by Claire Adams
I poured another glass of wine despite my better judgement. I could not deny the fact that I was terribly nervous about Jet's arrival. Being alone with him in my apartment made my body shake. I wasn't afraid that he would seduce me; the likelihood of that happening was laughable, at best.
I checked my appearance in the bathroom one last time before I settled back down on the couch. I sipped at my wine, swirling it in my mouth as I considered how I wanted to handle my project. How exactly was I going to draw Jet in order to show a changing subject? It was an interesting idea using a human to show change, but I wanted to do it in a way that was not only creative, but would spark interest in the minds of the viewer. Suddenly, an idea came to me that brought a smile to my face. I knew just what I was going to do with Jet to have the best project my professor has seen all year. I would get an A+ for sure. I was still smiling when there was a knock at my door.
I stood up, my nerves jangling in my bones. I put my wine glass down and headed to the door, swinging it open, and there stood Jet in all his glory.
“Hi Natalie, you look fantastic.”
“Thank you. How are you?”
“Better now.”
I laughed. “Cut the crap, Jet, you don't need to impress me, it's just a school project.
“I like impressing you.”
I rolled my eyes and asked, “So what did you end up doing with my drawing?”
He walked past me into the apartment and took a look around. “Well, first I showed it to my roommate, and then I hung it up in our living room. It's the best-looking thing in the whole apartment.”
“Oh, you have a roommate?” I watched him as he walked around my apartment, seemingly taking it all in. He started walking down the hallway toward the bedrooms when I stopped him.
“Not so fast, Jet. There's no way you are checking out my bedroom. The living room is as far as you get here.”
He laughed as he came back down the hall, and sat himself down on the couch. “Can't blame a guy for trying. But to answer your question, yes, I do have a roommate, one of my teammates. He's an all right guy.” Teammates? He noticed my wine glass before I could question him about it and he said, “Oh, we're having wine? I'd love a glass.”
“No, I'm having wine. You are only here to work, remember?”
“Oh, lighten up. God only knows what you plan on doing to me. Let me relax a little bit.”
I smiled, and the nervousness seemed to dissipate a little bit.
“Okay, but don't think you're getting drunk here.”
“Oh, I wouldn't hear of it; you would probably take advantage of me anyway.”
I laughed out loud as I walked to the kitchen and grabbed another wine glass. I poured him a glass, and opened up another bottle to top off my own. I was going to need it. “You certainly have my number, don't you?”
He smiled that handsome smile of his, and I actually enjoyed the sight of it, though it was probably only the wine talking. I sat across from Jet and handed him his glass.
“Maybe we should say cheers to something,” Jet said.
I smirked. “Like what? Cheers to our health?”
“No, that's too lame, besides, we are too young to worry about our health.”
“Oh, is that right?”
“Let's toast to a great working relationship, and an amazing grade on your project.”
“I'm impressed, that sounds fantastic.”
We held up our glasses and said, “To the project,” while clinking the glasses, both with smiles on our faces.
“So Jet, aside from your jock status, what educational aspirations do you have at school?”
“I'm not going to lie to you. I have none, I truly hope to ride this MMA career all the way to the top and never look back. I'm not interested in a regular job, I love what I do. I know you don't think much of us jocks, but I couldn't imagine doing anything else. I think that's probably how you feel about your art.”
I hadn't really thought of it that way. Many men have made great careers out of sports, becoming rich and famous. However, there were also many who never went anywhere, their dreams of heading to the top dying quickly. In that regard, it was very much like the art industry. There were many artists who made it to the big time, but there was just as many who never went anywhere. Their names disappeared, and their art ended up in garage sales. Jet didn't want that future, and neither did I. So maybe we did have something in common, after all.
“Maybe we should get started, then.”
He smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “Sure, what do you need me to do?”
I got up and pointed to the wall. “I would like you to stand against the wall, using it as a backdrop.”
“Should I take my clothes off?”
I laughed, “Easy there, cowboy. I need your clothes on right now. So let's not get ahead of ourselves.”
“Poor sport.”
“Don't play too much into your reputation there, Jet, you don't want to disappoint me.”
“You're right about that.”
“So shut up, and get over there,” I said, pointing at the wall.
He got up off the couch, laughing. “Whatever you say, beautiful,” he said, and walked over to the wall. I had cleared the area to make sure there was enough room. I had considered having him sit or lay down but in order to show the changes I wanted, I needed to be able to show him full length, so standing was the best way to do that. He stood against the wall, his body tall and firm. He was actually the perfect subject for the idea I had for the project, so my excitement was building as we were getting started.
I set up my easel and got out my pencils. I chose the appropriate HB size, and placed my sketch paper onto the easel. I settled myself comfortably and looked over at my subject, considering how I was going to begin.
“I hope you have strong legs because you're going to be standing there for a while.”
He shrugged. “I'll survive.”
“Don't worry, I will give you an intermission.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Now stay still. You can readjust yourself, but very briefly, and you can't change your position.”
“Gotcha.”
I began by sketching a broad outline of Jet, putting down on paper a base idea of his shape and stature. I had done this a million times, and the process came very naturally to me at that point. I used long strokes with the pencil. Once I had the base outline in, I could then start to add details slowly, one area at a time. I always started with the head when it came to drawing people. I liked to make a person shine through, to see life come out immediately. You couldn't do that with a torso or clothing, and I wanted to see the person represented right away. Then I would have something to gaze at while I filled in the rest of him. He stood there for a long time while I sketched out the basics. He was patient, and never complained when I took my time, sometimes correcting a mistake or two.
When I got the main points down that I wanted, I allowed him a break. He went to the bathroom and then he sat back down on the couch and took a gulp from his glass, and I refilled it for him.
“You're not trying to get me drunk, are you? Cause I can assure you I'm a sure thing.”
I giggled. “That I don't doubt. So, were you okay with everything so far?”
“Yeah, it's pretty simple. Just stand there and look pretty. I'm not sure where you're going though, with the whole changing part of it.”
“Well, that I'm afraid is something you will have to wait and see. But I promise you I have a plan, and it's fairly brilliant.”
“That I don't doubt,” he said, copying my prior statement. I smiled.
“Shall we finish? I don't want to keep you past your bedtime.”
“Really funny.”
He downed the rest of his wine, and headed back to the wall to stand once again. At this point, with the entire base covered on the drawing, I could start to add minor details to various areas. This was also a time to add shading. Put shadows where they were supposed to go,
and shade areas like under the eyes, or ripples in the clothing. Once shading was complete, I finished up details, such as eyebrows, the spark you add to eyes to make them appear alive, and the details in his clothing that show the viewer the difference between looking at the jeans he wore as opposed to khakis. Next I added his hair, and provided the type of details that made you think you could see every strand of hair on his head.
“What are you smiling at?”
I looked up, surprised, unaware that I had been smiling at all. Maybe I was letting Jet get just a little too close.
“I didn't realize I was smiling, actually.”
“Well you were, and I have to say, it was stunning. You're a beautiful girl, Natalie. So tell me, why were you smiling?”
“Because I enjoy drawing, and everything was coming together the way it should.”
“Great answer.”
“Thank you, but you're still not getting in my pants.”
He laughed. “Fair enough.”
“Well, I'm all finished. Would you like to come and have a look?”
“Cool. Yeah, I would.” He moved from the wall and met me on my side of the easel. He looked at the drawing of himself and studied it. I was impressed by how observant he was; he didn't just glance at it, he got up close and personal with himself, and studied the details in the drawing.
“This is amazing, Natalie. If I haven't said it before, you are quite good. A true artist.”
I just smiled. I knew I was a true talent, but it embarrassed me to hear it.
“Well, I will need you again next month, and we will change things a bit.”
“Still no clues?”
“Nope, I'm afraid not.”
“Fair enough.”
“It's getting late though, Jet. I should really be going to bed since I have an early class tomorrow.”
“Is that an invitation?”
I laughed, “No. And my roommate should be home anytime, so it's a good time for you to leave as well.”
“Well, I hope I can see you again outside of our little project.”
I rolled my eyes and said, “Goodnight, Jet.”
He winked at me as I nudged him towards the door. He opened the door and headed outside, slowly closing the door behind him.
I sat back down in front of the easel, and admired my handiwork. I thought carefully about the future of the project. What Jet didn't know was that I intended on changing him every time he came, but not in the way he expected. I intended to have him remove a piece of clothing every time we met; that would be my changing subject.
Chapter Eight
Jet
Today was the day of my fight, and my nerves were raw. They always were on a fight night. It was amazing how clear things became, however, when the bell rang. Every time I’ve been in a fight, I’ve felt the same way. Fighters always get that fight-or-flight instinct just before getting into the ring. It was such an intense feeling that it almost felt natural to flee instead of staying for the fight. I knew a few guys who let that feeling get the best of them, and they ended up backing out of their fights at the last minute. I tried to let the fear in as much as I could. I fed on it so that when the bell rang, I could turn it off, and do what I came there to do. It was like WAR, and I intended on winning every time.
MMA as a sport had only been in the school system for a few years, and I had taken full advantage of it. Screw playing football; MMA was the future, and I would get further faster by taking that sport and running with it.
My fight that day was a conference battle with another school. I was in the 180-pounder weight class, and I was pure muscle waiting to give someone a beating. I didn't like to brag, but I was one of the best fighters in the nation, I was well-rounded as a fighter, I could come out as a striker and kill it, or take it to the ground, and do just as well. Most fighters were one or the other, not too many were both, but I was one of them, and because of that, most guys were scared to fight me.
My coach and team were warming me up before the fight. It was important to perform stretching and light pad work before a fight. It got you warmed up, but didn't exhaust you for the fight. I drank a bit of water, but not enough to cramp up.
It was time. The last fight had ended, and they would be calling my name soon. My team and I got organized behind the curtain that I would emerge from. I was moving fluidly on my feet, my heart racing, the fight-or-flight response in overdrive. My parents, as well as my sister, and a bunch of friends had purchased front row tickets to the fight, so I knew I had a huge support system out there, ready to cheer me on as I went to represent my school. I was always surprised to see my mom cheering. She hated when I got hurt, so the idea of me choosing to be a professional fighter had not gone over well with her at first. She told me to consider law school instead. It would all be paid for, after all. In the end, however, she accepted that this was what I wanted for my life, and supported me anyway. I never expected her to attend the fights, but she was always there, cheering at the beginning and trying to wipe the blood off my face in the end.
She was a great woman.
I heard my opponent’s name announced, The Great Destroyer, and he emerged from his own curtain, his music of choice blaring in the background. His fans screamed for him so hard it was almost hard to hear the music. Fans at fights were always losing control; it was like they already smelled the blood before it was spilled. He stopped before going in, talking to his team, and then he entered the octagon and circled it as he waited for me.
It was my turn to head out. They switched the music to my choice, which just so happens to be “No More Mr. Nice Guy.” It makes me feel jacked, and ready to fight. They announced my name and I headed out with my team in tow. The crowd went wild, and I could hear family and friends shouting my name. Talk about an adrenaline rush, you don't get one better than that. I stopped before the octagon, where my team applied Vaseline to my eyebrows to avoid having sweat drip down into my eyes and blinding me before the fight. My teammates patted me on the back and told me to go kill things. They left me to go to my corner, and I entered the octagon to join my opponent.
We both positioned ourselves in our respective corners and waited for the bell to ring. When it did, we met in the middle, and tapped fists as a sign of respect before we beat each other to pulp. Once that was over with, The Destroyer charged at me, and threw a right that snapped my head to the side from the impact. Blood spurted from my mouth, and I tasted copper. I hated the taste of blood, which sucked, ‘cause I tasted it often. The Destroyer had power on his side, there was no doubt about that. I heard my corner screaming for me to keep my hands up. Obviously―how could I be so stupid? Don't ever get too comfortable in the ring, Jet. That's what my coach had always drilled into my head, and there I was, letting that punch dictate the fight so far.
Just as I was getting ready to hit him, he came at me with a one, two, three. All at once, and the combination caused the sounds of bone cracking against flesh―something that always turned my mom's stomach. I wasn't entirely sure where my game was headed today, but I needed to start focusing now. The blows had all landed on my face, but thankfully, they hadn't been hard ones. The Destroyer went for another swing, but I blocked him. We exchanged jabs for a few minutes before the bell rang, and we returned to our corners.
Round One was over, and I sat down on the stool. My teammates applied an ice pack to my shoulder and gave me a sip of water to rinse my mouth out with. I had a split lip, and my coach applied something to clot the blood. While they were doing all that, they were yelling at me about what I should have been doing, and asking why the hell my hands weren't up blocking those punches. They were also informing me about the weaknesses they found in The Destroyer, and how to zero in on them in the fight. It was an incredible feeling, being in a fight. Despite the massive amount of noise in the arena that night, when I was fighting, my mind instantly zoned into my own corner. I could only hear them when they were shouting. It was never possible to mix signals from another co
rner.
An example of this would be penguins. When they are out in a flock together, they all look the same, but by instinct, a mother is still able to find her baby, just by the sound of the baby's call. It works the same for me in a fight―I am trained only to hear my corner yelling, and that is what I focus on.
I nodded my head as they told me what they expected from me this round. I stood up, and as the bell went off, we went at each other with kicks flying and punches slamming. I caught him with a spinning back kick that left him unsteady, and followed that with a straight right. He fell to the ground, but quickly got up before I could pin him.
I slipped to the side, and the guy punched into the space where my head should have been. It was the perfect opportunity for me to come in with an uppercut to the face that connected so hard that The Destroyer staggered backwards. It took him a moment to recover his footing. While he was doing that, he swung out his arm. I ducked, and came back with a punch to the ribs, gut, and face, landing them all perfectly.
The Destroyer threw another jab, aiming for my face, but I blocked the punch, and returned with a right of my own. I slammed my fist right into his face and brought him to his knees.
I could feel that I was bleeding, though I wasn't entirely sure where. I knew that I was doing well, maybe even winning at that point. I allowed The Destroyer to get a couple of body shots in as I set him up. What I didn't expect, however, was for The Destroyer to stand up and hit me in the face. My head swung back, even though my body stayed firmly planted on the cage floor. I came back swinging harder. I got close and grabbed around his head in a clinch, getting one knee into him before he shoved me off him. I moved forward quickly, blood pouring down my face as I hit The Destroyer with a pow, pow, pow of punches.
The Destroyer started to back off as my hits pushed him up against the cage. I was hitting him hard, but he just wouldn't go down. The bell rang, ending the second round.
I returned to my corner, feeling good about the round I just put in. My coach was icing my shoulders as I took a swig of water, spitting it into a bucket.
