Dragon: A Bad Boy Romance Read online

  She's dressed now, and she's staring at me, looking uncomfortable. She's bracing herself for the awkward conversation where we each tell the other that we have no interest in doing this again, ever. I clear my throat, ready to speak, but before I can speak, someone tried the door. It's still locked, and a fist hammers impatiently.

  “Hey! Open up in there!” a man's voice yells.

  She turns, eyes wide with alarm.

  “Don't open it,” she whispers.

  Yeah, just as I suspected. She doesn't want to be caught in the boxer's dressing room, flushed from fucking him.

  “It's a little late to turn coy, sweetheart,” I say. “But if you're so fucking embarrassed, there's a fire exit back there.”

  She looks like she's going to say something, but the hammering on the door starts up again.

  “Bye,” she says, and with that, she slips out of the fire exit and out of my life. I realize that I never even got her name. Ah well, who cares?

  ~~~~~~~

  I move to unlock the door, before it gets kicked in. Clearly, someone wants to talk to me very much. I know it's not Razor, fixing for an impromptu re-match – he has some kinda European accent, Swedish or Russian or some shit. The guy hollering outside sounds local.

  “Jesus Christ, what were you doing? Taking a shit?”

  The man with the Donald Trump hair pushes past me and begins to make himself comfortable.

  “Please, come in, Mr Freeman,” I say through clenched teeth, my neutral tone masking the sarcasm. I could be in deep shit here. I beat his guy, and of all the money that was riding on the fight, you can bet that Tony Freeman had the biggest stake.

  A couple of his goons are hovering outside, and I close the door on them. I'm tempted to lock it again, to create a barrier between me and them in case this visit means trouble, but I don't want to seem aggressive right out of the gate. Tony Freeman is not a man to be fucked with, and everyone in this town knows it. He's not much to look at – short and fat – but he has a pudgy finger in every criminal pie going. When people talk about Tony Freeman, they always say that he's connected, the word whispered with a nervous glance over the shoulder. I've seen him around, but I've never spoken to him before. I'm way too small-time for him.

  “So,” he says, settling his fat ass on the massage table. “You won.”

  He's looking at me shrewdly, and I get the sense that underneath the jovial, friendly exterior and comedy hair, this guy is extremely fucking dangerous. He sees everything, misses nothing. I need to be careful here. No more sarcastic remarks.

  “Yes,” I say, “I did.”

  “Why?”

  It's tempting. My mouth wants to run away with me, and give him a snarky answer. But in the end, I go for the truth. If I end up with a beating, at least I'll know I didn't bring it down on my own head.

  “The bottom line is, Mr Freeman, I won because Razor lost.”

  I pause, looking at his face, trying to gauge his reaction. He waves a hand, urging me to continue, his mean little eyes never so much as blinking.

  “Razor Mikkalsen has won every fight for the last two years. He thinks he's unbeatable, and that's made him complacent.” I say.

  “Complacent? That's a fancy word for a boxer,” he remarks. I ignore the dig.

  “He expects to win, so he's phoning it in. All the advantages he has – the height, the reach – stop working for him. He's beatable because he's unbeatable. And that's why I beat him.”

  I stop talking and wait. It's time for him to show his hand. Discreetly, I look around the room, searching out anything that could be used as a weapon if this goes south. He's carrying a gun, I'm sure, but if I managed to knock him out before he could draw, then perhaps I could get away. I glance at the fire exit. Six paces. If I whack him with the fire extinguisher...

  Freeman smiles. He looks like a shark that just scented blood, maybe in a kiddy pool.

  “And, you saw all this, did you? That's why you requested the fight?”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “You see a lot,” he says.

  I tense as he reaches into his jacket pocket. Slowly, deliberately, he draws something out. Something dark, cylindrical...

  “Mind if I smoke?”

  He's smirking as he puts the cigar to his fleshy lips, and I try not to sigh with relief.

  “Yeah, Dragon, you see a lot. I like that. I see a lot, too,” he says, flicking his lighter. I notice he never actually waited to see if I minded the smoke.

  “For instance,” he continues, “I see that you were deciding to bash me over the head with that extinguisher and then fuck off out of the fire exit, if I pulled a piece on you. But you waited to see what this was, before you made your move. You're cautious, and you're in control of yourself.”

  He waves the cigar in the air.

  I don't speak. I don't know what to say, and I'm sure as fuck not going to admit that I was considering battering Tony Freeman.

  “Is that where the broad went? Out the fire exit?”

  I narrow my eyes. “You had people watching the dressing room?”

  He laughs, and it sounds genuine.

  “Relax, kid. I saw.”

  He hops off the table and picks something up from the floor. The shredded remains of the pink panties. I feel a stab of revulsion as he sniffs them, before tossing them at me. I'm starting to lose patience with this arrogant man.

  “With respect, Mr Freeman, it's late and I'm tired. What can I do for you?”

  “I'm sure you are. You've had a very busy evening,” he grins. “I'll cut to the chase. I want you to work for me.”

  My heart sinks. If Tony Freeman wants me, I'm not going to be able to say no. Not if I enjoy breathing, anyway. With that one sentence, he now owns my ass.

  “If you want me to fight for you, then you need to know that I'm not gonna throw a fight. Not ever.” I say, and mean it. I don't have much in this world, and I've done some pretty unconscionable things to get by, but I respect the fight too much to cheat.

  “I wouldn't expect you to,” he says, amused. “I won't be paying you to box. You're going to be doing something far, far more important than that...”

  Chapter Two - Honey

  I close the fire door as quietly as I can, but even so, the metallic clang seems to echo across the deserted parking lot. Shit! I think, cringing. I wonder how much time I have before the boxer, Dragon, gives me up. Not long, maybe only a couple of seconds. It's not like he owes me anything, and my father knows how to get a man to talk. I slip my heels off and run full-pelt to my car, wincing as the gravel digs into my bare feet. After I am safely behind the steering wheel, I risk a look back. The door is still closed. I take a second to brush the pebbles from the soles of my feet before I spin off into in the night, heart racing.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck. I guess it had to happen, sooner or later. I've been sailing too close to the wind for far too long, and on some level I knew that eventually I would get caught. But why tonight? I'd been so careful. Yes, it was probably pretty stupid to go to a fight that my father was at, but I'd always gotten away with it before. I knew his routine. He liked to be front and center, up by the ring where everyone could see him. The king, holding court. After the fight, he would parade that moronic Scandinavian meathead around the bar for a couple of hours, then he'd head home.

  But tonight has been different. The meathead has lost, knocked out by a complete unknown. Did that distract my father, make him look around and see me, hidden at the back of the crowd? Or worse, has he suspected for a while that his precious little princess isn't the good girl he thinks? Was I being followed?

  I try to slow my breathing down as the miles roll by. Stay calm, and think, Honey. I need an excuse, a reason for being there. I can say I was looking for my dad, and I thought that the dressing room was Razor's. So, why did I run? I was scared, and I didn't recognize my dad's voice when he was yelling and banging on the door. That might work, but of course it all depends on what Dragon tells my father.
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  He has good reason to lie, but he probably won't realize it until it is too late. I know how my father operates. He'll pretend to be the friendly, avuncular type. Sling his arm around Dragon's shoulder and tell him it doesn't matter, boys will be boys, so that Dragon thinks it's safe to admit that he fucked Tony Freeman's only daughter. Then, of course, he'll pay. He's an excellent fighter, I could see that when he was in the ring, but my father has men and guns. Dragon won't stand a chance. He'll certainly be hurt, and possibly even killed. Killed!

  I slam my hand down on the steering wheel, hard. The pain feels good, because I deserve it. Right now, an innocent man may be dead because Honey Freeman is a selfish bitch who can't do as she's told. I take another breath, steadying myself. Deep down, I know it's not my fault – it's my father's fault. But right now, the only person I can blame is myself.

  I wouldn't act this way, if things were different. If my father was less controlling. If I was allowed to have a life of my own – make my own choices, make my own decisions, even make my own mistakes! But ever since I could remember, I'd been locked in the gilded cage. Since Mom died, it was even worse. When she was alive, I attended an exclusive all-girls prep school, and that was bad enough. But afterwards, even that was too much freedom. I was home-schooled, with a string of carefully-vetted tutors coming to the house to complete my education.

  I was never allowed to date, or hang out and do the crazy things that teenagers do, and as I got older, the only way to release the tension was to rebel – in secret, of course. Tonight had been my latest rebellion. Sneaking out of the house – although 'house' is generous, the media always describe it as a compound – and coming to the fight, in the hope of picking up a random guy to fool around with. I don't always fuck them, but this one tonight, Dragon – there was something different about him. The way he'd performed in the ring had been mesmerizing, and up close he was insanely attractive. I had to have him, and I did. I wonder what price he's paying for that right now, though?

  The guilt was overwhelming. As I pulled onto my driveway, a childish mantra was running though my mind. I take it back, I take it back, I take it back. But there was no taking it back. I had to face up to things. I'd gotten a guy hurt through my own selfish actions, and somehow I had to live with that. But how?

  ~~~~~~~

  The house is empty when I walk in – even the cook has left for the evening. I check the kitchen, and find that some sandwiches have been left out for supper. But I can't touch them. My stomach is churning, and my worry about what is currently happening is starting to give way to a new fear – what will happen next? I've never pissed my father off on this scale, ever. I honestly don't know how he'll react. He's always worked to keep me away from his business, but I'm not stupid. I know that what he does isn't exactly legit, and I know what he's capable of doing to those who cross him.

  With me, though, he's always been protective. Too protective. If I were allowed my own life, then I don't think I would be hanging around illegal boxing matches trying to pick up men. But the pressure of his love and protection builds up like steam, and I need an outlet. Maybe, if I try and talk to him, try to explain, he'll understand? Fat chance. This is going to go one of two ways. Either he'll hurt me, or more likely, he'll tighten the bonds even more, and my life will become even more unbearable.

  I head up to my bedroom, mind racing, and start to pack a bag. I don't think I'll end up using it – I doubt I'd survive two minutes in the world on my own – but the thought of having an option comforts me just a little.

  And then I freeze. I can hear my father calling my name – he's home. He sounds friendly enough, but is that a trap? As if hypnotized, I find myself walking towards the staircase, all thoughts of escape gone. And there I see my father at the foot of the stairs. He's not alone. A younger man is with him, standing a respectful two paces back.

  “Honey, there's someone I'd like you to meet,” my father beams, and the man steps forward into the light. I have never seen him before in my life.

  “This is Carl. Carl, may I present my beloved daughter, Honey.”

  ~~~~~~~

  I'm almost hysterical with relief as the three of us sit in the lounge, having drinks and making small talk. It is obvious that my father is completely oblivious about my nocturnal adventure. I can only assume he wanted to talk to Dragon about something to do with the fight, after all, the guy did beat my father's man. I don't press him for details, although I'm glad that Dragon hasn't been harmed. Most of all, though, I'm glad for me. I have a second chance! This horrible, terrifying night has been a lesson to me – I have been risking far too much by going out. From now on, I'll behave. I'll be the good and dutiful daughter that my father expects.

  That's OK for now, but what about when it all gets too much? I guess that's the million dollar question, but I tell myself that I'll cross the bridge when I come to it. Right now, I just want to enjoy the feeling of everything turning out good.

  I've been so caught up in my relief, I've barely been keeping up with the conversation, let alone noticed the subtle nuances. But finally, it starts to dawn on me why Carl is here, and why I'm being introduced to him. Usually, my father keeps me well away from any of his business associates when they visit the house. But a few clumsy hints later, I'm pretty sure that my father is trying to set me up with this man!

  I start to take notice of him, of Carl. The more I watch him, the less I like him. He's well-presented enough, yes, but underneath the nice clothing and expensive tan, he's not really that attractive. Or strong, I think, remembering the feel of Dragon's powerful hands on my skin. I realize that I'm being shallow and superficial, though. Just because somebody isn't built like an athlete, it doesn't mean that they can't be a good, decent person.

  But as I listen to him, I can't help noticing that everything he says is threaded with a touch of arrogance and superiority. He's telling my father about the law firm where he works, and according to him, he's the only man there who knows anything about anything. At the end of a particularly contemptuous story about a secretary who lost some paperwork, nearly blowing a million-dollar deal (which of course was rescued by the Almighty Carl), he adds a comment that really boils my blood.

  “Of course, Tony, that's the problem with having women in the workplace. They're that busy thinking about their kids and what to make for dinner that they can't possibly focus on the task at hand.”

  My father, to my annoyance, nods in agreement.

  “My wife never worked, God rest her soul,” he says, “and my daughter won't either, if I have any say in it.”

  I nearly snort out loud at this. When has he ever not had a hand in it? He controls my entire life!

  The two men exchange a nod of understanding, before Carl launches into another story where he saves the day while everyone around him falls breathlessly at his feet. I tune out, and find my mind wandering back to my encounter with the boxer. Honestly! I scold myself. Not an hour ago you were swearing to toe the line, and now here you are, thinking about him! With some effort, I drag myself back to the present, where it seems Carl is about to leave.

  “If it's OK with you, Mr Freeman...”

  He pauses, in order to give my father the opportunity to urge him to call him Tony. My father duly obliges.

  “Tony, I'd like to take Honey out for dinner tomorrow night. I have a booking at a lovely restaurant that's just opened across town – The Mezzanine. Perhaps you've heard of it? I'm told it's very exclusive...”

  “She'd love to go,” my father says.

  “Great. I'll pick you up at eight,” Carl says.

  My father walks him to the door. Nobody seems to have noticed that I haven't actually agreed to go out with Carl. Or if they have, nobody has cared.

  ~~~~~~~

  I stay where I am, waiting for my father to return. I know that he'll have more to say on the subject of Carl, and for once, I welcome it. I want to tell him what I think, and ask him what the hell he thinks he's doing, setting me up on a
date without even asking or warning me! The stress of the evening has built up inside me, and for once I'm more pissed than afraid.

  “So, what did you think?” he says, settling down into his chair, but before I can answer, he's speaking again. “Carl is a great guy. He's almost certainly going to make partner in the next couple of years.”

  “Dad,” I begin. He sees the expression on my face, and looks disappointed.

  “You don't like him? Sweetheart, you don't even know him. I know he talked a lot, but maybe the guy was nervous, huh? Trying to impress a beautiful woman is enough to make any guy's mouth run away with him. When I first met your mother...”

  “Dad!” I say again.

  “What's the matter?” he says, looking hurt. “I thought you liked hearing stories about Mom and me in the old days.”

  “I do,” I say, “but I know what you're doing. You're trying to divert the conversation away from the date you just arranged for me, without my consent!”

  His hurt expression changes into 'aw shucks', and he grins at me.

  “I guess I can't put anything past you, huh?”

  “You managed to get Carl past me pretty easily,” I snap back.

  He sighs and suddenly he looks tired. And old. “OK, OK. Do me one favor. Just hear me out.”

  “Sure, Daddy,” I say meekly. I get the impression that there's more riding on this Carl than he's letting on.