by Steve Liszka
Taylor snatched the towel out of Charlotte’s hand and threw it to the floor. She responded by quickly bringing her hands to her hips,
“What do you think you’re doing?”
He gave her an innocent smile as he simultaneously reached around with both hands and groped her ass.
“I just wanted to look at you for a bit longer.”
“Then look with your eyes, not your hands.”
She tried to disguise her smile as she pushed down on his elbows, releasing herself from his grasp. Before he could grab her again, she nimbly leapt out of the bath and picking up the towel, proceeded to dry herself.
Taylor looked impressed with her agility, “You’ve got some moves on you, lady.”
Charlotte laughed, “Don’t tell me you’ve only just realised that?”
He watched from the bath as she faced the mirror, using her fingers to style her dark brown hair. Instead of growing it to soften her features, she kept her hair short, further emphasising her strong cheekbones and proud chin. What could have made her look masculine, served only to reveal her beauty. He slowly got out of the tub and without bothering to wipe himself, put his arms around her and unfastened the knot holding her towel up so she was naked once more.
Taylor met her disapproving frown in the mirror, “That’s better.”
She shook her head, “What’s wrong with you today, you can’t keep your hands to yourself?”
“What can I say?” he shrugged, “you have a very sexy body and you look better when you’re showing it off.”
She spun round to face him, “And I thought you only wanted me for my brains.”
Even though she was nearly thirteen years older than he was, it amazed him how well Charlotte kept herself. The hour a day she spent doing yoga obviously worked, as her body was as taught and firm as that of a twenty-five year old.
She put her nose to Taylor’s chest and breathed in his aroma.
“There,” she said, “don’t you smell better now?”
“Indeed I do, and that’s exactly why I’m thinking of getting myself one of these baths,” he answered, knowing the thing was so big it wouldn’t even fit in his lounge.
Giving up on the towel, Charlotte proceeded to put on the matching set of silk underwear that lay neatly prepared on her bed.
“So what are your plans for the rest of the day?” he asked.
“Oh you know,” she replied carelessly.
Actually he didn’t. Even though he had been seeing Charlotte for almost six months, he knew virtually nothing about her. It wasn’t that he felt she was keeping anything from him, he just got the impression that she was sure enough of herself to not feel the need to confide in others. In that way, she reminded him of his own mother. His father may have been the loud and dominant one, but it was his mother who up until her death had quietly held the family together. As with Charlotte, it was her silence that was her strength.
She turned her back to him, inviting Taylor to do up the clasp on her bra. He denied himself the opportunity to slip it from her shoulders, knowing she would get angry if he pushed his luck too far.
“Come on,” he said rubbing her back, “tell me. You must have some plans.”
“Oh you know,” she sighed, “just the usual chores of a busy housewife. I’m meeting up with Sylvia and the rest of the gang this afternoon. She’s planning a fund-raiser for the humpback whale, they’re almost extinct you know.”
“Really? That is awful,” he answered, unconcerned.
“She thinks the real problem is that people are too busy with their own lives to worry about what’s going on outside the City.”
Taylor shook his head and tutted, “What a cynic that Sylvia is.”
Charlotte tried not to smile as she continued, “She thinks if we can raise ten million dollars from one of her parties, there’s a real possibility we can save them. The brains behind the project want to create an underwater barrier that will stop the whales straying into Japanese water.”
“You’ve got to love those sons of bitches”, Taylor chuckled, “they’ll eat anything. We worked with some of them in Canada once. You wouldn’t believe what they gave them instead of ration packs.”
It was Charlotte’s turn to look nonplussed as she continued to sparingly apply her make-up.
“Dried squid,” he gasped, when the question never arose, “I tried the stuff once, it tasted like salty cardboard.”
“Maybe you should be more sensitive to their cultural differences,” she offered casually.
Taylor thought about it, then said nothing else on the matter.
“Why don’t they just clone the ones that are still left?” he asked, “the whales I mean. Surely that makes more sense.”
Charlotte gave out a mock gasp, “Cloning? Oh no, Sylvia says that would create future generations of impure stock. She thinks it’s too much like incest.”
“What I think,” Taylor said, tiring of Sylvia Perkins, “is the real reason she wants to save the whales is because they are the only things in the world that make the fat old tart look skinny.”
Charlotte gasped again, then gently slapped him on the arm, “You know your problem?”
Taylor wrapped his arms around her once more, “No, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
Charlotte nodded, “You’re size-ist. You treat anyone that hasn’t got a six-pack like a leper.”
Taylor laughed, “That’s not true.”
“Yes it is. You, Nathan Taylor, are a body fascist.”
Taylor planted a kiss on her lips, “Then it’s lucky for you you’re not a humpback whale like your friend, otherwise I’d have to give you the push.”
“You give me the push. That’ll be the day,” she said, struggling to escape his grasp.
He kissed her again before relaxing his grip. In an instant Charlotte had gathered up his clothes and bundled them into his arms.
“Come on, get dressed, it’s time you were away. I don’t want the guards getting suspicious.”
“If they ask, just tell them we were practising our submission techniques.”
They both got dressed quickly, Taylor wincing as he placed his shirt back on and took in his own smell. Whilst he slipped back into his filthy clothing, Charlotte looked radiant in a floral summer dress that he couldn’t imagine being worn by anyone else.
“So you’re fighting again tonight?” she asked.
He looked up from tying his laces, “Yep.”
She sat on the bed next to him, “Do you think you’ll win?”
“I always win.”
“Do you realise that overconfidence could be your undoing?”
Taylor tried to slide his hand up her thigh only to have it slapped back down again.
“It’s not overconfidence. The guys they put me up against aren’t even in my league.”
He read what she was thinking from the expression on her face.
“Seriously, they’re just meatheads who think they can handle themselves. Most of them know nothing about fighting. I, on the other hand, spent many painful years learning all about the art.”
“Art?” she sneered, “Well that’s one way of putting it.”
Before Taylor could produce the facts about how there was so much more skill to mixed martial arts than she could ever credit, Charlotte had already changed tact.
“So do you know anything about this ‘meathead’ that you’re fighting?”
He turned to face her, “Let’s see. Will he be bigger than me? Most probably. Will he be stronger than me? Very likely,” he paused for effect,
“Will I beat him? Definitely.”
She shook her head, “When are you going to realise that women do not find arrogance an attractive quality in a man?”
“Probably the day you stop inviting me to your house to sleep with you.”
She stood up and looked down at him, temporarily at a loss for words; for as she well knew, Taylor was right. They had started sleeping together almost immediat
ely upon her inviting him to teach her self-defence lessons. He had been recommended to her following a number of glowing reports from her friends.
“You think you’ve got the all the answers don’t you smart guy?” she finally said.
He followed her up onto his feet and kissed her again.
“Don’t take this wrong way Nathan,” she said, pulling away from him, “but don’t you think you’re getting too old for all this cage fighting nonsense?”
He knew where this conversation was going, it wasn’t the first time they’d had it.
“I’ve told you before, I’ll give it up once I’ve got enough money to get my gym open. Same as the SecForce job, it’s just for the cash.”
“I know, it’s just that I hate the thought of you doing that to people. I just wish you could do something more… constructive with yourself.”
Taylor gave an agitated laugh, “Constructive? What would you prefer I do, flower arranging, knitting? I only know how to do one thing and that’s fight.”
“Come on Nathan, don’t be like that. You know what I mean.”
“Actually I don’t. What exactly do you mean?”
Charlotte shrugged, “I don’t know… just that you can’t keep beating people up in a cage and still think you’re better than them.”
Her head nodded towards the window, making reference to the Old-Town and its inhabitants.
Taylor shook his head, “I don’t think I’m better than them, I used to be one of them remember?”
Charlotte nodded, “That’s true, although it’s interesting you used the past tense.”
“Oh I see,” Taylor could hear his voice rise, “I’m not good enough for you now. Bit too rough around the edges for your liking, am I?”
Even as he said it, he knew he had distorted her words, moulding them into an idea that he was the one being wronged.
“I’m not even going to bother answering that,” she said calmly.
Her rationality left him feeling stupid.
“Sorry,” he said quietly, “I don’t know why I said that.”
Charlotte looked at him like she was about to answer the question, when she held herself back, letting him know with her smile that he was forgiven.
“Listen,” Taylor said sheepishly, “before I go, did Freddie mention anything to you about someone called the Shepherd?”
“No, should he have?”
Taylor shook his head, “Nah, I’m sure it’s nothing. Just a bit of trouble in the Old-Town.”
“Unfortunately that’s what happens when you destroy people’s dreams,” Charlotte said, before letting out an accepting sigh, “good old Freddie, he was never going to lose this one.”
Taylor followed her silently down the stairs. When she turned to say goodbye, he pushed her up against the doors that separated them from the lobby and pressed his lips against hers.
“Are you crazy,” she whispered, “the guards are just outside. Do you want to get caught?”
Taylor smiled, “It’d be worth it for one more kiss.”
She pushed him away by the shoulders, “You need to leave before you get yourself shot.”
He nuzzled his head into her neck, “And get you in trouble you mean?”
Charlotte’s eyebrows raised, “I’m pretty confident I’d be able to convince Freddie it was all your fault. Do you think you could say the same?”
Taylor took an intake of breath, “You know something Mrs Milton, you can be a nasty piece of work when you want to.”
He kissed her again then moved her to one side, theatrically swinging the door open so the guards slung their glances in his direction.
“Well done Mrs Milton,” he said loudly, “that was a marvellous self-defence lesson. You really are a natural.”
Stepping into the lift, he glanced at the guards and gave them a wink.
“Cheer up lads,” he said, “it might never happen.”
Chapter 10
With his fingers outstretched, Taylor slowly and systematically applied the bandages that would help protect his hands from injury. Even though there were only twenty minutes left until he would enter the cage, his heart rate was no higher than when he sat in his apartment watching television. Apart from his first fight when he cried like a baby until his father shouted at him for being such a girl, it had always been this way. Even back in the old days when his opponents were far more formidable and the fights had actually meant something, he had never experienced the fear that fuelled most fighters in the long, lonely moments before a contest.
After securing his wraps and forcing his padded finger-less gloves over his knuckles, a voice in the background summoned him.
“Let’s go sunshine!”
It was Old George, his trainer from back in the day. He was a sixty-two year old ex-boxer, who despite being ridden with arthritis and barely able to open his fists in the mornings, still loved to put the fighters through their paces. He was wearing focus pads on his hands that Taylor was about to warm up on; a chance for him to loosen up and practise his handwork and head movement.
When Taylor’s mother died, his father was suddenly left alone with the child he barely knew. Up until then it had been her job to raise him; his father was too busy earning enough money to feed his family. The man had spent most of his life in the steel works. It was hard, sometimes brutal work that had forged him into an equally hard man.
Before his mother’s death, Taylor used to listen to his father’s stories of his days as an amateur boxer. He loved to listen to the old man’s tales, although he couldn’t remember if it was the stories themselves he had enjoyed, or simply that the man was happy to make time for him. Taylor was fairly sure it was the latter. If it meant them spending time together, he would have listened to his father read the ingredients off a can of food.
Looking back, he could sympathise with the man and the way he had chosen to raise him. Apart from his work, the only thing he had known was how to fight. With the cage-fights growing ever more popular, his father decided that in order for his son to avoid the backbreaking work he had done, he would channel all his energy into making his son the perfect warrior. For Taylor, if it meant they got to spend time together, he was more than happy to go along with the plan.
Although he had been a decent boxer himself, his father realised that if his son was going to be the best, he needed to be proficient in all aspects of combat. He took the boy to the nearest Jiu-Jitsu school to help him learn how to defend himself when the fight hit the floor. His father may not have been well versed in the art of submissions himself, but he’d seen enough of the cage-fights on TV to know it was imperative that Taylor had a strong ground game. For this reason, he also got involved his son in traditional free-style wrestling to help his understanding of how to manage a fighter when he was downed.
For his stand-up, it was a mixture of traditional and Thai boxing. Whilst his father conceded that Muay-Thai, with its knee, elbow and feet attacks, was by far the most effective of all the up-right martial arts, he still maintained that nothing could beat the hands of a boxer. He had been proved right too; Taylor couldn’t remember how many times his solid boxing skills had helped him bring home a win.
When his father was laid off from his job, he threw himself even further into his son’s fighting career. He was only thirteen years old, yet Taylor was taking part in two or sometimes three workouts a day. If there were no classes they would clear enough space in his garage and train at home.
The coaches at the various gyms soon began to despair of seeing his father turn up at their sessions. The man thought nothing of telling them how they should be training his son and he would sometimes take to the mats to show the boy the best way to do things. He was an intimidating man at the best of times, and it wasn’t too long before the instructors got fed up of him telling them what to do. After a while they told him to stop bringing Taylor to their classes altogether.
His father was undeterred. He felt that the years spent watching the coaches
had given him enough knowledge to train the boy himself. What he didn’t already know, his father learnt from magazines. The garage was cleared out of all junk and converted into a mini-gym. Mats were laid out on the floor whilst punch bags hung from the ceiling. His father brought in weights, medicine balls and other instruments of torture to help his son improve his physical strength and power.
For his fitness, Taylor’s father came up with brutal workouts where his son would flip and drag large tyres he had scrounged from the bus garage or smash them with a sledge hammer until his arms turned to jelly. He could still remember the punishing hill-sprint sessions he had been put through that had more than once made him cry. The training worked for Taylor, and not only was he a far more accomplished fighter than the other youngsters of his age, he was also stronger, faster and far more powerful than they were. At the local tournaments he would be so dominant, many of the clubs would pull their lads out rather than face him.
Taylor’s development as a fighter came at a price. In order to fulfil his training, something had to give, and his father decided this would be his education. When he was fourteen, he was pulled out of school for good. Apart from all the training he had to do, the cost of the boy’s schooling was quickly growing beyond his father’s means. He was existing on a measly pay-off from the steel works and an even smaller unemployment check from the government, which kept shrinking as the depression continued to grind the country down. With his school fees continuing to increase, he had little choice but to withdraw Taylor.
His father decided the solution was to home-school his son but both parties quickly grew tired of this new development. Having very little education himself, he found it increasingly difficult to teach the boy, and most lessons ended with their roles reversed as Taylor instructed his father on the intricacies of grammar or long division. Deciding that as his son could read and write pretty well already, the home lessons were put on permanent hold.
