Montaine (5 page)

For the first time, she
looked up and registered Trent’s presence at our table. Her eyes bugged out
wide. Her jaw hung slack.

“Marcie, you remember
Trent Montaine.”

“Y-yes,” she stuttered
breathlessly.

Trent turned his head
toward the stage. “Well, don’t look now, but there is a large-breasted girl in
a tube top staring right in this direction.”

Marcie jumped from my lap
and peeked over the railing. “Oh no. It’s her. We have to get out of here.”
With her smeared makeup, short dress, and small body, she looked like a drunken
fairy at the end of a rough night.

“I have an idea.” Trent
pressed his palms onto the table and raised himself from his chair. “Tony, why
don’t you escort Marcie safely to her home? I will do the same for Kat.”

Marcie nodded, nervously biting
her thumbnail.

“Yes. Absolutely.” Tony stood
eagerly, no longer concerned with his untasted beer. He touched Marcie tenderly
on the elbow and guided her through the crowd. Trent and I followed closely
behind. We emerged into a brisk New York City night. The cool, moist air
tickled my bare arms and legs.

“My car is parked a block
away,” Trent said once Marcie and Tony had disappeared around a corner on their
way to the subway.

“You know, Marcie and I
live together. I could have just gone with them.” The spiky heels of my black
suede ankle boots clicked noisily on the pavement.

“I know. Do you object to
a car ride with me?” He watched me from the corners of his eyes as we walked
side by side. “This gives Tony and Marcie a chance to be alone together. Didn’t
you say that you were trying to set them up?”

“Yes. I mean yes, I am
trying to set them up. And no, I don’t object to a car ride with you.” I felt
like I was babbling and clamped my lips shut to make myself stop.

“Here we are.” Trent
stopped in front a vehicle that looked more like a spaceship than a car. The
finish gleamed silver in the moonlight. The fluid lines and streamlined body created
a sexy and futuristic profile.

He placed a firm hand on
my lower back as he opened the passenger door. I dropped into the low-slung
bucket seat, straightening the tight hem of my dress where it inched higher on
my upward-tilted thighs.

The engine rumbled like a
jet when Trent hit the ignition. It settled into a growling purr as we pulled
away from the curb and out onto the city streets.

“I’m at Amsterdam and
one-eighteenth street, by the way.”

He nodded, the light from
passing street lamps and storefronts illuminating in snatches the vibrant
network of tattoos on his outstretched arms. I saw that the tattoo on his neck
was indeed a tree branch. It curled seductively like smoke and ended in a thin twig
that seemed to flick at his earlobe. He turned his head quick as a flash and
caught me staring.

“You want to know about
my tattoos?”

“I do.”

“Well, that will have to
wait for another time, when I know you better.”

I looked down into my
lap, embarrassed. We drove in silence for several more minutes.

“So, what first got you
interested in sports?” he asked.

“My father.” I paused before
continuing, trying to collect my emotions. “He was a big fan. He loved all
sports. We went to baseball games all the time when I was kid. We spent every
Sunday on the couch watching football. He saw the athletes as endlessly
inspiring and fascinating, and I learned to see them the same way. When he got
sick a few years ago, we’d sit together and watch ESPN for hours and hours on
end.” I cleared my throat and swallowed hard, willing my tears to remain in
check. “One of the best days we ever had was only a month before he died. We
threw our own little Super Bowl party, just the two of us. Made snacks
together. Watched the game. Yelled at the referees. Tried to forget that he had
cancer and that we knew it would be the last game we would ever watch together.”
A tear sliced down my cheek. I swiped it away with my fingertips. “Sorry. I
didn’t mean to cry. Anyway, I think of my dad whenever I watch a sporting event
or write about one. It’s my way of honoring him.”

“Thank you for telling me
that,” Trent said. “And I’m sorry about your dad.” He glanced at me, his eyes
luminous in the dim car interior.

I nodded and swiped away
another errant tear. I liked the simplicity of his response. It made his words
sound entirely genuine.

“Now it’s my turn to ask
a question.” I waited to gather my nerves. “What’s the deal with you and Kill?”

“What do you mean?” He
continued to stare through the windshield. His teeth were clenched, his jaw working
beneath his chiseled cheekbones.

“Things seem tense
between you. He has a definite attitude problem and a chip on his shoulder for
reasons I don’t understand. Did you have a fight? Is that just his
personality?”

“It’s complicated.”

“That’s a copout answer.
Everything is complicated.”

His head swiveled in my
direction, a hint of surprise in his expression, and then turned back to the
road ahead. He inhaled and exhaled deeply and slowly.

“I’ve known Kill a long
time. He helped me out of a jam once, years ago. I owe him.”

“Well, you gave him a job
at the magazine. He owes you too, doesn’t he? So, you’re even.”

There was silence except
for the rumbling purr of the car engine and the swish of tires over the
asphalt.

“Maybe.” His jaw shifted
again. His eyes narrowed as he stared ahead.

“Is Kill a subject like
the tattoos? You’ll tell me about it when you know me better?”

“Maybe.” This time, he
peeked at me from the corner of his eye and lifted his lip in an enticing
sideways smirk.

“Fair enough.”

To my disappointment, we
pulled up to the curb at 118
^th
Street. I very much wanted to
continue this conversation. There was something about Trent’s presence that
kept me intriguingly off balance and uncertain. I got the feeling that I had
only scratched the surface of his personality. I desperately wanted to dig
deeper. Of course, his physical nearness also had the power to send my
heartbeat into a sprint, my nerves into crackling bursts of electricity, and my
brain into a hazy trance of desire.

“Thanks for the ride.” I
suddenly had the feeling of an awkward teenager coming home from a school
dance.
Where do I look? What do I do with my hands? Is he going to kiss me?
Then the more rational part of my brain took over and told me that I was in a
car with my boss who was definitely not going to kiss me anytime soon.

I experienced a moment of
embarrassed panic when I could not locate the handle on the passenger door.
Then I heard a click, and the door swung open on its own.

“I control the doors with
this button.” He pointed to a blinking green light on the console. “I could
have kept you as a prisoner.” I expected a wink and a smirk, but his gorgeous
blue eyes were serious.

I swung my legs out onto
the pavement and realized with dismay the difficulty of elegantly exiting this
low-slung vehicle in a dress that barely covered my crotch and a set of
four-inch stiletto heels. I gripped the window frame and rocked backwards and
forwards, hoping perhaps I could launch myself from the car without toppling
over into utter humiliation and giving Trent an unexpected glimpse of my pink
lace panties.

Before I even had time to
gasp in shock, I felt two large and sturdy hands grasp my rear end and propel
me from the vehicle with a mighty shove. I wobbled and steadied myself on the sidewalk,
blinking in the glare of the street light and wondering if I had completely imagined
the sensation of Trent’s hands on my behind.

“Atta girl.” His
uproarious laughter told me that I had not imagined it. “These seats can be a
real pain in the…well…ass.” He pressed the green-lit button.  “Goodnight, Kitty
Kat.” The door swung shut with a whoosh of air and a click.

“Goodnight, Trent
Montaine,” I whispered to myself, watching from the lonely corner as his car
tore away into the night.

I checked my watch. 9:45.
Friday night and I was still at the
KTFO
office, bent over the ladies’
room sink. I wiped smears of liner and mascara from beneath my tired eyes. The
mirror revealed sprigs of hair that had escaped from my high ponytail and left
me with a wispy, disheveled crown around my forehead. I wet my fingers under
the tap and smoothed the hairs back into place, pulling my sagging ponytail
taut.

I’d stayed late to finish
some projects and to research ideas for the cover story contest. Big and bold,
Trent had instructed. So far, the only topics I could come up with were small
and commonplace. I racked my brain, scoured news items and blogs, but still
drew a blank.

I suddenly heard voices raised
in argument just outside the bathroom door. I pressed my back against the cold
tiled wall, feeling guilty for eavesdropping but also reluctant to stumble into
the middle of someone else’s fight. My ears perked to attention when I realized
that the voices belonged to Trent and Kill.

“This is my magazine. I built
it. Not you.” Trent’s voice was cool and lethal.

“You wouldn’t be anywhere
if it wasn’t for me.”

“Bullshit.
You
wouldn’t be anywhere if it wasn’t for
me
. You’d still be writing about
library socials in Crapsville, USA. I created this magazine from the ground up.
It’s mine. You don’t get to call the shots. I do.”

“Look at you. So high and
mighty. The great Trent Montaine wasn’t always so great. I’ve kept your
secrets.” Kill hissed like a cobra. “Be careful, or I might let them out.”

“Fuck you, Kill. Go
ahead. Stop being a pussy and do it. You’ve been threatening long enough. What
is it that you want anyway? What’s your end game?”

“I want a piece of what
is mine. I want recognition. And I want you to stop thinking with your dick
before it destroys this magazine.”

“What the hell are you
talking about?”

“You know what I’m
talking about. Little miss intern mooning over you. Instead of hiring someone
qualified, you hired a pair of tits.”

“It’s not like that.
She’s not like that. You don’t know shit, Kill.”

“Oh, I don’t know shit.
You forget that I’ve seen it before. All you’ve ever wanted out of life is to
be worshipped. Everything else is secondary.”

I heard a brief scuffle
and a sudden thud on the other side of the wall as a body thumped against it.

“Do you think I don’t see
right through you?” Trent’s words dripped with disdain. “You’re just jealous.”

“Jealous?” Kill’s voice
was strained and breathy, the stifled sound one might make under the
throat-closing grip of a steel hand. “Of you? Trent the superstar? Trent the
millionaire? Trent who fucks models and drives Lamborghinis? Why would I want
all that?” he asked with an edge of sarcasm.

 “Jealous of her. Of Kat.
You’re jealous because that girl is a better writer than you will ever be. You
know it’s true. But I’m warning you right now, you better back the fuck off of
her. Show some respect. Or you’ll have to answer to me. Are we clear?”

“Aye, aye, captain.”

Another thud pounded
against the wall. Kill made a noise like a strangled squawk.

 “I’m not fucking around,
Kill. This ends now.”

There was silence,
followed by a rustling slide of fabric. Then I heard the clip-clop of footsteps
echoing down the empty hallway and a long breathy sigh outside the door. I
waited, my ears primed to detect the slightest sound. I heard nothing.

I slowly eased open the door,
inch by inch, trying for stealth. The hinges betrayed me with a loud, grinding
creak. When I peeked around the doorframe, I was practically nose to nose with
Trent. He leaned against the wall, his arms folded across his thick chest, his
head turned in my direction, his eyes two burning blue flames.

“Hello, Kat,” he said in
a low and level tone.

“I-I…I’m sorry,” I
stuttered.

He waved away my apology
and shook his head. “No need to be sorry. I guess you heard all of that?”

“Yes.” There was no point
in denying it.

He nodded, his bottom lip
thrust outward and his brows knit together in thought.

“Wanna talk about it?” he
asked, still in the same deep and even tone.

“Not really.”

“Good. Me neither.”

Now it was my turn to nod
thoughtfully in the heavy silence.

He pushed himself from
the wall. “I need to work off some anger. Would you be interested in helping
me?”

My mouth opened, but I
had no idea how to respond.
What does he mean?
My jaw hung lifeless for
several seconds. His eyes burned into mine.

“Sure.” A simple word
that would change my life.

“Meet me downstairs in
five minutes.”

***

We zoomed across the
Brooklyn Bridge. Trent drove fast and angry through the wet and gloomy night.
The tires skidded over greasy puddles, remnants of an evening storm, and
swished over the glistening asphalt. Dirty gray clouds hung low in the heavens,
hiding the moon and stars and turning the river into a solid sheet of
undulating black silk.

Leaving the bridge, we
raced along the waterfront until we came to a squat warehouse that seemed to
stretch for several blocks. The cracked and potholed parking lot was empty, the
surrounding chain link fences overgrown with grasses and weeds. The place
looked deserted except for a single harsh yellow bulb that shone above a
half-rusted garage entrance.

“Where are we?”

“Brooklyn.”

“I know that. What is
this place?”

“You’ll see.” He stopped
the car facing the garage door, the headlights shining on the chipped and
scarred surface. “Can I trust you?”

“Trust me with what?”

He hesitated, the
question hanging dangerously in the air.

“My secrets,” he finally
answered.

“Absolutely.”

He took his phone from
the front pocket of his jeans and typed out a brief text. The garage door
lifted with a grinding shriek and clank of metal gears, slowly revealing a
scene that seemed thoroughly surreal.

The warehouse was the
size of several football fields and brightly illuminated like an arena.
Vehicles of every description lined the walls, from clapboard pickup trucks to
rare million-dollar racers. A few people leaned on car hoods and chatted, but
the rest strolled in pairs or small groups toward the rear of the building. My
slim black cigarette pants, sheer mint green blouse, and demure beige flats
seemed overly formal in the sea of denim cutoffs, tight t-shirts, and flip-flops.

I looked at Trent. His
eyes were laser beams fixed straight ahead. He eased the car into a makeshift
parking space, popped open the passenger door, and pulled a duffel bag from the
back seat.

We followed the crowd
toward the center of light and noise. A periodic roar shook the rafters. As we
got closer, I saw a ring of benches arranged in staggered stadium rows around a
large circular wire mesh cage. Inside, two hulking shirtless men squared off,
their arms hanging tensely at their sides until one lunged at the other in a
fury of pounding fists. The second fighter fell to the ground as the crowd
stood and cheered.

I stopped in my tracks.

“Fighting?”

Trent took a few more
steps and turned back to me. “MMA, to be exact.”

“But…how…who…” I
stammered, trying to articulate my confusion. “Who is fighting?” I looked at
the duffel bag slung over his shoulder. “Are
you
going to fight?”

“You got it.”

“Who are these people? Is
this some kind of underground fighting ring?” I lowered my voice to a whisper.
“Is this legal?”

Trent laughed with open-mouthed
delight.

“Yes, this is some kind
of underground fighting ring. It’s mildly legal and mildly illegal.”

“What does that even
mean?”

“It means that we pay the
right people to look the other way.”

He walked a few more
steps and turned again to the oily spot on the warehouse ground where I stood
rooted with indecision.

“Are you in?” He held out
one hand, his fingers beckoning me forward. I grasped his hand without another
word. We headed together toward the ring.

Trent waved to a group
gathered on a middle bench as we drew nearer.

“Kat, this is Oscar
Calabresis and his lovely wife, Esmeralda. Oscar is my training partner at the
gym.”

Oscar sat with his knees
bouncing nervously and his fists clenching and unclenching where they rested on
his thighs. He was shirtless, a sacred heart tattooed on his firm chest, his
hair sheared short. His handsome face lit up with a welcoming smile as he shook
my hand.

“Pleased to meet you,
Kat.” He glanced inquisitively at Trent, who appeared not to notice.

Esmeralda was beautiful,
with waves of lustrous hair in shades of mahogany falling over her shoulders,
dancing almond eyes, and full ruby lips that spread in a wide grin that
perfectly matched her husband’s. I liked both of them immediately.

She patted a space on the
bench beside her, an invitation to sit. To my surprise, Trent began stripping
down to his underwear. He stuffed his jeans and shoes into the duffel bag and
pulled out a pair of shorts, hastily slipping them over his hips. He dipped his
fingers into a pair of fighting gloves and punched a fist into each palm.

“What number am I?” he
asked Esmeralda.

She handed him a white
sticker with the number “46.”

“Oscar is number
fifty-seven.”

The crowd erupted in a
throaty roar. In the ring, a referee in black and white stripes raised one
fighter’s wrist in victory. A blonde in a gold bikini circled the ring, holding
up placards with the numbers “40” and “41.” Two men rose from the upper benches
and jogged toward an opening in the wire cage.

Trent unbuttoned his
snug-fitting red plaid shirt and let it slide down his arms, rolling it into a
ball and stuffing it into the duffel. His body was impossibly gorgeous. His abs
were cut in steely ripples across his stomach. His thick pecs were sturdy,
solid, and well-formed, a shadow of chest hairs coursing down the middle. His
arms were roped through with rigid muscles, and his biceps bulged round and firm.

His tattoos were like a
work of art. They decorated his torso from the indent of his chiseled waist to
the iron ridges of his collar bones. The tree that ended in a curve on his neck
branched leafy and full on his back, with a tangle of roots that dangled down
to the lean arc of his lower back. Across his chest were etched whirling storm
clouds and spiraling cyclones. The tattoos on his arms were even more
beautifully detailed than I’d previously noticed, the flames and dragons,
crashing waves and swimming ocean creatures outlined sharp, vivid, and clear.

He tapped me on the
forearm, waking me from my staring reverie.

“Earth to Kat.” He
snapped his fingers. “You have one job here. Collect the money.”

“Money? What money?”

Esmeralda explained.
“Each fighter pledges money, basically betting on himself. There’s a five
hundred dollar minimum. The loser has to pay the amount of the winner’s bet. So,
let’s say I bet a thousand dollars and you bet five thousand. If I win, you
have to pay me a thousand. But if you win, I have to pay you five thousand. Got
it?”

“I think so.”

“Kat’s a born bookie.”
Trent placed a gloved hand briefly on my kneecap with a charming grin.

“So, it’s good to bet a
higher amount because you can make more in the end, right? As long as you win”

“Exactly,” Esmeralda
nodded. “Either fighter can walk away if the bet is too rich for him. Then it’s
up to the next challenger. And we only deal in cash. No IOUs.”

“Don’t worry. I always
win.” Trent punched one balled fist into the palm of his other hand.

The fights moved quickly,
each accompanied by a chorus of cheers, yells, and whistles. I saw flailing
fists and feet as the fighters kicked and punched with zealous skill and
startling strength. There were takedowns and holds. After one vicious
knockdown, a woozy fighter rolled on the mat, struggling to rise until he flopped
helplessly onto his stomach.

The girl in the bikini
held up placards that read “46” and “47.”

“This is me.” Trent
jogged down a few steps.

“Wait!” I called. “What’s
our bet? How much am I supposed to collect?”

“Ten thousand. And I like
your faith in me.” He held a fist toward me. I bumped his fist with my own. “You’re
going to be my lucky charm.” He turned and sprinted down to the ring, climbing
through the cage and emerging to a loud roar from the crowd.

“They like Trent a lot,”
Esmeralda observed.