The Will

  I paired this with a pair of red stiletto-heeled sandals with a delicate slim crossover strap and peek-a-boo toe that even I thought were racy. In fact, the first time Henry saw me wearing them, his expression had changed to one he wore on occasion which I found gratifying (even if it was never in all our years acted upon)…sheer male admiration.

  And now I saw the shoes had not gone unnoticed for some of the males were looking at my behind, but most at my shoes.

  I finalized my look with a side ponytail that was a mass of teased out curls and a slim, stylish red handbag with a short strap.

  And I waited in line patiently, not wishing to enter the arena too soon. But unfortunately, I made the front of the line in no time.

  When I did, I opened my mouth but before I could get a word out, the man behind the window said, “Josephine Malone.”

  “Why, yes,” I replied, surprised he knew me.

  “Jake and Mickey both described you,” he explained then went on in a highly flattering manner. “Though they didn’t do you justice.”

  “Well, thank you,” I said softly.

  He gave me a crooked grin and looked to the side. He then slid out two envelopes and pushed them through the opening at the bottom of the window.

  “Mick’s ticket and Jake’s,” he shared. “Mick’s up next so you better get a move on. But I’d use Jake’s ticket. He set up the league yonks ago so his seats are freakin’ fly.”

  I looked down to the envelopes, both being identical, and then turned my eyes back to the man. “And which is Jake’s?”

  “Turn ‘em over, darlin’. Jake’s says ‘Slick,” Mick’s says ‘Josephine,’” he answered.

  I turned them over and saw this was true

  “Thank you,” I again said to the man.

  “My pleasure, darlin’,” he replied.

  I smiled and moved out of the way. I then opened the envelope from Jake and pulled out the ticket. It was a real one with a section, row and seat number printed on it, which I thought was quite impressive. And the good news was that I only had to traverse a short area of the outer corridor to find the stenciled notification above a doorway that would lead to my seat.

  I walked down the aisle to see the arena was rather large and rather full.

  Yes, this community embraced boxing.

  I couldn’t be surprised at how good my seat was as the ticket said “row 1, seat 2.” I figured that had to mean it was a very good seat.

  I found this to be true when I made my way to row one and saw the two seats next to the aisle were empty. When I smiled at the lady (also tricked out as I was), who was in seat 3, she gave me a head to toe and smiled back in camaraderie, which I thought was rather pleasant. I sat down in my chair and realized why I was in seat two.

  Seat 1 was too close to the corner of the ring and could be obstructed on occasion.

  Seat 2 had a wide open view.

  Oh dear.

  The woman next to me leaned in and I looked to her to see she had her hand (with its black with white polka-dotted talons) extended my way.

  I took it and she declared, “I’m Alyssa, Junior’s woman.”

  “Hello, Alyssa,” I greeted. “I’m Josephine.”

  She squeezed my hand and let it go, saying, “I know. Jake’s woman.”

  I blinked.

  She carried on before I could correct her, mistaken in my reaction. “Word gets around.”

  “Uh…” I mumbled but said no more before she continued.

  “Junior’s up next. Fightin’ Mickey. Don’t worry when Mickey messes him up. No one beats Mick but Jake. Then again, Jake fucks everyone up.”

  This was good news on two fronts, one being Mickey was not fighting Jake and two being that it was likely Jake would win which was something I’d much prefer watching.

  It was bad news for Alyssa though as it would be unpleasant to watch your “man” messed up.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  She grinned and shrugged, her long blonde locks brushing her shoulders. Seeing this, I bit back my advice that she use a roller brush and not hot rollers as her hair was quite lovely, but it was now arranged in a coiffure that made her head twice the size as it normally was, taking attention away from her very attractive face.

  Then again, with the amount of cleavage she was displaying in her tight black dress, it was doubtful anyone but females would be looking at her hair.

  “Junior doesn’t care. Trust me. He’s used to losin’, bein’ in a league with Jake and Mick,” she shared.

  “That’s good,” I remarked, her grin got bigger and she leaned in again.

  “He gets to celebrate after, win or lose. You get me?”

  I had a feeling I did so I nodded.

  This made her grin become a bright, appealing smile and she leaned in even further. “Nothin’ better,” she said quietly, her eyes dancing. “A fighter after a fight, all that aggression, all that adrenaline still flowing. I love fight night.”

  Oh yes, I “got her.”

  “Indeed,” I replied.

  She moved in a way that she bumped my shoulder with hers in another show of camaraderie as I felt a change in the air.

  She twisted and looked behind us.

  “Here they come,” she announced.

  I looked behind us as well and saw she was correct. Down the aisle, wearing a green satin robe with white lapels, came Mickey. As he did, I noted that only men like him could carry off a robe like that.

  And carry it off he did.

  I had to admit to feeling a tingle when he made it close to the ring, caught me sitting there, his head tipped to the side in what appeared to be confusion before it cleared. He gave me a highly attractive smile then he entered the ring.

  The back of his robe proclaimed him “The Irishman.”

  That wasn’t as good of a nickname as “The Truck” but it wasn’t terrible either.

  He promptly took off his robe and I saw what I saw at the gym but more of it seeing as he was only wearing boxing shoes and a pair of green satin boxing trunks with a white waistband and little white shamrocks at the outer side hems.

  I saw the man who had to be Junior in the other corner wearing white trunks with a red waistband and stripes down the side.

  However, he didn’t look like a Junior. He looked like a Bruiser. He was completely bald and seemed bigger and scarier than Mickey.

  At once, I was alarmed.

  I became more alarmed when Alyssa cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted, “Fuck him up, baby!”

  This was tremendously vulgar, though I thought it was kind of sweet when Junior turned his eyes to Alyssa, lifted a gloved hand to his heart then to his lips then punched it out at her.

  “Love you, tiger!” she shrieked in reply.

  I couldn’t help but grin since I felt this was all very cute.

  The boxers danced around their corner talking to men outside the ring and I crossed my legs, tossed my coat in the empty seat beside me and tucked my bag in my lap.

  “He’s a southpaw.” I heard Alyssa say as the man in black pants and a gray shirt—also incongruously wearing a ridiculous black bow tie—motioned the boxers to the center of the ring.

  I turned to her and asked, “Pardon?”

  “Mickey,” she replied. “He’s a southpaw. Left-handed. His power’s on the wrong side for Junior. My man has trained all year with left-handed sparring partners to move up in the league which means beating Mickey seein’ as Mickey’s always number two, Jake’s always number one and Junior’s smart enough to know he’s never gonna best Jake. But I’m not thinkin’ good thoughts. Mick has killed everyone all season. He’s in top-notch shape.”

  “If this is the case, isn’t it difficult for you to watch your partner fighting?” I inquired, truly curious and she grinned again.

  “This your first fight?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  “You’ll get me, honey,” she stated. “Trust me. You watch Jake out there, I swear, your pant
ies’ll be drenched within seconds. I’ll be home bangin’ my man’s brains out by that time but if I wasn’t, on my way back to Magdalene, if I saw Jake’s truck was on the side of the road with the windows steamed up, that would not be a surprise.”

  This was rather alarming (and crude) news. Therefore I couldn’t stop myself from biting my lip.

  She looked at my lip and burst out laughing before she leaned in and advised, “Get ready for the ride of your life, girlfriend.”

  Now, I was beginning to fret for a different reason.

  Jake simply breathing I found alluring. Panties drenched for a man who didn’t find you attractive was not something I looked forward to.

  Luckily, my attention was turned to the ring when I heard a very loud and excited voice come over the audio system. Through this, I found out that Mickey’s last name was Donovan (The Irishman, indeed). They didn’t waste much time after talking up the fighters and the referee having a brief word with them. They went to their corners and nearly directly back to the center of the ring where they touched gloves top to bottom and again.

  Then the bell rang and it began.

  The good news was, watching Mickey (who Alyssa was correct, even not knowing a thing about boxing, it was not hard to miss he was quite a bit better at it than Junior), my panties didn’t get drenched. It also wasn’t nearly as horrifying as I thought it would be.

  It was actually, I found, quite interesting, in a somewhat sweaty, grunting, gruesome way.

  Nevertheless, I was glad it only went three rounds and, although I quite liked Alyssa, regardless that she was very loud and seemingly bloodthirsty (not to mention foul-mouthed) as she shouted encouragement to her lover, I was happy to see Mickey’s hand lifted when the judgment came down. Though, in deference to the woman at my side, I only politely clapped when he won.

  After spending some time accepting his accolades from the spectators, Mickey didn’t delay in leaving the ring and he also caught my eyes doing it, grinning and winking.

  That was lovely so I smiled back.

  “What gives with that?” Alyssa asked as Mickey jogged back up the aisle.

  “Mickey goes to Jake’s gym,” I answered without telling her the full story but it seemed she understood me (though obviously not fully) when she lifted her chin and said, “Ah.”

  She then grabbed her purse and dug out her phone, beeping buttons and saying, “I gotta dash…get my post-fight drilling from my man, so quick, give me your number. We’ll do lunch. Or drinks. Or somethin’. You can even come in and I’ll give you a freebie mani-pedi. I live in Magdalene and got a shop there.” She stopped beeping buttons, looked to me and smiled impishly. “You can tell me how much fun Jake is after a fight.”

  “I, well…”

  “Hurry,” she urged.

  I liked her very much regardless of her loudness and crudeness. Further, I was going to be in Magdalene for some time and didn’t know anyone of my age who wasn’t the wife of the pastor of the local church. Therefore, I quickly gave her my number. I was about to go on and share that she had the wrong idea about Jake and I before she shot out of her seat and looked down at me.

  “Jake’s up next. Have fun and don’t leave a wet spot,” she declared, still smiling madly before she bent in, touched her cheek to mine, did the same on the other side then she tottered swiftly away on platform sandals that looked a great deal like the ones Jake’s dancers wore.

  I watched her go then I turned my attention to the ring.

  Jake was up next, the last fight of the night. Although from their haggard appearance, it seemed a number of the spectators had been there since the very beginning, the air was humming and electric. Like the headline act was about to take the stage at the end of a festival that had been going on for days.

  It was not hard to read they liked Jake and this would be proven positive when a chant of “Truck” started low and quiet but gained in momentum until the crowd burst out in applause.

  He was coming.

  Unexpectedly, I found my stomach was in knots, my legs were shaking even though I was sitting down, my hands the same.

  I clenched them together, leaned to the side and looked over my shoulder to peer down the aisle.

  Not everyone but a goodly number of folks were standing, chanting, shouting, clapping and through this, I saw Jake.

  Midnight blue robe, dark gray lapel, dark gray stripes down the inside seams. He was being followed by a man that was older than him and appeared to have had much the same frame as him, but perhaps fifteen years ago.

  Mickey wore a boxing robe well.

  Jake in one made Alyssa’s prediction start to come true and I knew this because my legs and hands weren’t the only things trembling.

  Something was fluttering in a very private place. A very good private place.

  Slowly, even on unsteady legs, I found myself rising to my feet even though I didn’t tell my body to do it. The entire time my eyes were glued on Jake.

  Nearly to the end of the aisle, his focus, which seemed to be on the floor in front of him, started shifting to me.

  Yes, he wore that robe well and that pre-fight intensity on his face was breathtaking.

  That flutter grew.

  He caught my eyes and I began to smile.

  But my smile froze on my face when his expression changed instantly upon locking on my gaze.

  And it was then I felt it.

  The heat. The pressure. The stifling, smoldering sensation of Jake Spear’s fury.

  His eyes were also heated and I’d never seen them like that. His anger, certainly. But this wasn’t anger. This was extreme.

  This was rage.

  And I knew instinctively it was not directed at the opponent he would soon be facing.

  For some reason, it was directed at me.

  He tore his eyes from mine and I stood frozen for long moments, caught in the residual beam of his furious gaze. My body only woodenly moved in a pivot as he walked by me and I watched him enter the ring.

  Throughout the pre-fight activities, he didn’t look at me again. And I was so struck by the burning look of wrath he’d directed at me I only had it in me to sit and tuck my purse in my lap.

  I vaguely noticed that his skintight workout shirts only hinted at the exceptional, defined, perfect male beauty of his body as he took off his robe to expose midnight blue trunks with dark gray stripes and waistband.

  I became more aware of all this as he danced in his corner. Shook out his arms. Jerked up his shoulders. Tipped his head sharply side to side. Punched lightly into the air. His muscles flexing and bulging with each movement.

  The vision of all that was him cutting through the haze of his earlier look, I became aware that the flutter was back and growing stronger than ever.

  They did the introduction bit and Jake got a loud, boisterous round of applause (even I clapped heartily, though I didn’t shout any encouragement).

  Jake and his opponent went back to their corners, did some listening and nodding to the men outside the ring then they dance-jogged back to the center, listened to the gray shirted man, more nodding, gloves tapping…

  And then it happened.

  The bell rang and I watched Jake Spear do what Jake Spear was clearly born to do.

  And in doing so, my world combusted.

  Everything I was.

  Everything I knew.

  Everything I’d worked so long and so hard to make real.

  I watched the primal beauty of Jake fighting and did it coming out of my skin. It split and shredded and fell away. It did it fast and suddenly it was gone and I was there, sitting, legs crossed, stylish handbag tucked in my lap, feeling raw, bare, vulnerable, electrified, old and new.

  The area between my legs was pulsing.

  My focus was riveted.

  I was gone.

  I wasn’t me.

  And I was.

  For the first time in years, I was me.

  And that time was watching the beauty of Jake
beating the absolute shit out of the man in the ring with him.

  He did this in five minutes.

  Five.

  I noticed it dazedly on the big clock with the red numbers that was beside the ring in front of the judges.

  And he did it after hitting his already struggling challenger twice in the body then his powerfully muscled, sleek with wet right arm went out wide and he landed a blow to the man’s head that would have normally made me swallow with sick. The man’s head jerked brutally, sweat flew, his eyes closed and he hit the mat with a loud thud, not even lifting a hand to break his fall, his big body shuddering from top to toe on impact.

  The crowd went wild.

  I sat frozen in my chair staring at Jake dancing close to the body on the mat as the referee crouched beside him, counting to ten, his arm striking out to the side with each beat, his mouth moving with the numbers, his words swallowed up on the roar.

  He finally stood, lifted Jake’s arm and the crowd got even louder. So loud it was deafening.

  Jake, however, did not bask in the glory.

  He moved to his corner and left it with no ado whatsoever. He didn’t put his robe on. He didn’t gesture to the crowd.

  He didn’t look at me.

  I slowly stood and turned as he prowled down the aisle and disappeared at the back of the arena.

  Not thinking, not me, or not the me I’d made myself be, I bent and snatched up my coat.

  I then moved.

  Swiftly, I walked up the aisle. At the top, I looked right, then left and saw a burly man wearing a bright yellow polo shirt with the black word “security” printed boldly over his heart.

  I moved quickly to him.

  I was unable to get a word in when, his eyes going top to toe, he asked, “Who d’you belong to, gorgeous?”

  His eyes came to mine and I stated, “Jake.”

  He grinned and stepped aside. When he did, I saw a door behind him. I pushed the bar and went through, hearing him continue to speak as I did.