by Lux Miller
I almost jump out of my barely-there outfit when somebody bangs on the bathroom stall door. “Come on Poppy! If you don’t get down there, you’re going to be late and then I’m gonna be in shit because my replacement ain’t there on-time.”
Opening the door, I step out sheepishly, feeling completely self-conscious. “I think it’s too small or something. How do you fit your ass in this?”
Amber shrugs with a giggle, “I don’t. Those fighter types and their entourages are big tippers. Each of em’s got a whole team of men there to do their bidding, but that bigger one with the wild hair… he’s an interesting fella. I’ve seen him fight before in the past, and I’ve been at all of his fights this time around. Most of the guys want straight water or straight liquor, but not him… he wants--”
I cut her off with a laugh, “Club soda with crushed ice.”
Amber nods her head with a look at me, “Yeah, how’d you know?”
I point at my neatly folded cocktail waitress uniform as I hand it to her. “He comes in here every day and just sits in the casino, might throw a few twenties in the penny slots, but never a big gambler, never a big talker… but always orders club soda.”
Amber nudges me with her shoulder, “Maybe he likes you. He’d certainly be an upgrade from that… thing you call a husband. Sorry, Poppy, but I don’t like him. At all. You’re too good for him.”
I sigh and blow out a breath as I look at her, then shake my head. “Marriage vows are marriage vows, Amber.”
She grabs both of my shoulder and looks me in the eye. “And you’re the only one upholding them, Poppy. Walk away, while you still can…”
She strips off her clothes right in front of me, then tugs on my cocktail waitress uniform. It figures she has no hang-ups about her body when her usual uniforms has less coverage than some of my underwear. She gives me a smirk and nudges me out the door, “Now go! The fight starts in twenty minutes and you should’ve been there ten minutes ago. Go make yourself some money and don’t worry about what happens up here. Brad won’t be able to get away from the bookie cage until the fight’s already started and he wouldn’t dare start crap during a fight.”
It takes me another five minutes to get down to the arena where Storm’s fight is taking place in just fifteen minutes. I slip in after showing my credentials at the door, then slide the card into the skimpy top and wind my way through the crowd. I meet up with Amber’s boss, Nick, who shakes his head at me. “You’ve got some balls, Poppy. Well, obviously you don’t, since you’d never be able to hide them in that getup, but Brad’s going to shit a brick when he comes down here to deal with the bookie stuff.”
I shrug my shoulder as I glance beyond Nick to where Storm is stalking in the corner of the octagon. I can’t see his trademark hair, but I’ve heard that he keeps it tied back until it’s time to fight, then he lets it loose. Apparently, it’s intimidating to face a hundred and seventy pound man who looks like he’s fresh out of the jungle. Right now, though, he looks calm and collected and extremely focused as he paces back and forth, pounding one fist against his palm repeatedly, then switching hands.
He’s wearing a hooded, floor-length, bright blue robe that’s open in the front, displaying his chiseled chest and enviable abs. A pair of loose blue shorts are slung low on his hips, grazing mid-thigh on him. Both his wrists and ankles are wrapped in strips of red tape that criss-cross over his joints. He has the hood of his robe pulled up over his head, but even from here I can see the wireless headphones covering his ears and he appears to be talking to himself.
A loud buzzer sounds throughout the arena and I scurry to the side of the cage opposite of Storm and get to work, jotting down orders for specialty drinks based on tonight’s fight. There’s almost always a fight going on in the casino’s octagonal-shaped fighting cage, but Storm only fights twice a week. From what I can see, he’s getting the casino their money’s worth on the fights - there are very few empty seats in the arena and they’re all on The Rocket’s side.
I walk over to open bar and turn in my drink orders, watching Storm prowl in his corner. As the bartender hands me a tray overflowing with beers and cocktails, a final warning buzzer sounds to let people know to get to their seats because the fight is about to start. I take the tray, nodding at the bartender as I weave back through the crowd from whence I came, dropping off drinks to eager patrons who are ready for the fight to begin.
As I reach the end of line and pass off the last drink (and pocket the generous tip), I turn around to see both fighters preparing to fight. I watch Storm as he shrugs off the robe, letting it pool on the floor around his feet. He kicks it back to one of the guys standings just behind him. Then he turns his back to the octagon and pull off the headphones as he releases his hair from its tie. The mass springs free, haloing his head in dark brown curls that reach his shoulders. He turns back around and rolls his head from shoulder to shoulder, then slips a a mouthguard into his mouth and yanks on a pair of red, fingerless fighting gloves.
He looks different than when I’ve seen him chilling in the casino. And like an entirely different person than the caring man who took me to The Shroom and later made me enjoy sex for the first time in years. But even with the hard lines of concentration on his face and his rigid stance as he bounces from foot to foot in preparation for the buzzer that will signal the start of the fight, I can see glimpses of the easy friendship we’ve begun to form. But only glimpses, and as that buzzer sounds, the crowd roars around me as the fighters clash in the middle of the octagon. Storm’s hair flies wild around him as he clashes with The Rocket and I’m captivated by the two men in the middle of the cage.
Until someone behind me slides their hand possessively onto my hip and startles me. I turn around with a gasp and find myself eye to eye with Brad, who looks like he’s about to try to schwarm his way into someone’s pants. His voice is surprised as the recognition flashes across his face. “Poppy? What are you doing down here? And why on God’s green Earth are you wearing that?”
I shrug away from him, slapping his hand off my side. “I told you I was working cage-side tonight. I’m making money, Brad. It’s called a job. And shouldn’t you be at yours?”
Brad scowls as he rakes his eyes along my overexposed body hungrily. “Coming down here to watch the fight is part of my job. Bets are closed once the fight starts and the boss likes me to check into the fight to make sure nothing seems amiss, especially after jungle boy’s suspicious loss the first night. Boss don’t trust him not to throw another fight, so he sent me down here to make sure he fights. Instead of finding a proper fight going on, I find the fighters prancing about in the cage and my wife being ogled by lowlife men with impropriety on their minds.”
I motion up at the cage, where Storm currently has The Rocket twisted around his body and pinned to the floor as he drives his fist into The Rocket’s face. “Looks to me like he’s fighting for real. It’s kinda hard to fake blood. And besides, the only lowlife in this arena ogling me is you.”
Brad growls at me and he’s about to retort when our attention is drawn to the cage as the referee blows a warning whistle. The Rocket is struggling desperately to get out from under Storm’s weight, but Storm isn’t letting up. After landing half a dozen punches into The Rocket’s face, he twists their bodies so that The Rocket is now facing the mat and drives his elbow into the back of the man’s head. The Rocket’s face slams into the mat with a spray of blood. Storm lets go of the guy and gets up off the mat.
He walks off, bunching and relaxing his shoulders as The Rocket writhes around on the mat, clearly hurt beyond an ability to get up. The referee blows a whistle and makes several hand motions. A spotlight centers on Storm as the referee walks over to him and lifts his right hand in the air. The scrolling ticker signs at the top of the arena flash ‘TKO - Storm’ and half the arena roars with delight, while the other half boos. I turn to see Brad’s reaction, but to my surprise, he’s nowhere to be found, so I do what any faithful wife would do - I
go find him.
FOURTEEN
Storm
Despite the elation of winning a technical knockout against The Rocket in front of a sell-out crowd, there’s an uneasy feeling in the back of my mind. Everything from today has gone swimmingly according to plan - including the phone call from Joe that despite some notable bruising and a hairline fracture in my skull, I’m not beyond Stage Two of CTE yet and I can keep fighting for now, but that there’s still some very concerning things going on in my mind and that they’re not willing to release me from their care. I know I should be more worried about the findings than I have been, but I can’t just stop my entire life because of an injury. There’s way too much riding on my continued ability to fight. If it’s not life-threatening, I’m not stepping out of the cage.
But I have agreed that I do have to be careful and get regular CT scans the day after every fight to insure that there’s no swelling and no further damage to my skull. The older gentleman who did my initial CT scan said that most people in my condition are chomping at the bit to retire, but not me. I’m twenty-nine years old and in peak physical condition. The doctors even agree that I couldn’t be in better shape, with the exception of the grenade in my head. Despite being cleared to fight, I’ve been warned that a solid hit to the head will be the end of my career, so I’ve had to alter my fighting style slightly. Especially since there were other things mentioned that I can’t bear to think about. But the doctors have agreed to let me continue in my career for now.
I can’t go charging into a fight like a bull in a china shop. I’ve had to take a couple steps back and become a defensive fighter, when I’ve always played offensive from the first buzzer. I’ve won seven straight against The Rocket now, and despite his attempts to use my own moves against me, I’ve managed to outmaneuver him every time. I’m feeling confident with the direction my life has taken me, but something in the universe is calling out to me.
My phone rings suddenly while I’m changing my clothes following the fight. I’m not expecting any phone calls, since I’ve already heard from the important people in my life. Joe called to confirm my appointment in the morning for a follow up exam and CT. My Pops called to tell me he saw my fight on pay-per-view and he was proud of how hard I fought for the win. Pete won’t call me tonight. He only calls when I’ve fucked up, so the less I hear from him, the better anyway. Besides, I don’t recognize the number flashing across the screen. I’m about to toss the screeching device onto the bed when something yells at me to just answer it. I slide my finger to the right across the screen and answer, “Hello?”
“Storm, thank God, you answered…”
Recognition flashes through my brain, but it takes me several minutes to form a coherent thought, “Poppy?”
“Yeah, it’s me. Can you come get me?”
Instantly my body tenses. “All I have’s the bike, Poppy. But I can be there--”
She cuts me off before I can finish my statement, “Just get here, please. I need you, before I do something stupid…”
It doesn’t take much more prompting than that for me to finish throwing on my street clothes and hurry down to where my bike’s still parked in the valet lot. My hair’s dripping wet from my after-fight shower, but I don’t bother to put it up before slamming my helmet on my head. Within minutes of Poppy ending our phone call, I’m on the open highway, speeding toward an address I’m not even sure I can find. I’m just hoping that the GPS program that’s droning on in the bluetooth in my ear steers me in the right direction, because the defeated tone in Poppy’s voice gutted me.
As I pull up to the elaborate modern home, I get a sense of foreboding. I cut the bike’s engine and leave it parked at the end of the driveway, tugging off my helmet and leaving it on the seat as I cautiously approach the intimidating home. It’s black and white and red all over with sharp angles and enormous plate glass windows. And sitting on the front stoop among a spattering of clothing and other personal effects, sits Poppy, her head in her hands.
I quicken my pace, worried that she’s hurt. As I approach her, she looks up at me wearily. I don’t see fear on her face, I don’t see pain… no, all I see on her face is defeat, like she’s been dealt the final blow in a battle she was expecting to lose. She motions around her with a sigh, “It’s all mine, but I don’t care.”
I gasp, surprised by her admission. I don’t know what shocks me more - the litany of clothes strewn all over the front stoop or her complete resignation that it doesn’t matter. Both are heartbreaking realizations. She points to a small bag at her feet, returning her gaze to mine. “Everything that matters from inside that house is in there. The rest of it is just material possessions that he paid for and thinks belong to him, so let him have them.”
She stands up off the stoop and I do a double-take at her, my eyes going wide. “You were at my fight?”
Poppy nods as she looks down at her outfit, then shrugs, “Yeah, I was. Trying to make some extra cash. I know the cageside girls make a lot in tips, and while your daily offerings have been generous, it would have taken me awhile to get enough to leave.”
My gut twists at her admission. “Poppy, if this was about money, why didn’t you just ask?”
She shrugs. “You hardly know me, Storm. I’m a waitress at the casino where you’re fighting. We hung out once and while I’ve enjoyed our daily chit-chat on the gambling floor, once your six weeks is up, you’re out of here. How could I ask you for money when salvaging my craptastic life isn’t your responsibility. You owe me nothing, Storm. Even this, what you’re doing right now, is going above and beyond the call of duty for an acquaintance. And don’t get me wrong, I appreciate it, but you’ve already done so much for me.”
I nod solemnly. I’m not going to argue with her about it tonight, not when she’s probably freezing in that God-awful getup they make the cageside waitresses wear. Not that it doesn’t look fantastic on her. My dick is already at attention just from seeing the scandalous outfit on a woman that I’ve known intimately, and truthfully, want to know that way again. I shrug off my leather jacket and pull her into a hug without asking.
She tenses at first, but slowly melts into my arms, letting her body mold to mine. I wrap my jacket around her shoulders and glare at the front door as it pops open. The squirrel-like face of her idiotic husband appears in the doorway above an armful of various items. His eyes become slits as he stares at me holding his wife protectively. He dumps the pile of what I assume to be Poppy’s personal effects onto the stoop, then turns and slams the door.
Poppy winces in my arms at the sound of shattering glass, then wraps her own arms around my waist, burying her face into my chest. She doesn’t even bother to look back to see what the idiot threw out of the house, but my guess is that by this point, she doesn’t care. I want to know what happened, but I doubt she’s in a talking mood. I nudge her back gently and she looks up at me with unshed tears brimming in her eyes.
I offer her the most comforting smile I can manage. At least, I hope looks comforting and not predatory. I whisper softly, “Come on. We can put your things in the saddlebag. Are you sure this…” I reach down and pick up her small suitcase, “...is all you want to bring?”
Poppy pulls away from me, swiping at her nose and eyes with nod. “Yeah, nothing that Brad bought me means anything. They were just trinkets he used to pay for my silence and cooperation. I’m not going to be either anymore. I’ve suspected for a long time that he was cheating on me, but seeing it with my own eyes was gut-wrenching. Even though it just confirmed what I already knew, seeing him balls-deep between Amber’s legs hurt. Now I know why she was so eager to swap with me tonight. She wanted to get closer to him. He was pissed when he saw me at the fight, which by the way, did you know you fight like a wild animal?”
She shakes her head slowly, then continues, “Anyway, when I got home from the fight, fully prepared to find him seething from me trying to better myself, there she was, riding him like a cowgirl with directional issues.
She almost looked guilty when I walked in, like she regretted it, but not him. He actually smirked and suggested I join in. That maybe Amber could teach me how to enjoy sex.”
She shudders and I wrap my arms tighter around her, my need to put a fist into her husband’s face growing stronger with each passing moment. She trails off into incoherent sobs as she finally lets loose the built-up tension that has her lithe frame rigid. I can feel her tears soaking through my shirt as her body shakes against mine. She’s so invested in her release that she doesn’t even notice when her husband opens the door another time and lobs another handful of clothes out the door, followed by half a dozen china plates, which shatter one by one on the stoop. It’s almost amusing that such an impetuous, violent man chooses to live in a glass house, because those who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones… or plates for that matter. I chuckle at my joke, a broad smile cracking my lips.
He glares at me and sneers, “Oh for fuck’s sake, go get a room. But I must warn you, she sucks in bed. Just lies there motionless like a limp noodle. You’d get more enjoyment from your hand.”
