Authors: Jessica Lake
Hot Blooded
Hot Blooded
Jessica Lake
© 2016 Jessica Lake
All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the expression permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locations is purely coincidental. The characters are all productions of the author's imagination. Please note that this work is intended for adults over the age of 18 and all characters represented as 18 or older.
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The night I met Lily was a Friday. Fight night. So I was already in that aggressive, slightly predatory state of mind as I sat at the bar talking to Gazza and Stan and watching the customers slowly trickling in. It was Gazza who noticed the group of women first, looking up and nodding as they walked in like a pack of giggling, expensively-shod hyenas.
"Ah, look who it is," he remarked approvingly."The Posh Fillies. Haven't seen them around here for a fortnight."
Stan looked up at the girls, intrigued by the incongruousness of women like that in a place like the Streatham Working Men's Club. Gazza and I exchanged a look and he explained to Stan, who couldn't have been more wet-behind-the-ears if he tried.
"The Posh Fillies like to slum-it down south when Fulham gets a little too safe."
Stan was too busy staring goggle-eyed at the group of blondes as they picked their way delicately through the tables and chairs on long, slim legs like - well, like fillies. Only it wasn't all blondes. There was a brunette with them this time, walking slightly behind the others and somehow lacking their air of supremely amused confidence. I watched from the bar as her eyes scanned the room casually and landed briefly on me. Her expression - calm, maybe slightly wary - didn't change when she saw me, but if I wasn’t mistaken it did linger a beat longer than it had on anyone else.
"Who's that, then?" I asked Gazza, aware of his paranoia about new people. He was already curious about the new girl, staring hard at her for a few seconds, making sure she sat down with the other girls.
"Mmm. Not sure. Obviously with the Fillies. Those ladies are here for one thing and we all know what it is, but keep an eye on her anyway, alright?"
I nodded along with Stan. I had a feeling that keeping an eye on that one wasn't going to be a problem.
"Only here for one thing?" Stan asked.
I shot him a 'really?' look and he shrugged self-consciously, apparently genuinely confused as to what Gazza was implying.
"Stan, mate, are you serious? What do you think those birds are here for?"
He stood there for a few seconds like a deer in the headlights before making a guess.
"Uh...to watch the fights?"
"Yesss..." I goaded him, raising my eyebrows expectantly. "And...?"
"And, uh, to meet the fighters?"
"Well done, man!" I clapped Stan on the back, which made him jump a little. "Of course they're here to meet the fighters. If by 'meet' you mean 'fuck like wildcats,' of course."
I watched our new barman's pale cheeks redden as he averted his eyes and pretended to busy himself wiping down the counter.
"Mate," I started, honestly surprised by his naïveté, "how old are you?"
"Eighteen."
Eighteen. Jesus Christ. By the time I was eighteen I'd already been slapped with four different Anti-Social Behaviour Orders and was under near-constant curfew and supervision orders. One of them for fucking my mum's (former) best friend in a parking lot in broad daylight. I couldn't help but grin at the memory.
"Eighteen? And you don't have any idea why women like that might be attracted to a place like this?"
Stan continued silently wiping the bar and I kept talking, seized by a brotherly urge to educate the kid.
"What do you think their lives are like? Private education, uni, then back to Battersea or Chelsea for a few more years of freedom - if they're lucky - before settling down with some twat banker and spending every free moment either freaking out about their kids or trying to work out their sexual frustration with their personal trainer. Why do you think they come here? There's no danger in that life, no darkness, no rough edges. And women love that shit. Especially the ones who don't have to live with it. They're just passing time here until babies and designer kitchen appliances take over."
Stan looked up at me, obviously not quite convinced. "Really? So they're here to..."
"To fuck. To smell blood and testosterone. To get a little filth on their expensive cashmere sweaters. And fair play, it's good for them. Then when they marry their boring bankers they can look back on this and tell themselves they didn't really miss out, that they're happy with doing fuck-all every day because back in the day, they had their fun."
"And did they?"
"I don't know, mate. Some of them, yeah. But you know how you can get to resenting people like that? Rich people? I've been thinking a lot of them are just as stuck as we are. We're never going to drive Range Rovers or talk posh, are we, even though some of us want to? Well, they're never going to live anything other than an existence of total safety and comfort. Sounds good, right? Well, maybe, maybe not. I'm not sure human beings do so well in captivity. We get like those poor fuckers in the zoo, pacing back and forth, driving ourselves fucking mental because even though their bellies are full, nothing ever happens."
Stan walked over to the sink and ran the wet rag under the tap, thinking about what I'd said. He was short and skinny and his skin had a slightly clammy look to it. Only a few years ago it would have made him a target, but now it just made me feel sorry for him. Gazza must have been doing a favor for someone, hiring a kid like that - he certainly wasn't going to be making any money in the ring. Maybe I could get one of the Fillies to throw him a pity fuck? They were already eyeballing me, throwing me sly little grins as they sipped their drinks. I knew each one was crossing her fingers that I was going to pick her tonight, and not one of her almost entirely interchangeable girlfriends. I already knew I was going to go home with one of them - because there's nothing like pussy after a fight - the only question was which one.
I lifted my head and looked over at their table. There was that brunette again, still wearing that curious expression on her face, like an anthropologist in a tribe of savages. Briefly, it crossed my mind that she was a cop. Something about her just didn't make sense, not at the Streatham Club, not with the Fillies.
Stan's voice interrupted my thoughts."So you, uh, you slept with one of them?"
He was hesitant, embarrassed. It solidified my plan to get him laid, preferably with the horniest of the Fillies.
"One of them? Mate, all of them."
Stan's eyes widened. "All of them?"
"Yeah, all of them. And don't go getting too impressed. It's not a challenge. It’s what they come here for.”
Stan got a faraway look in his eyes, then wandered off to go pull pints for customers. I wasn't bullshitting him, either. The Fillies
weren't
difficult. Some women were, though. And now that I was twenty-three, I was increasingly drawn to the difficult ones. I thrive on a challenge, always have.
"Oi! Callum!"
Gazza gestured for me to come into his office. I walked in, taking note of the curling Page Three girls plastered all over the walls and the lingering smell of stale cigarette smoke.
"You know they have naked ladies on the internet now, right Gaz?" I asked.
Gazza was in his early sixties, the boss of what was still called the Streatham Working Men's Club, in spite of the fact that it hadn't been any such thing for at least thirty years. He pretty much used the place as a headquarters to run a number of small-time criminal enterprises and bare-knuckle boxing matches. I was his prize fighter, the one who regularly beat the shit out of jumped-up City boys looking to try their hand at actual combat because they'd seen the movie Fight Club one too many times.
I was good, too. I'd had offers from professional managers, people who swore they could take me pro and make me rich. I turned them all down. I knew that the minute you put your name out there, everything about your life became managed and massaged and subject to the whims of social media. I didn’t give a fuck about money or fame; all I wanted was a good time. I dropped out of school at sixteen - too restless to concentrate on anything except girls and fights - and I never regretted it. Gazza used me as muscle sometimes, but mostly it was just the bi-monthly fights and free rent in a flat down the road from the Club.
Gazza wasn't in the mood for banter that night.
"You ready, Callum?"
"For what?"
"Tonight. The fight. You ready?"
I eyed him, confused. Of course I was ready. Why was he even asking? His mouth was tight, and it dawned on me that he was nervous.
"Sure I'm ready. Something up, Gaz?"
He looked down at the mess of papers on his desk, littered with cigarette ash and the pale amber circles left behind by pint after pint of lager.
"Nah. Just checking in."
"Who is it tonight? Anyone worth worrying about?"
"The usual. Coked-up City boys. Shouldn't be a problem."
"Well..." I hesitated for a moment, waiting to see if he was going to tell me what actually had him so grim-faced. "Alright then. I'll be at the bar if you need anything."
He waved me out, and I almost ran right into one of the Posh Fillies.
"Oooh!" She said, putting her hand on my shoulder and leaning her body into mine. "Callum, you should watch where you're going."
I knew her. I couldn't remember her name but I knew her. Isabelle? Isadora? I-something. A vague memory popped into my head of her screeching theatrically while riding my cock, and I chuckled.
"What's so funny, Callum?"
She was close enough that I could smell her perfume. Expensive, tasteful.
"Nothing."
"Are you fighting tonight?"
"Yeah."
She watched me closely, biting her lip and tilting her head to the side. So easy. These women were
so damned easy
. I wanted to put my hands on her shoulders, look her in the eyes and tell her she'd have a better chance at getting back into my bed if she at least feigned a challenge of some kind, but I couldn't be bothered.
"Who are you fighting?"
"City boys, probably. Bankers. Hedge-fund dickheads. Maybe your future husband."
The woman's eyes widened as she took mock offense. She playfully slapped me on the bicep.
"Naughty boy, Callum! Besides, I'm not marrying someone like that. Maybe I'll marry...you!"
I barely managed to suppress the urge to roll my eyes. Posh birds, man. Her confidence was so total, she actually thought she was tempting me. Funny thing is, she had every reason to be confident. Ninety-nine percent of men would be tripping all over themselves to get with her. I couldn't understand it, couldn't see how they didn't finish the calculation in their heads.
"Mmh," I grunted, bored. At least she was wearing a low-cut top, perfectly cut so as to show off a generous helping of cleavage.
She could see my mind was elsewhere. "Well, I'll be here late tonight, so let me know if you're feeling needy, Callum. I miss your dick."
The posh ones were the filthiest, too, I may have forgotten to mention that. As she walked away she called back over her shoulder.
"Imogene, by the way. My name is Imogene."
Imogene, yeah. I did remember her. She left deep claw marks down my back that didn't heal for a week, and she’d complained about my cheap shampoo the next morning. As soon as she disappeared into the ladies room, I forgot all about her and signaled Stan to pull me a pint.
"Before the fight?"
I chuckled. "Yeah, before the fight. What do you think this place is? A professionally run operation? Well it isn't. And Gazza wants me to give the audience a good show, which means I require alcohol, right now."
Stan pushed my pint across the bar. "I saw you talking to that woman. The blonde."
"Did you?"
"Yeah. She's really, uh..."
"Really?"
"Pretty."
"You think so? Well you should get on that, Stan, because I reckon her knickers are already wet."
I watched as Stan's cheeks pinked up again. Poor kid wasn't going to know what hit him if I succeeded in getting Imogene to take him home.
The noise level rose as the place filled up. I leaned back against the bar and finished my pint. The crowd was overwhelmingly male, with maybe a few girlfriends and wives here or there - and the Posh Fillies of course. My eyes wandered over to their table. There was that brunette again, sitting with her back to me. She wore her hair up, but there were a few loose tendrils hanging down against the nape of her neck, moving with her body as she talked animatedly to her friends.
I’d generally been a pretty visual man, but I swear I wanted her before I'd even gotten a good look at her face. Something about her, something subtle in the way she held herself, intrigued me. At one point she reached up and ran her hand over the back of that beautiful neck, and I couldn't tear my eyes away from her long fingers and her surprisingly unkempt nails. Loud voices interrupted my trance and I looked to my left. A group of men - older than me, in their late twenties or early thirties - was ordering drinks.
"Champagne," one of them barked to a visibly nervous Stan, who stammered back that we didn't have champagne.
"No champagne? What the fuck is this place?"
Posh accents. Very posh. I watched the situation develop, already feeling protective of Stan. He was just eighteen and probably all of eight stone soaking wet, but he was one of us.