by Amy Brent
“Imagine living life without repercussions,” he once said as we watched the show in bed after a half-hearted round of sex. “How fucking cool would that be?”
That was his way of letting me know that I was a repercussion. I was the only one he answered to and he didn’t answer to me for much anymore. He didn’t care what I thought, so long as I kept up appearances and didn’t spend too much of the family fortune.
The biggest difference between Tony Soprano and Kyle Cassidy was that Tony Soprano was a heartless mobster and Kyle was just a heartless prick.
Danny O, as Kyle called his pet gorilla, didn’t say anything to me when I got out of the limo and waited for the doorman to open the door so I could go inside. Danny was a former MMA fighter whose face carried the marks and scars of a dozen years of having other large men slam their fists into his head. His forehead hung over his eyes like a caveman’s brow. His nose had been broken numerous times. The bridge had a large bump and the fatty tip skewed oddly to the right. His right ear had been beaten to cauliflower and his shaved head was lined with scars that he wore like badges of honor.
He was big, with broad shoulders and thick arms that looked like they might rip out the seams of the expensive suits he wore; suits purchased by my husband. The most threatening thing about Danny O’Shea, at least to me, were his eyes. Our eyes met just briefly when I got out of the limo and walked toward the door. It was like staring into the dead eyes of a shark right before it sank its teeth into your soft flesh. I couldn’t stand to be around Danny O’Shea and I knew he wasn’t too fond of me. He looked at me like he would just as soon kill and eat me as give me the time of day, but Kyle loved him like his pet pit bull. Danny would do whatever Kyle told him to do; things Kyle would never have the nerve to do himself.
Once inside the elevator, I put my keycard in the slot and punched in the keypad numbers so the elevator would take me up to our thirtieth-floor penthouse apartment. I leaned back against the back wall and gave a heavy sigh. I stared at the woman staring back at me in the mirrored doors. I looked tired despite the professionally done makeup and perfectly styled hair. The little black party dress and heels made my toned, tanned legs look amazing, but the shoes were killing my feet and the thong I was wearing had wedged its way uncomfortably up my ass. I couldn’t wait to strip off everything and soak in the tub.
I assumed Kyle was being alerted by Danny that I was on my way up. Kyle was probably drunk already, parked in front of the big screen watching some fight on TV. I wasn’t surprised that he didn’t show up at the charity event, even though he had sworn to me that he would. Kyle’s promises carried very little weight with me these days. I wasn’t sure why he even bothered lying to me since we both knew how full of shit he was. I guess it was just habit. We were just going through the motions. Sometimes I wondered how long we’d try to keep it up.
Kyle hated anything that didn’t involve sweaty men beating the shit out of each other or women dancing naked around poles. The charity benefits were his mother Ramona’s pet projects and since Kyle’s father Edward, who owned the company and controlled the purse strings, had to attend, he wanted his only son there to share in the misery. Kyle typically came up with a last-minute excuse why he couldn’t go and I would go alone. That was fine. I actually liked his dad and could tolerate his mother. Plus, it was nice to get away from him, even if it was just for an evening.
“I’ll meet you there, Fee” he had told me over the phone around eight. He called me Fee because Fiona took too much effort to say, I guess. When I tried to call him back around eight-thirty, his phone went directly to voicemail. His mother was disappointed. His father was furious. He’d give Kyle hell on Monday, not that it would do much good.
The elevator dinged and the doors slid open to our foyer. The penthouse was huge, nearly six thousand square feet, an homage to gaudy decorating and indulgent spending. Kyle’s mother had insisted on decorating the penthouse as an anniversary gift to us and Kyle refused to let me redecorate because it would hurt his mother’s feelings. I fucking hated the place with its ornate fixtures, antique furniture, and heavy wallpaper and blinds. It looked like something out of an old movie. The day Kyle’s mother died would be the day redecorating began.
The penthouse was also much more room than two people needed. Even two people who usually avoided each other by retreating to separate ends of the place. My bedroom was my sanctuary while Kyle spent most of his time in the media room watching the TV that covered one entire wall.
When Kyle bought the place without even consulting me, he said it was because it would be the perfect place to start a family. Lots of room for lots of kids. That was five years ago and it was still just him and me. We tried to get pregnant for a while, then it seemed to become a burden for him, having sex with the intention of procreating rather than just for fun. Then the sex steadily decreased and talk of starting a family fell by the wayside. I was glad we’d never had kids. I wouldn’t wish our relationship on a child. I also couldn’t remember the last time we’d had sex. I would be willing to bet that it hadn’t been very good.
When I stepped off the elevator the penthouse was quiet. I set my purse and keys on the little table in the foyer and slipped off the high heels that were killing my feet. I picked up the shoes and let them dangle from two fingers as I made my way toward our bedroom.
The master bedroom was at the end of a long hallway. I was halfway down the hall when I heard the moans coming through the bedroom door, which had been left open a crack. I immediately knew what was going on inside my bedroom. I vaguely recognized Kyle’s wheezes and grunts. They were sounds that I hadn’t heard in a while. I couldn’t believe I’d ever found such sounds sexy.
I crept to the door and peered in through the crack. Wendy was lying on my bed with her ass hanging off the edge. Her legs were spread wide and her feet were in the air. Her toes were curled into tight balls. Kyle was standing between her thighs, holding her legs up by the ankles as he rammed in and out of her in a jerky motion that made him look like he was riding a mechanical bull.
I focused on Wendy for some reason. Probably because I’d seen Kyle fuck and it was never that impressive. Her big tits flounced like water balloons on her chest. She clutched at them, digging her fingers into the flesh to hold them steady. She took her pudgy nipples between her thumbs and fingers and stretched them away from her breasts (ouch). She had her eyes closed and was biting her lower lip. She was making little squealing noises each time Kyle thrust into her, like her balloons were losing air through her stretched nipples.
Kyle was going at it hard and fast, pulling almost all the way out of her skanky pussy, then slamming back in so hard that his balls slapped against her meaty ass and caused her whole body to jump. Kyle’s cock wasn’t long, but it was oddly thick, more like a fat pickle than a penis. I had to give him credit. Back in the day, he made great use of what he had. Apparently, he had not lost his touch because Wendy was wailing like a banshee being set free from Pandora’s box.
“Fuck… me… fuck… baby…” Wendy moaned, tugging so hard on her nipples it made me wince. Christ, how long would those things stretch?? She barked out the words. “I’m gonna… cum… baby… make… your baby… cum…”
“Yeah, baby,” Kyle said, panting, wheezing, his narrow hips jerking back and forth. “Cum baby… cum for daddy… gush that sweet pussy juice all over my cock… baby… cum with me…”
Cum for daddy?
Gush that sweet pussy juice all over my cock?
Seriously?
Dirty talk was a new weapon in Kyle’s arsenal.
My God, how fucking pathetic.
Wendy squealed like a stuck pig and arched her back so Kyle’s cock could go deeper into her cunt, which probably had the tightness of a stretched rubber band (wow, too catty?). Kyle leaned his head back and roared, pushing his hips into her as he came. The whole scene would have been comical if it had not been my husband fucking another woman on my bed.
When it w
as over, Wendy dropped her legs and collapsed in a trembling heap. She lay there panting like a dog, massaging her poor abused tits.
When I looked back toward Kyle, he was still standing next to the bed, staring back at me with a greasy smile on his face. His pickle cock had deflated and hung sadly between his legs like a used rubber.
Without a word, I walked back through the penthouse with my shoes still dangling at my side. I slipped the shoes back on, picked up my purse, got into the elevator, and rode it down to the lobby.
Danny O was standing at the elevator when the doors parted, like he knew I was on my way down and had orders to stop me. I jumped when I saw him, then shot him a hateful glare, daring him to say anything to me. He narrowed his eyes at me for a second, then silently stepped aside and held out his hand to let me pass. I could feel his cold eyes on me as I walked across the lobby and pushed past the doorman who was holding the door. When I looked back, Danny had gotten into the elevator, undoubtedly heading up to the penthouse to wash off his master’s disgusting cock.
I emerged onto the sidewalk and stopped for a moment to catch my breath, thankful for the fresh air. The doorman asked if I was okay, but I ignored him and walked away. I walked for a couple of blocks until my feet started screaming bloody murder, then decided to hail a cab.
“Where to?” the driver asked without turning around. He leered at me in the rearview mirror. He was a fat man who smelled like sausage and peppers. His license on the back of the seat said his name was VITO. I wondered if he liked The Sopranos.
“The Haven Club,” I said.
He set the meter and pulled away from the curb. I settled into the back seat and pushed out a long breath. I leaned my head back against the rest and closed my eyes. The movie of Kyle standing by my bed grinning at me while Wendy wallowed on our bed played on the back of my eyelids. I rubbed my eyes until the movie went away.
Kyle had finally done it.
He had pushed me over the edge.
There was no going back now.
Now I needed a stiff drink.
And maybe a stiff something else.
CHAPTER TWO: Nick Patron
I could give you a hundred reasons why I hated Kyle Cassidy, but that would take up too much of your time and mine, so I’ll just give you the main reason.
Kyle Cassidy is an arrogant prick who goes out of his way to be a thorn in my side; personally, and professionally. Our companies often do business together, albeit reluctantly on my part. My company, Patron Sports Entertainment (PSE), stages mixed martial arts tournaments all over the country. MMA, it’s called. It’s the hottest thing going. Millions of people around the globe tune in to watch MMA bouts on ESPN, and millions more fill huge arenas to see rock hard men (and women) beat the living shit out of each other for prize money, a title, and a gaudy gold belt.
I got into MMA ten years ago as a heavyweight fighter. It was a natural progression, given that I had spent most of my life fighting on the streets for free and in back alleys for bets. Remember that old Clint Eastwood movie where he was paid to fight guys in junkyards and in empty warehouses? Well, that was me. I’d take on all comers for a couple hundred bucks, then I’d immediately blow that on booze, coke, and pussy. Very quickly I’d be right back where I’d started; broke, angry, and alone. It was after one such fight that I met Jesse Rose, the man who would change my life.
I had never given fighting professionally a moment’s thought until I walked into that seedy bar one night and struck up a conversation with Jesse, an older black gentleman who looked like he’d spent considerable time in the ring, given the crook of his nose and thickness of his brow. He had just watched me knock out a guy with one punch in the alley behind the bar and asked if I’d ever thought about fighting professionally. I said no and he told me that he trained boxers and MMA fighters. He said he would pay me a couple hundred dollars a week to spar with his fighters. And if I was interested, he would train me to fight. I said I already knew how to fight. He said I knew how to brawl maybe, but not fight. That got me interested right way. I can punch guys and make money? Shit, man, sign me up.
The next day, I met Jesse at the gym where he trained his fighters. He wrapped my hands and laced on boxing gloves and told me to get in the ring with a skinny black kid who looked like he wouldn’t weigh a hundred pounds soaking wet. I was big and muscular, covered in tattoos and scars. I was strong as an ox and hit like one. I figured I’d make short work of the skinny black kid and prove to Jesse that I did indeed know how to fight.
When Jesse rang the bell, I moved in quickly on the skinny kid and found out that I wasn’t the powerhouse in the ring that I was in the street. The kid bobbed to one side, hit me once in the jaw and once in the nose. That was it. I went down like a ton of bricks with blood gushing out of my nose.
I learned three things that afternoon: one, even though I could street brawl with the best of them, I didn’t have a clue how to fight in the ring. Two, getting your nose broken hurts like a motherfucker and produces an inordinate amount of blood. And three, getting your nose broken by a skinny kid half your size can be pretty fucking humiliating.
I remembered Jesse standing at the side of the ring with his thick arms looped over the ropes, laughing his ass off as I struggled to sit up like a toddler waking from his nap. Turned out, the skinny black kid was Jesse’s son Jimmy, a golden gloves champion at the ripe old age of nineteen. Jimmy hooked his gloves under my arms and helped get me to my feet, then went off to find some other cocky asshole to teach a lesson to.
“You okay?” Jesse asked, not bothering to hide the grin on his battered face. He handed me a dirty towel and told me to wipe the blood off my face. “Boy hits like a fucking bull, don’t he?”
“Boy hits like a fucking Mac truck,” I said, wiping my nose on the towel.
Jesse’s head bobbed. “You rushed in and he put you on your ass.”
I gave him the bloody towel, then cupped my chin and worked my jaw back and forth. I tried to act tough. “It was a lucky shot.”
He chuckled. “It was two lucky shots.”
I smiled. It hurt. “Yeah.”
Jesse put his hands on my cheeks and peered down his nose to look me in the eyes. “You’re okay. Just got your bell run a little. Hold still.” He put his thumbs on each side of my nose and gave it a quick twist. I heard a pop and felt searing pain and saw flashbulbs popping before my eyes. I thought I was gonna vomit. Jesse put his hands on my shoulders to keep me from falling over, then picked up a trash can and shoved it at me.
“Hock and spit,” he said. I wiped the tears from my eyes and sniffed back the blood that was filling my nose, then spat blood and snot in the trashcan.
I wiped my mouth on the back of my arm. “Thanks. I’m okay now.”
Jesse leaned back against the ring and crossed his arms over his chest. He narrowed his eyes at me. “You really wanna learn how to fight MMA or are you just fucking around?”
“I really wanna learn,” I said.
His expression told me he wasn’t convinced. “You willing to put in the hard work? Workouts every day? Sparring, weights, road work. Do everything I say?”
“Yes.”
“No more staying out all night? Give up the booze and dope? No pussy except on weekends? Stop fighting in back alleys for chump change?”
My head bobbed to his words. I said, “Yes, goddammit. yes. You just tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”
Jesse eyed me for a moment, then put a hand on my shoulder and turned me around to face the ring. “Okay, then, get your ass back in there and this time don’t do anything unless I tell you to.”
Jesse was a hell of a trainer and I was a quick, eager learner. It helped that I was 6’4 and two-hundred-thirty pounds of hard muscle. My first year I won ten amateur fights, all within three rounds. The second year I won ten professional bouts against ranked fighters. I worked my way up the rankings and midway through my third year, I knocked out the reigning world champ and took the belt. I wa
s the MMA champion of the world.
Within six months I had successfully defended my belt twice, then I climbed into the octagon with an Irish fighter named Danny O’Shea. Danny O, they called him. He called himself Danny O’Shit.
“People see me coming and they say ‘O’Shit!’, he told ESPN in his backstreet Irish brogue.
Needless to say, we were not friends.
Danny O was 6’4 and three hundred pounds, a goddamn Irish bull that loved to trample his opponents into the mat and knock them out with sleeper holds that refs had to force him to break. He was a sadistic motherfucker and a cheap shot artist. In the third round, he hooked a right fist around the ref when he was trying to break us up and hit me squarely in the temple. I went down like a sack of potatoes and didn’t get back up. It was the blow that ended my fight career and almost cost me my life. Jesse and Jimmy had to carry me out of there. I woke up three days later in a head trauma unit with all kinds of wires and shit hooked up to me. It hurt like a motherfucker just to open my eyes.
“We were worried you might not wake up, Mr. Patron,” the doctor said, flipping through my medical chart. He was standing at the foot of my hospital bed with Jesse by his side. Jesse had his knit cap between his hands, nervously kneading it. He looked tired. His brown eyes were bloodshot. I’d never seen him look so defeated before. Never.
