The Misconception (17 page)

He’s a studmuffin, he’s a studmuffin, he’s a studmuffin
.

The lyrics reverberated in his head, and Jax climbed into the ring. A referee, who in reality was nothing more than ornamentation, was already present. The emcee was gone.

Smashing Headhunter, his UWA “archenemy,” threw down his trio of shrunken heads and let out a tremendous roar, even louder than the one he’d practiced yesterday. The noise never ceased to amaze Jax. Outside the ring, the Headhunter spouted lyrical poetry and talked in a voice so low you could hardly hear him. The roar was part of the act, just like the child who’d been planted in the audience with the autograph sheet Headhunter wasn’t supposed to sign.

Jax grinned and postured, because that was part of the Secret Stud’s shtick. Feminine screams erupted from the vast legions of fans in the arena.

“Nobody messes with the stud except those little ladies alongside the ring,” Jax said, uttering his signature line.

The silliness dispensed with, he circled Smashing Headhunter with steps made light by his adrenaline rush. The crowd gave off a manic energy that transferred itself to Jax. He soared to a natural high he got from nothing else, if he didn’t count making love to Marietta Dalrymple.

As he dodged one of Smashing Headhunter’s furious charges, the irony of the situation struck Jax. Even though he was ashamed for it to be known that Cash “Jax” Jackson was the Secret Stud, he loved the grandeur and sheer excitement of pro wrestling.

He loved the storyline casting the villainous Smashing Headhunter as a descendent of the Jivaro people of eastern Ecuador. The Jivaro were actual headhunters who’d once shrunk and preserved the heads of enemies slain in battle, believing it would prevent the return of their vengeful spirits. As the UWA story went, Smashing Headhunter’s forefathers had massacred all but one of the Secret Stud’s forefathers. His forefather’s vindictive spirit lived inside the Stud. Never mind that neither wrestler had any ties to Ecuador.

Jax launched into his signature move, a flying one-hundred-eighty degree kick off the ropes called the Stud’s Super Special. His foot connected with Smashing Headhunter’s chest, and the other wrestler went down hard, the sound of him hitting the mat amplified by the piece of plywood underneath it.

Yeah, Jax though as the audience cheered wildly. He loved pro wrestling.

THE ROAR OF THE raucous crowd sounded to Jax more like a dim buzzing once he was inside the locker room. If it hadn’t been for Star Bright’s effervescent chatter, he would have been almost funereally quiet.

“Brilliant show tonight, Jax. Just a brilliant show. Loved it when that doll jumped into the ring and tried to stop Smashing Headhunter from smashing you.” Star threw back his head and laughed. “Talk about master touches. It was like the finishing stroke from Van Gogh’s paintbrush.”

“Did you set that up, Star?” Jax asked as he removed his black mask and sat down on the bench. The excitement of the wrestling portion of the match was fading, replaced by the reality of being the Secret Stud. His eyes narrowed. “Because, if you did, you should have told me. I wasn’t expecting her. She could have gotten hurt.”

Star managed to look injured, an expression that didn’t fit with the rest of him. He was a tall, broad man in his early sixties who teased his excess of white hair until it resembled an albino fright wig. He favored colorful suits decorated with sparkles and spangles. Tonight, he wore canary yellow.

“You know I wouldn’t do that to you,” Star said, then laughed his rolling belly laugh. “Then again, maybe I would. That doll had more moxie than half the wrestlers who enter the ring with you. Maybe I should hire her for your next match. The Studettes are too smart to get into the ring until the match is over.”

“Don’t, Star.” Jax shook a finger in warning. “It was damn embarrassing when she jumped into my arms and plastered me with kisses.”

“Really great theater, is what it was.”

“Come to think of it,” Jax continued, staring down at the muscles rippling through his red singlet, “wearing this costume is damn embarrassing.”

“I know you’d rather wear black, Jax, but the dolls like red. It reminds them of Valentine’s Day. I suppose we could switch it, though. How does fuchsia sound? Or chartreuse?”

“It’s not the color. It’s the act. I think it’s time we came up with another one.”

Star threw up his hands.“Another act! What blasphemy! Secret Stud has never been more popular. We’ve been over this before. Pro wrestling is a popularity contest, and right now you’re Mr. Congeniality. In this business, popularity is green.”

Jax closed his eyes, because he’d initially gotten into the business because of the very reason to which Star was alluding: Money. He’d enjoyed working as a teacher and coaching high school wrestling, but the pay was so low he hadn’t been able to support his mother and brothers in the style he wanted to.

Then the misfortune of one of his former college football teammates became Jax’s gain.

The teammate had just begun competing on some of the smaller pro-wrestling circuits when he was felled by a bum knee that needed reconstructive surgery. His fledgling act was uncommonly popular, so much so that the promoters didn’t want to lose it.

In a fit of largess, the teammate, who had a similar body type as Jax, phoned and asked if Jax wanted to assume his role as the Secret Stud. The only catch was that Jax would have to work with the wrestler’s business manager, too, who back then had been known as Harvey Smith.

Jax said yes, never dreaming that three years down the road he’d still be arguing with Star Bright while he enacted a role that was, at worst, sexist and, at best, silly. Not to mention very lucrative, which was why his mother could live in a tony neighborhood and Billy and Drew didn’t have to worry about college costs.

“I know the Secret Stud is popular. But that doesn’t mean another act wouldn’t be just as successful,” Jax argued. “Who’s to say the audience wouldn’t like me just as well if I wrestled as myself? I could even use a different last name. How about Jax Rules?”

“Cute. Very cute. But that’s a no go. Secret Stud is tried and true, and the UWA loves him. They wouldn’t just let you change your act. It’s too risky. You know that, Jax. When the tide turns against you in this business, it’s hard to swim back to shore. And we’re already on shore, baby. We’re already there.”

Jax’s heart sank, because Star was right. The last thing he could afford, with one brother in college and another just months away, was to jeopardize his paycheck. The way things were going, he’d make enough money in the next twelve months to pay off the entire higher-education bill.

Still, the knowledge that he had to play the Secret Stud for another year stung. Sometimes, he’d awaken in the middle of the night and play around with the idea of telling his family and friends what he did for a living. Never once had he considered confessing while he was still the Secret Stud.

“All this talk of changing your act brings up something I need to talk to you about.” Star affected a smile as fake as the oversized diamond ring on his finger. Jax mentally termed it his cubic zirconium smile. “You know that the UWA’s fifth anniversary is approaching?”

“Yeah?”

“The promoters want to do something really special, something cementing UWA’s status as a league that can compete with the WWF and the WCW. I’ve been talking to them about this very subject, and the talks involve you.” Star pointed to him with a flourish.

“Yeah?” Jax asked again, disliking the direction the conversation was taking.

“The Secret Stud is one of UWA’s most popular acts, so it only makes sense that you would be prominently featured at the wrestling extravaganza marking the fifth-anniversary celebration.”

“Get to the point, Star,” Jax said, uncommonly irritated. He didn’t even feel like telling a joke.

Star cleared his throat. “They want you to take off your mask, Jax. Then you could drop the Secret and wrestle as The Stud.”

“No way!” The words erupted from Jax as he rose from the bench. He took a few steps forward until he was face to face with his fright-haired manager. “There’s absolutely no way I’m doing that, so you can just forget it.”

“Aw, come on, Jax. You’re a good-looking guy. You’re already popular, but this unmasking could make your popularity skyrocket into the stratosphere.”

“No!”

“At least think about it.” Star’s voice trailed after him as Jax headed for the trainer the league kept on call during matches. “Remember the color of popularity is green.”

“I’ve thought about it all I need to think about it,” Jax shouted back, “and the answer’s still no.”

He had tag team coming up, Jax thought as he approached the trainer, and he could use some heat on his sore left shoulder.

What he couldn’t use was a public unmasking that would forever alter the way people thought about him and wreck his chances straight to hell of convincing Marietta Dalrymple to marry him.

Chapter 12

A persistent, clamorous ringing pulled Jax out of an apocalyptic dream in which Marietta Dalrymple, her legs crossed and her expression suspicious, watched him as he applied a flying body block to an opponent.

As he flew out of the wrestling ring, landing atop Sumo Man, Marietta rose from her front-row seat and strode right up to the spot where the carnage was taking place. She pointed at him in triumphant recognition, ignoring two pairs of flailing arms and legs and the banshee-like keening of the Secret Stud’s beaten opponent.

“I don’t care if you are a studmuffin, Jax,” she was yelling when the phone rang. “You stay away from me and my baby.”

Struggling to come fully awake, the ringing filling his ears, Jax groped for the receiver. He knocked over a lamp and banged his forearm on the nightstand before he succeeded in picking it up. “’lo.”

“Good morning. This is your wake-up call,” a cheery, mechanical voice came over the phone line. “It is eight-forty-five.”

He banged the receiver back down on its cradle and lay back in bed, thankful that the phone had roused him from the terror of the dream. With the Secret Stud’s mask back in place, he could rest as easily as he ever did a night after an UWA match when his body felt like one big bruise.

What had possessed him to request a wake-up call at eight-forty-five when he usually didn’t get up until ten? After last night’s performance, he’d had an earlier night than usual. He’d excused himself from the hotel bar after a single drink with The Bug-Eyed Alien, an innately shy man named John Smith with a passion for etymology’s creepiest critters in his non-wrestling life.

It wasn’t that Jax didn’t find the Bug-Eyed Alien’s discourse on cannibalistic praying mantises and swarming, stinging killer bees oddly fascinating. He just needed to get some sleep since he had, for some reason, requested a wake-up call for eight-forty-five.

Which isn’t why he’d turned down the invitation of a nightcap the leggy redhead had issued in the elevator.

Jax was no saint, but he wasn’t about to have carnal relations with one woman while another was pregnant with his child. Besides, the redhead hadn’t interested him in the slightest. Even if it flew in the biological face of Marietta’s ludicrous assertion that all men were on the prowl for variety and sexual excitement.

Marietta. Something having to do with Marietta had caused him to request that wake-up call, but why at eight-forty-five?

His eyes popped open as the answer came to him. He hadn’t asked to be awakened at eight-forty-five, but at seven-forty-five. Because the television program, “Meet the Scientists,” started at eight o’clock with Marietta as one of its guests.

He scrambled out of bed, squinting to locate the television in a room kept night-dark by the heavy blinds covering the window. Hurrying to turn on the TV, he bumped hard into an arm chair. He automatically placed both his hands on the cushion, leap-frogging the chair as though it were another wrestler in the ring.

Bringing his face close to the controls on the television, he pushed buttons until a picture switched on. He moved swiftly through the channels, afraid he’d blown his chance to watch her. As he clicked the controls, the images on the screen passed so quickly that he moved right past Marietta on the first go ‘round. He backtracked and smiled.

Marietta sat stiffly on an uncomfortable-looking leather chair, wearing an unbecoming tweed suit that had orange as a base color. The camera panned in on her, and lettering appeared at the bottom of the screen proclaiming her an evolutionary biologist from Kennedy College in Washington D.C. Considering they were just introducing her, apparently he hadn’t missed much.