Bad Ink

by Megan Hetherington

  I drink in the crowd's energy and it pumps me until I’m deflated with a sharp burst.

  Through the chaos, there’s one still figure and, like a satellite, I zoom in on her.

  Cate.

  She’s here.

  In the crowd, her face the only clear object. I fix my eyes on her, pivoting my head as the guys holding me continue to move around the ring.

  Her mouth drops open and I try to wriggle free, then she turns, fighting through the crowd to move further into the stands.

  It was obvious at some point I would see her. I knew this when I came back three months ago. But I never planned for it to be like this. Or for her to look the way she does.

  The last time I clapped eyes on her she was a kid. We both were. And I’d not imagined her this way. A beautiful woman with curves in all the right places. Wearing a dress which makes her look as hot as a fucking poker.

  Nor did I expect for an immediate spark to be there between us. And from thirty feet it looks a lot like desire.

  The self-discipline I employ to make my body perform in the way it does is blown into a million fragments. The reaction, over whelming.

  Fuck. This complicates everything.

  Every. Fucking. Thing.

  I prize the meaty hands from my thighs so I can drop to the ring floor.

  With urgency, I elbow a way to the edge and shout after her. There’s no way she can hear me as she slinks her way through the crowd.

  When I can’t see her any longer, I scout around for the group she was with. I drop to my knees and shout instructions through the net to Juan and Diego who scurry off in pursuit.

  The formalities of the win are dealt with as quickly as I can manipulate. Then, I exit the ring and move swiftly up the concourse toward the dressing room where I’m met by Juan who whispers bad news into my ear.

  They caught up with her and asked her to come with them to meet me but she refused. She was upset and seemed frightened, which isn’t surprising considering what she witnessed me dish out. I describe to him the group she was with and they go off on their new mission.

  The usual routine of debriefs and attending to cuts, lost on me. I’m somewhere else. Back to when I was eighteen and in love. My brain freezes and then jerks back and forth with memories of those days. Of Cate.

  I study my blood-stained hands and rub them over my face.

  Those teenage days gone and I can’t believe I even want her to see me. Not like this, not the person I am now. I doubted I would ever be good enough for her and now I know I’m not.

  She’s flourished into a beautiful woman worthy of any man, like the one she was ringside with tonight. While I’ve rotted into a hard, rough beast.

  The masseuse enters the room, her slim stature, delicate amongst the other bodies in here. She lingers near the entranceway, awaiting instructions and when the entourage stream out of the door I half expect her to as well. But she doesn’t. She locks the door and comes to kneel at my feet and, to prove I’m not worthy of Cate, I pull her mouth onto me.

  She takes my cock all the way to back of her throat. No gag reflex. Like a fucking robot.

  There’s a knock at the door, and she looks up, her mouth still latched onto me, silently asking what she should do. I push her away and bark for the visitors to enter, pulling a towel over my already limping dick.

  “We found out who she was with,” Juan grunts.

  I nod to the girl and she gratefully slips away.

  “It’s a swanky solicitor firm, the main guy gave us his contact details.” He extends a business card to me and I reach out for it. Slowing flicking it over in between my finger and thumb.

  “With?” I question the nature of their relationship.

  “Yeah. He described her as his date.”

  Nate Crawshaw.

  Nate.

  A date with Nate.

  Cate and Nate. That don’t sound right. Fuck him.

  What kind of guy takes his girl on a date to a cage fight? And what kind of girl goes?

  I hand the card back to him.

  “Give me a minute.”

  They nod and walk out of the dressing room. The masseuse peeks her head around the door.

  I shake my head and she closes it behind her.

  With my back resting on the wall, I push away the thoughts of being with Cate again but, no matter how hard I try, they won’t go away.

  My recollection of Cate was the one I clung onto. A perfect girl. Who would grow to be a perfect woman with a perfect family. Twinset sweaters and plaid skirts. Sensible heels. A Labrador.

  A recollection which made me believe she wouldn’t be interested in a guy like me. Seeing her right now has made me doubt that assumption.

  6

  Cate

  I rest against the cold brick wall outside the venue, catching my breath. Wet hair plastered across my face, and my heated cheeks stinging as they scorch off the splotches of rain. My head reels from the alcohol I’ve consumed tonight and what I have witnessed.

  There’s no way I can reconcile what I’ve seen and his reaction.

  The look he gave me.

  Lodged in my stomach, my heart wrenches to free itself. A sickly yet excited feeling. One I’ve never had before.

  When I hear Nate calling out for me, I sink back into the wall. I don’t know what I would say to him. None of this makes sense to me, so trying to explain it to someone else is not going to happen. Besides, this goes against our arrangement. Me dragging up my ghosts from the past is not part of our deal.

  The two meat heads who questioned me earlier are back again and have caught up with Nate. I can’t hear what they’re saying but Nate shrugs his shoulders and holds out his arms as if he can’t answer whatever they are asking. One of them puts his hand on Nate’s shoulder and I catch a breath, worried they might harm him. The hand appears to be squeezing, but he’s showing no sign of wriggling free.

  I take a tentative step towards them, I can’t let him face this on his own. This is my drama, not his.

  Then, they retreat inside, leaving Nate and his friends engaged in an animated discussion. I wait, hoping they will leave so I can make my escape. One of his friends tries to get back inside and two others wander off down the street. But Nate stays; on his cell and continuing to look distressed.

  I’m about to go to him when I feel it. Against my neck. Warm breath which makes the hairs on my skin prickle and my nipples pebble.

  The feeling has a sound attached to it. And the tone is rich and deep and vibrates all the way down my body to my sex.

  “Fuck,” he growls.

  After seven years of not hearing his voice, the first utterance is a word which has no, and yet every, meaning. One drawn out syllable annunciated perfectly.

  I’m not prepared for this. And although I know I have to look up to the mouth which has orated this greeting, I have no idea how I will react.

  “You’re cold,” he says.

  As if I’ve been given permission, my body shivers. He envelopes me with his strong arms, pulling me into his warm chest and, despite my best judgment, I feel like I’m home.

  Still nestled to his chest, he walks me around the brick wall and in through a door secreted down a dimly lit alleyway. I can’t tell if I’m trying to resist or pull away because his strength is all-consuming. With his huge bicep wrapped around me there’s not even an inch of breathing space as we pace along a corridor.

  He pushes open a door and we leave the noise of the hallway behind.

  I still daren’t look at him, because the way my body feels, I won’t be able to speak. Although I sure as hell know what I will do.

  Why, after everything I’ve been through, do I still feel this way about him? The yearning to have him close to me. Skin on skin. Breath on breath.

  Now I hear water running.

  “Step in.”

  He pushes me under scalding hot water, still fully clothed and my eyes screwed shut. Eventually, the shivering stops and I blink through the
water at the haze of a man stood before me.

  “Better?” he asks.

  I want to answer the question with a simple nod of the head but actually there’s another more truthful answer, and, with an alcohol-loosened tongue, I hear myself say, “I will be… if you join me.”

  His Adam’s apple bobs low and for a painful second, I’m not sure how he’ll answer.

  Then he pulls off his shirt.

  Holy shit. This man. The boy I once knew has become this man stood before me.

  Rubbing the water from my eyes clouding the perfect vision, I drink in his body and skim across his tattoos.

  From across the street and from several rows of seats away in a cage, he looked strong and muscular. Up close. He’s a work of art and the sight makes my lower belly ache with need.

  The moment he steps in to the shower, I know there’s no going back from this.

  Simultaneously, I’m frightened and a whole lot turned on.

  The flimsy material of my dress proves no armor against the barrage of hard muscles forcing me against the wall of the shower, and when he rips the dress from my flesh, I feel no loss.

  The moment our eyes lock and our mouths gorge on each other, I know for certain I’m ruined.

  The taste of his tongue and the pressure of his lips takes my breath away. I’m dizzy and my whole-body fizzes with the sensation of being so close to him. My need to have us as one is intense.

  My feet float upwards and I wrap my arms around his neck, straddle his waist and throw back my head; laying bare my neck to him. He devours it like it is nothing and everything.

  The throbbing low in my belly is insane and I’m desperate to feel him inside of me. Throwing away any self-respect I have, for a memory of searing heat and icy cold shards to spark through me once more.

  Then his head drops and his lips trail down my neck coming to rest on my pulse.

  With his forehead pressed against my windpipe, he stills. The only movement the heaving of his shoulders as he pants in new oxygen.

  “Isaac?” I gasp.

  He snaps his head up and for one fleeting moment I see it in his eyes. Him. My Isaac. But the moment vaporizes, and he drops me as if I’m poison. I fall to the floor; the deluge from the shower hitting my skin like darts.

  “Get dressed,” he rumbles his instruction from outside the shower, walking off further into the room, dripping water over the floor.

  Not knowing what I’ve done or said to elicit such a response, I turn off the faucet and step cautiously out of the cubicle. I grab a towel off the rail and wrap it around me. And shiver once more.

  Back in the changing room, he’s sat on a chair with his head in his hands. His sweatpants cling to his legs and droplets of water weave down his rippled, inked chest.

  “You need to leave,” he growls, to the floor.

  “Why?” The fury rising from my stomach is a mixture of his crude dismissal and my self-loathing for being such a hussy.

  He ignores my question, raising from his seat and throwing a tee and sweatpants my way. They hit my knees and fall to the floor.

  “Why did you do that to me?” I cry.

  He stands before me and without removing his gaze, his eyes change. The golden sparks disappear and he shuts me out. “You weren’t part of the plan.”

  “What fucking plan?” I yell.

  He coolly turns, grabs a robe from the back of the door, and walks out on me.

  For seconds or minutes, I’m not sure which, I’m rooted to the floor, staring at the door.

  “Motherfucker,” I scream after him. Livid at the predicament I have allowed myself to be in.

  Eventually, I bend to pick up the clothes he has left; not wanting to make use of them, but, when my only other option is the towel wrapped tightly around me, they will have to do.

  The sweatpants drown me. Even after I fold over the waistband twice and roll each leg with hands still trembling with rage. Ditto with the training shirt which hangs loose around my hips. My purse, jacket, and shoes are discarded in the corner of the room, and with them looped in my fingers, I storm out of the door.

  Two gorillas flank the exit; each as wide as they are tall. One talks into a microphone dangling from an earpiece as I approach. Expecting push back, I’m surprised when he opens the door to the alleyway. My surprise turns to fright when he manhandles me into a black SUV.

  Curled on the back seats, I fret where they are taking me, until they ask for my home address. I’m not giving them it.

  The SUV glides into the tree-lined street of the fake address and I hear the doors click open, just as I’m giving in to a desire to sleep. Roughly, I pull on the door handle and make my escape. With a tight grip on my belongings, I scurry along the sidewalk; the limo crawling along beside me.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the passenger window lower.

  “Shit,” I murmur under my breath. Ready to sprint away.

  A voice booms, “1036 is over there.”

  I snap my head across to him and then realize what he means, the address I’ve given is further along the street in the opposite direction. For a second, I consider ignoring his remark but then turn on my heel and march to where he’s pointing. I don’t want them to pull me back in the damn car.

  Discreetly, I squint at the numbers on address plates and as I get closer I scout around for a way of entering 1036. There’s an expansive front lawn and what looks like a path alongside to the rear of the house. Without slowing my pace onto the driveway, I rush over the lawn and through a gate and over the path at the side of the house. I close the gate and rest my back against the rough board, catching my breath and listening intently for the SUV to pull off. I shallow breathe and after what seems like a decent amount of time, I cautiously pull open the gate and peek my head through. They seem to have gone, so I scurry across the lawn and back onto the sidewalk.

  I hate to admit, but I’m lost and pull my phone out of my purse, upload the maps app, tap in my home address and follow the directions out of the upmarket neighborhood.

  The unbelievable events of tonight replay in my head and a cocktail of emotions fizzes through my veins. Ranging from shock, to desire, to embarrassment and now anger.

  “Douche bag,“ I spit out.

  A message pops over the map I’m following. It’s from Nate.

  Nate: Hey. Where are you?

  I contemplate what I tell him. He knows none of my history and now is not a good time to fill in the gaps. I mean how would I explain an MMA fighter called Raul, who he watched avidly beat the shit out of his opponent, is actually the father of my child. An ex-con called Isaac Winters. Oh, and I ditched you tonight to have shower sex with him. Almost.

  Like a madwoman, I throw both hands in the air. My shoes flick and hit me on the side of my head, causing me to laugh hysterically and a skulking cat to screech and run off across the street.

  This wasn’t how tonight was supposed to go. The plan was to have a good night with the girls and then a drunken sex session with Nate. Instead, here I am stomping barefoot on a dirty, wet sidewalk to an empty house.

  At least it’s stopped raining.

  I keep my reply simple.

  Me: Gone to bed.

  Was it the alcohol tonight which made me act the way I did? I mean, really? Why the hell did I invite Isaac into the shower? What am I? Some kind of slut with a death wish?

  When I reach home, I’m no less annoyed with myself. With him. And the whole situation.

  I strip off the borrowed clothes and, despite my tiredness, scrub myself clean in the shower before crawling into bed.

  7

  Isaac

  A heavy beat reverberates through my body as I enter the nightclub. Carlos and his crew are in the VIP area and I stride through the parting crowds to join them. Carlos spots me and leaps up in an exaggerated fashion, waving his cigar and champagne glass in the air. Arching his back, he extends his neck and shouts my name above the discordant music. “Raul,” he howls like a co
yote, drawing attention, as usual, to himself.

  Girls lounging on plush seats push in to sexy poses. As ever, I’ll have a choice tonight. Although to be fair, it’s not something I deliberate over. The nearest. The most drunk. Whichever one sits on my lap first. I’m not fussy. It doesn’t matter to me as it’s only a means to an end.

  With one lunge, I counter the steps to the elevated area and stand my ground when Carlos leaps at me like a coiled cobra, slopping the contents of his Champagne glass over his girlfriend, Ulyana. She protests in a flurry of Ukrainian, grabs her sister Zoya’s arm, and they both rush off toward the ladies’ restroom.

  Carlos doesn’t even notice the commotion he causes. He notices nothing unless he has a mind to.

  With his legs wrapped around my thick thighs and his arms waving in the air, he proclaims me the king of the ring. Pulling on my shirt collar to reveal the crown I’m tattooed with on my upper chest. Stoically, I stand rooted like a tree and when eventually he drops his cocaine-fueled cling, I grab hold of his hand in a manly clasp, piled high.

  He is the ultimate reason I’m here today. In this club as a VIP surrounded by bodyguards instead of tormented in a jail cell and labeled a foreigner with a white ass for sale. But there is a price. As with everything in this life. A heavy price. And it’s down to me which of us will pay.

  I’ve already sold part of my soul and, with the added surprise of meeting Cate tonight, I’m about to sell more.

  Carlos keeps hold of my hand and pulls me to the now spare seat next to him. The bodyguards relax somewhat and the girls swivel in their seats toward me, rearranging their hair and fixing renewed pouts.

  Carlos shouts across an order for a bottle of Tequila to be brought to our table. He knows I’ll decline the Champagne, as I’m not a Champagne type of guy. If I have to get wasted—and it’s not something I usually do—then I’ll do it with the hard stuff.

  A bottle of the finest, aged, gold Tequila and a dozen shot glasses are brought rapidly to the table. There aren’t enough glasses to go around. Only the inner sanctum of Carlos’s empire will take one.