RecklessAttraction Vol. 3

by JJ Knight

  I slide my hand back in my sweatshirt pocket. I can easily turn the phone on and choose the camera app. A quick slide, and it’s in video mode. It’s fine if there’s a dark and blurry bit at the beginning of the footage, as long as I get something.

  Unfortunately, just as I’m going to attempt it, one of the fighters nails the other one with a direct hit. Even I can see the man’s head snap sharply to the side. That’s a concussion.

  The other man drops, and the ref ends the match.

  Dang it, I’ll have to wait again. The footage has to include a fight.

  I high-five some people around me and cheer as the winner is declared. As I look around, I feel a prickle on the back of my neck.

  It’s Mama Bertie. She’s in with the crowd now, and her eye is on me. As the next fight begins, I turn to watch, but each time I shift to engage with someone around me, I spot her again.

  Staring straight at me.

  I guess I haven’t blended in as well as I thought.

  I’ll have to go to Plan B. A diversion.

  Why not bypass Clarissa and Action for Action? I can make things so crazy in here that no one will be looking at me.

  And I can take footage as it goes down to prove that my organization was involved, pleasing my boss and the people backing our mission.

  It’s the worst plan.

  But it’s my only plan.

  As I raise my fist in the air and yell “knock out, knock out” along with the crowd, I slip my hand back into my pocket with the phone.

  And with practiced fingers, I do the only thing I know will absolutely work.

  I dial 9-1-1.

  Chapter 3: Hudson

  Face Wrecker storms through the back door like a tyrant on a rampage.

  “Why the hell do I have to be here hours before the main event?” he yells. He spots me and heads my way, kicking duffle bags and water bottles out of his way. “Did you do this?”

  I stand up from the bench where Mike and I have been replacing the bloody hand wraps. Mike makes a point of unraveling the stained white lengths of cotton while I ignore Face Wrecker’s tirade.

  “What the hell happened to you?” he asks.

  Another fighter standing behind me answers. “Reckless here got tired of waiting and beat the shit out of some punks and a couple guards.”

  “Is The General throwing you out?” Face Wrecker asks. “Is that why we’re fighting early?”

  Sounds good to me. I unwind the last section of the wrap and toss it on the floor. “Something like that,” I say.

  “Well, I’m not interested in fighting right now,” Face Wrecker says.

  Mike passes me a fresh roll of hand wrap. “I don't think we have much choice,” I say. “The General sets the schedule in the fight card.”

  “I'm gonna go have a word with him,” Face Wrecker says.

  Mike keeps his eyes on the wrap as he winds it around my wrist. “I wouldn't do that.”

  Face Wrecker looks like he wants to throw Mike into next week. “And why not?”

  “He's pretty pissed at Reckless for roughing up his security and a couple spectators,” Mike says. “If you want to fight him, it has to be now.”

  “This sucks,” Face Wrecker snarls. “I'm not even warmed up.”

  “Neither are we,” Mike says. “There's a couple featherweights up next, and we'll line up right after them.”

  “Featherweights always grapple through three rounds,” Face Wrecker says.

  “Exactly,” Mike says. “We have plenty of time.”

  I squeeze my hands into fists to check the tautness of the wrap. Mike finishes up, and Josh comes over from where he was watching by the wall.

  “This is messed up,” Josh says. “I don't like it.”

  “Relax,” Mike says.

  “We're screwing with these guys,” Josh says. “This is no place to be screwing with people.”

  “I'm not screwing with anyone,” I say. “I'm ready to fight him. I want it done now.”

  Josh taps his foot angrily. “It's about that girl, isn't it? She's a problem.”

  “Take it easy,” Mike says. “We're here to do a rematch and that's it. It'll happen in about fifteen minutes and all this will be over.”

  “I don't like it,” Josh says. “Reckless has connections and he'll move on up and out of these pissant fights. You and I have to deal with these guys.”

  “We don't have to deal with anybody right now,” Mike says. “If you don't like what's going on here, you can walk.”

  That actually might not be a bad idea, I think, but I don't say anything. I have no idea what Chloe is doing out there. Surely she won't still try to bust us with everyone watching her.

  Face Wrecker and a couple of his friends warm up in the far corner. He's already wrapped and bounces in place, throwing punches in the air. As Mike finishes up the second wrap, I close my eyes and review the way Face Wrecker fought in our first match.

  He didn't conserve his energy. He pranced around the cage like he was trying to keep everyone's attention. He was sloppy. And he was surprised when I came at him and brought him down.

  He won't be surprised tonight. No doubt he's worked through an actual strategy with me. I still don't think he’ll cause me a problem. My goal is to bring him down in the first round this time. Chloe or no Chloe. I want this done. Everyone back at Buster's gym has lined up good fights for me. My career is about to start. All I have to do is get this fight behind me and everything will work out.

  Just this one fight.

  Mike straps pads to his hands, and I run through some easy warm-up drills. Josh seems to forget his annoyance, repeating the same reminders and instructions we hear all day long at the gym.

  The featherweights head out for their match, and a guy with a clipboard comes up to me. “So I hear you want to be up next,” he says.

  I nod at him, not breaking my foot pattern.

  “I'll come and get you when it's time.”

  I move into some ballistic stretches, then kick off my shoes to warm up my legs. As I run through a series of kicks, I watch Face Wrecker from the corner of my eye. He's watching me, too. I don't know what he thinks about me or my fight style. I don't even know if I have a style at this point.

  But I do know one thing for sure. I want it more than he does.

  He may think his reputation is on the line, but for me, it's a much bigger picture.

  Buster tells us over and over again about the legacy of his gym. I don't take it lightly that so many important fighters, some of the best you'll ever see in the cage, have put their faith in me.

  I'm going to do this for them. I'm going to show them that the years that they've invested in me have not been wasted. I won't squander them on a pointless fight. I’ll get in there, dominate, make my mark, and get the hell out.

  Josh approaches with face grease. He smears it on my forehead, nose, cheeks, and jaw. I don't expect Face Wrecker to actually land any blows, not unless I let him. But we do the standard procedure just the same. There's no point in getting cocky.

  “Are you warm and loose?” Mike asks.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  I bounce lightly in place as we wait until we’re collected for our match.

  Face Wrecker called it. As the featherweight fight goes into round three, we’re told to prepare to enter the cage. They don't waste any time between matches. They’ll want us to be ready to go straight in.

  But Face Wrecker's expression is set. “I'm not going out there until the cage is clear,” he growls. “I'm the headliner, and I want headliner treatment.”

  Clipboard boy rolls his eyes, but he doesn't lead us out into the main room. We wait near the door as the match concludes. Only when the ref has lifted the arm of the winner, and they’ve come down from the cage, does Face Wrecker approach.

  He wants to make an entrance. It doesn't matter to me, but this is clearly important to him. I don't have fans yet. Although perhaps, by this time, maybe I do.

  Face Wr
ecker pushes past us and strides out into the room to an incredible round of cheers.

  This is what he was looking for. I let him walk in well ahead of me. People fist bump him and smack his shoulder as he passes.

  I glance over at Mike and Josh. “Let him have his moment,” I say. “Because he's not going to feel the same way on the other side of this match.”

  The three of us take a more measured approach in our walk through the crowd. There’s quite a bit of noise for us, but I am focused. Face Wrecker has already climbed the stairs to the cage, and he riles the crowd with fist pumps and growls.

  The ref doesn't need to ask us our names this time. He reminds us to have a good clean fight and steps back. But the announcer wants to ham it up some more. He yells into the microphone until the crowd noise is deafening.

  I search the crowd for Chloe. I don't see her, but that doesn't mean much. She’s small in this great sea of people. Still, a sense of déjà vu comes over me. The last fight, her sudden disappearance. What has she done?

  I can't think about it. I have to fight.

  Just as I turn back to look at Face Wrecker, I spot her. The blond ponytail. The gray sweatshirt. She gives me a little wave.

  She's still here.

  The bell rings, so Face Wrecker and I circle each other. The crowd, the noise—even Chloe—all fade away, and it becomes nothing but me and my opponent inside this octagon. We throw a few easy punches, looking for the strikes zone that will work best for us.

  The crowd grows restless, shouting for action. Just like before, it starts to get to him. It goads him into action. He's too gullible. He has to learn to get everything else out of his mind.

  He throws a punch. I duck out of it and turn around to roundhouse kick him in a painful repeat of exactly the move that worked on him two weeks ago. He takes this one better, though, and attempts to answer with a kick of his own.

  Mistake. I grab his leg and twist it, and he flies facedown on the mat. Instantly, I'm on his back. He struggles with me, trying to find any sort of purchase. But I'm stronger than him. I want this fight over. And I want to win.

  Instead of just holding like I did during our last match, this time I punch. One unanswered. Two. Three and four and five. In a normal match, the ref would've already called it, but this isn't a normal fight. People want their money's worth.

  I keep hitting. Face Wrecker has nothing. He didn't even get going.

  He starts to bleed, and I take it a little easier on him, because I can see that he really has nothing in this position. He can't get an elbow out or a fist free. All he can do is kick one foot pointlessly.

  Eleven hits, twelve hits, thirteen. I'm not particularly comfortable with how many times I'm having to blow his head. But he won't tap out. And the ref won't call it.

  Twenty, twenty-one. Finally, he lies still. I don't think he's actually unconscious. But I think that's his only out. He doesn't want to appear like he actually quit. Only that his body did.

  I wait for the signal from the ref, not about to be fooled by getting off him just to have him renew his attack on me.

  When the ref declares the win, the crowd noise is deafening.

  I step up and away. Face Wrecker's two friends dash into the cage and roll him over. After a moment he comes around. I'm not sold on his act. They aren't either. But the crowd seems to buy it. When they get him to his feet, the ref takes both of our hands and raises mine in the air.

  Mike and Josh race into the cage, jumping up and down and smacking my back.

  “You did it,” Mike shouts. “He didn't have anything on you. He didn't even come close. There is nobody in these fights who come close to you.”

  I don't know if that is true, but right now I'm going to take this win.

  I look out in the crowd for Chloe. She's up against the wall where we stood after I attacked the security guards. Her arms are crossed over her chest, and she looks pained. That can't have been pleasant to watch. It wasn't even pleasant to do.

  But she's still here. That has to mean something.

  I head out of the cage. The next round of fighters goes in right after us, but the attention, for a while at least, is all on me.

  I accept handshakes and pats. Instead of going to the fighter area in back, I head toward Chloe.

  The crowd moves out of my way as I get near her.

  When we’re only a foot apart, she says, “You won.”

  “I did.”

  “You look like you're probably pretty good at this.”

  “I guess so.”

  She bites her lip. “Are you going to be fighting again tonight?”

  “No. Let's get out of here.”

  Now I get an expression of her. She looks panicked. “Not yet. I can't go.”

  I lean in very close to her ear to ask, “Are you about to call them now that I'm done?”

  She looks up at me. “Isn't that what you asked for?”

  But even as she says it, her expression doesn't match her words. She's nervous. Something hasn't gone right for her.

  “Should I be getting out of here?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  “How much longer do you have to stay?”

  “Until they get here.”

  Dammit. I had really hoped it would not end this way. I realize that quite a few people are watching us. They probably expect some big gesture. She is my girlfriend after all.

  So I lift her up high. A great whoop goes up from the crowd. And then I kiss her, pressing her face close to mine.

  This kiss is different from all the ones that came before. She's hesitant, and it's the first time for that for sure. But as it goes on, she warms up to me.

  I let her body slide down mine until her feet hit the floor. I twist the length of her ponytail around my fingers. And I give the kiss everything I've got. I have no idea how much we can see of each other. But I will take this moment right here and hang on. The win. The cheers. And her.

  When I pull away, she presses her fingers to her lips as if they sting from my kiss. Something’s definitely off.

  “I'm going to go grab my shirt and things, and I'll be right back out,” I say.

  “You really should go,” she says. “Really.”

  “I'm not going to go without you.”

  She heads out of the crowd. “Okay. Your funeral.”

  I move swiftly back to the room to get my clothes. I don't know if she's already called the cops, or if she's waiting on something else, but I do know one thing.

  I'm not going to let her rot in the jail cell again.

  Chapter 4: Chloe

  This is probably the stupidest way of handling a bust in the history of Action for Action. But even as I’ve sat here after calling 911, I haven't thought of anything better. I expect the police to barge in at any moment. I know they can trace the call to me. I just don't know why they haven't showed yet.

  I’m not clear exactly how long it’s been. Shortly after I called, a long fight with two wiry guys ended, and Hudson walked out with his opponent. There were several minutes while they whipped up the crowd into a frenzy. And then the fight itself, which was actually quite short. Then he came over and kissed me.

  Ten minutes at least. Probably more like fifteen. And still, no police.

  Every TV show I’ve ever seen has shown people calling 911, and if there’s no response when the dispatcher asks them a question, they send someone out to investigate.

  But they haven’t come.

  I’m completely frustrated. This was supposed to be a huge night for me. And yet, here I am, no clue about when they’ll actually show.

  Hudson comes back out in shoes and his shirt. I suppose in order to continue the ruse that I'm his girlfriend, I have to leave with him. Or he has to stay here at the fight with me.

  I feel like the most amateur protester in the history of my company. I'm going to fail so hard. Someone way more experienced should have come on this bust.

  Maybe we’re all amateurs.

  Huds
on walks up and takes my hand. “I guess if you’re staying, I’m staying,” he says.

  “What happened to your friends?”

  “They’re in the crowd somewhere. They didn't want to watch me get kissy face with you.” He gives me one of those infectious smiles. “And that's a quote. I didn't say it.”

  We stand there for a moment, him grinning foolishly while I want to die of anxiety over what I’ve done.

  One of the betting table girls in their skimpy outfits approaches. “Your winnings,” she says, with a little lilt in her voice that sounds ridiculously like a flirt. She passes him a thick envelope.

  “Thanks,” he says.

  She turns with a little flounce of her hips and heads back to the table.

  “Your winnings,” I say, in a tone three octaves higher than my real one.

  Hudson laughs as he stashes the envelope in his bag. “Would I be so lucky as to hope that maybe you were a teensy bit possessive toward me?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I would never besmirch your honor by looking at another woman.”

  “Besmirch, eh?” I have to shake myself loose of this easy banter. Being around Hudson is too comfortable and fun. But I'm in a real predicament here. And I don't know what to do.

  He leans close to my ear again. “So, when exactly will they storm the room? Are they gathering a bunch of police vans like last time?”

  This entire conversation feels ridiculous. I'm here to bust the very fights he won. That just paid him. And he acts like he's going to help me bring them down.

  “I had to delete my proof,” I say. “In the incident.”

  Now he gets it. ““Did you call them without having any footage?”

  “Sort of.” I say. “And they should be here by now. I'm not sure they're coming.”

  He stands up straight. “Perfect. So let's go.” He tugs on my hand to lead me out.

  I pull it away. “You don’t understand,” I say. “I have to do this.”

  “Right. Because you lost the three punks who were informing.” His voice takes on a harsh quality.

  Crap. Now we’re back to this. “Please just go home,” I say. “I’ll be fine.”