Sugar Rush (18 page)

I pull out slowly, looking at Sela's blond hair spilling down her back, hanging over her shoulders. Reaching out, I grab a hunk of it with one hand, twist it until it loops once around my hand, and give a tiny tug. Her head pulls upward before tilting to the side where I can see a lazy smile on her face.

I slam back into her and she lets out a long groan. “Like that?” I ask her gruffly.

“Mmm-hmm,” she purrs low in her throat. “Again.”

With one hand at her hip and the other wrapped in her beautiful hair, I start to fuck her hard and fast. Withdrawing to the tip, ramming back in deep. Sela attempts to participate by pulling away and adding her own push backward, but I hold her tight by her hair and hips, making her stay still so she takes what I give her.

I once may have been worried restraining Sela in any way would be too frightening, but I have to accept that she's given me her trust along with her love, and that she's secure in the knowledge that I will only ever bring her pleasure.

Moving in and out of this woman, listening to her sounds and smelling sex in the air, knowing how she feels for me and I feel for her…there's nothing comparable to this feeling. So I continue to fuck her hard, holding her in place, and watch for the signs that Sela will come again for me.

I've learned them well.

Her fingers grip the bedcovers, she sucks in a long, deep breath, and a tangible stillness overcomes her for just a moment. I slam in hard, urging her release, and she gives it to me with a cry and another deep arching of her back. Her pussy clamps hard on to my cock and it causes my own orgasm to rip free.

“Jesus…that feels good,” I groan as I press my pelvis to her ass and grind it out against her. She grinds right back against me, intent on drawing it out for both of us as long as possible until we fall into a jellylike pile of limbs onto the mattress.

I immediately wrap my arms around her waist and roll us to our left sides so I can spoon against her without banging my tattoo on the covers. Our breathing is choppy and our skin is wet with sweat, both indications of some amazing fucking.

But then again, with Sela, it's always amazing.

Her fingers stroke my forearm as she starts to settle. “So…you like the blond hair?”

“Love it,” I tell her honestly. “You look so different, but still you. Very hot.”

She chuckles, wiggles against my body to get closer to me. We enjoy the silence until a thought strikes me.

“I wonder if JT would recognize you now?” I ask her.

“I wondered that too,” she says quietly. “It's been ten years.”

“My gut says he wouldn't, because he's so self-centered and narcissistic, he probably doesn't even notice the appearance of the women he preys upon. I know this sounds bad, but I don't think he cares enough to notice much.”

“I thought the same thing too when I had decided to color my hair. I didn't want to do it, but I didn't want to take any chances either. But still…my gut said he wouldn't recognize me.”

“Still,” I muse, “it's best we keep you two apart. On the off chance he would, I don't want him having any inkling we're on to him. Taking him down with surprise is going to be key.”

“Agreed,” she says softly. “And besides…we don't have much longer until this all starts heating up.”

That's true. In five days VanZant should take a dive. Dennis says JT's bookie is poised to collect hard and fast, because he knows JT could be a flight risk with those stakes. I figure by the middle of next week, JT will be paying me a visit to ask for money.

And if not, then Sela and I will be at the police station, reporting her rape, and we'll let the chips fall where they may.

It's fight night and I've somehow slipped into hostess mode for the men. I've never entertained before. Cooking Thanksgiving dinner for Beck, Caroline, and Ally was my first and only attempt at playing Martha Stewart. I was terrified, mostly because I wanted Caroline to like me, but it all ended up being fine. So when Beck told me he invited Dennis over to watch the Mariota-VanZant fight with us, I immediately decided we would need snacks and alcohol.

I spent the morning at the grocery store and bought enough food to feed an army. My menu consisted of sweet-and-spicy meatballs, buffalo chicken dip and little ham-and-cheese sliders. My afternoon consisted of making these snacks and batting Beck's hands away when he tried to taste.

I then focused on making Devil's Brew, a secret punch handed down through the generations of the Halstead family. I had to call my dad for the recipe, as I'd never made it before, but it was pretty simple: brut champagne, vodka, brandy, frozen limeade, maraschino cherries, and ginger ale. Mix it all up and prepare for your worries to melt away. I thought it was important to have a concoction like this because frankly, until I saw VanZant take the dive, I was going to be stressing out about it.

Dennis came over at five o'clock when the prefights started, lesser-ranked MMA fighters hoping for their chance at fame and fortune. This was opportune, because it let me get acquainted with the sport and Dennis and Beck explained things to me as best they could. While both men sneered at my Devil's Brew, once they heard it had champagne in it, they tried it. By the third glass, they were mellow and happy and waging personal bets on the fighters, yelling at the TV and high-fiving each other when something amazing happened.

I liked hanging with Beck and Dennis. It was fun watching them have a good time, given the heavy nature of the fight that was about to come. I was enjoying everything myself until about 8:30
P.M.
when Mariota and VanZant were brought into the cage.

The fighters went at it in an octagonal cage bordered with vinyl-coated chain-link fence, which lent a sinister air to the match. I'd learned quite a bit watching the early fights, including some of the rules. Dennis told me when the Ultimate Fighting Championship was first created, there were very few rules in place to ensure the safety of the combatants. But over time and in an effort to legitimize the sport, rules had been enacted to help prevent serious injury or even death. That didn't mean there still weren't serious injuries though. In the ten preliminary fights before the main event, every fight ended with either a knockout—where one fighter was knocked unconscious—or a technical knockout, where the ref intervened and stopped the fight based on his opinion a fighter could not continue. It's a vicious sport where the blood flows freely. So freely, in fact, that by the time Mariota and VanZant enter the octagon, there's blood smeared over most of the flooring, and I have to wonder what possesses men to get in the ring to do that, especially when the pay isn't all that great for most of them.

“Anyone want a refill on something?” I ask the men before I sit down on the couch beside Beck. They both look at me and shake their heads, eyes going immediately back to the TV screen as the fighters are being announced.

Mariota is shredded, rocking a tattoo-covered eight-pack and a shortly trimmed Mohawk. Most men tonight had closely cropped hair or shaved heads so that their opponents couldn't grip their head that way. VanZant looks slightly bigger than his opponent, as he was in a higher weight class before he dropped down, but he doesn't seem as chiseled. Having watched the other fights, however, I also know this means nothing. In those fights, it seemed to boil down to speed and skill, with many knockouts, technical or otherwise, happening when one opponent went to the mat and the other straddled him, landing a flurry of quick blows to the head, or sometimes just a fast, well-placed kick to the head.

Taking my seat next to Beck, I can't help but mimic his and Dennis' posture. Both on the edge of their seats, legs slightly spread, elbows resting on knees. Hands clasped tightly and intense focus on the TV screen. We're all nervous as hell right now, wondering if VanZant will go through with his commitment to take the dive. I have to think that JT is watching the fight right now, with probably the same nervousness. Or hell…perhaps he's enjoying this moment, the type of addictive personality that enjoys the euphoria of the gamble and the possibility of a big win.

“What round do you think he'll go down in?” I murmur to no one in particular.

“He'll take it all the way,” Dennis says. “To preserve his credibility for future fights. I'm guessing late in the last round.”

I'd learned tonight that there are five rounds, five minutes each, and those few fights that went the distance, both fighters were huffing and puffing hard near the end.

“Makes sense,” Beck says as the announcer introduces the fighters to the crowd and the millions watching on TV. It doesn't appear there's a favorite, the crowd equally cheering for both men when announced.

A few more minutes of the fighters meeting in the middle of the ring for the ref to go over the rules, and then the bell rings for round one to start.

My heart is practically in my throat as they come at each other warily, circling and pawing the air with hands protected with fingerless gloves. Testing each other out, I learned. Waiting to see who would make the first move.

I vaguely hear the announcers on TV discussing VanZant:
“He's been criticized a bit about being a counterfighter, so I think we'll see him try to disprove that by coming out strong…”

Mariota makes a short, quick lunge at VanZant, looking like he's going to throw a cross. VanZant's hands come up higher to protect his face, only to take a sharp kick to his ribs. It doesn't seem to hurt him though, because VanZant moves in closer and throws a volley of punches left and right to Mariota, who now goes on the defensive by moving back across the ring and covering his head with his hands.

“See, that's exactly what I expected,”
one of the announcers says.
“VanZant wants to put Mariota on the defensive right away. Let him know he's not just going to counter his moves.”

VanZant backs his opponent right up to the chain-link fence and continues to throw jabs, crosses, and hooks, these punches I learned quickly enough with Dennis' explanations during the first fights. My heart now feels like it's going to explode out of my chest as VanZant seems intent on pounding the ever-loving shit out of the other man.

“He's not going to take the fall,” I whisper fearfully.

Beck reaches over, grabs my hand, and squeezes hard as he keeps his gaze glued onto the TV.

I see our plan going down the drain and JT becoming two million dollars richer, and I'm stunned that just in a matter of thirty seconds, it appears our plan is being derailed.

With a mighty heave, Mariota manages to push VanZant back a few feet. He's been cut over his left eyebrow and blood pours freely down his face. Both men take a short breather, circle each other, and then in a move so fast I'm not even sure I really understand what happens. Mariota spins 360 degrees, leaps into the air, and launches a kick to the side of VanZant's head.

Almost as if in slow motion, I see his head snap to the side and his eyes roll backward before his legs buckle and give way to gravity.

“Oh, look at that tornado kick Mariota just landed,”
the announcer screams above the roaring crowd.
“And VanZant is down.”

As I've come to find out is typical in these fights, just because your opponent goes down doesn't mean the fight is over. Mariota leaps onto VanZant's prone body, straddles his waist, and starts raining down blows to his head. But almost just as quickly, the ref is there, grabbing Mariota by the waist and pulling him off. It's the universal sign that the ref just declared a knockout.

“It is all over for VanZant,”
the other announcer says with unfettered awe in his voice.
“Just unbelievable. What has been billed as a match that would go all five rounds has been settled in just thirty-seven seconds with a crushing kick by Mariota to VanZant's head. I don't think anyone predicted this would happen…”

My head turns slowly toward Beck. He turns to meet my gaze, his mouth slightly open in astonishment.

“Did that just fucking happen?” he mutters.

“Jesus Christ,” Dennis says in disbelief.

“I don't think that was a dive,” I say, my head turning back to the TV as I watch a doctor enter the ring and attend VanZant, who seems to be conscious but completely disoriented. Mariota runs around the octagon, flexing his muscles and screaming victory at the crowd. “I think Mariota caught him off guard.”

“Doesn't matter if it was a dive or not,” Beck says. “I'll pay him the money.”

We all three watch as VanZant is helped onto wobbly legs and led out of the ring. Mariota retains his title belt and holds it up proudly for all to see.

And somewhere, probably in his own house, JT is probably watching in horror as he tries to figure out how he can come up with four million dollars.

I let out a small snort of euphoria. A horrible sound, really, causing both Beck and Dennis to look at me. I immediately clap my hand over my mouth in embarrassment, but then another one pushes forth. They stare at me with wide eyes, and then I start laughing hysterically, pulling my hand away so I can let it all out. I double over at my waist, slap Beck on his thigh with my palm, and laugh until I wheeze.

Beck puts a hand on my back and chuckles as he rubs.

“Holy shit,” I gasp as I sit back up straight again, wiping tears from my eyes with the back of my hand. “That was intense. I thought for sure during those first few seconds that VanZant was going to knock Mariota out.”

“Me too,” Beck says with a grin.

“Un-fucking-believable,” Dennis adds, then stands up from the chair. “And this definitely calls for a celebration.”

He picks up our empty glasses and heads into the kitchen, presumably to refill our glasses with more Devil's Brew. Beck and I sit in silence, still somewhat stunned that VanZant lost. I mean…we wanted him to lose. We expected him to lose, since he said he would, but there was always that strong fear it wouldn't happen.

Dennis returns in a minute balancing three highball glasses between his big hands. He pauses at the couch, and Beck and I carefully each take a glass from him, not really caring who's is whose. Beck and I have traded bodily fluids enough, and there's enough of a buzz going on that I don't care if I drink after Dennis either.

“Looks like I'll be visiting Mr. VanZant with some money,” Dennis says as he sits back down in his chair. Gone is the excited posture with his ass hanging off the edge of the seat. Now he's settled back in with one leg casually propped on the other. He didn't wear a suit tonight, for which I was thankful. In his jeans and a faded Chicago Bears sweatshirt, he looks just like an average joe hanging out with friends on a Saturday night. It makes him seem more approachable, and the air of mystery he seems to have around him is dispelled a bit.

I'm not sure how Dennis is going to get five hundred thousand dollars in cash to VanZant. I know he's got the money, because he cashed the check Beck had given him, but you just can't take that much money out of a bank and not call attention to yourself. But then again, I don't need to be worrying about those specifics. It's why Dennis had us give him the money to launder before passing it on to VanZant. Plausible deniability is what he called it.

“JT has to be shitting his pants right now,” Dennis muses with an evil laugh. And I like that laugh. Like how much that Dennis has taken such a vested interest in helping me get justice. It's nice to know someone besides Beck cares.

“So what will happen now?” I ask.

Dennis takes a gulp of his drink, smacks his lips, and tells me, “The bookie is likely sending JT some type of message right now. Probably a phone call to make arrangements for payment. He'll give JT a deadline, and I have it straight from the horse's mouth he's only giving him twenty-four hours.”