CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHRIS POV
I settled into the uncomfortable armchair to wait, sipping lukewarm coffee from a stained Styrofoam cup. The muffled roar of the circus outside occasionally swelled as more celebrities arrived.
I tried to focus on reviewing my resume and writing portfolio, mentally rehearsing my pitch for this potential gig. But my mind kept wandering, picturing that mysterious woman – Megan – and her brash confidence in the face of the unrelenting media glare.
Was she the actual boxer? Or just another member of the entourage? Surely a woman couldn’t be the marquee attraction for an event garnering this level of hysteria… could she?
My brows furrowed as I mentally replayed her toned, athletic physique and the almost feral glint in her eye. Maybe she was the trainer or something.
Two hours ticked by in agonizing slowness, the coffee growing cold and stale in my mouth. I was just contemplating another piping hot refill from the lobby’s battered urn when the doors burst open once more.
Jake strode in, his omnipresent grin looking even more smug than usual as he jerked his chin for me to follow. I scrambled to my feet, fumbling to gather my materials as I trailed after him down a mustier side corridor.
The air was thick with the mingled aromas of stale smoke, spilled beer, and cheap cleaning products – a strange bouquet that made my nostrils twitch. Jake led us to a dingy room bearing a hand-scrawled sign reading “Authorized Personnel Only.” He knocked twice in staccato raps before pushing his way inside.
“He’s here, just like I promised. Chris, this is-”
I followed Jake’s gesture to find not one, but two imposing women already occupying the cramped, dimly lit space.
Both fixed me with identical inscrutable stares that caused my throat to constrict nervously.
The older of the two looked like she’d been carved from granite and left to weather the elements for a few decades too long.
Her steely gray hair was cropped into a boyish pixie cut, framing a craggy, unsmiling countenance that suggested she wasn’t someone to be trifled with. Worn boxing wraps were wound around her gnarled knuckles in a permanent second skin.
In contrast, the other woman was the picture of athletic grace and power coiled in a deceptively lithe frame. She wore a sleek black jumpsuit, the fabric clinging to her toned curves in a way that made my cheeks flush involuntarily.
Her luxurious chestnut tresses spilled over one shoulder in an artfully tousled cascade, framing high cheekbones and full lips set in a neutral line.
Jake must’ve noticed my fixed stare because he snapped his fingers, jarring me back to reality with a bashful start.
“Earth to Chris – you still with us here, pal?” His chuckle held more than a hint of knowing amusement at my slack-jawed reaction.
I cleared my throat, cheeks burning as I shuffled the portfolio in my clammy grasp. “Uh, y-yeah… sorry about that, I-”
The words died on my lips as the statuesque beauty arched one perfectly sculpted brow in a silent challenge.
Despite her diminutive stature, her very presence seemed to suck all the oxygen from the room and command the spotlight.
Up close, I could make out the faint tracery of thin, pinkish scars marring her bronzed skin – souvenirs from countless battles waged with blistering intensity.
This woman was no glamor-puss celebrity playing dress up. She was a fighter, through and through. A cutting emerald gaze flickered over me with an almost palpable weight of judgment.
“So, this is the writer you’ve been rabbling on about, Jakey?” Her tone was a deep, rasping alto that contrasted sharply with her delicate, feminine features. “Gotta say, from the way you’ve hyped the kid, I was expecting someone… well, less scrawny.”
She smirked at that, revealing a dimple on one cheek. With that simple gesture, any pretense of softness evaporated, replaced by a feral charisma that dared me to look away. I swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing as my hands turned clammy.
“I-I, uh… it’s n-nice to meet you… Ma’am.”
She barked out a husky laugh, shaking her head in clear amusement at my boyish stammering.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the older woman’s lips had quirked up into the barest hint of a grin at my painfully awkward introduction.
“Oh lord, where are my manners?” The boxer extended a toned forearm bearing a myriad of precisely inked tattoos, her grip firm and calloused when I tentatively accepted the proffered handshake.
“Name’s Megan – Megan Williams, if we’re being all formal and shit. This crabby old relic is Coach Jane, my trainer, manager, and all-around pain in my ass.” She jerked her thumb over her shoulder with a playful wink.
Jane simply grunted in response, her expression letting me know exactly how little stock she put into the frivolous informalities.
My gaze flickered back to Megan, silently mouthing her name as the pieces finally clicked into place.
She was the one – the boxer whose exploits had whipped the paparazzi into such a frenzied lather out front. The celebrity attraction I was supposedly here to interview and compose a memoir for.
Any shred of doubt I may have harbored was immediately incinerated by the vivid memory of her striding through that lobby with the unshakable self-assurance of an apex predator.
No… Megan Williams was most definitely the real deal, in every conceivable sense.
Her emerald eyes glinted with knowing mischief as she no doubt registered the realization playing out across my features. “Cat finally got your tongue there, writer boy. Or were you expecting someone… bigger?”
Shit, had my initial shock at her petite frame really been that damn obvious?
I opened and closed my mouth a few times in a useless attempt at formulating literally any coherent response.
Megan was fixing me with that inscrutable smirk, clearly relishing my ongoing bewilderment at having such an imposing figure contained in her compact package.
I know I embarrassed myself but how on Earth am I to think that the Celebrity Boxer was supposed to be a BEAUTIFUL Lady?
THIS IS INDEED THE GOOD START I NEED