The Art of Me (The All of Me Book 1)

by S. J. Blaze

  I hear Tony’s cell interrupt his pacing. “Y’llo? Yeah, yeah, she’s good, man. I got her. Naw, she’s fine…this aint her first time, bro. She’s got this. She’s wicked good. Yeah, ya know I’ll keep my eye out. That’s what I do. Naw…it’s cool.”

  He pauses, walks over, and hands me the phone. “He wants a word.”

  “Tank. I miss you. It feels weird here without you.” This is my first fight without him. I feel off, like I’m skipping some important warm up ritual.

  “I’m with ya in spirit, baby. Ya know me. Ya got my heart. Ya okay? Tony being good to ya?”

  “Yeah, Yeah.” I play it off, as I don’t want him worrying. But really Tony has done nothing to help me prep. No pointers. No pep talk. Nothing but pace back and forth. “It’s all good. Tony and I are gonna rock this bitch. I’ll see you later tonight, right?”

  “Of course, baby. Wouldn’t miss my victory smooches for the world. Remember, keep your hands up and use your feet. Don’t let her take ya to the mat. No matter what. Ya hear me.”

  He tells me this nearly every time I go out there. I guess even Tank doesn’t like the idea of me out in the cage. “I got you!” I huff out.

  “Stay strong, baby girl. I believe in ya.” With that, he hangs up. But he’s already given me what I need. He believes in me. Sometimes, you only need one person to vocalize such a powerful sentiment. I don’t care if I know this. I don’t care if he’s even told me this a million times. Right now, I need to hear it. And Tank is so fucking awesome that he knows it.

  In no time at all, I’m at the locker door. Rage Against the Machine’s Killing in the Name Of blares out indicating that it’s time to walk, baby. It’s on. With my flip flops clucking, I’m bouncing down the makeshift aisle passing the hundreds of people swarmed into this oversized gym. But I only have one thing in my sight. The Cage. Salvation.

  I climb the steps as Zack starts softly singing, “You did what they told ya.” The chant gets louder and louder with each step until it erupts into a violent scream, “Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me!” Over and over I jump as the mantra moves me, invigorates me, reminds me that nobody can control me. Nobody, I am me. And tonight I own this Cage. I am the animal.

  I play it up to the audience. Jumping, screaming, and even giving them the finger. Let them boo, let them cheer, I don’t care. I’m here to fight. I’m here to win.

  A new round of music begins, something rap. Its bass has the crowd thumping and I watch as my opponent climbs into my domain. She thinks she’s got this. I don’t know her name, don’t know her face. She’s got at least four to five inches on me. That I do notice. That means I need to stay out of her grasp. Her swing will reach me faster. I’ll need to keep my distance.

  Tony comes over, grips my shoulders, and looks me in the eye. “Stay outta her reach, ya hear me. Do this fast. Don’t tire yourself out dodging her, ya strike and ya leave. First round.” With that, he shoves my mouth guard in and walks out of the Cage.

  They introduce my opponent, Paige Champion. Ha, Champion my ass, not tonight!

  Then they begin on me; name and stats.

  Tonight, I’m Lady DOA and I’m undefeated. No, I don’t walk in here as Charlie. Not that I’m embarrassed. But I like to keep my extracurricular activities to myself. Charlie has her time and place and so does Lady. Does that mean I have a split personality? Some fucked up duality? Hell no! Everybody has some alter ego and right now, it’s Lady’s turn.

  It’s Lady’s night!

  The Ref goes over the rules and asks us to bump fists. I smile big, revealing my black mouth guard with pink letters spelling out “Fuck You.” Poor Paige looks pissed. Let the games begin.

  The whistle blows and she comes charging at me. The animal released. I’ve never seen her fight so I haven’t mapped out her moves. Yet. She jabs and crosses straight at my face. I twist narrowly avoiding her strikes. She takes advantage and lands one on my ribs. Jab. Hook. I see the pattern. She tenses her shoulders just before the strike. Tense. Strike. Block. The pattern continues until she tires and throws her shoulder low into my gut. She slams me against the Cage wall, hard, the metal cutting into my back.

  My arms throw up in front of my face, taking a defensive stance. Tense. Upper cut. Hit. Tense.

  Cross. Hit. She’s nailed me in the upper side of my right lip. No doubt, it’s a deep laceration. The blood pooling and dripping down my mouth proves it. Another throbbing pinch indicates I’ve been hit on my left cheek. No wetness, though. My skin is still intact.

  I snap out of my haze and move. So far I’ve just been coasting and mapping her out. It’s time to show her why I’m the CHAMP. I hammerfist the side of head, one after the other, and then again and again. Next I add legs with multiple leg kicks, each landing near the knee area. I’ve pushed her back as she tries to avoid my blows. But it’s time to end this.

  I build up my momentum with each step gaining speed, and then I throw a spinning back kick straight to her face. She stumbles to the left and then she’s down. It’s a glorious site. TKO, baby.

  Everything speeds up now. The Ref declares me the winner and I’m back in the locker getting patched up. Three stitches in my lip and a bag of ice on my cheek. Shit….at least my hands are good.

  I shower and dress. Tonight, I’m going out. Black leather pants, low on my hips. White tank top with my black bra slipping through and my biker boots on. Heavy eye makeup, red lipstick covering most of my busted lip, and my jet black hair climbing down my back past my shoulder blades. I’m in full play mode.

  Tony walks over as I’m throwing the last of my shit into my bag. “Where do ya want tonight’s purse to go?”

  “Boys and Girls Club. Southie.”

  “Anonymously?” he asks, although I know he knows the answer. It’s always the same.

  I nod and make my way out. By now, Malice has dropped off my ride and I don’t want to be late.

  I creep behind the drunken crowd as they cheer for the next victor. The sound is deafening. I’m nearly to the outer door when I feel his presence and then a tension pulls on my wrist. He’s got me...again. How he’s here, I have no idea. Coen and Cage fighting isn’t exactly synonymous. He sticks out with his black button up shirt and khaki pants. This is more of a beer and nuts, tees and jeans kind of place.

  I hold on tighter to my jacket and bag as I try to wiggle out of his grasp. He’s not having it and grabs my neck with his other hand, his thumb under my chin pushing me to look him in the eyes. I find them darting frantically over my face. I’ve never seen his eyes so frosty. He looks more than mad. He looks, he looks, what? Confused? Hurt? I don’t know, but it’s chilling.

  His other hand slips from my wrist and he rubs his thumb softly against my lip, his breath coming faster, harder. “Fuck,” he mutters, repeatedly. He smoothes my hair from my cheek to see the swelling there. I can tell he’s not happy with what he sees, as he closes his eyes and turns away, his jaw ticking and the veins in his neck pulsing.

  Suddenly, a wash of guilt enflames me. Like I hurt him. I wronged him. Like I need to apologize.

  But why? I won. I should be proud. If I was male, he’d be patting me on my back telling me what a killer job I did, and we’d rehash the look on my opponent’s face when she went down. I’d be a hero.

  But no. I’m standing here feeling like I’ve wronged him. Fuck that. I find myself desperate to flee, yet again. What does this guy do to me?

  “I’ve gotta go, Mr. Collins.”

  His head snaps back toward me. Eyes angrier. “First, tell me what that was about?”

  I don’t have an answer and I don’t owe him anything. So, I tell him exactly that.

  “I just met you. I don’t need to justify what I do. I don’t owe you. I don’t belong to you. But I do need to go.”

  He tightens his hold and looks directly into me. His touch isn’t comforting this time. It’s unnerving and I want to escape. “Charlie.” He growls. Yep, growls. “I don’t like this shit. I don’t like
seeing you injured. I don’t like watching you get hurt and then you telling me there’s not a fucking thing I can do to help.”

  He breathes in deeply, trying to calm himself. “And whether you know it or not, you do belong to me. You do owe me. Now, love, tell me where you’re going.”

  The words fly out without bypassing my brain. My emergency filter forgotten.

  “BedHead.” Was that out loud? I didn’t even think it. It slipped out as if the answer had come from somewhere inside of me and I had no way of stopping it.

  He nods and smiles briefly, and then releases me. He pulls my jacket and bag out of my arm and holds the leather jacket out to me. “It’s chilly tonight.”

  After dressing me he grabs my hand, and we start walking. The night air is a chilled warm. My body is still overheated from the fight and Coen’s closeness. I point out my ride.

  “That’s me.”

  Coen looks around the lot, confused.

  “The Harley.”

  “Of course,” he mutters, probably more to himself. “What model is this?”

  I beam. “She’s a 2013 Dyna Fat Boy Lo. She’s a Lo because she’s closer to the ground, which is great for a vertically challenged individual such as myself. She’s totally custom. See the matte black painting with the hot pink striping… that’s all hand done. And so is the bucket black leather seat with the pink skull. And over here, the solid disc wheels are even coated in black. You see how the front tire is smaller than the back? It’s actually 140 mm wide, and it helps mitigate feedback from the road for a smoother ride. And thanks to those chrome mufflers, my baby purrs. I even upgraded to the High Output Twin Cam 103B engine to give her more power. She’s a fast little thing and since she’s obviously female, I’ve dubbed my girl Flabby Abbey.”

  I’m such a dork. Coen patiently waits for me to finish my geekdom nodding like he understands when I’m sure he’s clueless. Mind you, I’ve been pointing and throwing my hands around animatedly for the last few minutes. I never explain this part of myself. Why it all came out, I honestly don’t know.

  He chuckles softly. “It’s a nice bike, love.” Nice? It’s a Harley. This bitch aint nowhere near nice.

  I grab the bag off his shoulder and then shove it into my saddlebag. “Thanks.” I pull out my helmet, which I had custom made when I got the bike. It has the same coloring and matches perfectly. It even has a pink skull in the back. I’m still a girl. A fashionista knows how to accessorize in all things.

  I grab my long hair, pull it to the side, and start a loose braid, tying it off. My hair is so long that if it’s not restrained it will fight me later. Dropping my helmet on my head, I’m about to clasp the straps when I feel Coen’s hands go under my neck taking them from me. He stops my movements and pulls me forward. I throw my hands onto his chest to brace myself.

  Again, he’s staring. “Are you hurting?” I nod, while keeping my head tipped up because this beast of a man is so tall. I consider that I might as well be honest as he seems to get things out of me in one way or another.

  “Are you okay on this thing?” I nod again. Don’t insult my Abbey. Did he not hear my enthusiastic mini sermon on the perfection that is my girl?

  “Are you gonna be safe tonight?” I shrug. You never know with me and the night is still young.

  He tsks softly, his warm hands returning to my face. “No more injuries, love.” He chuckles darkly. “I don’t think I could handle it.” Hhmm. Not sure how to respond, so I try to smile. Ouch. Forgot about those stitches. He sees my wince and his face hardens.

  “Charlie, please.” He says this softly and I feel his words go through me. He rarely says my name, so when it comes from his lips, it sounds reverent. But I don’t mistake the desperation I hear for anything else. He’s anxious over this. Over me. I’m not his normal. He doesn’t know what to do with me. I guess that puts us on even ground.

  He kisses my nose and secures my clasp. Stepping back, he’s waiting to see me off.

  I climb my ride, start her up, and give Coen a quick wave before heading out of the lot. In my rear view mirror, I see him with his chin resting low and his hands in his pockets. He’s sauntering towards a black Town Car. Davis. How did I miss that? I have a feeling this isn’t the last I’ve seen of Mr. Collins tonight.

  Chapter Four

  I pull Flabby Abbey directly onto the sidewalk in front of BedHead. The club sits on the outskirts of Bay Village and smack dab in the heart of nightlife central. There are clubs on every other block, the perfect location for a nonstop party.

  A nice breeze is coming off the water tonight bringing in a slight chill, and with the full moon, I couldn’t help but take my time riding over. I needed a view of the ocean. It’s serenity. I needed the calm before the approaching storm.

  Climbing off of Abbey, I undo my braid and remove my helmet. I see Malice waiting. He looks impetuous, not that I care, as I write the man’s freaking check. He can wait.

  Righting myself, I walk towards the front. A long line of people locked into place with black velvet rope snakes to the right of the building. They impatiently wait. Coming from the left, I catch the eyes of a few line connoisseurs and hear them calling to me. I attempt a smile and wave, but don’t slow down until I hit my destination.

  “Hello, gorgeous. Welcome back.” Zeke, the head of security greets me. He’s bald and as wide as a house, if that house was pure scary muscle. He’s a dark African American with the most beautiful green eyes. I overhear the chatter coming from his earpiece when I lean in to kiss his cheek.

  “Watch my girl tonight?” I ask nodding at my bike.

  “I’ll get Jonah on it. No worries, beauty. Play on,” he states nodding his head towards the bouncer at the main door.

  I wink and walk away with Malice by my side.

  Malice is a hairy beast. He’s six foot four on a bad day, and well over 250 pounds on a good one. I’m still not one-hundred percent sure where he got all of his training; maybe as a French spy or under the Direction Centrale du Renseignement Intérieur intelligence services. Either way, he’s lethal and scary. I finally couldn’t handle the secrecy and dug into his background, hacker style, and let’s just say, he wasn’t the only spy in the family. I can’t imagine what that dinner table conversation was like. Dark hair coats his head and most of his face. His beard is trimmed matching the polished suits he insists on wearing. His eyes are not dark brown, but black. Age hasn’t dimmed the intensity in them, although he’s only in his late thirties. He’s always anxious and always ready… for what, I don’t know, but when it comes I know he’ll have my back.

  He fell into my world nearly two years ago. I think he was looking to get out of the life, which is why he moved to the States. That and his sexual orientation, which wasn’t as widely accepted in that ‘world.’ He needed a fresh start and I needed him.

  We just work.

  “On dirait qu'il fait mal. Vous allez être ok ce soir?”

  It looks like it hurts. You’re going to be ok tonight?

  I take off my coat and hand it to him with my helmet.

  “Ça ira. Je l›ai connu pire et être mieux. Merci d›être passé hors Abbey. Pouvez-vous prendre soin d'elle ce soir? Je prévois de lâcher un peu.”

  I’ll be fine. I’ve had worse and been better. Thanks for dropping Abbey off. Can you take care of her tonight? I plan on letting go a bit.

  “Dois-je à craindre?”

  Do I need to worry?

  “Toujours.”

  Always. I smirk. It’s playtime!

  I can hear In This Moment’s Maria Brink crooning out Whore through the speakers. It’s darkened beat causing all the bodies in the club to pulse in a hypnotic wave. Its ebb and flow breathing like a singular organ.

  “I am the dirt you created.” Truer words.

  Malice leads me through the crowd to the back and up the stairs. I nod to random people as we go, still partially hidden by the mammoth in front of me. Really, it’s just a blur. Colors and sound and the ba
ck of Malice.

  He pulls open the door and pushes me into the quiet. The pounding in my head slows and I hear the familiar laughter assaulting me. Sitting on the two red leather couches and a few random chairs are four of my favorite people in the entire world. And a couple of chicks I couldn’t give a shit about.

  “’Bout time you showed up, baby girl. Who won?” I stick my tongue out at Gunner and grab a bottle of water off the table in the back of the room. I don’t like it when they bring girls back here. This is our space, our time to do our thing, They can get their easy pussy anytime. The fake laughter and nasty auras they’re perspiring is making me feel sick.

  “Let me see the damage.” Tank walks over and begins his perusal. I know he’s spoken with Tony as he moves the hair covering my left side over to study the swelling, like he knew it was there. He makes some grumbling noises. “Got any headaches or blurry vision? And how’s the ribs?” He cocks a brow like that’s gonna do me in.

  “I’m good, Tank. You know how this works.” I sigh.

  “I know. I know. Give me what I need and I’ll get out of your hair.” He opens his tan arms and I greedily take shelter there. I love Tank. He’s the first person I bonded with nearly six years ago when I moved to Boston from Florida. I stumbled upon the gym he and his brother own, ‘Tornadoes,’ and it has been a whirlwind ever since.

  He kisses the top of my head three times. One for each of my injuries. He’s a big softy…well, at least on the inside.

  “Dang Tank, have you gotten bigger? I swear you’re all muscle now. Where’s my pooch gut? I miss my poochy.” I pout, mainly because I know he hates it and I know I can get away with it.

  “Oh he’ll be back, baby girl. He’s on vacation for a bit. Along with beer, and cake, and fried chicken, and those delicious wrapped cookie things ya make me, and…” Poor guy. The UFC is a big bully.