Reckless Stunner (Harsh Realities #1)

Chapter 1 Margeaux

MARGEAUX

I fucking hate red lipstick.

I ignore my body’s natural revulsion to the color as I stretch my lips into a taut o-shape and apply the deep, matte stain. A final lip pop and check for smudges—none. The small, silver stud in my cupid’s bow draws my eyes to the curve of my upper lips. This is my newest piercing, and I love it.

The red lip really does pop against the combination of my fair, mid-western skin tone, and my jet-black hair.

My hair is shining in dark waves that took forever to create under the heat of a curling wand and bottles of hairspray.

Once I start sweating, all this body will leave me with my boring, pin-straight locks.

“Ten minutes, Margeaux,” Dahlia, my coach, says as she struts into my dressing area. “You good on the plan?”

Dahlia’s been my coach since I joined Professional Entertainment Wrestling, or PEW.

I’m starting my second year with the organization and I have Dahlia to thank for a lot of my initial success.

When I was first trying out, I clicked with her coaching style immediately.

If I didn’t meet her at tryouts and training camp, I would have sworn she was a super model or something.

The woman is a total bombshell with her blonde hair and busty chest. The only give away that she’s not a model is her muscular physique.

I nod, loosening my neck and shoulders. “Yep. I’m excited for my new kick,” I tell her, standing up from my chair, bringing my knee up, and testing the weight and feel of my knee-high boot. I’ve spent the last couple of weeks training in these, and they’re nice and broken in.

She gives me her trademark smile, which earned her tens of thousands of fans back in her day.

Her wrestling career was cut short for some reason.

She was at her peak and about to become the most popular women’s wrestler, but mysteriously stopped.

Her quiet disappearance in her early twenties is one of the organization’s most popular rumors.

Fortunately, for me, she came back about ten years later to be a coach.

“Fuck yea. The crowd is going to love it.”

“You mean hate it,” I correct her, slipping into character.

“There ya go! They never expect moves like that from us bigger girls. They think we’re all brawn, no grace.” She rolls her eyes as I continue to stretch out my hips and hamstrings.

She’s not wrong. I’ve spent a lot of time this season working on my agility and practicing more sleek maneuvers. This is my first time making it onto a televised match. This is huge! I’m on my way to becoming the premier event.

Everyone wants to be in the premier event– be featured as the highlight match.

It can take five years of ruthless competition before that happens, and some people don’t even last that long.

The match directors are always looking for new talent, and personalities that appeal to fans.

Athletes get injured. The owners of the organization are only willing to sign so many people.

We’re all fighting for a seat at the table.

I’m hoping to make a big splash this year and solidify my place in this organization.

The first year as a rookie is overwhelming— the crowds, the intense training, and learning who you can and can’t trust. Only six people from the group of twenty-five that I tried out with were offered contracts.

And from those six, only four of us were invited back this season.

Three women and one guy. Like I said: fucking cut throat.

I’ve been lucky. The directors want to fill the ring with more “eye candy” as they love to say.

I fucking hate that term. I’m not a piece of candy.

My looks and appearance may have got me in the door, but I’m a great athlete.

I’m here to compete and make a name for myself in this sport. I’m on my way to making that happen.

I get along with everyone, and Dahlia is my favorite coach.

She’s honest and pushes me to be my best. It doesn’t hurt that she’s a fellow giantess, and she was a beast during her hay day as a wrestler.

Being a taller woman isn’t easy. And when I say tall, I mean we are fucking tall.

I even have a couple inches on her. It’s never been my style to take up less space, which suits my wrestling persona, as one of this season’s worst villains.

“This outfit is so fucking hot. You’re gonna have them drooling for you. They won’t be able to boo you.” This is her style before every match- she boosts my confidence, highlighting my outfits and strengths. I eat it up. I wouldn’t say I require validation, but I’ll never turn down a compliment.

“I’m definitely feeling myself in this,” I smirk, running my hands down my long torso.

Tonight, I’m rocking a tight, single-strap, black singlet with silver trim, leaving half my ass peeking out.

Most female wrestlers go with a bikini, or shorts and a bra.

I think the singlet helps me stand out. Not like I need help with that as a woman over six feet tall, and a massive amount of body art.

I still remember when I came home with my first tattoo.

It was during winter break while I was a freshman in college.

My suburban mother literally clutched her pearls and tried to ground me.

It wasn’t even that big. I considered getting my volleyball number, but it proved to be the unluckiest number of my life—14.

So, I had it reversed and tattooed behind my right ear.

My version of rewriting a script that took a plot twist I never saw coming.

My twin brother, Jacky, nicknamed me the ‘rebel’ of our family after that, and I think it just stuck.

Needless to say, I’ve leaned into the role.

I quit volleyball the next season, found a wrestling school to train at, and continued with the reclamation of my body- one new piercing, one more tattoo at a time.

“Five minutes, girl. Let’s go,” Dahlia says, pats my shoulder, then smacks my ass. It’s our pre-match thing.

I walk out of my dressing area, ignoring my phone as it vibrates on my vanity. The only thing that matters right now is this match. My fans. The haters. The lights.

The MC’s voice blasts through the sound system, filling the entire arena. An icy chill of excitement makes my body shiver. I never got this kind of rush when I played volleyball- too many rules. That life wasn’t for me. This is. These are my people.

“Who is that entering the arena?” the MC says.

The crowd is already going wild with a mixture of cheers and jeers.

I wave my arms like I’m happy to see them, then kiss my hand and slap the underside of my ass cheek as I strut down to the ring.

“Oh! It’s Margeaux Wild! Everybody’s new favorite bad girl of the ring!

” My walk-out song, Vicious by Halestorm, starts blaring.

The shouts and boos only spur me on more. If I could give them the middle finger, I would. However, this is a family program at its core. Everybody loves a heel, a villain. It’s like I give them permission to go against the grain, to question authority, to resist following the status quo.

Eva Sanchez mean-mugs me as I hop up into the ring.

She’s medium height and jacked—a former gymnast who is known for flying around the ring.

“Well, well, well. Look who finally decided to show up. I thought you got scared and finally wised up. You know you’re no match for me,” Eva says in her perfectly perky, yet condescending way.

She and I actually get along pretty well outside of the ring.

We have to, if we’re going to be able to coordinate these matches and our moves.

I snatch the microphone from her, towering over her, letting my size do most of the talking for me. She flinches briefly, which gives the crowd the subtlest form of drama they crave at these standoffs. I flip my hair off my shoulder and bring the mic up to my mouth.

“The only thing I’ve wised up to is that this match is a waste of my time and energy.

” The crowd shouts, desperate for us to start body slamming each other.

Not yet. “My only interest is to show you, and the rest of your Glam Squad, that you picked the wrong crew to mess with. Below Zero is here to freeze you out, once and for all.” I keep my voice steady, letting a cold silence brew between us.

She looks up at me with her dark brown eyes.

I’m more than half a foot taller than her, especially with my boots on.

She mouths ‘whatever’ to me, snaps her fingers in my face, and spins around fast, whipping me in the face with her dark, curly hair.

I wish I could get my hair to stay in a style like that.

She struts to the end of the ring, making it seem like she’s going to stand on the ropes to rally up the crowd.

Except, she does two back handsprings and crashes into me, and I fall to the floor in a practiced fall.

The crowd screams as the bell rings.

The art of entertainment wrestling is maintaining the illusion of spontaneity and realism.

Everything is rehearsed. We practice our spots and know the sequence within the match.

The show is in how well you sell everything.

Good wrestlers can sell a move. Great wrestlers are the move; they are the energy they create.

The crowd can’t distinguish where the character starts and where the real person playing the part ends.

I plan on being one of the greats. Every move. Every word I speak. Every match gives me the opportunity to make my name known: Margeaux Wild- rebel and badass. Soon-to-be: champion.

I have Eva on her back, my bodyweight pinning her down and one of her legs stretched up to immobilize her.

She sells the agony perfectly, struggling underneath my weight.

I let her pop her hips, giving her the chance to kick me in the chest and push me off her.

The crowd screams for her triumph, but they aren’t ready for the match to be done yet.

I stumble to my knees, then use the ropes, outlining the edge of the ring, to get myself to my feet.

I look up and Eva is flying off the top of the corner, landing sideways into me, and slamming us back onto the floor of the ring.

The crowd breaks out in an audible “ooooooo” as I break Eva’s fall and take the brunt of the collision.

This is my moment to make my move. I let Eva keep the upper hand as she works to pin me.

She lays sideways across me, focusing on stretching my leg up and towards my face, with my arms out to my sides.

The ref slams his hand to the floor, counting down the pin.

“One!” Mike, the ref, shouts along with the crowd.

“Two!”

Mike is positioned in my periphery so I can see exactly when his hand is about to slam down on the floor for a third time.

The refs are just as much a part of the show as we are.

I simultaneously thrust my hips and throw a hard punch at the side of Eva’s head.

Her reaction is textbook with a loud shriek and a backwards roll as she covers the side of her face. Perfect sell.

Mike moves out of my way, clearing the ring for me.

I stretch my arms out to the sides, riling the crowd up.

I see fans holding up posters with my name painted on them, and the fire in my belly reaches new heights.

Eva continues to writhe on the floor. I grab the back of her hair, yanking her head back.

She holds my wrist to help me control the amount of force I use.

I drag her to the corner of the ring, her knees scraping against the floor, making it look like she’s fighting against me, following our script perfectly.

She was following our script perfectly.

She ad-libs, breaks free of my hold on her hair, punches me in the gut, then across the face.

I collapse against the rope, and the crowd gets louder.

Improvising happens, but there is no reason for it right now.

The match is almost finished. I am supposed to slam her into the mat-covered corner of the ring, leave her dizzy in the center of the ring, and whip out my new kick move.

I’m set to win this match; this was my time to show my new signature move.

I glance over at Mike and he gives me the signal to go with it.

The crowd is loving that she’s winning. They always root for the faces—for the heroes.

“What are you doing, Eva?” I say under my breath as I pull myself up from the floor.

“They’re eating this up!” she hollers in my ear. “Go with it.”

She runs to the opposite end of the ring and kicks back into another double back handspring–which is becoming her trademark move– letting me break her fall as I take the hit, and collapse into the ropes, again.

“Eva, no!” I argue, but our time in the ring is almost over. I try my best to keep my emotions in check, but she’s ruining our match.

Mike gives us the signal to finish the match. “Eva to win. The tower called it in.”

Whatt?! The match directors have a direct line to the refs during our matches to deliver instructions if need be. They just changed the outcome of the match. And there’s nothing I can do about it.

Eva gives him a nod, then flops on top of me, driving her elbow into my stomach.

“You’ll get another chance in our next match. This wasn’t my call,” she says as she brings my leg up, and I grimace, selling how painful the stretch in my hamstring feels.

“One!” Mike slams his hand against the floor.

“Fuck you,” I scoff, unable to prolong the match any longer.

“Two!” Mike slams his hand a second time. The crowd is so loud now that I can barely hear my thoughts.

“Three!”

Match over.

Eva jumps up, lifting her arms in triumph.

The crowd is roaring her name. I see the disappointment in my fans’ faces, and I can’t stand it.

She pries the microphone from Mike’s hands. “I promised you all that the Glam Squad would win tonight!” Eva shouts victoriously, flipping her hair away from her face, ignoring me behind her. “This is bringing me one win closer to becoming your Women’s Champion. And I can’t wait to– ooohhhmmpp!”

I send Eva crashing into the ropes as I smack her from behind with an aluminum chair.

The crowd goes wild. This is what I wanted.

“Margeaux! Margeaux! Margeaux!”

Now they’re screaming my name.