by Jenna Rose
“Jackson—”
“Don’t,” he snaps, holding up his hand. “I can’t. Not now.”
“You don’t have to do this,” I tell him, but he ignores me and gets out of the car. I follow after him, pushing past cameras and media as he makes his way to the locker room where he’ll wait for the fight to begin. He slams the door behind us and slumps down in a chair with his hood over his head.
I’m so mad—not at him, but at what he’s thinking. Seeing his spirit crushed like this makes me want to find that girl and drag her face across the concrete. Jackson is a champion; I know it. Only he doesn’t. Not anymore.
“Okay,” I say, approaching him slowly with caution. “What if I told you I’d leave you if you throw the fight?”
It’s a desperate move, and I don’t even know if I mean it; I don’t even know if I could do it, but all I know is I have to try something. Jackson can’t throw this fight. He can’t flush his whole career down the toilet because of some heartless bitch. That gets his attention. He looks up at me with eyes bordering on anger.
“What?”
I want to take it back, but I don’t. I can’t.
“What if I leave you because you throw this fight?”
In a flash, Jackson is on his feet. “What are you talking about? Did you really just say that?”
Don’t back down.
“I did,” I reply firmly. His eyes scour my face, searching for signs of weakness. I don’t give him any. This is something I have to do. I just can’t let him go through with this. No matter what he thinks, it will break him permanently.
It’s a stare down—almost a match between us as we look at each other. This time, I’m praying he breaks.
“Fine, Merrell,” he says, using my name and not a pet-name like he usually does. “You do what you need to do.”
And with that, he walks right past me and out of the room. I stand there stunned as the sounds of the stadium coming alive reverberate through the walls. I don’t know what reaction I was expecting, but it definitely wasn’t that, and now I don’t know what’s going to happen.
8
Jackson
As I walk into the arena, I’m fighting off panic. I may have just fucked up the greatest thing in my life, and I don’t know what to do about it. What does she expect? For me to just fuck over Micky, one of Southie’s nastiest gangsters, win the fight, and just keep going? She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.
But despite all that, I can’t deny that I want to do what she said. This week has been the greatest week of my life and that’s all because of Merrell, but there’s been this thing inside me, eating away at me like steady rot, poisoning me like a virus, and it all comes from a single thought: I want to be a better man for her.
A better man wouldn’t throw the fight. A better man wouldn’t cave to a punk like Micky. A better man would forget about what was done to him in the past, man up and move on with his life. A better man would listen to a good woman like her.
But I’m not a better man. Even if I want to pretend I am.
I’m almost to the doors when I feel a tap on my shoulder. It’s one of Micky’s men lurking in a nook by the water fountain. He’s wearing a Red Sox hat low over his eyes and flashes me a smile filled with yellow teeth.
“Hey, boyo,” he says, keeping his voice low. “Good luck with the fight. Best wishes from your friend downtown.”
My anger flares. I see red and think about reaching out and giving him a good one in the stomach, but before I can, he’s gone and pushing his way through the crowd.
“Son of a bitch,” I mutter as I keep moving.
Disgraced fighter. No manager. No future. That’s what I am. I’m just a stooge here to throw a fight so some gangster can get rich off me.
I hear the announcer calling our names, his voice booming over the loudspeakers. The crowd is in a frenzy, changing my name.
“Blur! Blur! Blur! Blur!”
My opponent tonight is from New Jersey, but to the crowd that might as well be New York. Just another reason why they all want me to win tonight, and why Micky betting against me is going to net him a fucking fortune.
I go through my normal warmup routine as I wait for them to start the match, feeling more nervous than I’ve ever felt before. Normally I’d be ice cold right now. I’d have my mind right and my fists ready. But that would be for a fight, and this isn’t that.
Merrell’s back there in the locker room. I can’t even imagine what she’s thinking right now. I don’t even know if she’ll be there when all this is over. I’d like to think she will—that she was just bluffing, but she’s a girl with some spunk and if she says she’s going to do something, she does it. At the end of the night, I might find myself half-a-million richer, but without the girl of my dreams.
“And now, the hometown favorite, the heavy-hitter, the Boston Blur!” the announcer calls. “Jackson Santino!”
The curtain in front of me parts and I jog through the door to the sound of thunderous applause. The whole arena’s going nuts as I make my way into the octagon where my opponent is already waiting for me.
George “Quick Hands” Silver. He’s a heavyweight like me, but slower. He’s a striker. If I get him on the ground, it’s over. He’s eyeing me like a wolf, staring me down, doing his best to intimidate me. I almost want to laugh.
He’s gonna win tonight and he’s gonna think it’s because he was the better fighter. He’s going to think I choked, didn’t research his style, didn’t bring my A-game, and he’ll spend the rest of his life thinking that, because there’s no way I’ll ever be able to tell him the truth.
I toss my robe aside and throw some practice punches, feeling empty inside.
He’ll think he’s the better fighter…I think as the ref calls us to the center of the ring. My eyes aren’t even on him. It’s like I can’t even see him right now.
He’ll think he’s the better man…
I glance up when it’s time to touch gloves and reach out, but the son of a bitch pulls a cheap move and just starts swinging. His fist connects with my cheek and I stagger back as he begins his onslaught, drawing jeers and boos from the crowd. Something inside me gives way, and I cover up as he comes at me, ready to do what I know I have to do.
Epilogue
Jackson
One year later…
The truck whines as I pull up the dirt driveway, the lush trees of Thailand surrounding me on all sides. The springs squeal as I go over the set of three bumps I’ve gotten used to. I keep meaning to come out with a shovel and flatten them, but I always end up getting distracted and putting it off until tomorrow.
I park in front of the cottage and get out. The weather’s gorgeous—just the right amount of humidity, and I gaze out at the view of the clear blue ocean. I did it, just like Micky said. I took the money from the fight and bought a place in Thailand. I didn’t go blowing it all of course; I had to save some. Money goes a long way over here but not if you spend it like it’s water.
I wonder what the weather is like back in Boston. Probably freezing. All those poor souls trudging through the slush-covered roads, slipping on ice, scraping their car windshields every morning before work.
“And here I am,” I say to nobody in particular. “Living like a king.”
And boy is that not the truest statement I’ve ever made. I did what I did and now I’m here. No regrets. You can’t live with regrets in this life; that’s what I’ve learned. They eat you up from inside and before you know it, you’re no longer the man you once were. A wise woman once taught me that.
Twirling my keys on my fingers, I take the stairs to the house and tug open the screen door. It used to squeal, but I oiled it yesterday and it’s sounding brand new. I did a bunch of work to the cottage when I first arrived. It’s mine now, and I’d rather do my own work than hire it out to someone else.
The mangos I bought at the market are right where I left them on the counter. Grabbing a knife from the drawer, I skin o
ne, quickly dice it into a bowl and head out to the back porch for the even more impressive view. This screen door needs oil, and creaks as I open it and step outside. I slide a slice into my mouth and smile as the sweet, ripe juices run across my tongue.
Perfect.
“Any more of that for me, mister?”
I glance over and see my beautiful pregnant wife sitting in her usual chair, cradling our son in her arms.
“Are you sure mango is okay for a pregnant woman to eat?” I smile. She frowns and opens her mouth and sticks out her tongue. If she wasn’t holding Clarence, I’d give her something else to swallow; that’s for damn sure.
She takes the piece of fruit into her mouth and I lean down and kiss my son on his soft head. He’s asleep, probably after having a nice meal thanks to Momma. My heart rises in my chest as it always does when I see her. My angel. My miracle. The woman who saved me and succeeded in making me a better man.
I didn’t throw the fight. I couldn’t. I beat the snot out of George and got him to tap in the first round. Not quite a first-round-knockout, but close. Micky was beyond pissed and put a bounty on my head, but when the cops heard a few things I had to tell them about Southie’s most notorious gangster, they swooped right in and picked up him and his whole crew. Last I heard, he’s doing a twenty-year-sentence on racketeering and bribery.
It was Merrell’s faith in me that made me do it, and as if that wasn’t enough, it turns out she swiped some cash from her dad and placed a bet on me to win as well. The odds were already in my favor, but the winnings were enough to keep me afloat until my next bout in Vegas, which I won. Oh, and the purse for that fight? Two hundred thousand. Not enough to retire, but then again, I don’t want to retire. I want to fight…now that I have Merrell at my side, and my next match is only going to be bigger.
“Enjoy your run?” she asks. I’ve gotten into the habit of running every day around town. It’s ten times better than a treadmill.
“I don’t wanna talk about my run right now,” I tell her. “Put him to bed so I can get my real workout in.”
Merrell smiles. She’s absolutely glowing with her second pregnancy, and the curves she already had are now utterly ridiculous and I haven’t been able to keep my hands off her. I woke her up with my dick this morning, fucked her again after breakfast (causing her to scold me for making her need to shower again) and now I’m ready for round 3.
And probably round 4 later…
As she takes the stairs ahead of me, I lift the hem of her dress over her hips and expose her luscious ass. She’s not wearing any panties, and I’m instantly hard. I can barely keep my hands off her while she puts Clarence down, and once we’re out of his nursery, I’m down on my knees before her.
“Jackson…” she moans as I press my tongue against her bare, waxed pussy. I drag the length of her slit, her wetness causing my cock to flex. I pull it from my shorts and begin stroking it as I look up at her. Her tiny little clit is firm against my tongue. I roll it like she likes and reach up and grab her ass and pull her against me to apply pressure. It’s not long before her body’s shaking and she’s coming hard.
“How do you do that?” she asks, slumping back on the bed. I smile as I climb on top of her, my cock aching for her pussy. “You’re so good at it.”
“It’s easy to be good at something you love.”
“You saying you love going down on me?” she smirks as I slide inside her. We both groan and I gently kiss her lips.
“I love everything about you,” I purr.
“Yeah?” she whispers, wrapping her arms around me. “Why’s that?”
“Where do I start?” I smile. “How about how you made me want to be a better man?”
“And you did it,” she says, giving me those eyes that never let me forget how much I love her.
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3. Necessary Roughness
Curves For the Boys Series
Jenna Rose
Contents
1. Natalie
2. Bobby
3. Natalie
4. Natalie
5. Bobby
6. Bobby
7. Natalie
8. Bobby
9. Bobby
Epilogue
More Jenna Rose
1
Natalie
“Great stuff, Hitchens, great stuff. Now we can guarantee the full blown depression of half the student body.”
My editor, Charles, holds up his iPad with my latest piece on it: an article on the plight of Somalian refugees living in New England.
“There’s some good reporting in there, Charles,” I reply, crossing my arms as I stand in his office. It’s late. I should be out at a party or with my boyfriend, but I’m here working my butt off as an underappreciated writer for the Daily Press, Boston University’s on-campus paper.
“Sure is.” Charles nods, setting his tablet aside. “And if I wanted to enter your name for a Pulitzer, I’d tell you to keep writing just like this. But I don’t, Nat. I want readers.”
“So what do you want?” I ask him. “Stories on the best beer to drink at parties? Or maybe what the best porn sites are? Or how to get your girlfriend to have a threesome without being creepy?”
“No to the first,” he replies. “Yes to the second and definitely yes to the third. Guys would love to hear that from a girl’s perspective.”
“I’m not going to pander, Charles. They deserve real news.”
“I’m glad you see it that way.” Charles smiles. “Because I’ve got an assignment for you.”
Here it comes. After his last one, where he asked me to cover a female alumnus who was making six figures on Onlyfans, I can’t even imagine what this will be. He turns his monitor and I see a picture of a big, dumb, hockey jock drinking some kind of alcohol out of a Stanley Cup replica. He’s shirtless, with two fake-boobed blondes on each arm. I know exactly who it is.
“Bobby Brodeur.” Charles smiles.
“I know him. So what? He doesn’t do interviews.”
“Exactly!” Charles replies. “If there’s anyone who can get him to, it’s you.”
“Give it to Marshall. He’s into sports.”
“I’m giving it to you,” Charles says. He’s almost forty, but still has boyish good lucks that help him get away with being so brash. “And you’re going to get it. You know why?”
“Why?” I ask, not really wanting to hear the answer.
“Because Natalie Hitchens gets her story.” He smirks. “He’s got a game tonight and I want you there. Oh, and because he’s an alumnus of this college, and if you play your cards right, will open right up to you.”
I frown. “Are you asking me to…flirt with this Charles?”
“I’m telling you to do whatever you can to get this story,” Charles says as he stands and grabs his bag. He turns off his desk lamp and walks past me. “And I know you will, because you are a great reporter.”
“Charles—”
“See you on Monday, Hitchens!” he says as he walks backwards out the door, flashing me double finger-guns as he does. “Oh, and try to have some fun this weekend, will you? You’re young. Don’t waste it!”
My shoulders slump forward and I groan as he leaves me standing in the dark office all by myself. Everyone else has gone home for the evening, and I’m here arguing with my editor over covering a story most girls would kill for.
Bobby Brodeur is a BU alumnus, NHL star for the Boston Bruins, ladies’ man and legendary big man on campus. People still talk about the parties he threw, the girls he slept with, the goals he scored and the games he saved. He brough
t BU two championships and the Bruins one his first year. Oh, and did I mention he also looks like a male model?
But that doesn’t matter to me. Jocks are jerks and Bobby is a big one. The things I’ve heard about him make my skin crawl. I guess if I was a sorority girl or someone who liked to party and drink, I might feel differently. But I’m not. I’m a hard worker, a focused woman, a career woman. I don’t have time for guys who think life’s a game simply because God granted them with the gift of athleticism and Herculean genetics.
Besides, I have my own boyfriend. His name is Rick, he’s a senior and he’s going to be a lawyer. He comes from a great family in Connecticut, and most importantly, doesn’t pressure me to have sex with him. Yes, that’s right: I’m still a virgin. Twenty-two years old and still haven’t given it up. It’s no secret that BU is a party school, and I like to keep my sexual status on the down-low to avoid being looked at like a lunatic.
I’m on my way to Rick’s dorm when I realize something: he has a formal tonight that I’m supposed to be at.
“Oh, no,” I groan as I slide through the propped door and make my way to his suite. It looks like the boys have already started pre-gaming. Wayne and Tim are lounging in suits and ties on the couch while sipping Pabsts. I give them a curt wave and go find Rick, who’s getting ready in his bedroom.
