When I turn back around, there’s an extra jump in my step. Because my girl’s here. Because she’s watching while I pound this guy into the ground. Because I can pound this guy into the ground. I don’t have to hold back. I can show her exactly what I am, what I have, what I do.
Maybe I forget she knows all that already. It doesn’t matter, really, because when she’s watched me before it’s been under very different circumstances. Circumstances that didn’t involve my having fucked her to within an inch of her life. Twice.
I grin around my mouth guard. The fight’s on again. I know I’m going to take this guy. There’s no question now. I’ve got all his weaknesses filed in my head, and my instincts take over. He won’t last five more minutes.
He lasts three and a half. It’s a knockout again. Can’t say I always enjoy knockouts—it’s dramatic, but they lack a certain finesse. On the other hand, you don’t have to wait around while the refs tally up points, so there’s that.
I wait until all the ceremonial shit is over, and then I look for Jess again. She’s still in the same spot, standing now. She has her arms crossed under her breasts, holding herself tight, like she’s nervous or upset. I get the feeling maybe she’d just as soon nobody know she’s here. I wave to her and get a feeble wave back. “Stay,” I mouth, pointing at her. She nods, though with a bit of reluctance.
She’ll stay. I know she will. I head in her direction.
It occurs to me for a second that there’ll be no way to hide the fact we’re talking to each other if anyone sees us here. A second later I decide I don’t care. Maybe Jess does—she looks like she might. But if this is her way to piss off her father, why does she want to be so secretive about it? On the other hand, I know what happens when you cross Phil Spada, and I’d just as soon she not experience it.
Still, I’m drawn to her, and I make my way to her through the crowd. Fuck Spada, seriously. What gives him the right to control either one of us? If I want Jess, I’ll damn well have her.
She waits for me, still acting a little tense and upset. I stop by her, suddenly all too aware of the sweat and stink on my body, the blood on my face and arms. I’m too brutish for her. She’s so clean and perfect, standing there in her neat linen suit, her low heels, and her hair falling straight around her oval face. But she reaches up and gently touches my lip where it’s still stinging from a hit in the first round.
“I was worried,” she says.
“Really? Why?”
She shrugs. “I just… Well, he seemed like he knew what he was doing.”
I laugh. “He did. So do I.” I lift a hand to rub sweat off my forehead and notice the blood starting to soak through the wrappings on my hand. She sees it too; her eyes widen a little and she reaches for the hand, draws it toward her.
“You’re bleeding.”
“It happens. You know. When you hit other people in the face.”
“How bad is it?”
“Can’t tell without getting the tape off.”
She picks at the end, trying to peel back the corner. “Isn’t this stuff supposed to protect your hands?”
“Theoretically.”
Before I can protest, she’s peeling the tape back, baring my skin. My knuckles are pretty banged up, and they’re bleeding, though it’s not really flowing anymore. It’s just sticky now, making it hard to peel back the last of the wrapping.
She runs her thumb across the back of my hand, gentle. “You should get this cleaned up.”
“I should get a lot of things cleaned up.” My dick, already revved from the fight, is twitching in my shorts. Picking her up and fucking her up against a wall sounds like a very good idea right now.
Not possible though. Instead I lean forward, daring, and kiss her, right there in front of God and everybody. I wonder if anybody even notices. “Let me get cleaned up, then we’ll talk, okay?”
She nods and doesn’t even ask what I want to talk about. I like that. She’s learned not to ask a lot of questions.
Of course she has. She’s lived with her father all her life.
That thought is a little deflating. Knuckles aching, I head for the shower.
#
When I come out, I’m clean and minty-fresh, my hair wet, clean clothes on. I’ve changed into a suit. Spada likes his fighters to look good after the matches. I don’t know why, really—I’m all banged up and I think my eye is swelling shut, so it’s not like I’m going to be pretty for the cameras. There are only a few tonight; I talk to a couple local sports reporters, let them snap a few shots, then excuse myself to go find Jess.