Bite: A Shifters of Theria Novel (7 page)

CHAPTER NINE

FIGHTING FREDDIE

I had to stand up on my tiptoes to see over the crowd that had quickly formed around the cage. An older balding man stood near the cage door with a microphone in his hand. He waited a moment for the crowd to gather before beginning his bit.

“How’s everyone doing tonight?” he asked, receiving a roar from the criminal crowd. “Who came to see a fight?” Another, louder roar could be felt through the floor. “The fight you all came to see has been postponed—”

Before the announcer could finish his sentence, a thunderous booing drowned him out.

“Hold on—hold on. The fight has just been postponed to later tonight. Because tonight, we have not one, but two fights for you.” The booing quickly turned back into an eruption of excitement. “We’ve got a guy from out of town who thinks he’s pretty tough—tough enough to take on one of our regulars fighters—someone you all know and love.”

A bald-headed man, as thick as he was tall, stepped out from the back room, eliciting a booming applause from the crowd. Hannibal Hugo.

Hugo was a regular at the bar, though he hadn’t been a regular fighter for months—not since he bit another man’s nose off in the cage. I’ll never forget how much blood came out of the poor guy’s face. They looked, but they never found the tip of that poor guy’s nose. Rumour has it Hugo swallowed it.

Since then, the Hugo hadn’t been in a fight. No one was stupid enough to fight him. Instead, he sat alone in the corner, drinking cheap rum by the gallon, staring blatantly at the chest of every woman who came through, grunting and growling like a horny hog.

I couldn’t wait to see who was dumb enough take Hugo on—who was dumb enough to think they were tougher than the man who earned the nickname, Hannibal Hugo.

It was Freddie, or as I knew him at the time, the pathetic coffee spiller.

Freddie’s entrance was not met with the same enthusiasm as Hugo’s—though the response was just as loud—a combination of heckling, booing, taunting, and laughing. Before stepping into the cage, Freddie removed his coat and his white wife beater, revealing his gym-toned body and many tattoos.

There’s a big difference between real muscles and gym muscles. The physique of a man who builds his muscles using his body is entirely different than the physique of a man who builds his muscles using weights and machines. A real man’s body is generally an unattractive thing—dense muscles with little or no definition, usually appearing chubby and sometimes flabby. You can’t see a real man’s abs or his pecs, because over his muscles is an insulating layer of fat—a layer of armour created by his working body. He eats meat and he works with his hands. Hell, even his hands are ugly, powerful things.

A body like Freddie’s, while it may be nice to look at, is an impractical thing. Using gym equipment, he’s specifically targeted the muscles that make panties wet. He’s careful with his routine to strike the perfect balance of mass and tone. He knows that women don’t like mass, women like definition. A truly powerful chest looks like a set of saggy tits. Women don’t want men with saggy tits. Freddie doesn’t want saggy tits. Freddie is not a man, but a life-sized Ken doll, trying to look like a man. And, in an attempt to look tough, he picked a bunch of tattoos out of a magazine. Some teenaged girls have the same little wolf-paw tattoo that he has on his bicep.

The face of the white-bearded man lit up. The glimmer in his eye suggested the desire to switch places with Hannibal Hugo. Had he known the fight was rigged, he just may have marched into that cage. Instead, he waved down one of the bookies.

Olivia’s Survival Guide, tip #498: Every fight is fixed. No exceptions. This is a new addition to Olivia’s Survival Guide—added five minutes after Freddie stepped into the cage.

Had I known the fight was rigged, I wouldn’t have bet every dollar I had in my purse—every dollar I had to my name, all on Hannibal Hugo. I knew fixed fights were a common occurrence underneath the Holiday Inn, but Hugo didn’t strike me as the type to throw a fight. I was about to be corrected.

Everyone crowded the cage. My only vantage point was far away from the action, on the raised lip beneath the bar. Even with the added height, I had to stand on the balls of my feet.

For the first time, Freddie revealed his trademark shit-eating grin. While Hugo stretched out his tree trunk arms, Freddie adjusted his bleached hair.

He threw a few punches into the air, imitating a warm-up up ritual he’d probably seen in a Rocky movie. I bit my lip to contain my excitement, which vanished a moment before the bell rang.

Nearby, far from the crowd, the bookie took one final bet—a big bet—to the tune of ten thousand dollars. It was the biggest bet of the night, and it was all on Freddie. My heart dropped into my stomach when the sleeve of the mystery bettor’s t-shirt rose to reveal a small wolf’s paw tattoo, just like Freddie’s.

Ding!
The ringing of the bell reverberated in my gut.

No. This can’t be happening. If Freddie wins, I’ll have nothing. I needed to get my money back. Maybe it wasn’t too late. “Excuse me,” I said to the bookie.

“Yeah?”

I spoke quickly. “I changed my mind. I don’t want to bet.”

“Sorry lady—fight’s started.”

Panic set in. My head started spinning. “It just started—please.”

“No can do.”

“I’m begging you.”

“You’re going to miss the fight,” the bookie said, turning away from me.

He was right—I almost did. The fight didn’t take long.

Freddie hopped around, doing his best impression of Muhammad Ali, narrowly dodging the odd punch. The crowd sang their first and last cheer as Hannibal Hugo landed one of his throws—right to the side of Freddie’s face. After that, the room became loud with booing, hissing, and taunting.

Freddie continued prancing around the ring, basking in the crowd’s growing irritation. “Do something already!” someone shouted.

Hugo threw punch after punch, connecting with nothing but the damp basement air. The volume of the frustrated crowd only fuelled the grin on Freddie’s face. Already aware of my fate, all I could do was wait and hope that the matching paw-tattoos were nothing but coincidence. That hope was in vain.

A single blow to the face sent Hugo to the bloodstained cement slab below. Freddie dropped to his knees and began pummelling Hannibal Hugo’s face like a piece of Kobe beef. Left hooks, right hooks, all directly to the face. I lost count after fifteen blows. Silence fell over the room.

I was broke—not a penny to my name, and nothing to sell. All I had left was my minimum wage job as the night auditor at the Ilium Inn.

Before raising his arms in victory, Freddie checked the little wound on his forehead. Before reality stung the crowd—the reality that they’d all been conned—Freddie’s friend had cashed out and skirted towards the exit.

I followed.

CHAPTER TEN

THE ART OF SEDUCTION

Freddie’s partner-in-crime waited in the parking lot of Crazy Dave’s Used Car Emporium, unaware that I was watching from the guise of a dumpster in the alleyway behind the Holiday Inn. His hands were buried in his pockets as he casually paced the shadows between Crazy Dave’s security floodlights.

Occasionally, he slipped out of sight behind one of the taller vehicles on the lot, but I never lost sight of him thanks to high tall stature and the plume of cigarette smoke that followed him everywhere he went. With his frizzy red hair, he looked like a giant, lit matchstick.

It wasn’t until the masses of angry bar-goers had siphoned out of the Holiday Inn, and the Ilium streets became silent, that Freddie, seemingly out of nowhere, finally appeared to meet his friend.

The two men confirmed that the fight was fixed by sharing a high-five. Next to his friend, Freddie appeared short—surprisingly, as he looked so tall next to Hannibal Hugo.

Their secret meeting was short: the high-five, the passing of the leather messenger bag, and the parting. The red-haired friend was left with nothing but a dumb grin. I followed Freddie, at first from a distance. Once we were a few blocks from the criminal hangout, I caught up.

“Excuse me,” I said, approaching from behind.

Freddie didn’t stop. Instead, he glanced at me from over his shoulder. He made sure to scan my whole body, particularly my tits, before scoffing and looking back ahead. “I ain’t interested, toots.” Ain’t interested? The creep thought I was a prostitute.

I brushed the insult off. “What?”

“I’m not lookin’ for any company, love. Thanks, though.”

“I’m not selling any… company,” I said, clenching my fist as I squeezed my invisible stress ball.

“Right—Whatever you call it.” Freddie stopped as a car zipped past, then jogged across the street. He kept one of his hands firmly on his leather messenger bag.

“I’m not a hooker,” I said. I tried to keep my tone casual, but it came out blunt.

“Then what do you want?”

“I saw your fight, down in the club.” I jog to keep up.

He shrugs, keeps his face forward. “Okay.” There’s no emotion behind his voice.

“I wanted to say congratulations. It was a good fight.”

“Thanks,” he said, still not bothering to look over at me.

“You looked really good in that cage.”

“Okay,” he said again, without a spec of emotion in his voice, as if he wasn’t even listening.

“Really good.”

“Is that all you followed me to say?” He still refused to look over at me.

“I didn’t follow you.”

“Then how’d you find me?”

“I was just walking home and I recognized you.” I bit my tongue and held my eye-contact, despite the absence of his.

“Yeahuh,” he said, dismissing my lie. “Well, if that’s it, why don’t ya run along? Get lost.” Freddie jogged across the street, beating an oncoming car.

My fist clenched my imaginary stress ball again. Before jogging across myself, I adjusted my top, exposing my cleavage to the cool Ilium rain. Freddie’s hand was still firmly clutching the messenger bag. If I’d had a gun, I would just have mugged the bastard.

“You know, it was really
hot
, the way you beat Hugo like that. I bet you spend a lot of time working out,” I said, catching up to him.

“Yeah, ya said that already, darlin’.”

“I know a place that’s still open, if you feel like grabbing a drink.”

“I don’t,” Freddie said. He still hadn’t noticed my exposed cleavage.

“C’mon—just one drink. A fight like that must make a man thirsty, no?”

“Look,” Freddie said, finally stopping to face me, “if you’re just lookin’ for a fuck, say so. We’ll go to a motel and make it quick, yeah?”

My gut turned and I stuttered. If I’d had a gun, I would’ve shot him dead. “What?” I resisted the urge to claw out his eyes.

“Ya said you’re not a workin’ girl, right?”

“I’m not a
working girl
.”

“So you’re just lookin’ for a  quick fuck. No sense makin’ a night about it. Where’s the nearest motel? You’re clean, right?”

“Yes, I’m clean—I mean—you have me wrong. I’m not like that.”

“Fine.” Freddie scoffed and turned away, continuing towards his destination.

I had my in, but unfortunately, I still had my pride. I didn’t care if there was a million dollars in that bag; it wasn’t worth playing along with the prick. “How much did you pay him?”

“What?” asked Freddie.

“Hugo. How much did you pay him to take a dive?”

Freddie stopped. Suddenly, I had his full attention. “I didn’t
pay
him anythin’.”

I scoffed. “Yeah, right.”

“I didn’t. I beat the slow bastard fair n’ square.” He gleamed with arrogance. It took all of my strength not to slap the grin off his face. I resisted the urge. Slapping him would have ended my chances.

“Bullshit,” I said.

“I ain’t bullshitin’ you.”

“I don’t believe that for a second.”

“And why’s that, darlin’?” He started to laugh.

“Because no one’s ever beaten Hugo in the cage. And he’s fought lot of men—a lot of real men.”

“Real men?” Freddie erupted into loud, over-the-top laugher. “You need to rethink your idea of
real men,
toots.”

“To what? Cowards who fix fights?” When my voice echoed back to me, I realized I was shouting. I took a breath.

“I didn’t fix any fight, lady. Your boy Hugo is a slow, lumberin’ idiot with a big mouth.”

I took a step closer to Freddie and lowered my voice. “You know what I think?”

“What’s that, precious? What do ya think?”

“I don’t think you did it for the money. I think you go around, picking out the toughest looking guys, paying them a fat sum to let you publically beat the shit out of them so the clueless girls you take home don’t think the little dick between your legs is actually a big hairy vagina.”

He raised his brow and brought his finger up to his puckered his lips, mocking me. “Ooh. The little dick between my legs?” He scoffed. “You know, coming from the girl who was beggin’ to suck me off just a minute ago, that’s sayin’ a lot.”

“Admit it. It’s true.”

“Oh yeah? Or are you just tryin’ to get me to whip out my cock? Do you have a fuckin’ tape measure handy? Is that what you’ve got stuffed in your bra?”

“My bra isn’t stuffed,” I said.

He rolled his eyes. “Sure it ain’t.”

“Open the bag,” I said.

For a precious moment, Freddie became silent. “Why?” he asked.

“If it wasn’t a fix, then that bag shouldn’t be filled with money, right?”

He rolled his head and sighed. “That doesn’t prove anythin’.”

“No?”

“I got a cut for winnin’ the fight. My cut’s in the bag. That’s it.”

“And a bigger cut for fixing the fight, I imagine.”

“For the last time, honey, I didn’t fix no fight. I beat the fat boy proper.”

“I’m sure you did. Is that your little cock’s nickname? Fat boy?”

“Go fuck yourself, lady.” He laughed, shook his head, and turned away.

“I’d rather fuck myself than your little limp dick.” Again, I heard my voice echo back to me.

Freddie stopped but didn’t turn around.

“I’m sorry. Did that hurt your feelings?” I asked.

“I don’t think you could handle me.”

“Why not? Too fragile?” Burning Freddie was strangely satisfying.

“Once I was through with ya, ya wouldn’t be able to walk for a week.” He walked up to me, still wearing his arrogant grin.

I return the grin, though mine is much more sinister. “I’ve heard regret can do that to a person.”

“The only thin’ you’d regret is lettin’ me go after.” He stopped inches from my face. I could smell his cheap cologne and the musky body odour it was poorly covering.

I laughed. “There would have to be something to hold onto, first.”

“There’s always the sheets.” He winked.

Before I could laugh again, his lips muffled mine. Before I could pull away, his fingers were wrapped around my head. And it didn’t take him more than five seconds before his tongue penetrated my mouth. One of his hands gripped firmly on my ass.

A wave a nausea rolled over me. So you’re actually going through with this? My plan worked, but was it worth it? The night shift at the hotel isn’t so bad.

One of my hands found itself clenching his bicep. The other ran down his side, over the firm ridges and deep dips of his muscles, stopping as the leather bag rubbed against the back of my hand.

I did need the money…

“Where’s that motel?” he asked.