Authors: Alana Sapphire
Beyond The Cage
ALANA SAPPHIRE
Copyright 2016 Alana Sapphire
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or deceased is entirely coincidental. Names, places, and characters are fictitious or, if real, used fictitiously. The author recognizes the trademarks and copyrights of all registered products or works mentioned.
Thank you for purchasing this eBook. This eBook remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. This eBook, or any portion thereof, may not be reproduced or used in any manner without the express written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a review.
Beyond The Cage cover designed by
Sara Eirew
© 2016
Edited by
Hot Tree Editing
I’d like to thank:
My family and friends – for their love and support, and for coming on this journey with me.
Sara Eirew – for my beautiful cover.
Hot Tree Editing – My editors Becky and Kristin and beta readers Sue and Rebecca. Thank you for your valuable input and advice.
My Hellhounds – you seriously keep me on track and bring me back from the edge of insanity.
I’d also like to thank all the readers and bloggers who help and support me daily. You’re the ones who make publishing a reality for me!
Spotify Playlist – Beyond The Cage
***DISCLAIMER***
Although Cameron and Jasmine do NOT engage in a Dominant/submissive relationship, she does, on rare occasions, refer to him as “Daddy”. Please be warned if this will result in an unpleasant reading experience.
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 you
crazy
?” 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 he
looks
tough.
“That’s one
fine
chocolate 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 is
that
?” I ask.
“
That
is The One-Hit Wonder, Cameron ‘K.O.’ Jackson. 6ʹ2ʺ, 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. It
could
be 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 was
not
better. 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 even
talk
to anyone but his trainer.”
Hmm…I know I’d like to have a
conversation
or 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 for
war
?” 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!”
K.O. turns around and heads for the gate, not even waiting for the ref to call the fight. Kicking the gate open, he begins removing his hand wraps as he makes his way down the stairs. When he steps off the last one, he glances in my direction. He stops, focusing on something.
Oh, shit. I think he’s looking at
me!
I can still see the rage in his eyes as his glare travels over me from head to toe. I don’t know what else to do, so I stare back at him. He snaps his eyes away, clenches his jaw, and marches off.
“Did you and K.O. just share a
moment
?” Chels asks.
“Please! Did you see the look in his eyes? He’d much sooner kill me than anything else.”
“C’mon.”
“Thank God. I can’t wait to get outta here.”
“Not yet, honey bunches. We’re going
backstage
.”
She waves her pass at me with a smile, grabs my hand, and pulls me along behind her. What’s entertaining about bruised, broken, and bloodied men? I need to have a serious talk with this girl. When we get ‘backstage’, I look around warily. The place reeks of blood, sweat, and testosterone.
“Chels –”
“Have I told you how great your booty looks in those shorts? I wish I had that much junk in the trunk.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere.” I roll my eyes at her.
I know she’s trying to butter me up, but she’s not telling me anything I don’t already know. I got that from my momma, along with my hips, thighs, and boobs – all the essentials. I love my booty and my legs. That’s why I love wearing shorts. Tonight, I paired black low-rider, cotton shorts with a white bandeau and a black, waist-length, cotton jacket. Chelsea wanted me to wear heels but I chose my black, high-top Converse instead, because I’d rather be comfortable than fashionable. Looking around, I start to feel underdressed, because the other women here are all dolled up. Whatever. They’re probably just groupies anyway, trying to bang one of the fighters.
“You’re just saying that because you know you’re gorgeous.”
I guess. I didn’t always see it that way. Growing up bi-racial in a predominantly white neighborhood was no walk in the park. I was never the right shade – too dark for the white kids and too light for the black ones. I finally gave up trying to fit in and just did my own thing. Chelsea Tanner was one of the few who didn’t care. She walked up to me on our first day of elementary school, held my hand and asked, “You wanna be my friend?” We’ve been going strong ever since. She’s like a sister to me, the ivory to my ebony…or ivory to caramel? She’s quite the ivory, too. At 5ʹ9ʺ, she towers over me by four inches. She has long, brown hair, and hazel eyes that are just like mine. Whereas I’m curvier, she has the body of an athlete – lean and toned.
“Look, it’s Johnny Gordon! Let’s go talk to him,” she whispers excitedly.
“You go. I see a Kit Kat in that vending machine that’s calling my name.”
While I make my way to the machine, she heads over to Johnny. I dig in my pocket for some money and insert it into the slot. When I press the button for my chocolate, the machine whirs but doesn’t dispense it.
“Stupid machine!”
Before I can kick it, a huge fist comes crashing down on the front of the machine, scaring me witless. My Kit Kat falls from the shelf. I look over and my eyes meet with someone’s naked chest. No, not someone…
him
. My mouth goes dry as my gaze travels over the tribal tattoo covering his left pectoral and part of his shoulder. To me, it’s a bunch of swirls and symbols, but I’m sure there’s some meaning behind them. Two Chinese symbols sit vertically on his right side. Tipping my head back, I find K.O. Jackson staring down at me. Holy shit! The man’s a giant! However, he’s even more gorgeous up close. He is a tall glass of ice-cold lemonade on a scorching, Texas summer day. His grey eyes are no longer filled with rage. They’re…blank. But for some reason, I can’t look away. They’re almost silver, just glinting at me. I blink up at him, not knowing what to say. His gaze travels down the length of my short frame before meeting my eyes again. Reaching down, he retrieves the chocolate bar and hands it to me.
“Thank you.”
He nods and walks away. A chill runs down my spine – a good one…a
very
good one. Wow. Not a single word and yet he’s managed to have me totally enthralled. I shake it off and try to find Chels. Spotting her on the other side of the room talking to some other fighter, I head in her direction.
“Excuse me.”
I turn toward the voice. It’s another monster of a man – blond, buzz cut, and dressed in a black suit. There’s an earpiece jutting out of one ear, making him look like the frickin’ Secret Service.
What did
I
do?
“Yes?”
“Mr. Jackson would like you to join him in his dressing room for a drink,” he replies.
“Mr. Jackson?” I raise a confused brow.
“K.O.”
“Me?” I ask, unable to hide my surprise. “Are you sure?”
He smiles. “Yes, I’m positive.”
I glance over at Chelsea. She’s completely forgotten about me, and the man
does
intrigue me.
What harm could one drink do?
“Okay. Lead the way.”
He escorts me down a corridor to a door labeled ‘K.O.’, knocks, opens the door, and ushers me inside. K.O. is sitting in a chair facing the door, chewing gum and playing with some imaginary hair on his chin. At least he’s wearing a shirt now. No distracting naked chest for me to stare at. Bummer. The door closes behind me, and the finality of the sound leaves me questioning my decision.
What am I doing?
I suddenly feel like I’m trapped in a cage with a lion – a huge, hungry lion.
“Hello again,” I greet him nervously.
He nods and motions to a chair next to him. As I make my way over, he produces a bottle of Spades and fills a glass, handing it to me when I take my seat. I place my Kit Kat on the arm of the chair and take it from his fingers.
“Thank you.”
He turns slightly in his chair, and stares at me while I take a sip. I notice he’s not drinking.
“Jasmine.” I extend my hand to him.
He takes it and stares into my eyes, applying the faintest pressure, then sweeps his thumb across my knuckles. I feel a flurry of…
something
in the pit of my stomach. I’ve never felt anything remotely like it before. I like his hands – big and strong, with long fingers. My gaze slides farther down. He has big feet, too. We all know what they say about men with big feet. My eyes move up and rest on the area between his huge thighs. I really can’t see anything, but I can just imagine what’s hidden beneath his shorts. I swallow and return my gaze to his face.
His expression has changed. Okay…this look I definitely know. I’ve seen it many times before, when my dates thought they were going to get lucky. His eyes…they’re captivating. I stare into them, once again unable to look away. He breaks the trance by standing and dragging his shirt over his head. Whoa! I fight the urge to jump out of my chair and run my tongue along the ridges on his stomach. He steps toward me and I jerk my head up.
Is he thinking what I think he’s thinking?
“What are you doing?” I ask.