerful hit, sending the hulking man’s body hurtling towards the ground.

  Cinderella stands over the heap that used to be his opponent, his body glistening with sweat and heaving with exertion, the white wraps on his knuckles now spattered with blood. The crowd counts to ten as the announcer steps into the ring, grabbing the victor’s tattoo-covered wrist and thrusting it into the air.

  “Remaining undefeated in The Underground. Ladies and gentleman”—the music blasts through the speakers, Eminem flooding the room again—“your winner of the final fight this evening, Cinderella Man!”

  It’s an uproar as the beautiful man spins again, letting them see his untouched body, not marred by any blows from his opponent. He looks as though he’s riding an invisible high brought on by sheer blood lust.

  Cinderella stalls for a second longer, a wild, grey stare running dangerously over the length of my body. I visibly shiver as his eyes feast on me, a blush creeping across my chest under the heat of his gaze. He winks at me again before descending from the ring back to the hallway from which he came.

  I turn to Kyle. “Is it supposed to be over that quickly?” He’s not paying attention to me, still talking with his friends, so I ask again, louder this time over the music. “Is the fight supposed to be over that quickly?” I borderline shout into his ear.

  “Jesus Christ, Betty!” he scolds, pulling his head away from mine. “You don’t need to fucking scream.” The whiskey on his breath is so strong that my nose scrunches up at the smell of it.

  I hate the stupid nickname he gave me. Betty was always the weak one in the comic books, never going after what she wanted and letting everyone walk all over her—Archie included. Kyle knows, but he uses it just to spite me anyway.

  “I was just asking,” I huff, crossing my arms over my chest and leaning back into my crappy folding chair.

  “Why do you care anyway?” he says snidely. “You don’t know shit about fighting.”

  I fight the instinct to roll my eyes since that will only piss him off further. I don’t know what his problem’s been lately. His temper has been escalating and he freaks out over even the smallest things. The line between my being his girlfriend versus a possession he owns is getting blurrier by the day.

  I don’t bother answering him—not that it matters anyway because his attention is already diverted back to his trust-fund buddies.

  We stay for nearly an hour after that. I have the creepy-crawlies from the constant flow of perverted eyes taking their fill of my bare legs. I’ve never wished I were wearing a turtleneck and sweatpants so badly in my entire life, which is saying a lot for someone as fashion forward as I am.

  The group of entitled assholes that Kyle calls his friends have been getting rowdier. Each of them, my boyfriend included, is drunk on scotch and high on violence from having watched the fight. I imagine that they all believe they are invincible. A bunch of power-hungry jackasses who think they are the next Rocky Balboa. I swear Kyle’s never as bad as he is when we are with them.

  He drapes his arm over my shoulders, tucking the arm candy that belongs to him against his side. “Well, boys, it’s time I take this stunner home to bed.”

  I ignore the slough of obnoxious comments coming from their mouths and put on my debutant smile. I’m far from a debutant. We don’t even have them in Canada, I don’t think, but no
netheless, it’s a persona I’ve become all too familiar with.

  “Always a pleasure, gentlemen,” I coo sarcastically. One of them winks at me, and Kyle growls. “Come on. Let’s go,” I tell him, running my palm over the dress shirt on his chest.

  He nods curtly and begins dragging me through the crowd. The only way out is the same way we came in—through the nasty, stench-ridden hallway. When we reach the end, the hulking bouncer with head-crushing biceps lets us out before firmly closing the door upon our exit. I’m flattening the seams of my dress from sitting for so long when I feel fingers snake around my bicep.

  “What the fuck was that?!” Kyle hisses into my ear as he locks his grip around my arm.

  I wince at the rough hold. It’s the same arm as earlier tonight and I think it’s already starting to bruise. “What the hell are you talking about?” I snap. “You’re hurting me again. Let go!” I yank my arm, but his hold is like a vise on my thin arm.

  “Don’t play dumb. I saw you,” he grits out between clenched teeth.

  “I don’t have a single fucking clue what you’re going on about,” I quip out, standing on my toes to look into his eyes.

  “You wanted him!” he scolds. “I saw you flirting with him. Begging him to touch you with your eyes.”

  My thoughts drift to the man in the ring in a panic. I didn’t think Kyle was watching.

  “Did you really think I’d miss him winking at you?” He demands.

  “Kyle, I—” I stammer before he interrupts me.

  “Do you want to fuck my friends?” I blink in confusion. “’It’s always a pleasure, gentlemen.’” he says, mimicking my earlier farewell.

  He’s talking about Brandon, thee little brat who winked at me when we were leaving. Seriously?

  I take the arm he isn’t holding and stroke the side of his face. “Handsome, you’re drunk. I don’t want anyone else. Just you,” I coo.