Author’s note:
This story is a companion piece to The Embrace. Reading both together is recommended.
Another night, another fight card.
Say what you will about LA; as a city, as a culture, or as a people. But talk about the fighting business, and you will find that it is up there in a league of its own. Certainly, there are other scenes out there that are notable in their own right; but in my mind, none of them are quite capable of comparing when it comes to the robustness or the variety of their offerings. I’m quite happy to be here as I revel in this particular passion of mine, and at the end of the day I wouldn’t trade this city for any other place in the world.
I was presently westbound on the 405, gliding across the lanes and negotiating my way through the teeming multitude of other cars. The sun was all the while in front of me, already hanging low in the sky as it descended on its slow and inexorable course towards the horizon. My destination was a mansion up in Beverly Hills – that single word “mansion” is an accurate description of the venue, but on its own I feel that it barely begins to capture the scope of the luxury and wealth that it represents. To my eyes, the grandeur of this estate makes it look more like some kind of contemporary art museum than an actual home – how someone is able to live there in any sort of practical fashion is a question that eludes me. And while I am certainly not lacking in my financial means, a place of that kind was on another level entirely.
Still, such spaciousness offers a very broad canvas to work with, and our host was well-renowned for utilizing it to its fullest to create the perfect setting for a fight. As I understood it, each match on the card tonight would be taking place at a different locale within the property – an excuse to showcase the full breadth of the mansion’s splendor and extravagance, certainly, but at the same time it also allowed the varying surroundings to provide their own unique flavor to the contest that each would hold. It would be interesting to see how it all ultimately would shape up.
All of this is me getting ahead of myself though. Before any of that, I had another stop to make along the way.
A few days ago, Erica Ellis had called to touch base with me regarding tonight. It was fairly perfunctory at first, nothing that I would consider to be too far out of the ordinary. However, I did get the sense that Erica was being furtive about something; she seemed as if she had something pressing on her mind but was waiting for the opportune moment to bring it up. After about a minute of dancing around the subject, she at last came out and asked if I had been planning on going by myself. It seemed like an odd question to ask and I paused for a moment, but ultimately I replied in the affirmative: going by myself was indeed what I had planned.
“You should bring a date with you,” Erica immediately answered, “I’m going to set you up with someone!”
At first, I was a bit bemused by this bold proclamation, as well as its almost completely guileless delivery – totally not preplanned in any way. But the gravity of what Erica had said soon sank in, as well as the realization that she was dead-set on bringing it to fruition. I immediately tried to decline, but Erica made it abundantly clear that my protests weren’t going to dissuade her – she totally was not planning to take no for an answer. With the matter settled before it had even been brought forward for deliberation, I was now heading to meet the companion that I had been paired with for this evening’s event.
In hindsight, I really shouldn’t have had all that much to complain about. Let’s not look a gift horse in the mouth, after all – how often does one have it where this kind of opportunity is simply handed to them? And who knows – maybe I was in for a wonderful time with my mystery date. And what of this presumed companion? What type of girl did Erica think would be right for me? Or perhaps the more likely way to frame it, who was the girl that she thought I’d be right for?
These seemed like very natural questions to ponder, but they were not the only ones that I felt lingering. For instance, it was unclear how Erica had arrived at the notion of setting us up together in the first place – while it was true that she and I had established a pretty amicable business relationship, the jump from that to playing matchmaker felt like a rather large one relative to the amount of time that we’d known each other. Also unanswered was the reason why Erica had been so insistent that I say yes – me taking her up on this seemed to matter more to her than it presumably would to the person that I’d actually be going out with. All of these disparate musings came and went in the intervening days, and as they passed I found myself becoming more and more intrigued by the possibilities of who this would-be date was and what she would turn out to be like.
Fast forward to now. With this fateful encounter almost upon me, my mind seemed more and more to be perseverating on understanding the root of Erica’s motive. Try as I might, I could not dispel these thoughts as they swirled around in my head. But finally, a connection formed between all the loose threads as a radical notion presented itself:
What if, in fact, Erica’s “friend” didn’t actually exist? Perhaps this whole thing was some kind of elaborate ruse? What if the surprise was that the girl I’d be meeting was actually Erica herself?
My eyes went wide and my imagination began to run wild. In that moment, I was completely beholden to the power of this new idea and its implications. The sway it held over me was completely engrossing, so much so that I almost didn’t notice the sudden slowdown of traffic up ahead. I had to brake hard at the last second so that I could just barely avoid rear ending the car in front of me.
No, I was being silly. In the sum total of our interactions thus far, Erica had shown zero inclination that she yearned for our relationship to become something beyond platonic. That she could be harboring such feelings and simply choosing not to make them known, only to then reveal them in such an ostentatious manner, seemed increasingly far-fetched the more I reflected upon it. And besides: Erica was going to be, shall we say, otherwise engaged tonight. It was probably safe to assume that going out with me on this occasion would decidedly be off of the table.
The remainder of the drive passed without incident and I arrived at my destination, an apartment complex in Santa Monica. The buildings that comprised it were each about three stories tall and appeared to be arranged in a rough square around the entire city block. Looking at it as I parked in the lot and got out of my car, I’d say that the exterior design evoked an upscale and modern aesthetic. At the front, a wide concrete stairway tapered up towards a high metal gate – climbing the steps and approaching the entrance, I found the call box and dialed the room number that I had been provided. It rang for a second or two before being answered.
“Hello?”
The feminine voice that greeted me sounded tinny through the intercom, but the sweet and inviting nature of its tone was as clear as day. Up until now, I don’t think I’ve ever truly appreciated how alluring a single word could be when wielded so adroitly.
“It’s Elliot,” I answered while trying not to sound flustered, “I’m outside.”
The voice sounded quite pleased by the news as it beckoned me inside. “Don’t get lost.”
The gate buzzer went off and I entered through the now-unlocked door. Finding my way around wasn’t actually that difficult as several posted signs indicated where each block of units was – the voice, it seems, had a very facetious sense of humor. I rounded the perimeter of the inner courtyard towards the building I wanted and turned down a hallway that ran through the middle of its ground floor. The unit numbers on either side of me rose in ascending order as I passed them by until I finally came to the one that I was looking for. I leaned in, pressed the doorbell, and then waited – though only a few brief seconds passed, they nonetheless felt like an eternity of eager anticipation.
The door to the unit opened wide as me and my date came face to face with each other. She was an attractive girl who appeared similar in her age, her stature, and her physique to Erica, but different from the blonde in that her shoulder-length hair was jet-black. Sporting a lustrous silver dress, she also cast an aesthetic that was highly contrasting in my eyes – whereas Erica radiated a raw and profuse sensuality that tended to stand out right from the get-go, this girl projected a far more refined sensibility that at first glance seemed to entice with suggestion rather than with bombast. The sparkle of her eyes and the pout of her lips seemed friendly and playful, harkening back to the impression I’d gotten from hearing her voice earlier.
Whitney raised her arm and rested it outstretched against the door frame as she leaned into a seductive pose. It was a bit over the top, deliberately so, but it had the intended effect on me as I ogled her body, lingering none too subtly on her revealing neckline and more-than-modest bosom. I could feel her eyes following my line of sight, and as I looked back up, her lips curled as she flashed me a coquettish grin.
I had also seen this girl before. She had been there at all of the fights of Erica’s that I’d witnessed to date. Though lacking an actual introduction, I conveniently did at least know the name that was attached to this very pretty face: Whitney Morgan.
“A certain someone says that you have a thing for brunettes,” Whitney exclaimed.
I have to admit: sometimes, I really love the way Erica thinks.
Dinner was going well so far.
Despite my reluctance earlier in the week about being set up with someone, I had every intention of putting my best foot forward now that I was fully committed. To that end, I’d chosen to take my lovely new companion to a fine dining establishment in DTLA. The main draw of this particular restaurant was its location on an upper floor of one of the city’s tallest buildings – from that great height dozens of stories above street level, we were afforded a grand view of the metropolis’ boundless expanse. Perhaps this was a bit extravagant, especially for a blind date, but hey – if I have to swing, I may as well go for the fences. Luckily for me though, it appeared I had found just the right spot with Whitney, who seemed to be suitably impressed by it all. Dusk had already begun to settle in over the glittering cityscape as the two of us enjoyed each other’s company.
Whitney struck me as someone who was, by her nature, a very chatty person. That might come across like I’m being pejorative, but I don’t intend it as such. On the contrary, I found myself charmed by how outgoing she was. I don’t know how I’d put into words exactly what it was that I admired, but if I had to try, I’d say that it was the ease by which she glided on each witty repartee from one topic to the next. At times insightful and thought-provoking, at others lighthearted and amusing, Whitney above all never ceased to be engaging with her vivacious manner. For my part, I was perfectly content to listen to her as I hung onto every word.
Quite naturally, the subject of conversation turned to our mutual interest.
“Me? Fight someone? That sounds so… disreputable…” Whitney exclaimed in an exaggerated fashion. This blithe demeanor abruptly darkened as she tilted her head forward and leveled a stern glare in my direction. “You’re looking at me funny.”
It was true that I was leering at her, but not without good reason: “I’m imagining.”
We held our gazes for a few seconds, her accusatory expression meeting my suggestive glances. Eventually though, Whitney couldn’t keep up the straight face any longer as her façade collapsed into a mischievous smirk. The two of us shared a laugh as levity returned to our table.
“Admit it. I almost had you going for a bit,” she insisted.
“Maybe. But of course, that still begs the question.”
Whitney smiled and indulged me at last. “I’ve dabbled in some boxing here and there,” she stated, “As an actual fighter, not just working someone else’s corner. But honestly, I think staying on the sidelines suits me more.”
“Oh? Why’s that?”
“Let’s call it a low tolerance for getting punched in the face,” Whitney replied. “You must be disappointed to hear that.”
Disappointed, yes; but by no means deterred. “There’s always other options if something punch-centric isn’t your wheelhouse. I’d love to see how you’d acquit yourself in a catfight or a wrestling match.”
The suggestion flowed easily off the tip of my tongue with barely a second thought or any sort of hesitation. While I think most people would have taken it for granted as the next reasonable progression in our discourse, the idea of interjecting business into our date night would likely have given me pause under different circumstances. But the idea of Whitney as a fighter was an earnest and enticing one, and her own expression suggested it was a notion that she was at least willing to entertain. Thus, the exchange pressed onwards.
“So tell me more about this imagination of yours,” Whitney inquired.
“What would you like to know?”
“Let’s start with the girl you’re pairing me up against in your head. How would you describe your dream matchup for me?”
“Your perfect opponent?” My earlier comment had been more innuendo than actual specifics, but I was certainly not against diving into more detail. “Well… She’d be similar in age, stature, and weight class. Presumably. But I also think that some kind of visual contrast is always good. Something that sets you apart in appearance from her.”
“Something I bring to the table that she doesn’t?” Whitney purred, “Go on.”
“Blonde versus brunette seems like a good pairing. A little staid from a creative standpoint, maybe, but also one that can never go wrong.”
“I’m with you so far.”
“Owing to my personal tastes, I’m thinking someone on the more well-endowed side,” I continued, “Someone with an unmissable presence that knows how to use it. I think she’d be on the scrappier side of things, the kind who’s resilient enough to make you fight for every last inch. How does that sound to you?”
“If I didn’t know any better, it sounds almost like you’re fantasizing about Erica.”
Whitney’s interpretation of the vision I outlined had me taken aback. It was surely meant as a tease, but it also rang with a note of truth. Erica had certainly not been very far from my thoughts up to this point tonight, and I didn’t need to ask myself why this was the case – the reason was fairly easy to discern. And thus with the giant blonde elephant in the room now fully front and center, I could think of very little else, making the insinuation impossible to casually dismiss. I tried to offer a quick rejoinder that might move us out of this spot, but to my dismay I found myself stuck thinking about Erica, leaving me at a loss for words and stumped into a dreadful silence. All of this was not lost on Whitney either – her effusive persona seemed to disappear in an instant, giving way for something far more reticent and subdued. Each of us seemed to take an awkward glance downwards at the table between us as this new uncomfortable pall hung over us.
After a few excruciatingly long seconds, Whitney at last spoke. “It’s alright. We, um, tend to get compared a lot. It happens.”
The words were meant to be reassuring, certainly. But as I read her expression, there was a subtle hint at what was being left unsaid: That doesn’t mean I have to like it, though.
There was another pause as Whitney took a short sip of water from her glass before speaking again. “If I did have a fight, would you be there to root for me?”
“Of course I would.”
“Good,” Whitney said, “Maybe I’ll take you up on it one of these days.”
My date smiled softly at me. Perhaps this affect of hers was a bit forced, but nonetheless it was enough to get me to smile back at her. And while perhaps this might not have been the best response to the hiccup in our conversation, it at least managed to get things moving once again. Whitney’s mood gradually seemed to be improving as we continued to talk, which came as quite a relief to me. Before long, we were fully engrossed with one another once again as if nothing had happened.
But through it all, I still had this vague thought floating around in the back of my mind. As things went on, the thought gradually began to come into clarity until it was at last fully realized.
If it ever came down to Whitney versus Erica, who would I want to see come out on top?
It was extremely, extremely fortunate for me that this question was never actually posed. But deep down, I could still feel it lurking there in the wings, waiting for its answer.
The fight was not going so well.
Erica whined in frustrated exertion as she twisted back and forth, struggling fruitlessly to break out from her opponent’s grasp. She was presently on her knees in the middle of the carpet, stripped down to her metallic blue bikini bottoms. Behind her was the other girl, pressing in close belly to back; around her neck was hooked the other girl’s left arm, held in tight to restrain her. The immediate contest was over the blonde’s right arm, fully extended out to the side, which the other girl had seized by the wrist and was attempting to take control of. All in all, it was a bad spot for Erica to be in, and one that did not appear she would be getting out of under her own power any time soon.
Causing the blonde all of this grief was a lovely girl of Japanese extraction by the name of Sayaka Yuzaki. Sayaka had debut here a short while ago during a period when a good number of her compatriots had likewise arrived on the scene. The results for these Japanese girls were mixed as a whole – I get the impression that their backer had taken a shotgun approach to promoting them without diligently scouting them beforehand for competency. Sayaka was definitely on the talented end of that spectrum, returning dividends as she won much more often than not. At 23 years old, she was slightly more diminutive at 5’2 and 105 pounds against Erica’s 5’4 and 110, while rivaling her equally with a D-cup chest. All in all, I thought her an appropriate step up in opponent quality for Erica, and as she faced off against the blonde’s blue in a red lace bra and panties, the two appeared to be a good visual match-up as well.
My date and I had one of the best views in the house, being up in the front of the audience at the apartment wrestling equivalent of ringside. This portion of the fight card had brought us to a living room on the upper floor of the mansion – with a broad set of windows overlooking the back of the property, the blackened night served as a backdrop for the struggle between the two competitors. The presentation was certainly exquisite, but much tempered by the course of the action. Sayaka was proving herself to be a vexing foe for Erica – always seemingly one step ahead in her wrestling holds, more often than not getting the better of the cattier moments, and slowly but surely bringing the blonde to heel.
On the outside, I tried to remain impassive as I intently followed the unfolding struggle. Whether or not I was convincing anybody of my stoicism was another matter. On the inside, my mind was anything but at ease. Things were looking increasingly grim for Erica as the fight progressed into these late moments – while I still yearned for her to rally and come back to win this, each successive minute that passed made her odds grow that much longer.
In contrast to my more muted tone, Whitney was far more animated. She unquestionably was Erica’s biggest cheerleader and her vocal support for her friend was unwavering. But as I held my arm around her shoulder, I could feel her mood through her body language – whether it was the way her hand would occasionally reach up to clasp mine, or as she periodically nestled herself closer against me. I knew that Whitney’s concern was growing, and it was just as palpable as my own.
Erica still had one hand that was free and unhindered; she reached up over her shoulder with it and snagged onto Sayaka’s wavy chin-length hair, yanking wildly. This brought a scowl to Sayaka’s face as the downward jerking on her head visibly discomforted her; more immediately important for Erica though, it halted the Japanese girl’s momentum as she was forced to contend with the new threat. Still with her arm around the blonde’s neck, Sayaka rocked to and fro in an attempt to yank the blonde off balance. This struggle was primal in its nature and artless in its execution, but both women committed themselves to it wholeheartedly as each strove to break the impasse in their own favor.
Whitney lent her voice in support, as if the added weight of her words would tip the balance between the blonde and the Japanese girl. “C’mon Erica!” she loudly exclaimed, “You can do it!”
Off to the side, the two fighters’ arms were still outstretched and held aloft, hanging in the air as their bodies writhed back and forth. This changed as Sayaka gave Erica’s arm a sudden wrench backwards, succeeding at last in forcing it behind the blonde’s back into a hammerlock. Erica cringed as the hold was sunk in – try though she might to resist, it did not take long for the unnatural contortion to compel out an anguished cry.
This turn of events prompted another voice to loudly join the fray: “Yeah! You bitch! How do you like that?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Whitney shoot a venomous glare across to the opposite side of the room. The object of her ire and the source of this verbal jab against Erica was another one of the spectators, a strikingly beautiful Asian in a black cocktail dress. Comparable to Erica or Whitney in size, probably also in early to mid twenties, and with luscious dark hair that extended all the way down to a fantastically prodigious bosom, simply saying that she was eye-catching would be a tremendous understatement. True to someone who looked the way she did, the Asian seemed to thrive at the center of attention – I had caught sight of her early on mingling with much gaiety, and as the night progressed she never seemed to be far from prominence within the audience. Her bearing, her elocution, and the particular guests that she tended to gravitate towards suggested to me that she wasn’t Japanese like Sayaka, but that was just a guess on my part.
I tried to keep my focus on the match, watching as Erica attempted to squirm free from the pain compliance hold. But as this tumult was playing out in front of me, I could feel the enmity of the stare being leveled in the direction of me and my date. It had been like this all throughout the fight as Whitney and the Asian needled each other with their words and expressed their hostility towards each other with their eyes. The tide of this passive-aggressive struggle had ebbed and flowed in step with the contest on the carpet, and more often than not it was the Asian who got to lord over Whitney.
Another twist of the arm, and Erica threw her head back as she roared with a distressed wail. Sayaka’s left hand came up to seize her by the hair and hold her head in place, putting her on display with her throat bared. The crowd applauded Sayaka’s mini-triumph as she kept Erica in this pose, lasting for several long and uncomfortable seconds until the Japanese girl shoved forward and forced the blonde face-first into the carpet. Sayaka now released Erica’s captive arm and slid forward to straddle the back, seeking to transition as she lowered herself down and hooked in with a full nelson. Erica flailed at first, kicking her feet against the carpet and writhing ineffectually beneath her foe. But while her upper body remained held against the floor, the shift of the other girl’s weight forward allowed the blonde to slowly push her lower body up. Gradually, she managed to rise up to her forearms and knees, and suddenly the opportunity to escape seemed almost within Erica’s grasp.
Whitney again spoke, this time muttering to herself in a voice that was barely above a whisper and fraught with apprehension. “C’mon… C’mon…”
A moment passed, and the situation on the carpet changed with a literal upheaval as Erica thrust from the floor with one mighty push. This succeeded in toppling her and her Japanese foe over as Erica ended up rolling over onto her back. Sayaka meanwhile had come down to the floor on her side, her relative position shifting to lie on Erica’s left – in the process, the Japanese girl had managed to wrap her legs around the blonde’s waist, hooked securely together with the ankles locked. So fluid was she in this motion that one couldn’t help but believe that this had been Sayaka’s plan all along. Thigh muscles flexed and began to squeeze on the encircled midsection, coercing out an intensely pained reaction from the blonde. Weary but happy, Sayaka smiled at both the sound of Erica’s howling and the feeling of her thrashing. For that extra little bit of spite, Sayaka reached out with her hand and gave Erica’s left breast a very unfriendly squeeze, adding a new layer of torment to the blonde’s vocalizations.
The inevitable soon followed as the Asian spectator crowed in her deliberately obnoxious fashion: “You’re done! It’s over, slut!”
The words might’ve been directed at the blonde, but there was zero ambiguity as to who they were truly intended for. I was still holding my arm around Whitney’s shoulder when I felt her entire body begin to tense up rigidly. As this happened, I looked out across the room and turned my gaze on the Asian, only to find her eyes fixed squarely on my date. On the Asian’s face was an immutable expression, one filled with catty delight and sheer, unrestrained insufferableness. She did not avert away in the slightest from this stare, even as the fight itself continued to unfold.
I now turned my head back to look at Whitney. What I saw was a fearsome visage locked into a stony-faced glower. Gone was the sweet, gentle, and amiable girl from before; in her place was a being consumed with smoldering and barely-restrained rage. The totality of this fury was being brought to bear against the other spectator, equally unflinching in its conveyance of hostility. The effect the Asian was having on Whitney impressed upon me the skill with which the former wielded her disposition as a weapon – never had I imagined it possible to so thoroughly get underneath another woman’s skin with such a minimal execution.
But that’s not the only thing that I was in awe of.
As much as I hate to admit it, I found it kind of riveting to see Whitney like this. I had no idea when I’d met her just how incredibly hot she could look when she was angry.
The fight had reached its conclusion.
It had been a hotly-contested affair right to the very end, which made the post-match acclamation of the audience all the more satisfying for the winner. As the excitement died down and the next intermission began, my first thought was to assist Erica in getting back to the bedroom that acted as her dressing room. The ferocity and viciousness of the struggle against her Japanese opponent had taken everything out of her and left her visibly drained. Seeing her in this state tugged greatly on the heartstrings.
Whitney excused herself as we started to head away. Truthfully, this surprised me somewhat – given that her concern for her friend’s wellbeing equaled or perhaps even exceeded my own, I didn’t think that she’d want to leave without at least knowing that the blonde was okay. Her parting words came out like a low growl, and I caught a cold glint in her eyes as she looked first at me and then to Erica standing next to me, right before she disappeared into the mingling crowd. It would seem that her dour mood from during the fight was still persisting.
Erica’s gait was somewhat halting as we walked, and at times she appeared a bit listless. Given her condition, part of me felt compelled to stay with her. But as we reached the bedroom, she assured me that she was going to be fine. True or not, it was clear that she needed some time alone to gather herself and recover.
“Besides,” Erica added, “One of us needs to get back to their date.”
It was an innocent comment, and certainly a well-meaning one at that. But for me, it had a deeper implication that hit me like a ton of bricks. I was supposed to be on a romantic night out with Whitney, but instead of devoting myself to her like I should have been, I was now here fawning over another woman. Recalling in that moment the turn that our dinnertime conversation had taken, and seeing that it was now Erica who held my attention, I did not have a hard time putting two and two together. No wonder Whitney was so pissed off, and rightly so. I hastily took my leave of Erica and headed back to find my date in hopes of salvaging the evening as best I could.
I returned to the living room, only to find that the majority of the other guests had dispersed while I was gone. A quick scan of the room revealed that my date was not among those still left milling around in the area – she too had departed. My mind raced for a moment as I tried to think of where she could have gone. The first logical place would be the venue for the next fight, which had not yet been announced to us guests. Just as I was about to head out and start my search through each possible location in turn, I happened to glance out the window to the back of the estate. There was a sizable collection of people gathering in the yard – a bit odd, since we’d already been out there once for the first fight of the evening. Still, it was obvious that I should check there first.
As I made my way downstairs, I was bracing myself for Whitney’s reaction, in whatever form it would come. It was one thing to make a girl think that someone else was ahead of her in matters of the heart, but actively demonstrating that before her eyes required a special kind of stupid. If by some small chance I managed to come out of this unscathed, I would consider myself to be fortunate beyond all imagining.
The back lawn was impressively expansive, immaculately well-manicured, and ringed by an intricately planned combination of trees and giant hedges. With the copious glass construction of the mansion making it an omnipresent sight from just about anywhere on the rear side, it was just as much a showpiece as the edifice of the home itself. Things were dark now save for the light spilling out from the mansion itself and some accent fixtures along the perimeter, but as I approached the door I could tell that the crowd I’d seen had coalesced itself into a small circle. Seeing this made me quickly gather what was going on. And as I stepped outside, I was immediately met by the sound of angry shouts and shrieks that confirmed my hunch: an impromptu fight had broken out between two of the female guests.
These little breaks from decorum, though not a regular occurrence at every event, do still happen from time to time. The whos and the whys are varied. Sometimes they were established competitors in the business, other times they were just ordinary guests; it could be a case of a simmering feud finally boiling over, a more acute dispute rapidly escalating, or just something thrown together on a whim. Opinions will differ as to the appropriateness of these side matches – me personally, they usually don’t suit my particular sensibilities. Nonetheless, it behooved me to go up and take a closer look. I wasn’t sure what Whitney might think of all this, but there was still the possibility that she might be out here.
And find Whitney, I did. I could feel my own eyes going wide as my heart skipped a beat at the sight of her.
My brunette companion was right there in the center of it all, mixing it up with the Asian spectator from before. They made for a chaotic and furious scene, the two of them together like this – I couldn’t tell just by looking how long they’d been going at it, but certainly long enough to thoroughly dishevel both of their appearances and trash their evening attire. Each had their hands in the other’s hair, tugging to and fro on their dark tresses as they staggered in unwieldy fashion across the grass. Wild punches and slaps flew back and forth between them with no thought given to technique. Screams from the top of their lungs were being hurled at each other, neither holding anything back in the slightest.
Compared to before, this was a whole other side of Whitney that I was now seeing. So full of rage. So caught up in her own animosity. So completely and utterly disreputable.
And in my eyes, she couldn’t possibly be more gorgeous than she was right here in this very moment.
My better sensibilities at last spoke up, and at the risk of being “that guy,” I felt obliged to step in and break it up. After all, seeing Whitney get hurt in any way was decidedly not on our agenda for this evening. But to my chagrin, I appeared to be alone in that sentiment amongst those present. Some in the crowd were offering up verbal support to Whitney, to the Asian, or to both; those that did not were nonetheless looking on with keen interest. I also had a pretty good guess as to what kind of reaction I’d likely get from Whitney herself if I didn’t let her finish this on her own terms. Like everyone else, I was a passive observer to the action that continued to unfold in front of me.
Amid the melee, one punch seemed to find its mark. The Asian managed to stuff an impressive-looking left into Whitney’s midsection, causing the latter’s legs to buckle. Whitney tried to keep her feet, but a quarter-turn and a sharp yank on her hair by the Asian sent her spilling to the ground. Not the cleanest of takedowns, to be sure, but still a dramatic turn by the standards of this fight – the optics of it were certainly heartening to the Asian and those who were cheering her on. Conversely, I could feel the knots starting to grow in my stomach at the sight of Whitney in her now-vulnerable state.
The Asian, for whatever reason, did not pounce on Whitney. Instead, she elected to stand over the brunette and gloat. “Get up!” the Asian yelled, “Get up!”
Whitney did indeed start to rise, slowly getting her arms beneath her as she pushed herself up from the lawn. This apparently wasn’t fast enough for the Asian’s liking – she stepped in and seized two fistfuls of Whitney’s black hair, which she used as a handhold to try and haul the other girl up from the grass. I didn’t think Whitney had much appreciation for this, judging by the sound she made as she was compelled upwards – her hands flailed for purchase until at last she was able to wrap her arms around the Asian’s waist and hold herself in place on her feet.
I watched as Whitney transitioned her left arm higher, riding it around the back of the Asian’s shoulders. Fighting against the jerky motions of the latter’s hairpulling couldn’t have been easy, but she managed to steady herself as she started to claw her way back into a more upright position. For her trouble, she took another left-handed punch to the body – this one, however, did not seem to do quite as much harm as the last one had. In fact, Whitney was remarkably quick to repay the Asian with a mirroring right-handed blow of her own, one that seemed to put the Asian on her heels. Another right landed in picture-perfect fashion, this one plowing into the underside of the Asian’s hulking left breast and eliciting a sharp cry. No doubt about it now – Whitney was backing her foe up.
Again taking the brunette’s hair with both hands, the Asian shook Whitney’s head in a frenzied bid to regain control. Whitney swung with her right again, this time in the form of an overhand forearm to the side of her opponent’s head and neck. The delivery was clumsy, but remarkably it caused the Asian to disengage and stumble away on wobbly legs – perhaps the blow had managed to box her ear? Whether that was the case or not, Whitney did not pass up the opportunity. Marching in, she doubled the Asian over and thrust up violently with her knee and thigh into the other girl’s stomach. The Asian groaned loudly as her body took the full force of the hit; a second such kneelift brought forth another exclamation of anguish as it sent her crumpling face-down into the grass.
The pendulum had swung the other way, and now it was Whitney who stood towering over her fallen opponent. With a load roar, she began to stomp down on the other girl’s midsection – if I didn’t know any better, I’d say that Whitney was aiming with the flat of her shoe for the Asian’s larger bosom with each downward boot. The Asian, for her part, wailed and tried to curl up on the ground as her exposed side bore each impact of the brunette’s foot. Surely now was the time to intervene – stepping out of the crowd and coming up to Whitney from behind, I looped each of my arms around hers as I tried to pull her off of her unresisting foe.
Whitney did not make things easy. As I started to drag her away, she continued to kick and flail with her legs, still intent on doing harm. “Let go!” she shrieked, “Get off!”
From the other side of the circle, two random onlookers stepped out quickly to assist the Asian, first one man and then a woman who had been standing next to him. The Asian looked hurt, almost a bit out of it as the two of them gingerly helped her up from the lawn. But shortly after she got to her feet, a flash of malevolent coherence returned to her eyes as she wriggled her way free from them. The two other guests tried to restrain her, but it was too late – in the blink of an eye, the Asian had slipped out of their grasp and was now lunging straight for Whitney.
Holding onto her in the manner I was, I had made Whitney into a stationary target. Securing her arms the way I did, I had left her unable to bring them up in front of her to defend herself. She was wide open as the Asian threw a haymaker right, which sailed through the air and nailed her squarely on the chin. Whitney’s head was violently swiveled by the punch, which put her out like a light. She slumped back deadweight into my arms, and I was barely able to bring her down gently as she sank to the ground.
The Asian squealed with glee as she was finally being bodied back, delighted by the sight of the unconscious brunette. This contest between them tonight had been brought to a very emphatic end.
The drive back to Whitney’s apartment was silent.
Physically, save for a bruised jaw, she was none too worse for wear. However, her state of mind seemed to be another matter altogether. As we left the mansion, I had offered to take her back to my place or to stay with her at hers if she wanted. However, Whitney quietly demurred, her voice barely above a whisper. I kept my attention mostly on the road the whole way back. Considering my errant role in contributing to the fight’s finish, I felt a bit too sheepish to try and make conversation, or to even look her in the eye. Not that Whitney was likely to be in the mood for either. I glanced over at her occasionally, but every time she appeared to be the same – slouched into her seat in her ruined dress and with my suit jacket around her shoulders, staring out the passenger window at the nighttime vista that raced past us. It was distressing to see her so forlorn – it’s fair to say that getting KTFO’d will have that effect on a girl.
When we arrived, I helped her out of the car and guided her carefully up the stairs and past the gate. It wasn’t until we reached her door that one of us finally spoke.
“I’m sorry about tonight,” Whitney muttered, “I really fucked things up.”
“No, it’s my fault,” I replied, “It would’ve been different if I’d been more careful. If I hadn’t been holding you back at just the wrong time…”
Whitney shook her head. Her voice sounded like it was starting to crack as she continued.
“Before. When you were talking about Erica… I got so fixated on that, like I had to prove something to you… And when that other girl started going, I just… flew off the handle and made a fool out of myself.”
I smiled and reached out to rub her shoulder, hoping to reassure her. “You stood up for your friend. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”
“Not even getting my ass kicked?”
Whitney’s sense of humor seemed to be starting to reassert itself, which was a good sign. However, I could tell that she was being serious with what she said next.
“I still need to do something about that, by the way. Can you help me?”
Though certainly quite different from the original vision I’d outlined, the Asian spectator was certainly not a bad alternative. As I mulled it over for a second, the notion was beginning to grow on me. Through chance, Whitney and I were perhaps one step closer to finding that perfect opponent for her.
“I’m sure it can be arranged. I’ll see what I can do.”
Whitney returned my jacket to me and the two of us hugged in parting. She turned to her door and unlocked it, but did not go any farther – instead, she seemed to stop frozen in her tracks. I stood there and watched her, unsure of what was going on and wondering if something was about to happen. A few seconds passed like this, and then Whitney took a deep breath.
“You should tell her how you feel.”
The words were plain as day, but they did not immediately register. I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Whitney was still facing away from me, and after a pause, she continued.
“I don’t know if she doesn’t see it, or if she doesn’t believe what she sees. But to me it’s pretty obvious, the way you look at her. The opportunity is there for you, and I think that you should take it.”
Once again, there was no ambiguity in what she said, nothing particularly incorrect about her analysis. And yet, as she finally turned around to look at me once more, I was completely dumbstruck without any reply. Whitney didn’t seem to mind, though. She slowly came back closer towards me.
“But if not… then why don’t you give me a call sometime? I’m sure there’s a lot of fun that we could have together.”
Running her hands across my chest and up to my neck, Whitney brought herself in and pressed her lips into mine. The kiss was short but sweet. As Whitney pulled away, she offered me a smile – it was a faint one, to be sure, but being here to see it felt uniquely special beyond words.
Soon Whitney was gone, disappearing through her door into the apartment, and I was left by myself outside to reflect on everything that had transpired. If nothing else, it had been one hell of a crazy night.
The End