Submission Specialist(Still a Bad Boy #2)(6)

“Alright, I’ll be out in a second,” I called out.

Ordinarily, for a sexy little fucktoy like Skylar, I wouldn’t tolerate any interruptions, but post-event press conferences were a compulsory part of my contract with NHBFC, so I had to go. It wasn’t about the money. They had something else I wanted, which was access to the best fighters in the world for me to fuck up, and that was worth a lot more to me in the long run.

They could pay me nothing, and I could still make millions a year from the occasional fight I threw at the request of the mafia. Ross had dirty hands since the day I met him, fixing fights even before my professional days. The Bertolini Crime Family had been a major cash cow for us since I went pro, plus throwing a fight here and there gave some morons in the weight class the misplaced hope that they could beat me, so the fights kept coming.

I gathered the towel around me and swung my feet to the ground, seeing Skylar’s eyes duck away to deprive herself of a glimpse of my cock. Such a shame I wasn’t going to bury it in her tonight.

“I gotta go. You can let yourself out when you’re ready.”

“Um…”

I walked to the bathroom, where my clothes were hanging on the back of the door. Before I was fully dressed, I heard the main door open and close. Sure enough, she was gone by the time I emerged.

Now that I knew she was here though, being the first man to claim her pussy was on my list of things to do. Skylar. I’d remember that name.





Chapter 4

Austin

For fuck sake, they should have renamed this event “Blue Balls in New Ashby.” First Skylar and then that new ring girl, Ariana, snatched from my clutches at the last moment. Ariana had even posed for Rich Man’s Plaything magazine before getting the job with NHBFC.

She’d slipped me a piece of paper with her phone number on it as I walked up the steps to sit at the table for the press conference. Her job was to stand there and look pretty, and she was great at it.

But no, after the media asked their inane questions, Ross and I were called up here to talk to the president of the NHBFC himself, Ian Ewert, and some other guy that I couldn’t give two fucks about. Ian had a nice office to use in every venue where he held an NHBFC event, but New Ashby was the home of the organization and the capital of MMA in the States, so this one was his office.

“Great fight today, Austin. The crowd went nuts, they loved it. When you got that choke on, they blew the roof off, I thought my ears were gonna bleed. You’re gettin’ the Submission of the Night bonus, good job.”

“Thanks.”

“That’s not what I wanted to talk to you about though,” he said, leaning forward and propping his elbows on his desk.

“Oh?”

“No. You’ve seen this gentleman around? Robbie Johnson?” He gestured at the other guy.

“Nope.”

“Well, he’s been doing some work for me in a freelance capacity. He’s been with the SWE for twenty years.”

“The what?” I asked.

“Superstar Wrestling Enterprises,” Robbie interjected for himself in a thick New York accent.

“Oh. Sucks for you. What does that have to do with me?”

Robbie looked surprised by my comment for a second, but it was the most diplomatic thing I could say about the bullshit stage play that was professional wrestling. Ian was more accustomed to me and took it all in his stride.

“There you go, that’s one of the things we have to talk about. I’ve just hired Robbie here to be in charge of a new Character Development team in the Media Relations division full time.”

Ross spoke up. “I’m not sure if I follow, sir. We’re just here to fight, we don’t have time in the training schedule for whatever this is. Character development? We’re not trying to make Austin a Boy Scout leader, we’re trying to make him the most dangerous man on the planet in hand to hand combat.”

“And you’re doing a good job, but that’s not what I’m talking about. This is a Media Relations play. You know what professional wrestling has that we don’t?” Ian asked.

“A bunch of pussies?” I guessed.

“Week after week, month after month, SWE events outsell, absolutely dwarf, NHBFC events. Why?” Robbie asked.

Ross and I glanced at each other but said nothing. This was beginning to piss me off. I could have cornholed a published model by now if it wasn’t for this little pep talk about pro wrestling.

“Drama.” Robbie answered his own question. “SWE has a team of writers scripting and manufacturing drama every single day and the crowds love it. That’s what I’m going to bring to NHBFC.”

“I’m no fancy businessman, but I think if you start having people get in the cage in stupid outfits and hitting each other with chairs, the organization is going to be circling the toilet pretty fuckin’ quick,” I said.