his hands and dragging them out of the way
of the door’s arc. “I can handle the rest of it myself! Get out of here!”
“Sis, it’s not my fault that you…I mean, I’m sorry.” He muttered
quickly, averting his eyes.
“Can it!” I told him off, slamming the door in his face.
I knew it wasn’t right to blame him. He had no idea that I had started
unpacking that stuff. In fact, it was my fault
that the case was even open. I had completely forgotten about it when he
offered to help. But I still had my pride…along with some seriously conflicting
feelings in my stomach.
I hated that I loved his stupid muscles so much. Even more than that…I
hated the elation I got from him seeing my exposed case of panties.
Off to a great start, Saffron.
( Return to Table of Contents )
Chapter 6 – Sawyer
New Orleans, Five Years Ago
A few hours after the encounter outside Happy Pat’s, I dropped onto a
couch in the back of the bar. It had to have been three in the morning, and I
was exhausted after the pumping adrenaline had completely warmed off.
“Holy shit, bro, you’re fucking unreal.” My surprise recruiter told me.
He brought me a rag and some hydrogen peroxide for the cuts on my eyebrow and
cheek, along with some antiseptic. “I thought we were fucked . You came in for the fucking clutch , man!Definitely
earned your share. Hell, Skippy’s a drunk fuck anyway. Probably a liability to
the team. If you wanna do this shit again, you are in. ”
“What was your name again?” I mumbled, holding the rag to the bottle and
tipping it. “Didn’t they call you, what was it? Slippery Pete?”
“Fuckin’ A, they did!” He laughed. “Slippery Pete, that’s me. And you…oh
man, you have officially graduated from
Fucker. Hell, I don’t know what we’re
gonna call you …”
“The name’s Sawyer,” I muttered.
“No it ain’t. Sawyer’s weak. That’s a prissy little bullshit name. You
need something hardcore …let me think
on that one…”
“I need somewhere to sleep,” I told him. “Getting pretty tired of the
streets. Know a place?”
“Fuck, just crash right here. It’s what I do. “ There was the lumbering
sound of the other occupant as he passed a corner, coming towards us. “You
don’t mind, do ya, Gary?”
Slippery Pete turned to the bar owner, who apparently moonlighted an
illegal street fighting ring underneath the shelter around the back. Easily in
his mid-fifties, with an extra layer of flab over his bones, age had not been
kind to Gary. Grimy, graying hair puffed off of his head in a thick burst, and
he looked like the kind of slimy, dirty business owner who was probably
crawling with his own personal plague of fleas.
“New guy guaranteed a good turnout for next weekend,” Gary muttered,
casting an eye my way. His thick jowl hung in a grimace from his face, but he
still seemed pleased nevertheless. “You fight like that, you get a couch. You
drop the ball, and it’s back on the streets. Ya hear?”
“Yessir,” I nodded. It wasn’t the most pleasing arrangement, but it was
a compromise I could live with.
“Another thing,” Gary mumbled, wiping his face off with a stray rag,
“you fight good. You also fight sloppy .
You need skill. Training. You stick around here, you fight in my ring, and I’ll
see to it that you’re made all proper-like.”
Adjusting the pad against my brow, I listened intently.
“Buddy of mine, Chen…he runs a dojo nearby,” Gary continued. “His old
man’s a regular here. I’ll see about landing you some classes. You want a
trainer, you gotta pay. But you can do without in the beginning.”
“Thanks,” I nodded. “I’ll fight for you.”
“Good,” Gary replied, pointing around the corner in the back –
past the Employees Only sign. “Now,
go take a fucking shower. You smell like
of the door’s arc. “I can handle the rest of it myself! Get out of here!”
“Sis, it’s not my fault that you…I mean, I’m sorry.” He muttered
quickly, averting his eyes.
“Can it!” I told him off, slamming the door in his face.
I knew it wasn’t right to blame him. He had no idea that I had started
unpacking that stuff. In fact, it was my fault
that the case was even open. I had completely forgotten about it when he
offered to help. But I still had my pride…along with some seriously conflicting
feelings in my stomach.
I hated that I loved his stupid muscles so much. Even more than that…I
hated the elation I got from him seeing my exposed case of panties.
Off to a great start, Saffron.
( Return to Table of Contents )
Chapter 6 – Sawyer
New Orleans, Five Years Ago
A few hours after the encounter outside Happy Pat’s, I dropped onto a
couch in the back of the bar. It had to have been three in the morning, and I
was exhausted after the pumping adrenaline had completely warmed off.
“Holy shit, bro, you’re fucking unreal.” My surprise recruiter told me.
He brought me a rag and some hydrogen peroxide for the cuts on my eyebrow and
cheek, along with some antiseptic. “I thought we were fucked . You came in for the fucking clutch , man!Definitely
earned your share. Hell, Skippy’s a drunk fuck anyway. Probably a liability to
the team. If you wanna do this shit again, you are in. ”
“What was your name again?” I mumbled, holding the rag to the bottle and
tipping it. “Didn’t they call you, what was it? Slippery Pete?”
“Fuckin’ A, they did!” He laughed. “Slippery Pete, that’s me. And you…oh
man, you have officially graduated from
Fucker. Hell, I don’t know what we’re
gonna call you …”
“The name’s Sawyer,” I muttered.
“No it ain’t. Sawyer’s weak. That’s a prissy little bullshit name. You
need something hardcore …let me think
on that one…”
“I need somewhere to sleep,” I told him. “Getting pretty tired of the
streets. Know a place?”
“Fuck, just crash right here. It’s what I do. “ There was the lumbering
sound of the other occupant as he passed a corner, coming towards us. “You
don’t mind, do ya, Gary?”
Slippery Pete turned to the bar owner, who apparently moonlighted an
illegal street fighting ring underneath the shelter around the back. Easily in
his mid-fifties, with an extra layer of flab over his bones, age had not been
kind to Gary. Grimy, graying hair puffed off of his head in a thick burst, and
he looked like the kind of slimy, dirty business owner who was probably
crawling with his own personal plague of fleas.
“New guy guaranteed a good turnout for next weekend,” Gary muttered,
casting an eye my way. His thick jowl hung in a grimace from his face, but he
still seemed pleased nevertheless. “You fight like that, you get a couch. You
drop the ball, and it’s back on the streets. Ya hear?”
“Yessir,” I nodded. It wasn’t the most pleasing arrangement, but it was
a compromise I could live with.
“Another thing,” Gary mumbled, wiping his face off with a stray rag,
“you fight good. You also fight sloppy .
You need skill. Training. You stick around here, you fight in my ring, and I’ll
see to it that you’re made all proper-like.”
Adjusting the pad against my brow, I listened intently.
“Buddy of mine, Chen…he runs a dojo nearby,” Gary continued. “His old
man’s a regular here. I’ll see about landing you some classes. You want a
trainer, you gotta pay. But you can do without in the beginning.”
“Thanks,” I nodded. “I’ll fight for you.”
“Good,” Gary replied, pointing around the corner in the back –
past the Employees Only sign. “Now,
go take a fucking shower. You smell like
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