Ch. 3: on the Hunt (bts)

Beyond the Shadows - Chapter 3: On the Hunt

I pace back and forth in front of my closet, thinking about my shadow's note. What if he attends the fight this evening? I have to choose my outfit carefully, the last thing I need is any unwanted attention...or perhaps that's exactly what I need? I turn and face the row of dresses and skirts from my London days, all worn when regretful decisions were made on drunken nights out. Maybe if he sees me go home with another man, he'll decide I'm not worth the chase anymore?

Making my decision, I reach up and grab the short, red dress from the hanger. Holding it up to the light, my mouth turns down in contempt. It's one of my more revealing outfits, so naturally Benson will be thrilled. Despite my previous display in the shower, exposing my body doesn't come naturally. My tastes have always been aligned with the more modest and sophisticated styles...unless I'm home working on my novel, then I closer resemble a local street urchin or crack-addict. Comfort is key when writing novels, I always say.

Stripping from my comfy joggers and baggy t-shirt, I slip the dress up my thighs, the soft chiffon material hugging my wide hips and waist. Fuck. I know I've put on a little chunk over the past year...but at this rate my breasts are in serious peril of spilling over the top and sides.

I check myself in the mirror. Years ago, this dress fit perfectly on my 28-year-old body. My thirty's had hit hard, effecting everything minus my sex drive and strange desire for a good spanking. I run my hands down the dress, smoothing out the lines across my stomach and under my breasts. The plunging V-neckline hints at a confidence I'd once had, the mid-section garnished with metal chains that catch the glimmer of the bedroom light. If this dress could speak, it would say something along the lines of, 'Whoops, I dropped my tit, can you help me find it?' -- which is exactly the kind of attention I'm in need of tonight.

My shadow calls me a 'little lamb'...well tonight, I'm on the hunt for my mountain dog, someone to scare away the big bad wolf.

Fully intent on getting drunk tonight, I'd pre-booked an Uber, sticking with my usual driver -- a 75-year-old widow who likes getting out and about for a bit of cash. My heart rate kicks up a few notches every time Gloria puts her foot down on the peddle, blindly overtaking on corners and driving her beat-up Volkswagen like the devil's on her ass. By the time she pulls up to Benson's warehouse, I've broken a nail from clutching the dashboard and my brow is coated in a beady line of sweat.

"Ten quid, my love," Goria says sweetly, entirely unaware of her passenger's near panic-attack. It's always the same, and yet for some reason she's always my first choice.

I smile back, and as usual I hand over an extra five. "You still okay to pick me up at midnight?" I ask.

She nods her head, handing me my clutch as I open the door. "Yes, yes, your pumpkin shall await."

I roll my eyes but chuckle. She's the sweetest, craziest little woman, and you can't help but love her. "See you then!" I close the door and turn, walking quickly through the melting snow towards the line of customers already forming outside Benson's warehouse club.

Quickly spotting my blonde hair, red dress, and black coat open and flapping in the breeze, the bouncer turns his head and sighs, quickly opening the front door to let me in. "Jesus, Riley. You'll catch your death wearing that!" he scolds.

I wave my hand, dismissing his comment as I race past, rubbing my arms to stop the shivers. Inside, Benson has set up tall heaters around the large open space, with blankets on each table surrounding the sandpit ring in the centre of the room. A barman waits patiently, his eyes moving from the phone in his hand to the door, constantly checking for the first arrivals.

"Riley!" A voice calls from the other end of the room.

I stand on my tip toes and immediately spot Benson, dressed to impress in a black silk shirt and chinos. A dark-haired woman leans into him, her eyes already slightly glazed from alcohol. He takes my hand the moment I'm within reach and raises it to his lips, softly kissing the top.

"I'm glad you came," he says, finally relinquishing my hand and wrapping his arm around the woman's waist once again. "We've got some big names tonight, it's going to be wild."

My shoulders deflate slightly, but I try to remain upbeat. "Oh really? Who's coming?" I ask, not particularly bothered either way.

"Billy James, John Stone, Daniel Carrie, and the infamous Lucas Morrows," he tells me, his eyes practically glittering with the news.

Despite Benson's enthusiasm, I don't recognise any of the names, not that I expected to. "Sounds great," I say, my disinterest slipping through ever so slightly. Before Benson can comment, I tell him I'm heading for the bar, where I intend to sit all night and check out every single 6-foot male that enters this place. I walk over to the other side of the room, removing my coat and ignoring the low whistle from Benson behind me when my dress is revealed.

"Shit, Riley, you made my cock twitch!" he hollers over the empty room, his voice echoing slightly.

I spin on the spot and lift my middle finger, cheeks flushing as I thank Jesus nobody else had been allowed entry yet. Benson simply laughs and turns, leading the lady attached to his waist into the back room -- most likely for a pre-show snack.

At 8pm on the dot, the bouncer, starts filtering in the patrons waiting outside. I remain firmly planted in my seat at the bar, my back angled to the wall as I sip on my first dirty martini of the night. As predicted, the majority of people attending the fight are men, and already I regret my choice of clothing.

At least three guys have been hovering around me since the doors were opened, two of which have suspicious looking tan lines on their ring fingers. I continue sipping my drink, scoping the scene. I'm not entirely opposed to the attention -- on the contrary, it kind of turns me on -- when I'm not trying to concentrate.

"Hey, sweet thing," a tall and very young-looking man says as he slithers into the seat adjacent to mine. I cast my eyes to the side, my gaze travelling down the tailored suit and flashy watch. "You here alone?" he asks.

I casually follow the sight of his hand lifting from his lap to rest on my exposed thigh, his finger stroking my skin. "Unfortunately," I say with a dramatic sigh in answer to his question. "My husband's in the clink," I continue, slowly lifting my drink and swirling the contents. "Apparently he killed a man, well...slaughtered him, really." I sigh again, slumping in my seat slightly for dramatic effect.

My lips twitch but I manage to hide my smile as the man's hand swiftly moves from my leg. He coughs once and stands, then mumbles an apology and heads for one of the tables close to the fighting ring. With his back finally turned, I let out a soft chuckle, spinning in my seat and summoning the bartender.

"Well, that wasn't very nice, little lamb."

I nearly drop the empty glass, but as a warm chest presses against my exposed back, a large hand clasps over mine, placing the glass on the counter. The man's breath teases my neck, his lips brushing my ear.

"Didn't I tell you it was dangerous to expose yourself to strangers?" The shadow asks. Rough, calloused palms glide down the sides of my low cut dress, his chest keeping me pinned against the bar as his hand slips around my front, lower, lower.

"Don't," I whisper, closing my eyes and gasping as his fingers slide against my panties. I grip the bar, my head lowering as the shadow's fingers push aside the cotton barrier, then slowly sink inside me.

The sound of laughter and casual chatting under the lull of house music drifts away momentarily, then comes screaming back when he pulls his fingers away and turns my chair to face him. I swallow, trying to dislodge the lump in my throat as I stare up at the man who's been tormenting me for a week. Beautiful blue eyes stare back from a scarred face, his shortly cropped, medium length hair falling forward slightly as he leans down. I hold my breath, hands now tucked between my thighs as his lip curls up in a small smile. It's not reassuring. In fact, everything about this man screams danger...run...hide...buy a chastity belt.

"I knew you were beautiful," he says, his eyes travelling hungrily over my chest and legs. "But up close, now I'm certain i've made up my mind."

I barely register the mic switching on and Benson moving to the centre of the ring, thanking everyone for coming and announcing the order of events for the evening. My focus is solely on the man in front of me, my legs squeezing tightly together as he lifts his fingers to his mouth, and casually sucks them clean. "What do you mean?" I ask. "Made up your mind about what?"

Again, he simply smiles, the small movement pulling at the scar on his cheek. Despite the marks, he's ruggedly handsome. If anything, it only makes him seem that much more dangerous and alluring. He looks oddly familiar, too. I lean back as he straightens, making it painfully obvious I had underestimated both his height and build. If I had any hope of deterring this man, I'd need to try and find someone bigger than him and stick close to them for the rest of the night.

My brows pinch together in confusion, mouth opening to protest as he unbuttons his jacket and places it over my lap. Turning, he walks towards the ring, removing his white shirt and hanging it over the side before slipping off his shoes and stepping into the sand-pit.

"First fight," Benson crows into the microphone, "John stone versus Lucas Morrows!"

The blood drains from my face as I slowly turn my head to stare at one of the posters dotted around the warehouse featuring tonight's star fighters. That's why he looked familiar. I turn to stare at the ring just as the second fighter enters, looking just as tough and terrifying as my shadow. The bell dings and my jaw drops as the two men fight. "Well," I mutter to myself, picking up my fresh martini and downing it in one. "Isn't this just fucking peachy."

To be continued...

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Copyright © Bella Savage 2024

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This is a work of fiction. All characters in this publication are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people, alive or dead, is purely coincidental.

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