Page 1 of Beyond the Cage
CHAPTER 1
A superior man is modest in speech, but exceeds in his actions. – Confucius
Oh,God!Why did I let Chelsea talk me into coming here?The noise, the smoke, and the shady-looking characters are enough to send me running for the exit. The violence is just the icing on the cake. The thing is, she won’t leave and I can’t leave her here alone – the curse of being a best friend.
“Chels, I don’t like it here. Let’s go,” I tell her.
“Are youcrazy?” she exclaims. “The main event is up next.”
“I don’t see what the big deal is.”
“You will. Just relax,” she urges with a smile.
Rolling my eyes, I listen to the announcer as his voice echoes through the speakers.
“Ladies and gentlemen, it’s about that time. The moment we’ve all been waiting for…”
With a sigh, I stand when Chelsea jumps out of her seat. Crossing my arms over my chest, I turn in the direction where everyone’s attention is centered.
“Our challenger, number one contender, Tommy ‘The Pitbull’ King!” the announcer introduces the first fighter.
My ears rebel in protest to the loud music that follows. I like music just as much as the next person, but these levels are insane! The Pitbull comes running down the corridor like he’s chasing a bitch in heat, then climbs the stairs and enters the cage. Yes, a cage. I, Jasmine Carter, am at my first—and most likely last—MMA cage match. Chelsea’s been into this stuff for years, but I’ve managed to avoid it until now. I don’t see the fun in watching men beat each other to a pulp.
I look to the cage. The Pitbull is circling restlessly, huffing and clenching his jaw in rage, his eyes trained on the entrance. I kind of feel sorry for whoever’s on the receiving end of that glare. The Pitbull is not that tall, but he has muscles for days and helookstough.
“That’s onefinechocolate man,” Chelsea observes.
I guess. He’s okay, but not really my type. Too muscular.
Without warning, the lights go out and we’re left in darkness. A spotlight clicks on and I turn my head toward the entrance as it centers there. A dark figure appears and steps into the spotlight, smoke swirling around him. The crowd goes wild. His head is bowed and covered with the hood of his pullover. Reaching behind him, over his shoulders, he pulls the garment over his head, and tosses it aside. The women start screaming and I can see why. He’s huge! I’m talking bulging muscles and abs I’m going to call a twelve-pack. He’s tanned, toned, tattooed, and making me re-think my bias against muscles.
“Who isthat?” I ask.
“Thatis The One-Hit Wonder, Cameron ‘K.O.’ Jackson. 6'2", two hundred and fifteen pounds of prime man-beef.”
The menacing figure slowly makes his way to the cage, his eyes focused on The Pitbull. As he moves closer, I see the deadly intent conveyed in those eyes. I think I feel sorry for The Pitbull now. The crowd is chanting his name – “K.O.! K.O.!”
Excitement creeps into my body as I begin to get caught up in the frenzy. Itcouldbe the man I’m looking at, though, and not necessarily the environment.
“They call him The One-Hit Wonder because it usually takes one hit from him to take his opponents down,” Chelsea continues. “K.O. stands for knockout ’cause he has a sixty-five and O record, all won by knockout. That includes exhibition matches.”
I can believe it; he certainly is big, and he looks mighty powerful. But…he’s also gorgeous! Minus the ‘I’m going to kill you’ look in his eyes, of course. His medium brown hair is styled in a faux hawk with blond highlights, and has that wind-blown and sexy vibe going. He has a clean, smooth face, which is another plus – facial hair is not my cup of tea. Where his blue shorts hang from his hips, I can see the beginnings of his V-line.
Fuck!Who is this god of a man? He’s like David Beckham…on steroids…without the steroids. Does that even make sense? You know what I mean…he’s way hotter, not that he’s on steroids. I’m glad this conversation is internal because I sound like a bumbling idiot. The things a good-looking man can do to a woman’s brain. You’d never believe I have an IQ of one-forty. What I mean is that he’s muscular but has no bulging veins and doesn’t look like a turtle about to explode. That wasnotbetter. Sheesh…I give up.
I vaguely hear Chelsea as she continues telling his story.
“He doesn’t use entrance music, no introductions, no interviews. He doesn’t pose for pictures. He doesn’t eventalkto anyone but his trainer.”
Hmm…I know I’d like to have aconversationor two with him. If you know what I mean. From where we’re standing, I could reach out and touch him as he passes by. He’s not huge. He’s enormous! Well, compared to me, anyway. He steps into the cage and they close the gate behind him.
“Are you ready forwar?” the announcer screams into the microphone.
The crowd erupts once again. Both men are now in the middle of the cage staring each other down, while the ref explains the rules. I lick my lips as I watch the muscles bunch in K.O.’s back.I wouldn’t mind a piece of that cake! Or several pieces. Fuck it; I’ll have the whole damn thing.
The two fighters touch fists and step back. When the bell goes off, Pitbull charges at K.O. He simply lifts his left leg and delivers a powerful kick to Pitbull’s chest. He sprawls on the mat, seemingly lifeless. The noise that follows is deafening. I shake my head in disappointment. That ended quickly. The Pitbull…some challenger he was.
The announcer freaks out. “K.O. does it again! The Pitbull has been put down! Pack it up, folks! Sixty-six and O, all by knockout! Amazing!”
