The Redemption of Nixon Thorne

by T Steele

  “Seriously?” I say, embarrassed, but still laughing. “How did that happen?”

  I see his lips twitch, and he starts to grin; it’s not even a full smile, but I still get lost in it. That’s when I realize he’s still holding onto my shoulders. He’s tall. Really tall. It’s not like I hadn’t noticed before, but now that he’s so close, it’s like he’s towering over me. I’m five foot five, and I never considered myself to be that tiny, but standing next to him that’s how I felt. He had to be a full foot taller than me.

  I can feel the warmth of his palms even through my wet t-shirt, causing my skin to tingle and heat.

  Wet t-shirt! The thought clangs through my head like alarm bells, and I look down at myself, confirming my fear that my shirt clings to me, leaving nothing to the imagination. My pink, lace bra shows through the thin material. . . as do my nipples.

  My stomach drops, and my cheeks heat. Being the redhead that I am, with pale skin no less, I know my blush stands out starkly. I lift my head up to subtly look at Nixon through my lashes, to see if he’s noticed. But he’s staring at my face. His teeth are clenched, making his cheeks concave, and there’s a heat in his eyes that I’ve never seen from any man except. . .

  I cut off that line of thinking, squeezing my eyes shut to block out the memories. I feel Nixon’s hands fall from my shoulders, and when I open my eyes, he’s taking his shirt off.

  “Wh-what?” I stutter, backing up a step before I even realize what I’m doing. Fear strikes through me, swift and furious.

  Nixon rolls his eyes at my reaction. “Relax,” he mutters, stalking toward me, his abdominals flexing with every move. He’s nothing but a hard wall of muscles, six-pack abs and all. Everything about him is chiseled to perfection, like a devil in disguise—and I say devil because no one could be this horrifyingly beautiful, it must be a trick. I’m not even sure I’ve ever seen a man like this in real life.

  And I’m glad to know I was right about him having more tattoos. Intricate artwork covers his entire body. His tattoos are alluring and seductive, and I want to ask him about them, maybe even reach out and touch them. I stop those dangerous thoughts because I don’t know how to handle these emotions, but just because my brain knows this, my body and heart don’t. They’re affected, and feelings stir in my lower belly as he stalks toward me like a predator and holds out his shirt to me.

  “Put this on. I don’t want—” he stops himself and starts over. “In case you don’t want anyone to see you like that.” His voice is even deeper now, and I swallow thickly.

  I’m so flustered that I hurriedly start to put the shirt on over my already wet shirt.

  Nixon stops me, then points to a giant tree off in the distance. “Go change behind there. I’ll make sure no one sees you.”

  I walk over to the tree and get behind it. My head swivels back and forth, making sure no one is near. When I peek around it to see what Nixon is doing, I see him with his hands clasped behind his neck, looking as if he’s breathing deeply. I shrink back behind the tree and hurriedly change. It was on the tip of my tongue to ask him if he wanted to see me. But why would I ask him that? Why did it matter if he wanted to see me? I sure as hell didn’t want him to.

  This was too much. I was acting like a complete moron in front of him.

  When I insert my head inside his shirt, the thin fabric enveloping me, it smells spicy and heady, but it’s more subtle than a cologne. Probably the soap or shampoo that he uses. The shirt is still warm from his body, and I find that it’s actually comforting. And it’s way too big on me.

  Questions and scenarios dance in my mind as I think of things to say to him or how to strike up a conversation. Why can’t a simple conversation be just that: simple.

  I feel as though there's a permanent blush on my cheeks as I walk back to where he stands. I have to mentally prepare myself to take in the sight of his naked torso again, and when my eyes meet his, he’s already staring back at me. His stare bores into me, as if he’s fighting for control, and then he clearly loses his battle because his eyes dip, tracing over my body in his t-shirt.

  I feel. . . different. It’s like I’m numb and hypersensitive at the same time. I’m scared, but that’s something I always feel. Fear was like an old friend of mine. A home in which I lived, and had grown used to now. But when Nixon was staring at me, I didn’t know if I wanted him to stop.

  But then images play through my mind like a video on fast forward. Dark, greedy eyes. Flashes of a camera. The lustful stare of an older man.

  Suddenly, I blurt out the first random thing that pops into my head. “What’s your favorite color cheese?”

  WHAT? I facepalm myself, and he gives a wry smile.

  “I was thinking about asking what's your favorite color and what's your favorite type of cheese at the same time,” I say, taking a deep breath. “But my mind decided to merge the two together. I was just thinking about the Tillamook Creamery and how it’s the largest cheese factory in America, and then I had cheese on my mind, so I…” I trail off, shrugging and wishing the ground would swallow me whole.

  I close my eyes and bite my lip so hard that I’m surprised I don’t draw blood. And when I open my eyes to meet Nixon’s again, he’s scanning my face, observing me with his head cocked to the side.

  The fact that he’s a criminal blares into my mind, and nervousness suddenly overwhelms me once again. How do I know he’s not a rapist or something?

  Do you think the school would seriously let in a rapist? My conscious tuts at me. Anyway, he’d already said he didn’t hurt women.

  What’s stopping him from lying, though?

  He nods his head as if he’s made some sort of internal decision. “Definitely swiss cheese, and the color red,” he says, his eyes lingering on my hair.

  I actually feel my cheeks lift in a slight grin, feeling shy, yet oddly flattered and relieved that he’d answered my random babbles, or at least took pity on me.

  He widens his eyes a bit and looks down at me. “Aren’t you going to tell me yours? I told you mine. It would only be fair,” he says, his brows lifting playfully.

  “Sharp cheddar,” I say, almost unable to believe we’re actually talking about cheese.

  “And your favorite color?” he asks.

  “Blue,” I say quietly, trying not to focus too hard on the shade of blue that is his eyes.

  But the sly grin he gives me lets me know he’s already picked up on it. My stomach does a flip at the way he looks at me, and I avert my eyes, walking away.

  “Are you ready to pick up Winston and Nicole?” I ask.

  “Yeah.”

  We get back into the Gator, and I start the ignition.

  “Can you tell me how to get there?”

  “Mhm.”

  Whatever moment we had is gone now, and there’s an awkwardness to the silence. I’m hyper-aware of him sitting beside me, but it’s as if all my random knowledge and conversation topics—weird as they may be—have completely left my brain.

  This whole situation is a mess. And no matter the odd pull I feel toward Nixon, I wish that I never had to see him again.

  But I’m afraid that since we work together, that wish won’t be fulfilled. Maybe it won’t be so bad working with him? Maybe I can just keep my head down. Focus on band, classes, and work. There is no shortage of things to keep me busy, and Nixon is nothing but a distraction. A distraction that’s causing my palms to sweat with nerves, as if I just walked onto a stage with no pants on, and the whole crowd is laughing at me.

  Chapter 4

  Nixon

  My hands grip the leather steering wheel of my red Chevy Silverado as I drive to the underground club. Jake called earlier. Apparently, I have a fight tonight, and it is going to be worth big bucks. Thank fuck, I think to myself. I could give the entire check to my mom. She’d finally gotten to quit her several odd jobs once I started making more money during my fights, and now she’s finally able to stay home and rest. Recuperate from years of hard
labor and past trauma at the hands of my dad. I actually felt some pride in the knowledge that I was finally a man, and I could take care of the woman who sacrificed everything for me. Even though we’d been poor while I was growing up, we probably could’ve had a happy life, but my dad ruined everything. He only came home to drink. Take our money. Or beat the shit out of us. My mom had worked two jobs trying to provide for us, but that evil bastard could never let us get ahead. Then, I got locked up. . .

  My steering wheel squeaks as I squeeze it tighter in frustration.

  Not yet, I tell myself. Soon.

  Soon I’ll be able to throttle that motherfucker Devon Kepnar, the little bitch I was fighting tonight. I hold the anger in, which is exactly what my anger management counselor tells me not to do, but it fuels my fighting. A six-foot-five motherfucker like myself, with some major daddy issues and an anger problem to boot, is someone you don’t want to fuck with. So I damper my burning rage and save it for the show.

  Distractions, I think to myself. I need distractions.

  Red hair, blue eyes, and pale skin flash in my mind, and the visual has me grinding my jaw back and forth.

  Fucking Ella Black.

  She hasn’t been far from my mind. And that makes another strong emotion burn through me: lust. It’s a primal feeling that I have no business entertaining. Especially considering what happened in the past.

  That day in the lunch line. . . she saved me, and the thought has me choking down my shame. No one, not even the teachers, ever showed me the kindness that Ella had that day.

  I was eighteen at the time, while she was only fourteen.

  I’d been paying for my lunch when the lunch lady had said, “You’re a dollar short.” She’d huffed it out snipply because I was the bad kid from the wrong side of town, and everyone knew it. They’d all whisper about my father “the town drunk”, never caring if I overheard, or even if I was safe. That stuff didn’t matter to them. My existence just made them uncomfortable, and they wanted me to go away. One more kid that would likely end up in the system that they didn’t want to deal with. That lady didn’t care that my father had stolen all our money the night before. She didn’t care that my knuckles were scraped raw with dried blood across them from trying to protect my mom and myself. But Ella did.

  I’d felt a tap on my shoulder and turned around to find shy, piercing blue eyes staring up at me. “You dropped your dollar,” Ella had said quietly. I’d known who she was. Honestly, she was sort of a band geek, but she was kind and wasn’t materialistic like most of the girls I’d known at our school. And for some reason that I’m not quite ready to address yet, she’d always stood out to me. She didn’t know me, though. That was the first and last time we’d ever spoken. Until now.

  I’d felt so much embarrassment, but I took the dollar with a grateful nod anyway, not wanting to cause a bigger scene. And I was so hungry. Starved, really.

  I hadn’t even thanked her. I’d been too ashamed to have needed help from the skinny little girl in the band.

  She definitely isn’t a little girl anymore, though, is she? my brain mutters.

  I shake my head, trying to smooth out the cobwebs in my skull. It didn’t matter anyway. It’s not like she remembered the incident, and how could she? I looked like an entirely different person now.

  Guilt floods through me when her face flashes in my mind. She’d been so afraid, and I can’t seem to get her out of my head. For some reason, it really bothers me that she had that scared expression on her face, and that it was directed at me. Me caring about what someone else thought—let alone a woman— was something I figured was long dead. Usually, I’m all for minding my own business, not bothered with what other people are doing. Women were a means to an end, and they knew that was the deal when they got involved with someone like me. But, Ella’s expression…it made me feel things I wasn’t comfortable feeling, like the guilt, and the attraction I felt toward her.

  I find myself wondering what it would feel like to kiss her. To see her body. To have my cock buried deep inside her. To taste her.

  Fuck! I’ve gotta stop that, I tell myself, as I rearrange my pants and continue to drive with a raging hard-on that only wants one thing. The one thing that it can’t have.

  I pull up to the underground fighting ring. It looks like an auto body shop. The area is mostly private, with only a few industrial buildings on either side. The address changes weekly, so I never know where the place will be until only hours before the fight happens. One time, I had even fought inside of an eighteen-wheeler with a small crowd of spectators.

  Hundreds will be here tonight, though, and that’s good. More money for me and my mom.

  An Eminem song echoes throughout as I get out of my truck. This truck was the first thing I’d bought myself with my first big paycheck from fighting. I had to be careful about how much I was spending, so I wasn’t able to pay the entire thing off even though I have the money. Which really fucking sucks. But I make my payment on time every month, which has the benefit of causing my credit score to increase. And would you look at that, a big bad ex-con with a terrific credit score. Yay me.

  I wasn’t on probation anymore, but I still had only a part-time night job. The community service I do for the school, I don’t get paid for. The judge had made me a deal to trim two years from my sentence if I promised not to violate parole and be a good little boy, basically becoming the University's bitch. So, I had to be extra careful not to let them find out I was fighting illegally for money. Hence not spending thousands and thousands of dollars on things I didn’t absolutely need. I was no longer poor, but I had to act like I was. Now wasn’t that just the cherry on top of the fucking cake?

  So, for now, I was giving half to my mom and saving the other half, and hopefully one day, I would make something of myself and become a legit fighter. Hopefully, I could take care of myself and my mom for the rest of our lives, and we’d never have to worry about anything again.

  Adrenaline thrums through my veins as I mentally prepare myself for the fight ahead. Although, now that I’ve been fighting for so long, I was mostly always prepared. If a motherfucker wanted a piece of me, I’d gladly give it.

  Jake meets me and pats me on the back. “You ready, The Annihilator?” He enunciates the nickname I’ve received as a fighter, because I never give my real name out at these clubs.

  “Am I never not?”

  “Right, right,” he says, lighting up a blunt. Something I wish I could partake in, but I don’t, knowing a random drug test at work is in my near future.

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” The announcer’s voice booms throughout the dim club. “The Annihilator is in the motherfucking house!”

  The crowd roars, and my blood grows hot under my skin, but I control it. I need calm and controlled Nixon right now, so I keep my head down as I walk up to the ring. They have it barricaded with a green safety fence in an octagonal shape. Four mats lie in the center. I hop over the barricade with Jake and start bouncing from foot to foot, hyping myself up.

  I take my shirt off, but I keep all my piercings in. Let this motherfucker try to grab one. If he can get to one of my piercings that quickly then I deserve to get beaten. I keep on my Dri-Fit sweat pants, and my opponent has on the same attire—no gloves, and no rules.

  “Annnnnd now,” the announcer starts again. “Devon Keplar!” The crowd roars again. Devon is a big guy, with dirty blonde hair, and he’s not quite as tall as I am. I can tell that he thinks he’s going to be the winner of this fight because of his extra bulk, and I can’t wait to prove him wrong.

  He’s still too new to have a nickname, and he likely doesn’t have a record, so he doesn’t have to worry about giving out his real name. He’s cocky too, so I doubt he would want that. He’d rather people know his name so he can receive all the glory. Well, I’m about to show him that this fight isn’t going to be won based on body weight and ego.

  He looks at me and smiles like the cocky bastard that he is. I go numb, and
this is the reason I fight. It starts out as a burning inferno of rage, and then it simmers into numbness until I feel nothing at all. And it’s then, and only then, that I don’t have to live with the demons of my past.

  I stare at him coldly, unflinching, and I imagine us as wolves. Him running around frantically, trying to get a swipe at my unguarded throat, while I stare down at him calmly. Just waiting. Proving my dominance. I am the alpha, I tell him with my eyes, and it doesn't knock the smirk from his face, but I see the hesitation in his eyes. He knows he won’t win this time, but he’d never back down. Too much pride.

  The bell rings, and we circle each other. He has some intelligence, I’ll give him that. Most guys in here come at me first, already swinging, and I win within the first minute.

  He tries for a swift kick to my temple, but I catch his ankle and squeeze, throwing him onto his back. I kick him in the ribs and he grunts, but jumps back up quickly. This time, I smile at him, and he grits his teeth. He tries for a swipe at my face and I duck, coming up to head butt him, which leads him to fall to the ground once more.

  Then, I’m on him. This isn’t even a challenge. I’m about to start pummeling his face, but then I see a flash of red hair, and my head turns in the direction of Ella Black.

  What the fuck is she doing here?

  Just then, Devon’s fist connects with my jaw, but I’m still on top of him, and my rage can’t be controlled now that he got an unguarded hit in. I pound his face in with my fists, making it a bloody mess, until he taps out on the mat and a bell rings again. Then Jake is grabbing my hand and lifting it as the crowd roars.

  My chest heaves and sweat drips down my body, but I don’t give a fuck. All I care about is where Ella went, and why she would come to an underground fight of the ex-con she’s terrified of.

  Chapter 5

  Ella

  Did I think I’d be coming to an underground fight tonight? No. But here I am. All because Jake, the blonde stoner that I’d met distributing flyers, had invited me, saying, “You won’t want to miss this.”