Chapter 7 August, Denver #2
Hombre cocked his head to the side and started circling again, as if debating how to come at Pilot.
He shuffled his feet to the right, and Pilot decided to take the decision out of his hands.
He lunged forward on his right leg in a fake, pulled back, and then kicked Hombre in the left thigh.
He threw his forearm to Hombre's throat with his left and another punch to the stomach with his right.
Before Hombre could back pedal out of it, Pilot tangled his feet and pushed Hombre to the mat, falling after him.
Hombre landed with a thump and a rush of breath exhaled involuntarily, as he took all of Pilot's weight.
Obviously, he hadn't done his homework. That was Pilot's signature move.
He didn't waste time congratulating himself, though.
Pilot pulled Hombre's arms, and tightened his hold on Hombre’s legs.
Sweat already poured off of their bodies, making Hombre's limbs slick and harder to get a grip on, but Pilot managed to secure the hold.
Pilot took a punch to his head, as Hombre tried to wriggle out of the hold.
Pilot released him, ready to beat on him a little more.
Before Hombre could get on his feet all the way, Pilot twisted his body to the right and landed a side kick to his ribs.
Hombre's wince was unmistakable. As he turned to defend himself, Pilot stepped forward and kneed him in the stomach.
This time, Hombre bent fully over. Mistake.
When he leaned forward, Pilot grasped his hands together in a double fist and brought the hammer down on the man's shoulders, just below the neck.
Hombre stumbled to the mat, hands out in front of him.
Pilot had no sympathy and planned to get as many licks in as he could before the security guy called the fight.
He kicked Hombre in the face. Blood bust out over the mat from his nose.
It was probably broken, and surely painful. Pilot expected him to go down.
He didn't.
He rolled toward Pilot and grabbed his legs, fingers digging into Pilot’s calves.
He leveraged his weight to pull Pilot off balance and the next thing Pilot knew, they were wrestling on the ground.
Hombre made a hell of a grapple with him, despite the bruised gut and probably broken nose.
The bastard wasn't going to give up easily.
Pilot had to get out of the hold and off the mat.
His punching and kicking were better than his wrestling.
So, that's what he did, snuck in punches and knees and elbows everywhere he could.
He took his share from Hombre too, but if they were counting, Pilot was winning.
After what seemed like ages of being tied up with the sweaty man, rolling around on the mat, Pilot managed to get an elbow to his nose again, and he heard a distinct pop. Broke the nose for sure this time! Hombre cried out. And even better, he let go.
Pilot jumped to his feet and commenced kicking the shit out of Hombre, connecting with ribs, stomach, neck, legs, the back of his head, until Hombre finally started pounding on the mat with the flat of his hand.
The pretend ref in black appeared in the cage in front of Pilot, as if by magic. Pilot hadn't looked away from Hombre for a second. He shoved Pilot back and grabbed his hand, lifting it above his head and hollered, “Winner!”
Pilot's adrenaline levels immediately started falling.
He sprung out of the cage like a jackrabbit on crack.
He needed to get out of that area before his high came crashing down.
He knew from experience it would. He grabbed his duffle and pulled out his oversized t-shirt and sweats.
He yanked them on quickly, and then stuffed his bare feet into his black slides with the sports logo on the top, glad it was still summer and he could wear them instead of sneakers or his combat boots.
“Pilot,” Booker called out to him over the noise of the crowd. “Awesome fight, bloke!”
Pilot didn't bother to answer the pretentious flake. He merely stuck his hand out, demanding his pay.
“Yeah, I have your money, but do you want to go another card first? I think I have a no show in a bigger fight. Tougher opponent. Pays more.”
He had to think about it for just a moment.
He stared at Booker's ugly mug, but he saw Johnny's face and heard his sarcastic barbs. He didn’t want Johnny to have to pull out the first aid kit, and he didn’t think he should push it by adding a second fight.
..at least not yet. “Nope. I'm done. Give me my cash and I'm out of here.”
“Next week?”
Pilot shook his head, making sweat fall from his bangs, into his eyes and down the side of his face.
He didn’t like the energy in the place anymore.
Suddenly the little lightning tingles in his chest and on the back of his neck creeped him out.
“Nope. I'm working. I'll hook up with you at Trip Chill in the next week or two if I have a night open.”
Booker slapped an envelope into Pilot's still open palm. “Fine. If you weren't so damned good, you wouldn't get away with jerking me around, bitch.”
Pilot growled, but didn't think Booker heard it over the crowd. “Fuck off!” That, he knew Booker would hear. He didn't wait for a response. Feeling the negative vibes, he tucked the envelope into his bag and zipped it up, then high tailed it out of there before the whole night went tits up.
By the time he made it to the sidewalk on the main street leading to the transit station, his hands were shaking and his cock was hard.
Fighting tended to do that to him. The adrenaline made him want to fuck, but he didn't have anyone to go to.
Pilot wasn't into one nighters or quick bathroom fucks. He knew he could get plenty of that, but it seemed so cheap and empty. Pilot needed emotional connection with his sex. Or at least that's what he thought he wanted, though he hadn't ever really had it. Still, just because he hadn’t had that, didn’t keep him from dreaming about it. He’d never owned a security company, either, but he lived and breathed that dream.
He thought about his lack of relationships all the way home.
It didn't do much to soften his dick, though.
Maybe imagining what it would be like for him only made it worse.
At home, he jumped in the shower and soaped up quickly, more interested in getting off than getting clean.
His soapy hand wrapped around his cock, stroking fast then slow, building it up as slowly as he could stand it.
Pilot didn't have anyone to think about as he fucked into his hand.
No relationships, no crushes, but a super hard cock that wanted to plow something besides his sudsy hand.
He squinted his eyes shut and pressed his palm against the wet tiles and let his mind wander.
He needed something besides a faceless body to think about.
In moments, a face came to him. One with a hot body and long legs. Davey McAllister.
He knew better than to think anything would ever happen with the Supercross star, and he really didn't want it to.
The guy was nice but totally in love with his partner.
But, damn, he was hot as hell, too. The Supercross racers were all pretty hot, even in their gear.
Maybe especially in their gear. He couldn't wait for January with that thought.
He imagined Davey with his blue and red pants shoved down to his knees, bent over his bike, and Pilot's cock pushing into that tight hole.
He'd run his hands down those long, lean thighs and wrap his big fingers around Davey's slim hips, as he pounded hard.
In and out. His balls slapping against Davey's ass.
Back and forth. What would it look like?
Pilot shot out like a rocket, cum splattering over the shower curtain as he imagined it.
He slumped against the tile, his shoulders bracing against the cold. Pilot had never thought about Davey like that before and felt kind of guilty about it. But, damned if it didn't work. He'd come hard and his buzz from the earlier fight was gone. He wanted to crawl into bed.
After a quick rinse and toweling off, Pilot did just that. He slid under his comforter, wishing he had someone to join him, someone to hold onto.
The next day he would give Johnny his winnings to invest. He'd make living expenses doing shorter security jobs over the next few months, but the real payoff would be the Supercross gig with Apex.
He'd get to spend all his time with Davey’s partner, Tyler Whitmore.
He really liked the guy when he wasn't being a hot head and getting himself in trouble.
Otherwise he was very laid back with a great attitude and a wicked sense of humor.
Let anyone fuck with Davey though, and his cool demeanor came unglued.
Pilot wanted that. Someone to rush to his defense, even if he didn’t really need defending. It seemed so unlikely. Would the rest of his life be like this, wanting things he'd probably never have?