Uncaged (An MMA Stepbrother Romance) (14 page)

They fucking love me.

I don’t just hear the crowd, I
feel
them. Their collective voices, the screeching and cheering, and all their clapping, it shakes the air. I feel it on the beads of sweat that sit on my skin, this buzz, this vibration. I’ve just been warming up in the back on the bike, but now, beneath the bright lights, with the audience chanting my name, I’m
heating up
.

I throw off my robe. I don’t do any bullshit showy poses. I don’t flex my biceps or my lats. I don’t howl or growl or woof or bark.

I just walk around the cage.

Tonight is fight night.

Illegal, underground, unlicensed, whatever you want to call it. You walk in, and you don’t win anything unless you’re the one walking out. It’s just one fight, and the winner takes the pot. That’s always me.

People in the front rows have their hands out. They want to touch me. They want to feel the slick sweat on my skin, the heat in my flesh, the hard muscle packed tight on my body.

Who the fuck am I?

I’m motherfucking Pierce Fletcher, and I’m the best underground fighter in Australia. Probably the world, too.

“Pierce! Pierce!”

The women are screaming my name. They’re everywhere, bikini tops and micro-shorts, crop tops and miniskirts, deep-Vs and backless dresses. Everyone from everywhere is here to watch me.

They’ve got their arms up, they’re dancing, sweating, oozing sex, with full lips or fake lips, and full tits or fake tits. They’re writhing and wriggling, shaking their hips, giving me
the look
.

I know that look. I’ve seen it a hundred times before. They all want me to make them scream.

“I love you, Pierce!” someone shouts, and I turn to her and wink. Her knees hit each other, and she drops into her seat. She might as well have had an orgasm.

There are six stands of people arranged in a hexagon around each face of the six-sided, steel-wire cage. The wire is sharp; get thrown into it hard enough, and it’ll slice into your flesh. You’ll walk away with a crimson stamp.

I’ve got a ritual. Fighters have rituals. People like to say we’re superstitious, that athletes are superstitious, but it’s not some bullshit belief in the uncontrollable, or the unpredictable, or the unknowable.

Ritual is rhythm, and rhythm is consistency, and consistency is king.

You dance in the cage consistently. You have to pick up and put down your feet each time the same way. You can’t be slower one time, and you can’t be too fast the next. You have to know your body, know its timing. Each move is practiced the same way every time. Sure, improvisation is essential, but if you’re not consistent with the basics, well, then you’re going to get messed up real bad.

Especially if you’re fighting me. God help you then.

I stare up into the stands, soak up the adulation. I scan the faces, look for anybody interesting. I pick out drug dealers and mobsters and mafia crime families. I pick out a couple of politicians and high-ranking businessmen, trying to dress down, look inconspicuous, but the dipshits have still got fucking sweaters over their shoulders.

I see a group of college girls and each has a letter of my name painted on her stomach. Only, they’ve gotten the order wrong. ‘I’-before-‘E’… get it right, for Christ’s sake.

But it never stops being amazing. An adrenal experience.

I’ve got millions riding on me tonight. All the gangs and crews are here. Everybody is betting. Some of them actually think this punk I’m going to fight has a chance. They’re the fish. They’re the idiots.

The guy I’m fighting doesn’t have any chance at all. He’s good, but he’s not good enough. Shit, I put down a cool mil’ on myself without even blinking. He’ll be lucky if he lands a hit.

I walk to the next stand, and there I see a pretty blonde. I flash her a smirk, and she screeches and covers her mouth, before waving back frantically at me. She lifts up her top, shows me her tits. She’s got implants and nipple rings.

Whatever.

I’m about to go to the door to the cage, I’m about to turn around, when I see this face. The noise is silenced. I hear the ding of a bell, and know I need to get into the cage, but I just can’t stop looking at her.

This girl is the most beautiful girl in the room, and she doesn’t even know it. It’s a thump in my chest, a pang in my gut, an energy racing into my cock.

Oh, I want her.

And I’m fucking Pierce Fletcher.

I’ll have her.

That’s when I realize she looks… bored. I lock my eyes on hers; they are a dark brown like dark chocolate, but she’s not looking at me. She’s not watching me. She’s…
pecking at her phone!

What the hell?
I think to myself.

The crowd stays quiet as I peer at her.

She’s got bushy eyebrows, and her coffee-colored hair looks carelessly tied back. Its shoulder-length, a little wavy, shines in the light. Her button-nose is slightly upturned, and she’s got full lips above a chin that’s just a little too strong.

This girl is striking. She’s got my attention. She’s not caked in makeup, nor is she showing off her tits or trying to be sexy or anything. She’s just sitting there, uninterested.

She’s taking my breath away.

She finally looks up, and she meets my eyes. I know what’s coming now. At first, she’s going to break eye-contact because she’s nervous, because she’s looking at
me
.

Motherfucking Pierce Fletcher.

And she’s going to think to herself:
Oh my God I just made eye-contact with motherfucking Pierce Fletcher!

But then she’s going to realize that I’m looking back at her, and she’s going to realize she has
my
attention.

What can I say? I’ll be the best lay she ever has, and she’ll know it then and there.

She’s going to look back up at my eyes, and she’s going to smile, do something cute with her hair, shoot me
the look
, and then I’m going to take her home with me tonight, and I’m going to screw her fucking brains out, make her scream my name over and over again. I’m going to make her claw my back, her throat go hoarse begging for more. And then when I leave, she’ll send me text messages that I won’t reply to.

I never do the same chick twice, even if she’s smokin’. What can I say? It just gets boring. I’ve got more than enough experience to know that.

So I wait. The fight will wait for me. I’m the star of the show, the biggest name, the sole reason there are five-hundred people in this place.

I wait.

She looks up.

She looks into my eyes.

Her stare is utterly blank.

I keep looking at her, and she starts to get visibly irritated.

“What?” she says, shaking her head, now awkward and embarrassed. It’s cute. Her voice is lost in the rising murmuring.

I smirk.

I
really like
this girl. I don’t know why, but I’ve learned to trust my body, my instincts, my cock. Everything is telling me to go after her, and by the end of the night, I’ll have her. She’ll be mine.

It’s time for a little flourish. I make a fist with my right hand, and bring it up to my mouth and kiss it. Then, slowly, milking the moment while the whole crowd is watching expectantly, I extend my lean, muscular arm outward, and point at her with two fingers, knuckles-up.

She fiddles with her cardigan. The crowd erupts into ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’.

I turn around, and I step into the cage.