Fic: The Sweet Science, Part II
Round Two
Walking to the end of the block, Joss only staggered once on her ultra-high heels and Reese liked it when she had to grip his elbow to stay upright.
At the corner, she objected briefly to the hulking white Escalade he had waiting for them there. He had discarded the merely posh Lexus in favor of this flashier van because he thought it suited the occasion better.
“Did you steal it, John?”
“Not exactly.”
“Is the owner looking for it?”
“Not anymore.”
She sighed, but that was it, so he counted that as a small victory.
Perhaps city traffic was thin on a Saturday night in July. Or maybe Reese’s driving was particularly effective at parting the congestion. Whatever the case, they arrived at the auditorium in less than forty minutes, just in time to take their seats before the announcer launched his sing-song introductions for the main event.
Reese had attended many prize fights over the years; some in big arenas like this one, some in sandlots or prairie corrals or dank city cellars or tents staked out on desert dunes.
But he didn’t want to say much to Joss right now; he wanted her to take in the scene raw, unfiltered by his own experiences or opinions. So he watched her closely, imagining her first reactions to the sights and sounds of the giant coliseum.
The place smelled like men.
There were women around, of course, glittering embellishments on the arms of many escorts. But the air oozed maleness, ripe and unrestrained.
Even on a gala night like this the primary food consumed in the arena was hot dogs. Low-rent and unapologetically democratic. And the inevitable accompaniments were beer, pretzels, peanuts, onions and the tangiest sauerkraut, mustards and jalapenos in the borough.
Like Leibling said, boxing was the art of the people.
Overlaying the pungent odors of the basic food groups, Reese could detect the acrid smell of cigarettes and cigars, the smarmy scents of hair oils, aftershave, and cologne. All those artificial elements men used to cover up the more carnal smells of dirt and blood and musk and sweat, pain and fear.
When the two adversaries finally approached the ring, noise rather than smell became the dominant sensation.
Reese watched Joss’s eyes widen and her jaw drop as the racket in the arena swelled. She leaned against his shoulder, seeking shelter maybe, as the crowd pressed forward with a single impulse, shouting, jeering, howling for their champions.
“You O.K.?” He had to fasten his lips to her ear to make sure she could hear him.
He was ready to whisk her away if she wanted. But she only nodded and clamped her mouth shut, though her eyes got even bigger.
When the boxers climbed into the ring, the photographers leaning on the apron angled and jostled for their shots. Joss flinched then and Reese realized that one heedless cameraman had stepped on her toe in the scrimmage right in front of them. If she squeaked in pain, he couldn’t tell, the crowd noise was overwhelming.
As the audience settled back in their seats, Reese looked down the row to his left and saw faces he recognized in the tuxedoed line-up.
There was little Danny Bartholomew, a trainer everyone at Neely’s Gym called “Dink.” Dink’s wife Louise was next to him stuffed into a green one-piece jumpsuit that lacked any visible means of escape.
Honey Hank Washington, a light heavyweight boxer on the rise, was sprawled on the other side of Dink next to Primo “The Big Bruise” Cruz. Despite the optimism of his mother, Primo was no longer number one now, but he kept in shape by working out at Neely’s four or five days a week.
Reese had sparred with Cruz on several occasions and learned a valuable thing or two in the process. So he caught the older man’s eye and nodded before turning his gaze back to the ring.
“It’s all ceremony right now.”
Reese whispered below the crowd noise to make sure Joss could hear him. The two boxers stood on either side of the referee, listening with school-boy attentiveness to some last-ditch efforts at establishing rules for the match. Then they touched gloves, raised their eyebrows and chins at each other, and returned to their corners.
“After that, all pretense drops.”
Suddenly the fight was on in the blast of twenty thousand breaths exhaled at once.
Markum and Carrano were well matched. Both were sleekly muscled devotees of the fast punch and deceptive feint.
Wearing green trunks, the blond champion was slightly taller and had a few pounds over his opponent, mainly around his thickening waist. But he carried the extra weight on plodding feet that made him appear heavier than his announced one hundred and forty-five pounds. His round face was as flat and expressionless as a sewer plate.
The Kid was compact and tawny like a cougar, with his black hair slicked back from a baby face marred by a permanent sneer. Below his white satin shorts, the muscles of his calves knotted and coiled as he sprang around the perimeter of the ring, leaning slightly to the right, bouncing with the fierce confidence of an undefeated challenger.
The first rounds saw both men feeling each other out, circling, darting short jabs that glanced off the shoulder or landed ineffectually against the ribs. The crowd quickly grew restless with this string of air punches and head dodges. By the time the boxers came to the center of the ring for the start of the fourth round, the throng was clamoring for contact, demanding first blood.
And like the obliging performers they were, the fighters gave the customers what they wanted.
Though he had begun the match with uncharacteristic dancing maneuvers, Monster Markum now planted his feet to deliver two roundhouse blows. He had arms like carved whale bone, covered in delicately traced black tattoos like a sailor’s scrimshaw. When his twin punches landed they rocked the Kid back on his heels.
After taking a deep breath to gather himself, Carrano responded with a flurry of deft jabs from both sides that seemed to surprise Markum with their speed and power. The Kid took only a few flashing movements to open up a cut on Markum’s left temple. Blood dripping freely into his eye caused the audience to break out into a chorus of sustained shouts which diminished only when the bell was rung for the end of the round.
A girl in a sequin-spangled red swim suit paraded around the ring carrying a large placard announcing the number of the next round. Reese thought she looked tired and hungry instead of elated, which was the message her rigid grin was supposed to convey.
Tipping his head toward the dreary woman, Reese whispered, “Boxing is a harsh way to make a living, even for those girls.”
“Yeah, but I don’t think they notice that up in the nose-bleed seats.” He thought Joss might be about to say something more when the cell buzzed from his breast pocket.
“I need to take this call outside. It’s Finch.”
He moved swiftly past her knees, tapping the shoulders of several journalists to clear a path to the aisle, and then disappeared. He found a deserted corridor near the locker rooms where the din was muffled.
In elaborate sentences, Finch summarized the conclusion of their latest case. Four men and fifteen women had been charged with running paid sex services behind the doors of a string of day spas in Brooklyn. Their number, a Vietnamese manicurist who was collaborating with the NYPD investigation, had been rescued after a hair-raising altercation. Timely intervention by Fusco saved the young man’s life and earned the cop yet another commendation for his stellar work.
Case closed, number safe, Fusco confounding his corrupt colleagues once again. A good ending to an unsavory story.
When Reese returned to the arena, the fifth round was over. As he neared his seat, he saw that Joss was not alone.
Honey Hank Washington was hovering over her, his shovel-like hand clamped on her shoulder. Preening, flashing his teeth, Washington’s unjustified swagger was on full display as Reese made his way down the front row.
Reese didn’t know if Honey Hank got his nickname from the golden color of his eyes and skin, or his smooth talk, or the sweetness of his right hook. But he was sure he didn’t want the man anywhere near Joss.
He wanted to slug Hank, deck him for daring to touch her. But this evening the fighting was supposed to be confined to the ring.
So Reese smiled at his opponent and sublimated the way civilization required.
“Hank, it’s good to see you up and around again. After that standing eight count the last time out, I figured you would take a few years off. Reconsider career choices maybe.”
The heavyweight grimaced at Reese, but deepened his smile as he winked at Joss.
“How you doin’, Ryder? Long time no see.”
Washington continued throwing his words at Reese but kept his wolf gaze on Joss.
“You know, Ryder. I can’t for the life of me figure out how a second rate flailer like you lands a knock-out like her.”
The two men were standing chest to chest now, the shiny buttons on their pleated shirt fronts tapping from the contact.
“Hank, considering all the head blows you’ve sustained, it’s going to take you an extra-long time to figure that out.”
Though the words were light, Reese’s voice grew lower as the sentence closed.
“John.” Joss said his name in a drawling way that had a warning wrapped inside a plea. He didn’t take his eyes off of the other man.
Suddenly Washington laughed, winked again at Joss, and backed off from the confrontation. As he turned toward his seat, the fighter threw out a final challenge.
“Catch up with you later at Neely’s, Ryder.”
When he resumed his place beside her, Reese knew Joss wasn’t going to let that little altercation pass unremarked.
“You know that guy?”
“Honey Hank Washington? Yes, I train with him at Neely’s Gym over on thirty-third street.”
“And you go by ‘John Ryder’ when you’re there?”
He shrugged, not apologizing, but acknowledging the awkwardness of peeling back yet another layer of his complicated life.
“Yes, it seemed to fit the place.”
XXXXXXXXX
The title fight surged on, shifting in rhythm and texture as the boxers wearied or rallied.
At times, Reese felt certain the challenger was on the verge of delivering a knock-out blow. But as the rounds expired the champion clung to his precarious position, never going down, never opening himself up to a conclusive assault.
Frustration creased Carrano’s boyish face and the gestures by the seconds in his corner grew more frantic as the fight staggered on.
When Markum finally managed to land a vicious clout across the Kid’s temple, Joss cringed.
Moaning softly she leaned toward Reese and clutched his thigh, digging her blunt nails hard into the muscle. He covered her hand with his, squeezing the knuckles until she eased her grip. He didn’t look into her face then, but he could feel the tension and excitement crackling from her body into his.
Carrano tripped backwards but did not fall. Shaking his head, he seemed to want to clear the cobwebs or maybe deny that the blow had really connected.
“Is he going to go down?”
Joss hadn’t taken sides in the fight, but the tremor in her voice showed her concern that the contender wasn’t up to the long onslaught.
“Not necessarily. He’s resilient and smart. He’ll bounce back.”
Reese felt he sounded more cock-sure than he really was but he knew that declaring a winner too early was a ticket to disaster.
The truth of every boxing match is that someone always loses. And the harsh reality for any champion is that his downfall is pre-ordained. Eventually either a challenger or old age will catch up with him to deliver a knock-out punch. The long term outcome is always the same: defeat. No getting around it. But even that grim inevitability wasn’t a reason to fold before the last bell was rung.
Taking Joss’s hand in both of his, he turned her palm up so that he could fit his fingers securely around hers. He looked at her face finally, hoping that she would accept the reassurance he was offering even if it was scant.
She lowered her chin at first. But then she looked up and threw a smile that ambushed him with its sheer force and confidence.
She was in his corner and it felt right.
He saw her eyes go a little dreamy then, vague and inward in their focus. He couldn’t tell where her thoughts were floating, so her next words truly shocked him.
“You know, I’m not wearing anything under this dress.”
As he shifted in his seat, he tried not to let his eyes trail down her body. Keeping his gaze pinned on her face as best he could, he saw her smile change from comforting to foxy in an instant.
He gripped her hand harder, but decided not to reply just yet. Sputtering was not the reaction he wanted to share.
When he was able to speak without stammering, he tried out a nonchalant approach.
“Not a stitch, hunh? O.K. Well, I’m glad you told me that little piece of news now rather than at the beginning of the match.”
He fought for the right tone, light and easy.
“If you had, I might have pounded Honey Hank Washington senseless for the way he was looking at you!”
Joss laughed, her eyes closing in mirth, and she leaned across the arm rest to plant a kiss just above his ear.
“Don’t hold back, John. Not on my account.”
And she laughed some more until he was as hard as a fist, his erection straining towards her inside his damned tuxedo trousers.
XXXXXXXXX
Round Three
As the referee paraded Kid Carrano around the ring, hoisting his gloved hand in the air to proclaim the victory, the fickle crowd united in shrieking its approval.
Blood lust was satisfied, the atavistic demand for youth’s victory over age answered with a final fusillade of punches to Markum’s gut. He had crumpled to his knees then. Unable to rise from the canvas, the old champion had glanced toward his corner as the referee chopped the air over his head to mark the final count.
Then Reese grabbed Joss’s right triceps above the elbow and led her toward the exit. As they sliced forward, they battled against the crowd which surged toward the ring to cheer the new champion.
Finally back in the Escalade, Reese careened down abandoned side streets, finding short cuts and challenging yellow lights at every intersection.
Once he got caught by a red light and thought better of blasting through under the all-seeing eye of the traffic camera.
So he took advantage of the pause to place his right hand on Joss’s knee. He slowly rolled the elastic hem of her dress between his thumb and forefinger. When he gunned the engine again, he let his hand drift northward along her thigh. He thought she might object or at least squirm, but she held still as he explored.
By the end of the next block, the dress compressed against her body, he reached his goal.
He discovered that all she had promised was true: nothing met his probing fingers but damp soft skin and precious curls. She sighed as he caressed her, her throat arched, her mouth falling open to whisper his name as she held his hand in place.
After that the ride home seemed to extend for hours.
No parking spaces on the block meant that Reese had to drop Joss in front of her building and roam for ten minutes looking for a slot big enough for the Escalade. When he didn’t find one, he left the gigantic van double parked near a fire hydrant, taking care to wipe away all fingerprints from the interior before abandoning it.
So he arrived at Joss’s front door in much the same manner as he had started the evening: fidgeting, nervous, and eager to see her.
She opened the door and stepped back to let him in, just like before. Only this time the dog wasn’t around and all the lamps were off. He could only see the outline of her body in the soft moonlight that flowed through the living room. Her shoes were gone and her head was only as high as his heart. She was breathing hard as if she had been running.
Seeing her silhouetted against the window like that, he thought at first that she was already naked. But touching his fingers to her waist he realized that the form-fitting dress was still in the way.
“How does this come off? You unwrap it?”
He pinched a little of the stretchy material and let it snap back.
“Just watch.” She said this low and quirked her head to one side. The purring sent a jolt to his groin.
She leaned down to seize the bottom of her dress in both hands. Seeing her fingers playing along the hem just as he had done in the car made his gut clinch with desire. But she was setting the pace for this match and he was happy to let her lead him.
If she had been efficient about it, he was sure she could have pulled off the bandage dress in a quick minute.
But instead she shimmied the elastic fabric up slowly, so slowly, until he could see the lean muscles of her thighs and then the shadowed prize of her sex.
He thought he might have groaned then. This long count was torture.
Or maybe he suppressed the sound until the damned dress was doubled over her breasts, squeezing them into impossible shapes that he wanted to test with his own hands. As her nipples popped free, he knew he gasped.
When the dress was clinging to her face, he took the chance to step forward; but even blindfolded Joss was agile and danced backwards beyond his reach.
After a final wriggle that made his knees go soft and his cock stiffen, she escaped the dress. In a flamboyant move, she tossed it onto the sofa and faced him, solemn and closed mouth. Again, he tried to approach to her and again she retreated.
It was his turn, he figured. So he loosened his bow tie and toed off his shoes, but when he made to shake the jacket off his shoulders, Joss spoke.
“Keep the tux. I like it.”
“I, uh. Yes…” This wasn’t his finest moment. Yet.
She crowded his body then, pressing hard against him so that they touched from chest to knee. Her sleek flesh enfolded like a gleaming trophy within the tailored construct of his tuxedo.
She curved her arms around his waist and for a minute she held him so close that he could feel her rapid moist breath through the pleats on his shirt.
Working her fingers around his waistband, she removed the gun nestled at the small of his back and threw it to join her dress on the sofa.
She slid her hands under his shirt, along his spine, and up to his shoulder blades. He placed his hands in the same position on her back and kept them still.
But he couldn’t hold the restraint for long. He needed to trace the faint ridges of the bandages that had circled her body. He wanted to feel the elongated indentations that slanted along her ribs and the way the strapping had left creases across her tender nipples and belly. These delicate markings were like a tattoo he could decipher with his fingers as he followed their trails across her torso.
Then she stepped off slightly to move her hands across his chest.
The drag of her finger pads against his ribs and stomach was exquisite. He imagined he could even feel the whorls of her prints as they danced over his heated skin. A bead of sweat slipped down his chest and she traced its path with her middle finger. She drew patterns in the hair that feathered below his navel until he thought he must cry out.
He wanted this provocation to go on forever. To be tangled with her like this always.
But when she touched both nipples he cringed at the direct scrape of fingernails across sensitive nerve endings. It was too much.
“Please, Joss. Let me… I, I want you.”
He moved his thigh between her legs, leaning into her now, angling so that she could feel the power of his desire.
The rotation of her hips into his drew the cloth across his cock. There the minute folds and creases of fabric tugged at his swollen skin, scoring complex patterns and lines that simple flesh could never create. He felt woozy with the sensation; but he was determined not to sink to the floor just yet.
He didn’t remember her lowering the zipper to stroke his cock. Maybe they had been standing this way for some time, caught in such a raw embrace that it took away all understanding or language.
He raised both hands to steady her head then so that he could kiss her for the first time. Her tongue was strenuous and disciplined in the sweet competition; taking his measure, strength against hot strength.
Now something in these caresses seemed to galvanize her into bolder action.
She pulled at his arms so that they slid together to the floor, knees colliding with wood, the coffee table pushed aside; maybe a glass or a candle tumbled in the heedless dive.
They hadn’t spoken in so long that her voice felt like gentle thunder in his ear as she asked for him.
“Give yourself to me, John. Now.”
“Yes,” was all he could manage as he settled between her thighs.
Still clothed, he pushed inside her, so soft and tight and wet for him. Now he carried the fight to her, rallying from his earlier torpor, giving her all his energy in thrust after thrust. He rotated his torso and hips, keeping his shoulder and arms rigid to save her from his weight.
Like a glutton, she absorbed his strokes, arching to meet him blow for blow. The usual smacking sounds of flesh against flesh were muffled by his clothing so that all that remained were brute grunts to mark their collision.
With her shoulders and feet planted on the floor and her knees pressing against his flanks inside his jacket, he could power into her again and again until they were both exhausted. The climaxes, hers then his, were fierce and direct. It was sweet to gasp together and then sigh together and finally to collapse together, blowing in time to their heartbeats.
He kissed the sweat from her brow and nose and mouth and chin. Then he shifted to rest his head on her breasts. He gently clasped one and pressed its yielding mass to his face. Joss wrapped her arms around his shoulders and held him for a long time, stroking his damp hair as he returned to the world.
He knew he lived his life on the outer edge, like a boxer, always dancing into the shadow of danger and out again.
But for now, right now, if he could hold on to this precarious balance, maybe all the battering, the strain and the punishment would be worth it for a little while longer.