KAGE (KAGE Trilogy #1)
Read KAGE (KAGE Trilogy #1) Online
Authors: Maris Black
A
Novel
By
MARIS BLACK
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright 2015 by Maris Black. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Author:
Maris Black
This novel is dedicated
To all of the MMA fighters
Who risk their lives and health in the Octagon
& to all of the fans
Who love them.
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1
I
RONICALLY, the thing that changed my life was the sound of the radio playing in the background while I was plowing my girlfriend on a Friday afternoon. By all rights, I shouldn’t have even noticed the voice on the radio— because I was balls deep, her head was thrown back, and the headboard was tapping out a cadence of love on the dorm room wall. But I did hear it, and a series of events was set in motion that, like dominoes lined up just so on a gymnasium floor, would not be stopped.
I had swung by Layla’s room after my last class, partly because I wanted to see how she had done on the essay I helped her with, and partly because it had been almost a week since we’d had sex. Okay, I didn’t actually give a damn about the essay. With our busy schedules— Layla’s cheer practice and club meetings, and my heavy class load— it wasn’t easy to carve out time to take care of business. To put it in the simplest of guy terms, I was backed up. So when I knocked on her door that day, I had exactly one thing on my mind: getting laid.
Layla answered the door in a filmy bathrobe, which surprised me because it was the middle of the day. I could see her nipples pushing against the sheer floral fabric, and the shadowy strip of pubic hair at the junction of her thighs— cheerleader thighs that had been perfectly sculpted by years of squats and lunges.
“What if it hadn’t been me at the door?” I asked sternly, giving her revealing attire a suspicious once-over. She just smiled and stepped aside to let me come in, and I pushed past her, catching a whiff of her signature mix of hair products, shower gel and perfume.
Layla was easily one of the most beautiful girls I’d ever seen— a blond-haired, blue-eyed China doll with delicately arched brows, a plush little mouth, and a body that looked diminutive next to just about anybody. I was nearly her polar opposite in looks. Five-eleven, muscular, dark-haired. I wasn’t extremely tall, especially for a basketball player, but standing next to her I felt enormous. She tweaked my protective instincts like no one ever had.
That is, until she opened her mouth.
You see, Layla’s mother had married a Mexican man when Layla was very young, and she’d grown up on the Latin side of town. Her tough barrio accent opposed her delicate Aryan appearance to a comical extent. She looked like she needed protecting, but she sounded like she might cut you if you rubbed her the wrong way.
We had met at the beginning of the semester when she took the seat in front of me in Western Civ II. About halfway into the first day of class, she turned around, fastened her crystal eyes on me and said in that incongruous barrio accent, “You wanna quit kicking the back of my seat, chulo? I can’t pay attention to the fucking lecture.”
I think my mouth hung open for the rest of class. I just couldn’t believe that hard-boiled voice had come out of the pale waif in front of me. Before I could forget, I had typed the word
chulo
into my cell phone browser and looked it up, thoroughly expecting it to be the Spanish equivalent to
fag
or
asshole
. Instead, I had been pleasantly surprised to discover that what she’d actually called me was…
cute
.
Our relationship began as a tentative friendship consisting of sharing Western Civ notes and talking after class on our way out of the building. I liked the fact that she was a cheerleader, and she seemed fascinated with my ability to be both good-looking and smart. Within a couple of weeks I’d asked her out on an official date. Our budding romance garnered a lot of dirty looks from the other guys in class, and I ate it up.
Now, after four months, she and I had fallen into a comfortable rhythm. Conversation was easy, sex was easy… just like today. After she let me into her room, we barely spoke to each other. I loosened the tie on her robe and let it fall to the floor, pushed her down onto the bed, and she opened her legs to me.
I always tried to make sure she got hers first, because there was no telling how long I might be in the mood to go. I went down on her until she was a trembling wreck, then climbed on top and pounded her tiny body with long, hard strokes, dragging out the pleasure as much as I could.
Several minutes later, we were interrupted by fate.
“Too hard, Jamie! Owww. ” Layla’s cries punctuated the ends of my thrusts, the breathy little sounds popping out of her throat more like hiccups than actual words. “Slow down, you’re hurting me.”
But my mind was already somewhere else.
“Shhh,” I hissed, stopping suddenly and leaning over to turn the radio up. A male announcer was yelling in that overly-excited style reserved for car dealership commercials, gun sales, and sporting events of questionable merit.
“…the Phillips Arena tonight at eight!”
the announcer crowed.
“Brutality Sports MMA Extravaganza! Tickets on sale at the box office!”
The voice continued, but that’s all I heard. My mind was spinning with possibilities. I looked at the clock.
Four-fifty in the afternoon. Shit!
“I’m really sorry, babe, but I’ve gotta go,” I said, snatching unceremoniously out of Layla’s sweet body and discarding the empty condom into the wastebasket. I grabbed my shorts off the floor, pulled them on, and stepped into my sneakers.
“You’re leaving right in the middle of sex?” Layla leaned up onto her elbows and stared at me, bending her knees and laying them over to one side in a demure pose pulled straight from a lingerie catalog. Her perfect tits were partially obscured by the blond hair spilling over them in waves. “What could possibly be more important than sex, papi?”
“My future,” I told her, pulling my t-shirt on and slinging my messenger bag over my shoulder. “I just figured out what I’m doing for my final project, but I’ve got to get over to the Journalism building before Dr. Washburn leaves. I don’t know what time his last class is. He’s probably on his way out to his car by now. I’ll make it up to you, okay?”
And to myself.
“What is your project?” she asked, but I was already out the door, wondering why in the world she thought I had time to chit-chat if I didn’t even have time to get a nut.
I ran all the way from Layla’s dorm to the Journalism building, ignoring the occasional cries of protest as I pushed roughly past the people standing in the halls. Dr. Washburn was just locking his office door as I rushed up behind him, trying to catch my breath.
“Caught you!” I said too loudly, and he jumped.
“Dammit, Jamie. You nearly gave me a heart attack.” Dr. Washburn pushed his wire-framed glasses up higher on his nose and narrowed his watery blue eyes at me. “What can I do for you? My last class is about to begin.”
“I have an idea for my final project. I want to cover tonight’s MMA event down at Phillips Arena, but I need you to call and get me a press pass. Can you do that?”
Dr. Washburn squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his short, reddish beard, his agitation clear. “That is a great idea, Jamie, but why did you wait till the last minute? I’m about to be late for class.”
“I didn’t know about it until today. My stupid roommate… He’s always driving us crazy with that MMA stuff, so I don’t even know how he hasn’t said something about this. Please, I’m begging you. I know it’s short notice, but I don’t have any other options. You don’t want me to fail, do you, Doc?” I dropped melodramatically to my knees, poking my bottom lip out and giving him my best puppy dog eyes. “You know you’re my favorite professor, right?”
