Romance: Pummel Me: A Boxing Romance

by Courtney Clein

  NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to person, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Warning: Due to mature subject matter, such as explicit sexual situations and coarse language, this story is not suitable for anyone under the age of 18. All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older, and all acts of a sexual nature are consensual.

  A Song for Redemption

  Chapter One: Born to Sing the Blues

  Her voice reverberated through the half empty saloon like a slice of sharp glass, hitting every audience member to the core of their being. The combination of plaintiveness and anguish was familiar melancholy to the sorry group of intoxicated misfits. As the piano player hit the last note on the worn ivory keys, Annika faltered awkwardly and she trailed into off into a pregnant silence. Despite the overwhelming adulation felt by the sprinkling of people, there was no recognition. No one looked up from their sweating pints of beer. Not a soul acknowledged Annika’s misery because they were all too enveloped in their own. Shakily, the slender redhead slunk off the stage and stumbled to her half-drunk glass of vodka on the bar.

  “Wow, Annie! That was awesome!” The chunky bartender was waiting for her, his wide innocent looking eyes filled with admiration. “You’re wasting your talent in this shithole.”

  Annika barely glanced up at the smiling man. She had learned his name was Dickie the previous evening. It was a moniker which suited him somehow. He had a child-like exuberance about him which seemed to mask a personality much less naïve than one he presented. There was a quality that Annika could not pinpoint that made her want to slap his face, however.

  “Don’t I know it,” she slurred.

  “You need to find yourself a rich bastard and become his concubine. Then you can pursue a singing career in the life you deserve.”

  Annika peered up at him with sudden interest, her cerulean blue eyes bloodshot from a day’s worth of alcohol consumption.

  “Why don’t you be my sugar daddy?” she purred, putting her hand on his arm suggestively. Dickie laughed raucously and waved his finger at her.

  “Baby, you are completely my type! Young, fire crotch and an ass that just won’t quit but you got something I don’t need!”

  Annika scowled and jerked her arm away.

  “Oh yeah? What’s that?”

  “Let’s just say that this is one Dick that don’t like that va-jay-jay!”

  Annika pouted, annoyed as he laughed again and walked away from her swinging his hips for effect.

  “Get me another drink, queen!” she yelled after him. He cackled harder and winked at her from the far end of the bar. Sighing, she turned to face the meagre sprinkling of patrons in the tavern. This was the second night she had sung at this decrepit, miserable hole in the wall and for the second night she had flopped. She knew she had only gotten the gig because the owner of the Sundowner had been too busy trying to make out the shape of her nipples through her bra to actually listen to her pitch. Not that she was complaining. She was down to her last forty bucks and she was about to get thrown out of the dilapidated boarding house in which she “lived.” Lived. What a funny word. I’ve been dying since the day I was born. Dickie put the another double vodka and tonic before her.

  “This one is on me, Annie. Chin up – shit always gets worse before it gets better.” She suddenly realized why she loathed the bartender; his condescending tone reminded her of her step-father.

  “Fuck off,” Annika growled, snatching up the beverage. As she stood from the barstool, her black stiletto got caught in the chair leg and she flew face first into a table. The couple seated there jumped up as the glass smashed, sending their beer in every direction.

  “Drunken skank,” the woman muttered angrily as Annika struggled to pick herself up. Blood was streaking her hands from the glass shards on the floor. She managed to rise and wiped the tacky fluid on her jeans, deepening the slivers of glass into her tender skin. Then, through foggy, incoherent eyes, she looked around. Everyone was finally watching her; now that her misery temporarily outweighed theirs. I haven’t been dying since the day I was born; I’ve been dead the whole time.

  Back at the boarding house, she lay on her bed, staring at the water damaged ceiling. There was a piece of plaster hanging by a thread directly above her head and Annika was silently willing it to fall on her. Maybe it will be laced with asbestos and kill me with cancer. The thought cheered her up slightly. She was remembering what she used to play when she was a child and her step-father was in the next room making a “business” deal. She would count the dots on the particle board in the ceiling. To be a kid again, easily amused by everything, she thought wryly. She was ridiculously intoxicated but she could not fall asleep. Her mind would not stop racing. Her heart was pounding and for a paralyzing second, she thought she was about to have a panic attack. You better get your shit together. She sat up abruptly and felt around for her cell phone. She needed some pot. Pot would put her out. She texted her dealer and then readjusted the two flat pillows on her cot so she was propped up against the wall. What was she going to do? She was literally about one day away from living on the streets. After the fiasco at the Sundowner, it was highly unlikely the owner was going to let her come back, regardless of how much he lusted after her. She shrugged and realized she was going to have to swallow her pride and go back to stripping again. Just for a few months until I get on my feet. But even as she thought it, she knew she was going to get sucked back into the entire lifestyle again. The money. The drugs. Well I gotta do what I gotta do. She idly wondered if she slept with the owner of the Sundowner if he’d let her keep singing there. Jesus Christ, am I that far gone? Her text notification went off. She was hoping he would spot her a dime bag of weed but she already owed him so much money. She picked up the phone, thinking about how to word the request when she realized the text was not from her drug dealer but from a number she did not recognize.

  Hi Annie! It’s Dickie from the Sundowner.

  Annika groaned, humiliation flooding her face. Would this night never end? Furiously, she punched a text in return.

  How the fuck did you get my number?

  Sammy, the owner gave it to me. You’re fired btw.

  To her utter embarrassment, tears sprung to her eyes. Don’t you fucking dare cry! She yelled at herself. You did this to yourself.

  Thanks for letting me know. Fuck off.

  LOL I really wish I were straight – you’re a firecracker!

  Annika didn’t bother responding. She wished Brandon would get back to her. She could always invite him over for a quickie and then he would inevitably bring a joint or two. Then she realized it was almost five o’clock in the morning. One more day closer to death, she thought with some optimism. But Dickie was not finished with her.

  Do you want a good paying gig?

  Wow, Sammy really smelled blood in the water. He’s firing me so he can fuck me. Charming. Her thumbs were poised above the keyboard, trying to decide whether or not to go for it.

  My brother, Vern owns a pub downtown and he’s always looking for new talent. Can I give him your number?

  Annika was completely taken aback. She had not been expecting a genuine job proposal.

  Are you fucking with me?

  No. I think you have an incredible voice. You’re soulful and kill the blues like no white girl should.

  For the first time since Annika could remember, she smiled a real smile.

  Yeah, I’d really like that gig.

  Chapter Two: A Change is Gonna Come

  Well this is an improvement. Annika had a decent buzz going and as she finished her set, she was feeling a tad euphoric. Dickie had come through – the “pub” his brother owned was actually more of a speakeasy. It had twenties style vibe, r
equiring a code word to enter et al. The establishment comfortably entertained no more than fifty people at capacity but the clientele reeked of money and intrigue. The opportunist in Annika smelled the potential for finding a rich boyfriend and she couldn’t help but wonder if that was what Dickie had in mind all along. For some reason she could not comprehend, the round faced blonde had taken an instinctive liking to her, despite the fact she was incessantly rude to him. It had almost become a game as she no longer felt animosity toward him but she continued to treat him nastily. She idly wondered if he was a masochist. Definitely a bottom, she thought, as she joined him at a table near the kitchen. Several people stopped her mid-step to compliment her gorgeous vocal cords. She also noticed most of the men, as well as some women, coupled and single were ogling her. Some were covert while others were openly suggestive, leering and licking their lips as she sashayed past their tables. Annika relished in the attention. It felt good to be appreciated after a lifetime of disappointment.

  This was her fifth night at The Pocket Watch and Dickie’s brother, Vern had promised her a regular showcase after her first night.

  “Try not to get pissed drunk,” Dickie had warned. “Vern is a bit of a teetotaler.”

  “A what?” Annika asked, dubiously. “Is that even a word or is that gay for something?”

  Dickie shook his head and sighed.

  “It’s a good thing you’re pretty,” he told her, patting her on the head like a puppy. “Just try to stay coherent. You have the voice of an angel. A fallen angel, mind you, but an angel nonetheless. Don’t screw up this chance by making an ass out of yourself.”

  Annika had heeded his advice and drunk minimally the night of her first performance. She was shocked to discover that she had stage fright without being completely alcohol infused. Still, her fear of living in a cardboard box far outweighed her phobia of being on display so she bit the bullet and sang Amy Winehouse like she was the troubled singer incarnate. She received a standing ovation for the first time in her life. Vern had enthusiastically offered her a contract for two straight weeks and every Friday night thereafter. And somehow, at some point of the night, regardless of his schedule, Dickie had made an appearance.

  Tonight, he looked glum when Annika joined him. She grimaced at him and snapped, “Why is your face doing that?”

  “What?”

  “That screwy, pinched thing. Stop it. You’re bringing me down.”

  Dickie shrugged and said nothing. Annika felt a smidgen of concern. Dickie was not one to miss an opportunity to jab back.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked with seriousness. “Did something happen?”

  Dickie shrugged again and looked down at his hands.

  “I got fired from the Sundowner.”

  “What? Why? When?” From what Annika had gleaned, Dickie had been employed at the low end joint for almost a year.

  “Sammy found out I got you a job singing here and he let me go.”

  Rage colored Annika’s line of sight. That’s how Dickie had managed to show up every night.

  “That piece of dog shit! How dare he? I hope you called the labor board. He can’t do that!”

  Dickie shrugged again. He looked like he wanted to say something else but he held back.

  “What? What else?”

  “My boyfriend left me last week.”

  Annika was overwhelmed by guilt and then sadness for her unlikely friend. She hadn’t even realized he was in a relationship. It suddenly dawned on her that she didn’t know anything about this guy except that he had helped her for absolutely no reason during yet another wretched point in her life. You’re a self-absorbed bitch. It didn’t even occur to you that things might be happening in his life.

  “How long were you two together?” she asked gently.

  “Eleven years. We just bought a house. Well…I just bought a house. I guess Kevin already knew he was on his way out. That’s why he didn’t put his name on it. Oh my God…” his eyes widened in fear and his face paled dramatically as something hit him without warning.

  “What?” Annika demanded.

  “How am I going to afford to keep the house?”

  Annika moved in with Dickie the following day. She had three garbage bags and two Rubbermaid bins. My entire existence can be crammed into five pieces of plastic. Yet Dickie was thrilled by this.

  “Fantastic! You’re a hundred and ten pounds and you have no earthy possessions. You won’t take up any room at all!” Annika grunted and curled her feet under her curvy buttocks. They were sprawled out on the beige microfiber sofa, drinking wine. There were still pictures of Dickie and Kevin in frames on the piano and buffet and Annika tried to subtly check them out as to not draw Dickie’s attention to the subject of his ex. She was suddenly insatiably curious about her new friend and his life but she was not one to ask questions. Her mantra had always been “if people want you to know, they will tell you.” That was probably due to an upbringing of relentless privacy invasion.

  Luckily for Annika, however, wine was Dickie’s undoing and by the end of his second glass of pinot griot, he was giving her a recount of his entire life story.

  He had been raised on a farm with seven siblings in a hardworking Baptist family. Shockingly, when he had come out to them at age fifteen, they barely batted an eye.

  “Actually, my mother said – and I quote ‘that’s nice, dear. Pass the potatoes please.’ I went on tell her I meant ‘homosexual’ and not ‘happy’ because I thought she misunderstood. Turns out, I wasn’t really good at keeping it a secret to begin with. I think they figured it out before I did.” Annika was moved by the rendition. I have no idea what it’s like to have a family like that. It didn’t inspire jealousy in the least as she always figured she couldn’t miss something you never had in the first place. However, she did find Dickie’s relationship with his family very endearing.

  “So what about you, Fire Crotch? What’s your family like? How did you end up so fucked up?”

  Annika smiled enigmatically.

  “The usual – overbearing father and a pill popping mother. It’s a boring story and not fun drinking conversation.”

  Dickie arched a thick eyebrow at her response. It was not what he was expecting but she was cutting him off as he opened his mouth to speak.

  “I have a drinking game. It’s called ‘My Ex is a Douchebag’ and this is how you play.” With that, she wiped her arm over the back of the sofa table and sent the frames clattering to the floor in a pile of broken glass shards. Momentarily stunned, he stared at her and then looked down at the pictures of his former partner strewn upon the floor. Then he smiled slowly and raised his glass to his lips.

  “I like this game,” he crackled.

  Chapter Three: Cupid

  Life is good, Annika thought. She still had her gig at The Pocket Watch and the popularity she had achieved there had opened doors to other shows in the downtown core. Money was flowing in steadily and she was getting her name out there. Dickie was proving to be an incredible roommate and the best confidant she had ever had. She had even cut back on her drinking and completely cut out pot and Molly. She felt healthy, happy and for the first time since she could remember, secure.

  That evening, she took special pains getting ready for her performance at The Pocket Watch. She wanted to look as amazing as she was feeling. She slipped into her sexiest, shortest black dress, fish net stockings and those six inch stilettos. She had purchased them last fall but never worn them. She had always justified not christening the shoes as never having a decent place to go but in truth, she was always terrified she would get too drunk and fall to her death wearing such treacherous footwear. She carefully applied her makeup, skillfully choosing dark, dramatic colors to accent her porcelain skin, sensational waist length hair and trance-inducing blue eyes. She looked incredible and as she took one final look at herself in the mirror, she wistfully wondered if she was ever going to find anyone to want her for more than just the near perfect reflection at which
she was staring. Who needs a man? You have Dickie.

  Annika’s performance that night surpassed anything Vern and Dickie had ever heard from her. The naked torment in her pitch seemed to have been replaced by something more hopeful, resulting in a clearer, more radiant sound. The Pocket Watch was full past capacity and the majority of the patrons there only for Annika’s trademark vocals. Dickie had to fight through a throng of admirers to get to her side.

  “You’ve outdone yourself this time, Fire Crotch. Look at this place!”

  Annika beamed and gave him an affectionate hug.

  “Thank you, Dickie. I love you.” Embarrassed, Dickie quickly stepped back.

  “Hey, I don’t have anything to do with this. You earned it all by yourself.” She scowled and punched him in the shoulder.

  “You suck at pretending to be modest,” she teased.

  “He’s right, Annika. You have earned this but you deserve so much more.” They both turned to face the speaker. A tall, muscular man in his late fifties stood slightly too close behind Annika with a wry, half smile. Annika felt an instant attraction to the stranger, which surprised her. She rarely took to random interlopers. Yet this man had an incredible charisma to which she was drawn, almost like their spirits were old friends from another dimension or life. Dickie felt his lips tighten as prickles slithered down his spine. The man was unduly attractive in the usual Hollywood fashion. There were gentle jet black curls, laced with virgin white strands teasing the top of his suit jacket, defined cheekbones, an aquiline nose and a dimple in his chin. His voice was as deep and rich as he appeared to be.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” Dickie snapped. “Oh right, that’s because we were in the middle of a conversation not pertaining to you.” The man completely blinked once at Dickie and then completely disregarded him. He turned to Annika, his back physically blocking Dickie from Annika’s eye level.

  “Annika, my name is Rhys Anders. I am a scouting agent for ABC Music. Have you heard of the label?” Annika and Dickie both froze as he produced a card.