“Last call for all bets!”
I watch silently from the far corner of the dilapidated three-story warehouse. The five-deep crowd all but surge forward to gain a better view of the two massive males who are about to fight. Through the bodies I assess him carefully. I knew the moment I drove off that night that I would be here. He’s captivating and seems not to know fear, unlike most humans I’ve encountered. There’s a magnetism about him coupled with a strange calmness that draws me in. We have zero future together, but I’m curious to observe him regardless. The fact that he’s a self-proclaimed fighter has piqued my curiosity. I watch him carefully, wondering if he has the skills as well as the brawn. I really should have wiped his memories of the attack before we parted ways the other night, but I chose not to—a first for me. There is still time to do it, to make it seem like nothing ever happened between us, like we’ve never even crossed paths.
“C’mon, Brennan! Fuckin’ take that sorry ass motherfucker down, man! Send him outta here on a stretcher!”
“Shut the fuck up, dickhead! Go for his legs, Smith! Get ’em to the ground and pummel that pretty boy face of his!”
He’s motionless except for his eyes—alert and a vivid green the color of fresh bamboo. Those penetrating eyes track even the slightest movement of his deranged-looking opponent.
The skinny kid in the hoodie who is acting as equal parts ref and bookie tries to push back the encroaching crowd, yelling out, “You wanna see ’em fight or not? You’d best step the fuck back! Give ’em room or it’s a no go tonight!”
As soon as the ravenous crowd obeys, he continues, this time addressing both fighters, “You know the drill. Either knock your opponent the fuck out or pin him down for ten seconds. Winner takes sixty percent of the pot. Let’s get this gritty party started!”
I move in a few steps closer, not wanting to miss a single second of the action. A scattering of halogen contractor floor lights are the only source of illumination. Both men are shirtless, their thick muscles covered in tattoos. But that’s where the similarities end. I came to see the one the men are calling Brennan and the few women present are cheering on as Colton. His imposing size seems to be natural in comparison to his opponent’s. The other fighter’s daunting physique looks fake—clearly a product of the gym combined with chemicals.
They slowly and methodically begin to circle each other, obviously looking for vulnerabilities, a weakness to home in on. Suddenly, Colton’s opponent drops a shoulder and rushes him. I watch closely as he braces for the guy with the Mohawk to slam into him. The shouts from the crowd rise to a fever pitch as they collide in a vicious tangle of grunting, muscled flesh. Colton binds his powerful arms around the man, attempting to wrestle him to the ground, seemingly ignoring the blows that are landing repeatedly on his chiseled torso.
“Let ’em have it, Colton!”
“Come on, Brennan, unleash the fuckin’ beast on that pussy!”
The spectators have closed in on the fighters, lusting after the blood that is beginning to spill. I edge even closer to watch them struggle ferociously for the dominant position, over and over again, all the while clocking each other any place they can connect. The once white boxing tape wound around their wide fists is now ruby red as they pound away like raging animals vying for the last piece of meat on earth. Over the many decades I’ve learned how to quell my zest for blood, to contain the urges that come when I catch the first hint of that warm, distinctive scent. I shift it to the back of my mind and simply observe.
“Show him what you’re about, Smith! C’mon, man, put him out of his fuckin’ misery! Don’t let this punk ruin your track record! Take him down!”
With his mouth dripping blood, Colton takes one more direct hit to the chest and a savage uppercut before seizing the opportunity to pull back far enough to land a powerful right hook that connects perfectly with the side of the man’s temple.
That’s it. Lights out.
As if in slow motion, the man twists and goes down into a free fall of splayed arms and legs, landing with a grotesque thud, face down on the dust-strewn concrete floor. Complete KO. Perfect execution.
Well done, cowboy.
There are shouts of drunken excitement along with curses of annoyance from the losing side as the group of over a hundred spectators begins to disband. Some line up to collect their winnings from Mr. Hoodie.
I turn around and stride out the lone door. I’m halfway to my motorcycle when a breathy, rumbling voice says from behind, “You like what you see, then?”
I suppress a grin as I spin around. Up close and dripping blood and sweat, he is a magnificent specimen. I act casual, staring up into his eyes, and offer with a shoulder shrug, “I guess so, but you really should’ve landed that blow inside of the first thirty seconds. The delay cost you a black eye, split lip, and bruised ribs, cowboy.”
“Gotta give ’em their money’s worth, sweetheart. Everybody wants a show.”
“A show. Fighting for entertainment … how amusing.”
“Ain’t nothin’ amusing about fightin’. Let me take you out for a drink, wildcat.”
“Wildcat?”
“Hell yeah. Wildcat. Wild. Beautiful. Mysterious. Feisty as all get out … wildcat. Fuckin’ perfect choice.”
I flash him a rare smile and say, “You’re a peculiar one.”
“Peculiar enough to capture your attention. That’s all that matters to me.”
I drink in his impressive chest and full sleeve tattoos. The edgy work had to have been done by the same artist because it is all consistent in style, precisely laid out over gorgeous, lick-worthy biceps.
He glances down at himself. “I know I’m a filthy mess, but give me twenty minutes. I promise you that I clean up well. I’ll take you out anywhere you like. Even put on a shirt with a collar for ya, darlin’.” He gives me a sly wink.
Tilting my head to the right, I consider his offer. “Tempting, cowboy, but I have some business to attend to.”
I catch the flash of disappointment before he quickly covers it, though his jaw line tenses up.
“Business at nearly one thirty in the morning. You a dealer or somethin’, baby?”
“If I was, do you think I would share that information with a virtual stranger? You, cowboy, could be an undercover cop. Maybe your job is to bust illegal gambling rings and the nefarious business that it inevitably attracts. Hmm?”
He runs his filthy hand across and back over his medium brown, close-cropped hair, “Nah, I’m sure as hell not a cop, baby. By the way, why do you keep calling me ‘cowboy’?”
“Let’s just say that I’ve been around awhile and I call it like I see it. You are one, aren’t you? Because I’ve never met a man who wears a battered Carhartt jacket better. Then there are those fine tattoos, not to mention your scarred-up hands. You speak like you’ve been living on a ranch most of your life. All that’s missing is the horse and a dusty Resistol hat.”
His eyes rapidly drop down to his battered hands before latching back onto mine as I continue, “Those are the reasons I call you ‘cowboy.’ ”
“Name’s Colton.”
“So I’ve heard.”
His chin lifts. “You got one, wildcat?”
“I do.”
He shakes his head slowly back and forth and grins, revealing the miniscule gap between his otherwise flawless front teeth. “I like a fire in my woman.”
“Well then, good luck finding that woman.”
“Just did. Where we off to tonight, sweetheart?”
Mr. Hoodie jogs over, shouting, “Brennan! Got your cut from tonight. I’m taking off in a minute. Let’s settle up, man. You know the cops are always fuckin’ lurkin’ around.” His beady eyes narrow as he nervously checks over each shoulder.
I get on my ride as he answers Mr. Twitchy Hoodie, “Be over in a sec. Meet you at your car.”
My engine roars to life and he surprises me, straddling my front wheel. His tan, blood spattered Cat work boots pin my tire neatly as his huge, bloodied hands plant down on the handles directly inside of mine. He leans in to whisper flirtatiously, “C’mon, gimme a chance. Promise you won’t be disappointed.”
“No, I can’t. And for the record, I can assure you that you definitely would be.”
“What?”
“Step away, cowboy. I’d hate to add to those injuries.”
His eyes narrow as if he’s deep in thought. This is clearly a man who isn’t accustomed to hearing no … not from a woman, anyway.
“Fine, you need your space. I’m on board with that. But I want one-on-one time with you and I will find a way to get it. At least tell me your name before you go. Don’t you think you owe me that after all we’ve been through?”
“You’re a funny guy. Step back and I’ll consider it.”
With a beaming smile he releases the front wheel of my bike and steps aside. “I like you, wildcat. You’re different.”
“You’re right, I am.”
“So …?”
I slide the helmet on before answering, “Cosette.”
I flip the visor down and sigh heavily, hearing my name fall slowly, like melted caramel from his bloody lips as I speed away into the familiar, enveloping darkness.