Silk City Vixens

by Noah Rain

  Lesson learned. That was the last time I’d be underestimating this one’s skills. Scarlett tried to hook me under the elbow and extend her hips, threatening a throw, but I framed out with my elbows and shoved against her collarbones, sending her skittering back. The power advantage was mine, even if my usual speed advantage seemed to be muted against her.

  The rest of the spar turned into a pleasant fog of effort and exertion, as Scarlett and I danced through the ring, adjusting to each other’s shifting styles like birds mimicking a rival dance. Now that I was paying attention, Scarlett found it nearly impossible to connect with anything to my face or head. She adjusted soon enough, and concentrated on my body. Within a few minutes, my ribs were pulsing with fresh red welts, though I had given her a few of her own.

  Scarlett frowned and gasped after an exchange in which I ducked a lead-hand hook and planted a one-two against her tight stomach. At first, I thought I had hit her too hard, but when she came in again, she did so with her hands cocked like guns, eyes fierce and jaw clenched.

  “Don’t pull the punches,” she growled, slashing an elbow at me that had me retreating off-balance.

  “It’s a spar,” I said defensively, “not a fight.”

  “You … pulled … your … punch.”

  She launched a four-strike combo, ending with a lead-leg hook kick. All missed, but they came very close, and had more pepper on them than the last exchange had.

  She was right, of course. I had pulled the punch. I might have taken to the spar now that we were in the thick of things, but I wasn’t about to send Scarlett to her knees, hacking up a lung, just to make myself feel better about getting bruised up by a mostly naked woman I’d just met.

  “Easy,” I said.

  Scarlett wasn’t listening. She launched another combo. This one was six strikes long, and ended with an overextended right cross. I slipped it instead of ducking it, fearing Scarlett might reward my nose with a flush knee.

  “Easy …” I said again, drawing it out in a warning as I bounced out of the pocket and resumed my stance behind Scarlett.

  She whirled, faking a backfist and turning it into another hopping side kick. I parried the kick with my lead hand, slapping her sweating calf out of the way with the flat of my palm. Her foot went through the ropes, and rather than working to extricate herself, she whipped her right hand back and landed a glancing blow on my cheek.

  Scarlett pulled her foot out of the ropes and turned, prepared to attack once more, and before I knew what I was doing, I had ducked, drove in and speared her in the waist with my shoulders down, head to the side.

  She let out a grunt as I drove her into the canvas, trying not to dig my shoulder in. Even on the ground, Scarlett was a firecracker. As soon as her hips touched down, I found myself warding off a seeming forest of fleshy thighs and kicking feet as I tried to wrangle her.

  After a brief struggle, I had managed to pass by her legs and pin her down from the side. I was clutching both of her wrists, pinning them down on either side of her head, and resting a good portion of my bodyweight on her stomach as she churned her legs in a violent maelstrom, bucking like a bull or a trapped cat.

  When we made eye contact, she stopped bucking, and her mounting rage seemed to blow out like a candle. She stilled. All but for her ribs, which filled and deflated in rhythm with my own lungs. Our breath was hot enough to steam, and I found that I was so taken with Scarlett’s chestnut eyes that I hadn’t even glanced at her breasts, which were also rising and falling right below my face.

  I became acutely aware of her skin, and mine against it, as we breathed in unison. We were wet, but not sticky. I tasted salt on my lips, and saw her own glistening. Scarlett made a small sound that made my knees weak, and sent blood rushing from the head on my shoulders to the one between my legs. The band of my boxing briefs pulled, and Scarlett’s lips parted as she worked to steady her breath.

  Earlier, I had thought about my options with regards to the predicament I found myself in. I was a hunted man, or soon would be by the Syndicates of Jaxton. I could either wait for my death or go crawling back to the Silk City Vixens with my tail between my legs, looking for protection—and perhaps employment. Now that I had one of them in my clutches, a third option occurred to me, and I was quite surprised to learn that it filled me with shame.

  I had ambushed Vash in the hopes of taking down a high-profile Synner and turning him in, earning a Capture Card in the process and granting me an immediate opportunity to apply for any Guild in Silk City. Obviously, we all know how that one had ended. But here I was now, laying on a mostly-naked woman who was herself a member of a Syndicate, and a highly influential one at that. In a way, my Capture Card was right underneath me. All I had to do was tie her up, get her across the bridge, and turn her in.

  Of course, a few warning signals went off in my head at the notion. Scarlett and whoever she worked for—whoever ran the Vixens—was obviously well-connected. To operate a Syndicate so brazenly in Silk City, they were either the dumbest or most confident club going. Given what I had seen a few nights ago beneath the Jaxton Bridge, I leaned toward the latter.

  It could be that turning Scarlett in granted me an interview with any of Silk City’s Guilds. It could also be that whoever made those decisions was one of the Vixens’ no doubt innumerable blackmail victims.

  But then, I had always been a risk-taker, and why let a good opportunity pass me by when the alternative was almost certain death at the sparking batons of Jaxton’s worst?

  I hesitated as my mind warred over the two moves at my disposal. Did I fully subdue Scarlett and move forward with my plan … or did I press my lips against hers, and see what happened next?

  And therein lay the true source of my hesitance. I didn’t love Scarlett of the Silk City Vixens. Not yet. But I certainly loved the way she felt, even with my condition. I loved the way she looked. And—even though I seemed to be immune to the elixir she coated her neck with—I loved the way she smelled too.

  “Well?” she asked, quirking an eyebrow. My heart skipped a beat, as Scarlett seemed to be reading my mind. Then I became aware of her hips moving … right against the pressing bulge in my underwear.

  “Oh,” I said, realizing what she meant.

  A lightning strike lit the street out front, and then another. I thought I heard someone screaming. When the third flash was bright enough to turn the yellowed windows blue, I looked up, confused. I hadn’t heard any thunder.

  And then the front door of the gym burst into splinters, and a small collection of armored troopers spilled into the workout area holding sparking batons.

  I sighed, and I thought I heard Scarlett do the same, as I pushed myself up to my feet and eyed the newcomers. Scarlett stood as well, taking her time, and when I glanced down, I saw her eyes lingering on my crotch. You’ll have to forgive me. It wasn’t that I was excited to see Vash and his boys. It was just that these things took time to calm down.

  “I’ve been cock blocked before, Vash,” Scarlett said, taking the words right out of my mouth. “But never by a full goddamn Syndicate.”

  Vash wasn’t wearing his glass visor this time, although I could still see a few sparkling shards embedded in his jaw, which was hard set, his teeth grinding. He didn’t look like he was in a joking mood.

  Good. Neither was I.

  Chapter 5

  Electric Boogaloo

  Vash’s getup may have undergone a few abrupt changes courtesy of our little run-in in the alley a few days ago, but his goons looked like they had come off of a conveyor belt.

  They wore white suits made of high-grade military carbon fiber with light blue streaks and police-style biker helmets with navy blue visors. All of them clutched the same sort of modified batons I was already well acquainted with. They were white as well, with sparking blue tips that lit their visors like stormy skies.

  I suppose they
were meant to make them look intimidating, and I’m sure they worked on rival Syndicates and maybe even on low-level Guilders, but … well, they just weren’t doing the trick for me. And judging by the way she stared at them in her thong and bra, one hand on her hip, head tilted slightly, Scarlett felt the same way.

  They might not have looked as patently ridiculous if they weren’t facing off with a pair of mostly-naked people in a messy, dimly-lit boxing gym in Jaxton. Then again, they would probably look like glorified scooter cops even at the best of times.

  All in all, the gear must have cost a pretty penny, and it had no doubt come as a result of dark and shady dealings with some mogul or another in Silk City, willing or otherwise. While Scarlett and the Vixens seemed to deal in blackmail first and combat second, Vash and the Shockers—god it was such a stupid name—favored the latter. As I had learned in my own life both in and out of the cage, those whose Plan A involved bashing people over the head with inanimate objects rarely got ahead of those who moved it further down the list.

  With that said, every once in a while, the situation called for some good, old fashioned violence. After all, threats could be communicated all the live long day, but until some of them were actualized, you weren’t going to get all that far.

  I looked sidelong at Scarlett, who looked back, one eyebrow raised in that sarcastic, addictively sexy way of hers. It seemed that the Shockers’ goofy-ass outfits weren’t the only thing we agreed on.

  “Listen Vash, buddy,” I said, spreading my arms out. “About the other night. Look around this place.” He did, while the other Shockers kept their gaze’s hidden by their blue shields, and their batons still sparking with threat. “As you can see, like most people in Jaxton, I’m down on my luck. How’s a lowly guy like me supposed to earn credits without a Capture Card? Looks like you’re Syndicate pays well enough, but hey, can you blame me for wanting to go legit—“

  “You were champ,” Vash said.

  I made a show of splaying fingers and pressing them to my chest over my heart. “Well, I’m flattered you recognized—“

  “Looked you up,” Vash said. “Was wondering how a fucking street rough …” he trailed off, shifting in his cute white boots, likely embarrassed in front of his Synner friends. What he meant to say, no doubt, was that he had been wondering how some random ‘street rough’ fucked him up six ways to Sunday. Until, of course, he hadn’t. But then, those sparkle sticks didn’t count for nothing, silly as they might look.

  “No shame in losing to a pro,” I said, doing my best to sound as falsely sincere as possible. Judging by the look on Vash’s face, I had succeeded. He looked like he was caught between striking like a viper and hurling.

  “Pro fighters have plenty of money,” Vash said. “Especially champs.” He jutted one of his batons toward me, but must have forgot to make the tip spark. It just didn’t have the same effect that way, but I let it go.

  “I’m afraid that’s a bit of a myth,” I said, not having to feign my sincerity that time. It was true. “Prize credits are decent on your way up, but management fees, training fees, Silk City taxes and the rest of it. And then, of course, there’s the medical costs, all of which comes out of our purses. The bottom line is, champs don’t really make good money until it comes time to defend the belt. And, well, as you can see, I never got my opportunity.”

  “You lose?” one of Vash’s compatriots asked.

  “Thought you looked me up.”

  “He did. We’re just here to clean up his mistakes.”

  Ouch. Vash didn’t look happy about that one. Maybe he wasn’t the leader of this little gang after all. Not that it mattered.

  “Let’s just say my career was cut short due to circumstances beyond my control,” I said, feeling a bit of that not-so-old bitterness begin to creep in.

  “Welcome to the club,” one of the other Shockers said. I laughed. In another circumstance, the group of us could have been throwing back a few beers in the office.

  “So, then,” I said, shrugging. “We cool?”

  “Are we cool?” Vash asked, almost choking on the words.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Like your friend just said, we’re all in the same boat on this side of the bay—“

  “You were trying to earn a Capture Card!” Vash shouted, unable to keep the anger from boiling over. He gripped his batons so hard they started sparking as well. I didn’t feel a whole lot, but I did remember how much of a charge they could pack. Come to think of it, I started scanning the floor, looking for a glint of metallic silver among the glass, splinters and sand from the heavy bags.

  “You didn’t bring one of those damn spider crabs this time, did you?” I asked, conscious of my near nudity for entirely different reasons, now.

  “A paracrawler?” Scarlett asked. “Vash, where on earth did you get a fucking paracrawler? And why would you use it on someone without military gear? You could have killed him.”

  “Could have,” Vash said, taking an ominous—or at least, a hopeful—step forward. “Should have.”

  “Listen, bud,” I said, not knowing what the hell a paracrawler was or why it was a big deal. Probably some kind of big-money military-grade weapon, like everything else these buffoons were decked out in. “I’m trying to play nice, here. You’re trespassing, and I’ve already apologized for my behavior the other night.”

  “Your behavior?” Vash looked like he was about to lose his mind. “You wrecked a 10,000-credit helmet, gave me a 23,000-credit stay in the Med, and got me a demotion.”

  “I think you mean, I earned you a demotion,” I said. “But, it’s good to know some of the Syndicates are starting to operate like the very corporate structures they’re supposed to oppose.”

  That struck a chord with Vash, and it had Scarlett giving me an interesting look that wasn’t colored by condescension or sarcasm for a change.

  “Oh,” I said, “and it looks like I gave you an excuse not to shave, too.” I stroked at my own stubble as I looked at him, and even tossed a little wince in for good measure.

  Vash started to shake, and the little glass jewels stuck into the flesh of his chin sparkled under the dim amber lights of the gym.

  He pointed at me again. He was a pointer, this one.

  “You’re not fooling anyone. You’re a Guilder.”

  “If he was a Guilder,” Scarlett said with now-familiar condescension, “why the hell would he have attacked you and tried to earn a Capture Card in the first place?”

  Turns out, Vash didn’t just look stupid. At least he kept everything consistent. I could admire that, in a way.

  “Is a Guilder. Wants to be a Guilder. What’s the fucking difference? He’s not one of us.”

  Now it was Scarlett’s turn to look sick. In fact, she did one better and actually pretended to puke onto the floor, her abs sticking out as she did. She even managed to make a vulgar move like that look good. Then again, it would be hard not to, given that body and that outfit, or lack thereof.

  “I’m not one of you, either, Vash-y boy,” Scarlett said, planting both hands onto her hips. I might not be able to see the eyes behind those other blue visors, but I could guess where they were looking in that moment. “I’m not like any of the Synners in Jaxton, and neither are my girls.”

  “That’s because your girls sold out,” Vash spat. No, he really did spit, right onto the floor. It annoyed me more than anything else he had done so far. Just plain disrespectful.

  Scarlett pretended Vash’s words didn’t bother her, but I saw her frown. Her face was now as tight as the rest of her. It was a sore spot.

  “Okay,” Scarlett said. “Here’s the deal, Vash. Konnor here is ours, and—“

  “He’s yours?” Vash asked. “What, he’s a Vixen, now?”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  Scarlett said the former and I said the latter in unison, gu
essing wrongly as I tried to play along.

  “Not exactly,” Scarlett amended.

  “Right,” I said.

  Vash looked from me to her and back again. He didn’t seem impressed.

  “Okay, it doesn’t really fucking matter what he is or isn’t,” Scarlett said, her ire rising along with her color. She was blushing again, but not for the same reason she had been a few dreamy minutes ago, in the boxing ring. “He’s coming with me across the bridge. Sascha wants to see him.”

  I didn’t know who Sascha was or if she was real, and I was close to certain Scarlett was making a bunch of shit up to help me out of a jam. Of course, it also occurred to me that she was in something of a jam herself. But, I didn’t know the lay of the land when it came to the various Syndicates. They didn’t war often, but it wasn’t unheard of. Judging by Vash’s comments, the Shockers didn’t necessarily consider the Vixens off-limits.

  “This one’s mine,” Vash said.

  This one. That annoyed me, too. I did have a name, and when Vash took another unthreatening step forward, he ground a shard of glass into one of the planks that was part of a training floor I’d been mopping since I was a kid.

  “No, Vash,” Scarlett said. “He’s not.”

  I started to scan our surroundings out of instinct, cataloguing the areas of the floor that were marred with glass and other debris. Scarlett and I were both barefoot. A wrong step or a nasty fall could turn a whole lot nastier if we got too close to the door. The gym was big. Hopefully Scarlett was thinking along the same lines.

  “What the hell could that crone Sascha want with a washed-up prize fighter?” Vash asked. “You said yourself he’s not a Guilder. He can’t be worth a lick to blackmail. What, is he related to someone? A Suit or a Pearl you dames are working next?”

  I figured Scarlett would have a ready-made litany of excuses, but she hesitated, her mouth working as she tried to come up with something to say. She didn’t seem like she was afraid of the Shockers, but for someone so seemingly in-control, she was a pretty bad liar. The thought did occur that it might be me she was trying to convince, and that prompted a whole range of other fleeting thoughts, that maybe Scarlett wasn’t lying completely, and that maybe this ‘Sascha’ did actually want to see me for some strange reason.