by Daya Daniels
For a moment, we’re stuck in some sort of eye-fuck that I try my best to ignore, but it’s there. The raw attraction. The undeniable pull to each other. Monster and man. Predator and prey. Captor and captive. Hunter and little rabbit. Only, I’m not certain who is which.
This man sneaks up on you and digs into your soul like tenterhooks, settling himself there.
I dip away from him, forcing his hands out of my hair, feeling like I’m about to freak the fuck out. I brush my hair down while he stands a foot away from me with his hand still in the air, as if I disrupted some intimate moment he was having with my strands.
“I’ll make you a deal.” He says with a loud inhale, shoving his hands into his pockets.
He stands confident, looking me over. I sense an undercurrent of irritation in his demeanor. But when wasn’t he annoyed in my presence?
I wait, curious about his offer.
“If you win, I’ll work out something better for you here, remarkably better.” He grins. “You’re an exceptional lawyer.”
Win?
I nod, appreciating the compliment and my brows shoot to my hairline but I try my best to temper down my excitement. “How-?” I begin to say but he cuts me off before I can finish.
“I do what I want. You don’t need to worry your pretty little head about that.”
I hate the way this guy talks to me!
“This is my life, Pierce. It isn’t a game.”
He spins away from me and heads across the room, his large palm still up in the air as he speaks with his back to me. “So, now you’re concerned about your life?”
A loud sigh leaves my mouth and my shoulders slump. I suppose he has a point.
“If you lose. “He points his index finger to the sky. “You finish your three years here and no more underground fighting.”
I give him a blank look and lift a shoulder, uncertain of what Shit Street this is all heading down. “I don’t understand.”
“But this deal comes with one condition.” He gives me a cryptic smile, turning around to face me.
“And what is that?” I question, looking at him out of my good eye.
“You’ll have to fight me for it.”
Pierce
Baby laughs and he continues to laugh, until he’s full out giggling, which eventually morphs into side-splitting, eye watering chuckles. The sound of his amusement, the way his head bobs and the boyish grin that spreads across his face makes me smile.
He runs a hand through that messy yellow hair of his and lets out a loud sigh, before finding my eyes again.
“I think you have a deal Pierce Baron Carlisle.”
I give him a once over, curious about the toned body that lingers beneath the expensive threads he wears but I’m pretty sure I know what’s there. If I could guess his weight, I’d say Baby’s pushing at least two hundred pounds.
He stands tough most of the time, as if he always ready for a brawl to breakout, even when we’re sitting in client meetings and he’s left handed which means, I’d have to watch his sneak attacks coming up on my right. I know he has a mean upper cut but it isn’t anything I can’t handle.
He’s still laughing as I flick through some pages in the manila folder in front of me.
Baby’s arrogant demeanor inflames me. His view on the world is unrealistic. This guy is more than just self-assured. He’s pompous. He’s glib and he thinks he has no limits. I’ve dealt with men like this my entire life. They’re a dime a fucking dozen.
Tough guys like Baby think everyone should kiss their asses and that the world owes them something. I might’ve been a rich kid, trust fund brat but I’d earned my place at this firm, after spending what felt like decades in school and working for my father. It would’ve been a miracle for someone like Baby to imagine that maybe I’d gotten to where I was because I’d earned it.
Prick.
He runs his hand over his stubble covered jaw that needs to be fucking shaved and a few of his tattoos on his neck edge over the collar of his shirt. I recognize the markings as being new and scoff in disgust. The last thing clients want is a lawyer, no matter how good he is, to be covered in tattoos and fresh bruises, like they’d just traveled through the meat grinder.
My secretary Gwyn sticks her head in the door. “Mr. Carlisle, your eleven a:m is here.” She announces, right before her eyes widen when she spots the sight of Baby across the room and his shiner.
I grab my suit jacket, shrugging it on.
Baby has promise, which is something his father spotted in him long ago. He had his choice of firms and even more so now that he’d had a few years under his belt and had built up a stellar reputation for himself. So, I never did entirely understand why the decision to work here. It wasn’t important enough to ask and frankly at the time we hired him, I didn’t really give a shit.
I fiddle with my cuff links and pop a candy in my mouth, savoring its sweet taste. Baby’s still laughing. It’s a laugh he should enjoy, so I don’t stop him.
Checking my watch, I smile. “How is eight o’clock tonight, seeing that you’re adamant that you don’t need time to heal.”
He stands straight. “Eight is fine.” He grins.
“Meet me at 31st and 6th. You know the place.”
“Isn’t that one of yours?”
“Yes. It is.”
He nods. “Eight it is then.”
“Take the rest of the day off.” I tell him, before heading across the room and disappearing through the doors. “At least go to the doctor and get that fucking eye checked before you go blind.”
Baby said his fights usually go five rounds. I could guarantee him, this one would be over in three.
ROUND TWO
Baby
Inhaling the crisp October air, I stand just outside of an old brownstone. The name Carlisle is stamped in gold across the bronze plaque set into the stone on the front, confirming that the building belongs to the Carlisle family. I don’t think there’s a building in New York city that they don’t own.
The Carlisle family are powerful. I didn’t know much about Pierce’s upbringing but I knew he was a fifth-generation Harvard graduate and that his great grandfather had founded the firm, we both now worked for and built it up to what it is now. A heavy hitter law firm that had a stellar reputation for winning most, if not all its cases. The Carlisle named holds weight in this city. It means business.
Despite the fact that Pierce’s father and my father knew each other well, the Carlisle and Benedict families rarely spent time together and whenever they did Pierce wasn’t around. I can’t forget that he already has eight years on me in age, which in his eyes makes me a toddler.
I take the steps and hit the intercom. I don’t get the chance to speak into the receiver. The lock disengages almost immediately and the door pops open with an irritating buzz. I step inside. Pierce is already here. Heading down the narrow hall the scent of sawdust fills my nostrils. A few more feet in, I spot machinery and tarps strewn everywhere. This building is under renovation it seems and is being converted from an old boxing gym to an office location of some sort.
Running a hand through my hair, I dip inside of a large room that’s lit dimly. A boxing ring raised five feet above the floor is in the center of it. Pierce is at the opposite end of the large space fiddling with a stereo. He’s barefoot and shirtless, wearing a pair of sweatpants that drape at his waist. His dark hair is slicked to his scalp, since he’s covered in sweat, telling me he’d already been warming up.
He’s more muscular than I thought, each layer clearly defined in his chest and back.
“You’re here.” He says in his deep voice, without turning around.
“Yep, couldn’t bear to miss the opportunity to change my life.”
He laughs, that irritating laugh again and twists around, when I drop my duffel bag on the floor with a thud. My forehead furrows and my jaw tightens when I spot the massive cross tattooed across his entire chest with Jesus Christ nailed to it - the fucking
crucifixion! His abs are ripped, almost as defined as mine, if not more and his hands are already wrapped with tape. He’d obviously already spent time going at the punching bag in the corner of the room.
He strides towards me and stops at about two feet away, to stare. I follow his eyeline when he looks at the old clock on the wall that confirms it’s getting up to eight thirty. He grimaces and I suppress a laugh. Pierce had always been one for keeping time. It’s important to him that someone make time. It’s a show of consideration to the person waiting for you. According to him if you’re late, you’re silently telling the person waiting for you that they’re invaluable and somehow your time is worth more than theirs.
I’d seen Pierce walk out of meetings, giving no explanation even to clients that were late, which was hilarious.
A second glance at the clock makes me wonder what other appointments he has for the night. He steps away without looking at it again.
“Gloves or no gloves?” He asks.
I chuckle, stripping out of my jacket and boots. “I’m a bare-knuckled fighter.”
“Right.” He says in a hushed tone. “Bare.”
I nod and get prepped. The music cuts on, something loud and vicious as it pounds through the walls, fucking up my focus. I recognize the song as Killing Strangers by Marilyn Manson.
I blow into my hands warming them up a bit, after I’d finished taping them and hop into the ring, ready to take this fucker down.
Pierce
Baby dances in front of me, showing off footwork that could only be learnt in the ring. I’m less show and a little more action.
The words Only The Dead Have Seen The End of The War are inked on his back in intimidating bold block letters. It’s a Plato quote and it’s fitting for what this man seems to want – death.
We’re both covered in sweat. I’d taken a few shots to the chin but I’d delivered them back, clean, hard and precise to the beautiful face standing in front of me.
He heaves for breath and ducks left from my right as I charge towards him. I spin around out of the way of a deadly roundhouse kick that’s about to connect with my ribs. Taking a few more steps forward, I connect with his face three more times, delivering a combo, careful to avoid his left eye.
A small mercy.
We both bob and wave almost in a dance for a moment.
He grunts as I land each blow and then focus on beating him down at his ribs, as we fall to the floor with a loud bang that runs neck and neck with the volume of the music.
The boy can take a punch, I’ll give him that. Most of what I’ve thrown at him would’ve put most grown men down but not War Baby. I can see how he’d earned the nickname.
Our sounds and frantic grappling fill the air. I resist the urge to simply bite him to get out of the submission hold he has me in, even though I’m on top, straddling him, his back against the floor.
He punches me in the chest hard, just as a strange sound rips from his mouth. It’s a hiss mixed in with a growl and it dawns on me that he’s pissed. His face is in a permanent scowl, blue eyes blazing and his white teeth are on display in a rabid snarl.
When he hits me again with the swift thrust of his hand, I lose focus, my eyesight becomes blurry and I struggle to catch my breath.
We roll a few times across the length of the ring and somehow Baby ends up on top of my back. His forearm snakes up beneath my throat and his powerful legs wrap around my middle, squeezing, nearly cutting off my circulation. I military crawl across the floor determined not to give up, while he attempts to choke me out.
“Tap out, you fucker.” He growls right into my ear.
I laugh through my labored breathing and work to make it to my feet again. This bastard is strong. His legs squeeze tighter, his heels digging into my kidneys. His elbow hits the center of my back a few times, eliciting a few painful grunts from me.
I push up to my feet with the heavy weight of him, still on my back and roar like the unstoppable force I am. We’re both covered in sweat and grunting like animals.
This truly is barbaric but there’s something exciting about it too that I’m truly understanding in this moment. The fight. This is what Baby must chase each night when he tapes his hands up and moves to stand inside of that chalk circle. The adrenaline that courses through your blood when your defending your life. The rush of it all. The primal instincts that kick in, propelling you to fight. To win! To remain undefeated at all costs.
Baby’s forearms squeeze harder around my neck. I stumble in circles a few times, until I make the foolish decision to simply fall backwards and we go crashing to the floor, with a slam that causes the floor of the ring to dip and jump, as if it’s caught in an earthquake.
Our limbs flail and tangle, after the fall breaks the hold he has on me. Baby crawls away, letting out a few swear words, a grimace etched across his face, his blonde hair everywhere. He’s a gorgeous fucking mess.
“That was fucked up.” He growls, steadying himself to finally stand straight.
I’m certain his back is screaming but he only shows a brief moment of pain. Then, it’s gone.
I only smile, desperate to get rid of my glittery vision. We dance for a few seconds, both of us trying to get our shit together.
He steps forward, swings and misses. I’m yanked into a clinch that I shrug violently out of. I bounce around a little, staring at his bare chest that’s covered in tats and cut with muscle. Beads of sweat cascade down and over his tanned skin and gather in the middle of his stomach to pool at his waistband.
The sound of Baby cursing, jolts me out of my daze. He spits his mouth guard out. I laugh and do the same.
“Fuck this.” He hisses, right before he charges for me burying his head in my stomach, forcing me against the ropes.
I land a slew of punches into his sides, while he attempts to grapple with me, locking me in a hold. We go crashing to the floor, with a loud thud.
I roll away and crawl on top of him, crushing him with my weight. I inhale the fresh scent that lingers on his strands, enjoying the useless struggle beneath me for a moment, before he punches me in the eye and scrambles back to his feet.
“I’ve taken down big bastards before.” He grates, keeping his head low and his eyes trained on me a few feet away.
“Yeah.” I smile, taking my position again, shaking out my legs.
“They don’t call me War Baby for nothing.”
I laugh again and trudge forward in his space. His knuckles connect with my jaw, right before I pull him down and knee him in the ribs three times in a row. He bowls over with a hiss and backs away.
I allow him a little air and a chance to catch his breath.
“You’re pretty good.” He compliments.
“Yeah, I know.”
“How-?” He asks breathlessly.
“You’re not the only one that can fight, Baby.”
He nods and brushes his blonde strands out of his face. I spin away from him, gripping the ropes and when I turn, something unexpected happens. A fist makes contact with my nose and an elbow with my temple.
He’s trying to kill me!
He crawls up the height of me as if he’s King Kong scaling the Empire State Building, until he’s perched at my shoulders.
I’m disoriented and pissed.
The air is cut from my throat when he wraps his arms around it. I get a good hold and take a dive to the center of the ring, hard again.
The decision isn’t smart. I’m certain this will be the last time I can pull off this move without breaking my own spine. And I’m not in the mood to end up in the intensive care unit for the sake of kicks.
Baby writhes on the floor in pain.
I maneuver myself on top of him, flipping him over. “That was dirty.” I rasp out, using my forearm to secure his neck, pressing his face into the filthy mat. “That was fucking dirty.
“You don’t like the smell of the shit you shovel out yourself.” He grunts.
Rising up to my knees, I punch hi
m in the ribs on his right side at least twenty times until he’s docile, defeated and nearly tamed. I’ll have to watch my back. He’d had the opportunity to finally take me out and he’d fucked it up. He could only blame himself for that.
The sounds of our panting mix together, along with the music that’s on replay, driving my excitement.
Shoving my forearm harder into the back of his neck, I succeed in keeping him pinned. Dipping down and looking at his smooshed face, I whisper. “The problem with fuckers like you is that you need to be taught a lesson.”
Baby chuckles, clearly amused. “What can you teach me, Mr. Carlisle?”
“Well, for starters I can’t teach you how to stop being a prick.” I say through gritted teeth, reaching beneath him to untie the string at his waistband.
He bucks underneath me, attempting to push my weight off him. Yanking at the plush material, it slides down exposing his tanned ass cheeks, already covered in bruises (no tats) that I want to bite.
“That’s what you’ve wanted all along, huh?” He hisses, attempting to glance over his shoulder, when I pull him up to his knees releasing my death grip a little.
“It’s what you need?”
He laughs again. “Really?”
“Yeah.” I say, about to fucking explode.
I shove my sweatpants down with one hand, pulling my already hard cock out.
I press a kiss into his ear, licking along the shell of it, tasting his salty sweat and breathing in the natural scent of his skin that I want all over my own flesh.
“One thing about guys like you – the dominants. They like to be controlled.
“You’ve never been conquered, have you, you little prick?”
“Naaa, not my thing.”
A deep laugh rumbles through me, when I spread his cheeks, giving me an enticing view of his tight little, freshly-waxed asshole, which I’m about to fill and his manicured cock and balls.
