by Alex Roberts
God. I didn’t know whether to be angry or entertained. “I’m not sure I’m the one with issues.”
“Right. Because I’m a violent asshole.” He nodded. “That’s an issue. Being a violent asshole. Big issue.”
“I’m serious, Jamie.”
“Me too. If I were a violent asshole, that would be a big issue.”
Silence. Just some whiney-ass rock band love ballad. I smashed the power button. “So, you’re saying that’s not you, or you think that’s not you.”
“You’re getting very philosophical on me, Bran. I don’t like philosophy. It hurts my brain.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I’m not sure I do.”
“Are you not a violent asshole, or do you believe the violent asshole things you do don’t make you a violent asshole?”
“That’s a lot of assholes.”
I turned the radio back on. The love ballad was off. Thank God. “I got my ass kicked a couple times.”
The humor dropped out of his voice. “Who?”
“Just an ex. It was a while ago, and it only happened twice, but—”
He was the one getting angry now. “There’s no such thing as something like that only happening twice. Who was it?”
“He’s not even around anymore. Just. Thing is. You scared me.”
He turned back squarely into his seat so he was looking straight out the windshield. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. I’m sorry, too.”
“You already said that. Don’t worry about it, man.”
“I really enjoyed… our night. You just—”
“I scared you. I get it.” Jamie brought his arms up to both sides of his head, scratching at the back of his neck and pressing his forearms to his ears. “I usually don’t go for all that first time. You felt so right. I couldn’t help myself. I needed to—”
I side glanced from the road. “You needed to what?”
He let his arms fall. “Nothing. I just needed to… experience you. Take a right here.”
I slowed the car and eased onto a smaller drive. “Jamie.”
“Yeah?”
“The muscle building supplements and all the working out you’re doing. Are they just a crutch for the drugs? Like, a lesser addiction, but still an addiction?”
I slowed the car down and continued driving, up into the older hills district of the town.
“Shit, man. Isn’t that life? Why do you work at a job you hate, Brandon? Isn’t that just a crutch to pursue your materialistic desires?”
I took my eyes off the road again. “I thought you said philosophy makes your brain hurt.”
“You make my brain hurt.”
“Thank you, Professor Jamima. You should come teach at the community college. You’d be a hoot.”
He squinted at me. “I have no desire to do drugs again. But yeah, I need an outlet. I like to work out, and I like to fuck. I really don’t see that as a problem.”
“I like fucking, too.”
“I like fucking you.”
Goddammit. The crotch of my jeans tightened. “Where’s your place? Are we close?”
“Left here. Second house—Ahhhh, shit.”
“What?”
He gestured toward the old house. “They’re both at the club.”
“You stay with friends?”
“Yeah.” He let his head fall against the headrest. “A few of the fighters from the gym stay together. I just give them cash every month. I don’t have a key.”
With a sigh, I thought about how much cash was in my wallet, but I didn’t think I’d have enough to rent a room for the night, not after blowing forty bucks at the club.
I pulled away from the curb. “New plan.” At the first turn, I flipped around and headed back the way we’d came. “You could stay at my place again”
Dear God, you could cut the thickness of the air in my little sedan with a whiffle bat.
“You gunna keep your knife block on the night stand?”
“No.” Nothing witty came to mind. I wasn’t good at this. “You can stay on the couch, if that’d make you feel more comfortable.”
He took up that posture, half leaning on the door again. The shit-eating grin was back. “Can I lock myself in the bathroom? I don’t know if I’m safe from your violent tendencies.”
“Don’t be an ass. It’s only for one night.”
“Damn.”
Silence followed. I turned up the radio.
“So, why do you do it?”
“What?”
“Fight. I mean, you could just workout and keep all toned and looking good.”
“You think I look good?”
“I said don’t be an ass.”
He clasped his hands around one knee. “Cash money.”
“Are you a rapper now?”
“No. Literally. Cash. I love Allyson, and I want to do everything to provide for her – but child support automatically pulls a percentage of my paycheck, no matter how much I make. Fighting pays cash. I take my little girl shopping and buy her the cutest fucking little shoes. That shit is fucking adorable. I take her to movies with talking candlesticks. But I pay cash.”
“I figure cover charges at the club tonight had to be at least ten k. How much do you guys get paid?”
“If it isn’t a pro fight, not much. A couple hundred. A lot of those places offer unofficial side gigs, though. You can make a grand in one night if you win a few fights at those.”
“You do many of those? Are they legal?”
“No. I mean, they aren’t legal. And I don’t do many. Just when I’m falling behind. If this pro fight doesn’t pan out, I may do a couple more. I need my name at least on an apartment lease so Allyson can start staying with me overnight.”
“But… the risks— Unofficial, illegal fights don’t sound too safe.”
“I know the risks. But, shit man, I want to see my little girl.” He pressed buttons on the stereo, stopping at another metal station. “It’s been too long. I don’t want more time to just slip away. She’s growing up. I don’t want to miss it.”
“Why don’t you get a second job?”
“Fuck that. And work twenty-four-seven? I said I didn’t want to miss her growing up. I just want to be a dad. A happy dad. This is my chance.”
“You really think fighting is your only chance?”
“I used to be an angry guy, okay? You’re right. I used to be a violent asshole. Since I’ve gotten into this – the training, the coaching – it’s good for me. It’s not just that I get aggression out hitting shit. It’s taught me self-control. It’s taught me that withholding power is sometimes more effective than asserting it. I’m calm now. I’m happy when I’m training.”
I didn’t get it. Sure. On one level, I knew about the serenity stuff. I’d watched enough B rated martial arts flicks to know that everyone believes Kung Fu monks are the calmest, self-possessed being in existence. But it was hard to ignore. I’d never known anyone who would do what Jamie did to earn an extra dime. Everyone I’d ever met worked two or even three jobs to make ends meet. Honestly, it only registered in the dark recesses of my mind that guys who punched shit could be peaceful. The only other guy I’d ever known who like to punched shit wound up taking it out on me.
The lights of Sommersville were dull against the hazy night sky. From that distance, I could tell it would be another half hour before we made it home. Another thirty minutes with Jamie; another half hour wondering if I made the right choice to invite him back to my apartment. Too late now. We barely spoke the rest of the drive. I cranked up the stereo, and we jammed on some old Megadeth I hadn’t heard since I was a kid. He fiddled with everything: his zipper, his thumbs, the radio dials, and the buttons for the heater.
When I finally pulled up to the curb near my apartment, Jamie was nodding, his chin dipping to his chest. Whenever it made contact, he jerked up a little, but his eyes didn’t quite open. I turned down the stereo.
“Hey.” I jabb
ed him in the arm. “Wake up. We’re here.”
His eyes fluttered. He glanced around the car and out the window to the apartment building. “I wasn’t sleeping.”
“Right. Come on.”
Once inside, he plopped on the couch, like last time, looking around the apartment with a more studied eye this time. “Goodwill?”
“Craigslist.”
Yeah. Just about everything in my apartment were online hand-me-downs. I stood eying him in the silence of the living room, visions of last week flashing through my memory bank. Thinking about his tattoos — the Celtic etchings around his arms – the intricate designs. Hooking up in the heat of the moment. Three times. Damn. The guy had stamina.
Then, I glanced at the clock. Eleven. Not too bad. I’d usually just be starting my shift. There was no way I could sleep now. It was in my nature to stay up until dawn. I caught a whiff of myself. I smelt like a bar. I shut off the light above the stove, leaving the little kitchenette in darkness.
“I’m jumping in the shower. I think the clicker’s in the cushions.”
Jamie slid his hands down the arm of the couch. “What kind of cable do you have?”
“Just basic.”
I quietly gathered up clean clothes from the dresser. Around the corner, I spotted Jamie standing in front of the television, flicking through the channels.
He turned. “You hungry?”
“Umm. Not really, but I could eat.”
“Good answer.” He pulled out his phone.
In the bathroom, I flipped on the light switch, and carefully pushed the button to lock the door. Pretty sure that was the first time I’d locked my own bathroom door. A shot of guilt ran through me, and I flicked the lock back to open.
The water felt great once I stripped and stepped in. I let it spray over my back to massage the sore muscles from unloading the truck this week, and then I angled my head into the stream. I wasn’t the working out type – thus the sore muscles from helping the delivery driver – but I could see it now. At least a little. How a good workout and some aching muscles could be sought after. It felt good in an odd way.
I’m not the kind to go seeking after an aching body, but maybe I could understand why Jamie liked it. I’d never been interested in training my body to look like his, but then again, I was blessed with a metabolism that kept me pretty thin. Jamie, though, it took work for him to look that good, and damn, did he look good. The cut of his six pack. The way his pecs stood out from his flat stomach. The firm pack of his bicep. That all took hard work. Work that habituated him to the soreness and pain he was used to.
I thought of Jamie again. I didn’t know what that gym of his looked like or if he wore one of those martial arts get-ups with the belt. But what I pictured was him with his shirt off, that ink playing over his skin as he worked and flexed. The dragon and the thorns glistening with his sweat. The snarl on his lips as he pounded away at a punching bag. His six pack knotting and bending as he threw kicks and knees.
A man unhinged, sweating, grunting, growling. A man full of anger and aggression. God. It turned me on. My cock was at full attention. Settling against the tiled wall, I reached down for my cock. Shit. Just thinking about it again had my body buzzing with excitement.
I’d seen some training footage on ESPN. I put myself there – with that man. The Jamie who was hunched over in a boxer’s stance, fists up, eyes on fire – looking right at me. Why the fuck did it turn me on? Why did I want to be there, holding pads for his to strike, calling out a cadence, telling him higher – harder.
I wrapped my own fist around my cock and pumped. I envisioned Jamie breathing hard, his chiseled chest heaving. The shower spray beat on the tip of my rigid cock hard enough to spike my senses. I turned away and began to stroke fast – just to get off, and to get those images out of my head.
The man was on my couch. In my home. I knew I shouldn’t be doing this. I knew what happened last time I let myself get attracted to the brutal side of a man. What road was I leading myself down? But the V arching down to those MMA board shorts – his knuckles wrapped in cloth – the thorns and skulls encircling his shoulder and running down his bicep…
A pounding thud resounded at the door, and I peeled my eyes open to the blue tile in front of me. “Hey.” Jamie’s voice echoed. “I need some food, man. I’m ordering in. You want anything? I have the menu up on my phone.”
Shit. “Hold on.”
His nearness startled me, but it wasn’t doing anything to calm my desire. My cock didn’t do limp with embarrassment – it wanted me to invite him in. Almost there. I squeezed and pumped hard, my knees giving with an oncoming weakness. He was right at the door. Feet away. I could let him in. He could fuck me right here in the shower. I’ve never fucked in the shower before. It hit me hard, and I groaned way louder than I intended.
“You okay in there, man?” Jamie asked.
Double shit. I washed the evidence of my jacking session down the drain. “Uh, yeah. Fine. Just. Uh. Shampoo in my eye.”
I slid out from the shower and grabbed the towel hanging on the rack. I wrapped it around my waist, turned the doorknob, unlocking it, and held open the door.
“What are you ordering?”
“Just pizza.” His eyes were wide as I glanced at the screen he held out for me.
“Hell. You coulda told me that. I know what kind of pizza I like. Just pepperoni.”
He stood still, eyes slowing glancing down, and stopped at the towel around my waist. “Well, sure, but how else was I going to interrupt you before you got dressed?”
I caught sight of what he couldn’t take his eyes from, I rewrapped the towel, trying to hide the bulge.
A coy grin spread on his lips. “Does that always happen when you take a shower?” He narrowed his eyes.
“Just—” I motioned back down the hall “—pepperoni.”
He chuckled. “Sure you don’t need anyone to take care of that for you?”
“Already did. I mean. No. I’m good.” I swallowed hard, the desire raging through my nerves, my heart fluttering in my chest at his partly opened lips and how I desperately wanted to taste them again.
He nodded then disappeared down the hall and into the living room. I walked back into the bathroom and caught a sight of myself in the mirror. I was flush, and it wasn’t just from the steam in the room. The muted tone of his voice drifted in as he placed his order, and something about having him there was nice. Just two guys. Taking a shower, ordering pizza.
Fuck, maybe I should just wrap him in my arms and drown in his sultry kiss. It’d be a shit load better than fighting with a prick that was trying like hell to convince me it hadn’t had enough. Seriously? Shit. I mean, I was still young, but I wasn’t a teenager anymore. Maybe I needed to jump back in the shower and turn on the cold water.
A few fleeting seconds later, the pushed open. Jamie stood in the entryway. He ran his tongue across his bottom lip and stepped towards me. Instinctively, I took a step back but, and – damn small bathroom — I bumped into the tub.
“You sure you’re good with that?” He placed his hand on the wall to the side of my head, trapping me there.
“You do all your business in bathrooms?—” My voice faltered when his other hand traced down my wet chest and to the edge of the towel.
He pressed his open lips to mine. He was soft and gentle. He breathed in, and my chest rose with his, our lips working together. I drank in his taste and his passion in one long, needful kiss. Jamie’s fingers seized hold of the knot at the front of my towel and yanked, stripping it from around my waist. The cool air nipped at my ass, and his hand trailed further south.
He broke from my lips but stayed near. “I thought you said you already took care of this?”
Yeah, my prick definitely hadn’t had enough. He worked my cock under his strong fist. So many things running through my head, and yet I had nothing to say. I wanted him too badly. Right then? I needed him. So, I took hold of him. I ran my fingers through h
is locks and against his scalp. I dug my fingers in and dove into his kiss.
Jamie responded by snaking his fingers through up to the crown of my head and pulling back. There it was. The fire. The edge of violence in his eyes. He held me back and moved his own lips across my jaw and down the side of my neck. His fist pumped away at my hard cock. His breath on the side of my neck made the small hairs stand on end. He bit at my shoulder and moved down to my collarbone.
He kept my hair in a tight grip, my head angled back, but his lips travelled with slow, tender movements, and Jamie kissed across my chest to my right pec. He stopped to pinch at my nipple with fingertips before letting go of my hair and squatting low, aiming his attention down my abs and finally to my cock. I leaned my head against the wall. Kneading fingers through his hair, I mumbled his name, finding that simply saying it made me crave him even more.
Jamie went to his knees in front of me, and I dug inside for every ounce of self-control to not guide him to my groin and press myself inside his mouth. The lust, the carnal desire for lips around my cock, tensed every muscle in my body. Jamie’s hot breath grazed over the tip of my erection. I tipped my chin to my chest and clenched my fists as Jamie ran his tongue over his lips.
His hand seized me, a firm grip at the base of my cock. He held tightly to the back of my thigh with the other. Jamie wrapped his moist lips around my cock, and every nerve came alive as he slid down my shaft, taking me deep. He grasped onto my ass and squeezed; I gasped a breath, my knees quaking. I uttered a strangled, desperate cry. My cock swelled and pulsed. I was sensitive from having just come, and there was no way I was going to come again any time soon. But still, he felt damn good around my prick.
Jamie swallowed me. Hot and wet. The suction and his tongue — God, his tongue — Jamie ran it on the underbelly of my erection, and my legs trembled. I set my teeth and grimaced – he was damned good at this. Jamie took me in deep, running my full length in and out of his glorious mouth. Fully sheathed, I nudged into the folds at the back of his throat.
Jamie responded every time with muffled ‘mmm’. I, no longer able to restrain myself, ran my fingers through his short hair. At the back of his skull, I made a fist, trapping him in close. The big man reacted with a groan and a tighter grip on my shaft and ass.
