Montaine
Authors: Ada Rome
MONTAINE
A Novel
By Ada Rome
Warning:
This book contains adult language and situations. It is intended for mature
audiences over the age of 18.
Copyright
Please
respect the work of this author. No part of this book may be reproduced or
copied without permission. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment
only.
This book is
a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely
coincidental. Any similarities to events or situations is also coincidental.
The
publisher and author acknowledge the trademark status and trademark ownership
of all trademarks and locations mentioned in this book. Trademarks and
locations are not sponsored or endorsed by trademark owners.
©
2015 by Ada Rome
All Rights
Reserved
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Table of Contents
“Listen up. This is very
important.” In my right hand, I held a long black skirt with a wide, flowing
hem. In my left hand, I held a short black pencil skirt. “Which one should I
wear?”
“This one, you idiot.”
Marcie snatched the pencil skirt from my hand and slammed it against my chest.
“And while you’re at it, burn this other one.” She grabbed the longer skirt and
tossed it over the twin beds of our dorm room. The hanger clattered against the
opposite wall. “It looks like something my grandmother would wear to a funeral.
Scratch that. It looks like something my grandmother would wear to
her own
funeral.”
“Hey, my mom bought me
that skirt.” I gestured toward the shapeless pile on the floor.
“Your mom is a lovely
woman, Kat, but she doesn’t know sexy for shit.”
“I want to make a good
impression, though. Are you sure about this?” I pressed the pencil skirt
against my hips. The hem barely reached the middle of my thighs.
“Yes, I’m sure. You need
to work that great bod of yours more often. I would kill for your curves.
You’re all ass and tits, while I look like a damn Skipper doll. And you’re not
going to make a good impression if you show up for your first day of work dressed
like a nun. Do you know how many girls would love to be in your shoes right
now?”
I slipped the slinky
black skirt over my hips. The waist sat high. The knit material clung tightly to
my thighs.
“Yeah, I know, but---” I pulled
the hem down toward my knees.
“Butt is right. Your butt
looks amazing in that skirt.” Marcie reached out and hiked the hem back up to
my crotch. “Trent Montaine won’t know what hit him. Speaking of shoes, by the
way.” She handed me a pair of black patent leather stilettos with needle-like
four-inch heels.
“I’m not there to impress
Trent Montaine. I’m there to do my job. This is an important step in my
career.” I slipped the heels on one-by-one and wobbled with the height
differential.
“Blah blah blah.
Journalistic integrity. The power of the written word. I get it. Save it for
your resume. You’re about to start an internship at one of the hottest
publications in the country that just happens to be run by one of the hottest
guys in the universe.
That’s
what you should be getting excited about.
The other stuff is secondary.”
I laughed and selected a
breezy canary yellow silk blouse from the mass of clothes that we’d dumped from
my closet onto the bed.
“The other stuff is not
secondary!” I buttoned the blouse up to my neck and tucked it into my
waistband. “Besides, you forgot to mention that Trent Montaine is also reputed
to be one of the biggest assholes in the universe.”
“Listen, Tits Raney.”
Marcie hastily undid my top four buttons to reveal a healthy dose of cleavage.
“Assholes are the new thing. Nobody likes nice guys anymore except you. Your
pussy is like a damn charity. Fucks for Shmucks. It’s time to step up to the
big leagues.”
“There’s nothing wrong
with nice guys.” I demurely refastened the fourth button.
“You know what they say
about nice guys?” Marcie gripped me by the chin and dotted cherry red lipstick
onto my mouth.
“They finish last?” I
slurred my words, unable to move my jaw with the grip she held on my face.
“They finish quick.” She
handed me a tissue to blot my lips. “Have you ever been fucked for real, Kat? I
mean for real, not some light boinking by one of these clueless prep school
boys. Didn’t you say the last one made squeak noises during sex?”
“You’re a jerk.” I balled
up the tissue and threw it in Marcie’s face. She skillfully batted it away. I
pursed my lips to feign anger, but it was no use. Laughter burst through my
closed lips. “Oh come on. Warren was a gentleman.”
“Warren was a dog toy!”
She shook her head dramatically, the dark brown wings of her pageboy haircut
flapping against her cheekbones.
I thought of Warren, my last
boyfriend, a sociology major who inexplicably culminated every bout of sexual
intercourse with a high-pitched squeak. To this day, I could not enter the toy
aisle of a pet store without feelings of intense disappointment. Maybe Marcie
had a point. Nice guys do finish quick.
“I swear, Kat, when
Vaughn goes down on me, I’m pretty sure I see Jesus.” She flopped back on the
bed and spread her arms out wide, a serene smile stretching across her coral lips.
“I know. I’ve heard you.
Our beds are three feet away from each other.”
She sat up and threw the
tissue back at me. “Whatever, Lady and the Tramp. True love knows no volume
control.”
“Now, what would the good
Reverend and Mrs. Middlewood think to hear their daughter talk in such a
fashion?” I asked with an exaggerated southern drawl.
Marcie’s parents were two
extremely sweet and pious residents of a small Alabama town with one stop light
and three churches. Her father, Reverend Middlewood, led the congregation of
one of those churches. Through a quirk of genetics, Marcie had somehow sprung
from their loins as a sassy hell raiser. At eighteen, she hightailed it out of
that tiny town and off to college in New York City, where she could let her
true personality flourish.
I was under strict
instructions to play along with the charade of “good Marcie” whenever they came
to visit. I once ran into them on the corner of Broadway and 110
th
Street,
blinking in the noise and traffic like moles in sunlight while they waited for
their daughter. Marcie sauntered over in a flowery sundress that was better
suited to a 1950s housewife, complete with a fuzzy wool cardigan to hide any
evidence of the zombie fairy tattoo on her right shoulder. My mouth opened in
shock. Her death glare told me to shut it promptly.
Vaughn Brink, her
boyfriend of three months, was definitely off limits to Ma and Pa Middlewood. A
rangy guitarist whose skin was a canvas of exotic ink and painful-looking
piercings, Vaughn would have scared the hellfire straight out of that lovely, God-fearing
couple.
“What they don’t know
can’t hurt them,” Marcie replied with a sprightly nod. “They’ll meet him at the
wedding.”
“Wedding!” I dropped the
bobby pin I had been unsuccessfully trying to stick into the ballerina bun on the
crown of my head. It was immediately lost in a litter of makeup, lotions,
creams, and perfumes. “Weren’t you telling me the other day that marriage is
merely a social construct forced on us by outdated traditions?” I imitated a
professorial lecture voice. “Besides, is Vaughn really the marrying type?”
Marcie frequently dragged
me downtown to hear her boyfriend’s band play their version of screechy faux
punk rock. After the show, we invariably had to fight our way through a crowd
of panting female groupies in stringy tank tops and combat boots. That was how
Marcie had met him in the first place. She was one of the groupies.
“Oh, relax. I’m just
joking. Vaughn is for sexual funsies. I’m not settling down anytime soon.” She
slipped off her black t-shirt and donned one of my camisoles, pushing her small
breasts up with both hands to give the appearance of cleavage.
“Say, what time is it
anyway?” I asked casually.
Marcie reached toward a vintage
Wonder Woman alarm clock on the nightstand.
“Eight twenty-five.”
“Seriously?” Another
bobby pin clattered onto the dresser. “I’m supposed to be there at nine! And
it’s rush hour. I have to go.”
“It’s all good. Just tell
Trent that you were busy getting your lady parts waxed and you lost track of
time. He’ll understand.”
I made another futile
attempt to straighten my too-short skirt and took one last peek at the
floor-length mirror.
“Shit!” I exclaimed.
“Shit shit shit shit shit!”
“What’s the matter, you weirdo?”
Marcie sidled up next to me. I towered over her tiny pixie physique.
“Yellow and black? I look
like a damn bumble bee! I need to change.”
“You don’t have time.”
Marcie put a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “You look fantastic. Bumble bees
are sexy.”
“Bumble bees are not
sexy. They’re fat and fuzzy.”
“They also suck the juice
out of plant gonads and sting people with their butts. That’s hot. Be the bee,
my dear. Be the queen bee. Make all the men do your bidding, starting with
Trent.”
I took a deep breath and
grabbed my oversized black pebbled leather purse from the desk chair. I’d
bought it from a discount store in the hope of looking adequately professional
on my first day.
“Wish me luck.” I opened
the door and stood poised on the threshold.
“You don’t need luck.”
She trotted over to me. With a lightning-quick hop and effortless swipe, she released
my carefully tended bun. I gasped as a long cascade of auburn hair fell over my
shoulder.
“Marcie! Why did you do
that?”
She plucked out a couple
of errant bobby pins and fluffed the sides. “Now you look like a movie star
instead of like a snooty librarian. You’ll thank me later.” She air-kissed each
side of my face and slapped me on the butt. “Go out there and get ‘em, tiger.”
“Tigers are orange and
black. I’m a bee, remember?” I wrapped her in a brief hug and jogged to the
elevator as rapidly as my uncomfortable shoes would allow. Marcie wolf-whistled
in my wake. With a cheery ding and a lighted down arrow, the elevator doors
opened. I stepped inside.
“Be the bee!” Marcie
shouted as the doors clamped shut.
8:59. I stuffed my phone
back into my purse and struggled to catch my breath. I was on the corner of
Fifth Avenue and 20
th
Street, where the offices of
KTFO Magazine
occupied one floor in a sedate pre-war building. A set of ornate gray stone
pillars flanked the entrance. A revolving door with shiny brass fittings spun
busily with arriving staff. I paused and adjusted the skirt that was riding steadily
up my thighs in the June heat.
Someone crashed into my
shoulder and nearly sent me tottering onto the pavement. I looked up in time to
see a man striding confidently up the front steps. His form-fitting blue plaid
shirt was rolled up to his elbows, revealing a network of tattoos snaking along
his forearms as he reached out and pushed the revolving door. He didn’t even
bother turning around to apologize.
“Dick,” I muttered under
my breath, lifting my heavy hair from my perspiring neck. The door continued to
spin like a portal. Anxiety rooted me to the sidewalk.
“It’s now or never,” said
a voice with a strong accent. If I had to guess, I would have said it
originated somewhere in Eastern Europe. I turned and looked down on a small
elderly man with thin strips of hair combed over his scalp and round glasses
like bottle caps. Despite the early summer heat, he was elegantly dressed in a
dark gray suit, lavender striped shirt, and cornflower blue silk pocket square.
“Excuse me?”
“You’re headed into the magazine?”
He poked a rolled-up newspaper toward the entrance.
“Yes. Yes, sir,” I
corrected myself. He seemed like someone deserving of the more respectful form
of address.
“Well then, better get a
move on. You’re late,” he said with a wink. He trotted up the steps with a
surprising amount of energy and disappeared through the revolving door like a
phantom.
The spell was broken. I followed
him inside, my heels clacking noisily on the marble floor. To my surprise, I
was alone in the lobby. Everything gleamed with a glamorous art deco style. The
shining tiles were inlaid with a sunburst pattern. Tall potted palms lined the
corridor to the old-fashioned elevator. A sign on the wall indicated that
KTFO
Magazine
was located on the fourth floor, sandwiched between a dental
practice and a college tutoring service.
My mother had expressed confusion
when I’d told her that I would be spending the summer as an intern at a
publication called “KTFO.”
“KTFO?” she asked. “What
does that mean? It sounds like the name of a radio station.”
“It’s an abbreviation.” I
hesitated. She was easily shocked by strong language. “It stands for Knocked
the Fuck Out.” I cleared my throat. “It’s a magazine about fighting.”
“Fighting?” She pursed
her lips and shook her head with disapproval. The gold brooch on her smart tweed
jacket glinted in the light of a chandelier. “What kind of fighting?”
“Mostly MMA.” She paused
while slicing a portion of roast beef and looked up at me with a blank
expression. “Mixed martial arts,” I clarified. “But they also cover other types
of fighting around the world. They do some really interesting, cutting-edge work.”
“Oh dear. Are you sure
about this, Kat? What do you know about fighting?” Her soft brown eyes looked dismayed,
almost hurt. It was bad enough that I was studying journalism rather than law
or medicine. Now I insisted on writing about a bunch of sweaty men pummeling
each other for money. She shook her head again as if resolving an internal
debate.
Nevertheless, she raised
a good question, one I had asked myself many times in the weeks since.
What
do I know about fighting?
Not much at the moment, but I was ready to learn.
I pushed open the
latticed screen that enclosed the elevator like a cage. This thing had probably
been in use since the 1920s. I punched a large button with a graceful “4”
painted in black calligraphy. The coffin-like box shuddered to life with a
grinding creak.
As one of the few women
trying to break into the world of sports journalism, I was often forced to
answer the question, “What do you know about this?” People seemed to think that
my gender somehow prevented me from being able to comprehend competitive
athletics. One look at me, and they decided that I was better suited for a
quiet poetry journal or gardening blog.
What do you know about football?
What do you know about baseball? What do you know about lacrosse, hockey, or
taekwondo?
To me, sports were
fascinating because of their human element, the outsized personalities and
behind-the-scenes struggles, the defeats and the comebacks, the unconquerable
drive that led people to defy the odds and push past the limits of what we all
thought was possible. As a reporter, I wanted to find out what made those
people tick and give their stories the justice that they deserved. This passion
was precisely the reason that I’d crossed my fingers and applied for the
internship at
KTFO
despite my lack of any previous knowledge of or
interest in fighting, professional or otherwise.
Trent Montaine, the founder
of
KTFO
, seemed to share my fascination with the human drama of sports. Despite
his reputation as an incorrigible playboy and his regular appearances in lists
of the world’s most beautiful people, he possessed serious journalistic chops.
He had spent most of his 20s reporting from every war-torn region on the
planet, risking life and limb to bring to light the stories that everyone else
was afraid to touch. According to legend, he was once kidnapped in the
mountains of Afghanistan by a troupe of sword-wielding bandits and managed to
barter his way to freedom using only an old pocket watch, a pack of gum, and
his trademark thousand-watt charm. At the age of 30, he broke away from war
reporting to found his own magazine. People said that he was crazy. They
insisted that magazine publishing was a dying industry. In only three short
years, he had silenced the doubters and turned
KTFO
into a respected journalistic
powerhouse. His magazine featured some of the best sports writing and
photography on the planet. He maintained very high standards and hired only the
best of the best.
Naturally, I was proud
and excited when I found out that I’d been chosen for the coveted
KTFO
internship. My jealous male classmates scoffed. I overheard them discussing me
in the hallway after we announced our summer destinations.
They probably
just needed a chick to fill out the ranks. She’ll never make it.
I was
determined to prove them wrong.
The elevator doors opened
on a surprisingly modern setting. The fourth floor had been thoroughly
remodeled into a sleek, high-tech office. A glass partition took up one full
wall and offered a glimpse into the bustling activity within. Streamlined desks
were positioned in an open layout. Writers sat busily typing, jotting notes,
making phone calls, and swilling cups of coffee. The decorations were spare and
minimalist. A gigantic painting of a stylized boxing glove hung on one wall. A painting
of a bleeding heart occupied the opposite wall.
I pulled open the glass
door to a murmuring undercurrent of voices. A few heads lifted in interest at
the new face but quickly lowered again. I had no idea where to begin. Trent’s
office seemed like a good start. I took the first right and headed down a
hallway lined with framed photographs of fighting arenas, from professional boxing
rings to dusty foreign fields. I stopped short at a silver wall plaque that
read “Trent Montaine.”
His door was halfway open.
I rapped my knuckles against it. No response. I gently eased the door open a
few inches and caught a heated conversation in progress.
“No way,” said one male
voice. “The Jets are going to start Nolan at quarterback this year. They’d be
crazy not to. He can run. Davis can’t run for shit. He’s washed up. Nolan is
the future. He’s a Heisman Trophy winner, for crying out loud.”
“I’m telling you,” said
another voice, this one deeper and more commanding. “Nolan will flop. Davis
still has one of the best arms in the league.”
I tried to covertly back
away, but I was too late. I had already been spotted.
“Can I help you?” said
the deeper voice.
I swung the door fully
open and stood nervously on the threshold.
“Hi. I’m Kat Raney.”
“Hello, Kat Raney. What
are you doing in my office?”
Trent Montaine sat behind
a polished steel desk, impatiently tapping a pencil on a stack of papers. I
immediately recognized his blue plaid shirt. He was the one who’d nearly
knocked me flat on the street only minutes earlier. My shoulder still stung from
the impact. I unconsciously rubbed it with my left hand. He smirked and held his
pencil poised in midair.
From this close range, it
was clear that his reputation as one of the world’s most beautiful people was entirely
justified. His piercing eyes were blue as a polar ice cap. He had jet black
hair cut short on the sides and a bit longer on top, where it flipped back
boyishly. His chiseled cheekbones stood out above a strong chin coated in a
thin layer of stubble. His muscular arms, bared to the elbows, were a landscape
of colorful tattoos. The right arm was devoted to sea creatures – a mermaid, an
octopus – while the left arm was covered in images of flames and spinning,
fire-breathing dragons that coiled around his sculpted forearms.
I was completely
tongue-tied. A clock ticked somewhere nearby. I opened my mouth, but no sound
emerged.
“For fuck’s sake, Trent.
Is this another one of your conquests?”
For the first time, I
noticed the room’s other occupant. He lounged in a chair facing the desk, his
left ankle resting on his right knee. He looked to be in his early 30s. He was
thin and pale, with spiky blonde hair and a patchy goatee. His beady, close-set
eyes were a washed out gray like dirty laundry. He reminded me of nothing so
much as a weasel.
“I should be so lucky,”
Trent replied with a suggestive leer at my generous cleavage – the fourth
button had somehow come undone during my travels – and my thighs, which were
far more exposed than I realized beneath the lifted hem of my skirt. Anger
snapped me out of my momentary stupor.
“I’m the intern,” I
declared with purpose and crossed my arms over my chest.
“Intern? Seriously? Her?”
The weasel looked from Trent to me and curled his thin lip in disgust.
“Sweetie, we write about fighting at this magazine, not nail polish. Don’t you
think you’d fit in better somewhere else?”
“Cool it, Kill,” Trent
interjected. He turned to me. “You’ll have to excuse my friend here. He doesn’t
interact with gorgeous women very often, so he may be in a state of shock.” He
winked. I felt my cheeks flush pink. “Allow me to introduce you two. Kat Raney,
Kill. Kill, Kat Raney.”
“Kill?” I asked, confused.
“Colin Killigrew,” said
the weasel with a huff. “They call me Kill. Have you really never heard of me?”
His voice oozed disdain. I recognized his name from many
KTFO
bylines.
“Play nice, Kill.” Trent
said calmly. “Kat will be our intern for the summer. You’re going to mentor
her.”
“Why not hire an intern
who actually wants to be a sports writer? How am I supposed to work with…with
this?” He jabbed a thumb in my direction.
Trent paused, looking up
at me where I shifted anxiously from one foot to the other. He looked back at
Kill.
“I needed to hire a chick,
ok? The media’s been getting on my case, saying this place has too much
testosterone. We require a woman’s perspective. She fits the bill.”
He leveled his gaze at
me. A spark of curiosity flashed in his blue eyes. My heart sank like a stone.
I had foolishly imagined Trent Montaine as a kindred spirit who would recognize
my talent and help launch my career. But he was no different from the others.
He discounted my abilities without even giving me a chance. Worst of all, the
guys at school were right. I wasn’t hired by
KTFO
because I was the
best. I was hired because of demographics. They needed a female name on the
list.
With a sense of mortification,
I felt hot tears forming at the corners of my eyes. I blinked them away and
glared at Trent through lowered brows.
“For your information, I
am fully qualified for this position. I want to be a sports writer. I will be a
sports writer.” I stared hard at the back of Kill’s head. “And by the way, the
Jets are going to start Davis at quarterback this year. He has the arm. Nolan
won’t last through training camp. No one gives a shit if he won the Heisman
Trophy. Plenty of Heisman winners have failed when they hit the big time, and
he’ll be one of them. Running doesn’t take a quarterback very far in the NFL.
He needs to be able to throw. Nolan can’t. Davis can.”
Trent leaned back in his
chair, his hands crossed behind his head, elbows pressed outwards, the exotic
kaleidoscope of tattoos on his arms lending him a mysterious and slightly
menacing aspect. The corners of his mouth twitched with a suppressed smile. I
turned toward the door.
“Honey,” Trent said from
behind my back. I spun furiously on my heel.
Honey? Is this guy serious?