Shirking off this thought as absurd, seeing as Jake was quite confident and probably rarely (if ever) suffered nerves, I gave out small smiles to a few people whose eyes I caught as I waited in line at the ticket counter and folded my coat over my arm.
I also smoothed the silk over my hip.
I was wearing a dress in a striking print of jewel colors, mostly sapphire and emerald with some ruby and pearl. The bodice was blousy but it exposed skin, indeed, the entirety of my arms, shoulders and shoulder blades were bare, with the neckline having cut-in shoulders and being mock-turtleneck. The waistline was a delicate row of gathers that went to my upper hip. The skirt was skintight and allowed movement due to a daring slit up the back.
I paired this with a pair of red stiletto-heeled sandals with a delicate slim crossover strap and peek-a-boo toe that even I thought were racy. In fact, the first time Henry saw me wearing them, his expression had changed to one he wore on occasion which I found gratifying (even if it was never in all our years acted upon)…sheer male admiration.
And now I saw the shoes had not gone unnoticed for some of the males were looking at my behind, but most at my shoes.
I finalized my look with a side ponytail that was a mass of teased out curls and a slim, stylish red handbag with a short strap.
And I waited in line patiently, not wishing to enter the arena too soon. But unfortunately, I made the front of the line in no time.
When I did, I opened my mouth but before I could get a word out, the man behind the window said, “Josephine Malone.”
“Why, yes,” I replied, surprised he knew me.
“Jake and Mickey both described you,” he explained then went on in a highly flattering manner. “Though they didn’t do you justice.”
“Well, thank you,” I said softly.
He gave me a crooked grin and looked to the side. He then slid out two envelopes and pushed them through the opening at the bottom of the window.
“Mick’s ticket and Jake’s,” he shared. “Mick’s up next so you better get a move on. But I’d use Jake’s ticket. He set up the league yonks ago so his seats are freakin’ fly.”
I looked down to the envelopes, both being identical, and then turned my eyes back to the man. “And which is Jake’s?”
“Turn ‘em over, darlin’. Jake’s says ‘Slick,” Mick’s says ‘Josephine,’” he answered.
I turned them over and saw this was true
“Thank you,” I again said to the man.
“My pleasure, darlin’,” he replied.
I smiled and moved out of the way. I then opened the envelope from Jake and pulled out the ticket. It was a real one with a section, row and seat number printed on it, which I thought was quite impressive. And the good news was that I only had to traverse a short area of the outer corridor to find the stenciled notification above a doorway that would lead to my seat.
I walked down the aisle to see the arena was rather large and rather full.
Yes, this community embraced boxing.
I couldn’t be surprised at how good my seat was as the ticket said “row 1, seat 2.” I figured that had to mean it was a very good seat.
I found this to be true when I made my way to row one and saw the two seats next to the aisle were empty. When I smiled at the lady (also tricked out as I was), who was in seat 3, she gave me a head to toe and smiled back in camaraderie, which I thought was rather pleasant. I sat down in my chair and realized why I was in seat two.
Seat 1 was too close to the corner of the ring and could be obstructed on occasion.
Seat 2 had a wide open view.
Oh dear.
The woman next to me leaned in and I looked to her to see she had her hand (with its black with white polka-dotted talons) extended my way.
I took it and she declared, “I’m Alyssa, Junior’s woman.”
“Hello, Alyssa,” I greeted. “I’m Josephine.”
She squeezed my hand and let it go, saying, “I know. Jake’s woman.”
I blinked.
She carried on before I could correct her, mistaken in my reaction. “Word gets around.”
“Uh…” I mumbled but said no more before she continued.
“Junior’s up next. Fightin’ Mickey. Don’t worry when Mickey messes him up. No one beats Mick but Jake. Then again, Jake fucks everyone up.”
This was good news on two fronts, one being Mickey was not fighting Jake and two being that it was likely Jake would win which was something I’d much prefer watching.
It was bad news for Alyssa though as it would be unpleasant to watch your “man” messed up.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
She grinned and shrugged, her long blonde locks brushing her shoulders. Seeing this, I bit back my advice that she use a roller brush and not hot rollers as her hair was quite lovely, but it was now arranged in a coiffure that made her head twice the size as it normally was, taking attention away from her very attractive face.
Then again, with the amount of cleavage she was displaying in her tight black dress, it was doubtful anyone but females would be looking at her hair.
“Junior doesn’t care. Trust me. He’s used to losin’, bein’ in a league with Jake and Mick,” she shared.
“That’s good,” I remarked, her grin got bigger and she leaned in again.
“He gets to celebrate after, win or lose. You get me?”
I had a feeling I did so I nodded.
This made her grin become a bright, appealing smile and she leaned in even further. “Nothin’ better,” she said quietly, her eyes dancing. “A fighter after a fight, all that aggression, all that adrenaline still flowing. I love fight night.”
Oh yes, I “got her.”
“Indeed,” I replied.
She moved in a way that she bumped my shoulder with hers in another show of camaraderie as I felt a change in the air.
She twisted and looked behind us.
“Here they come,” she announced.
I looked behind us as well and saw she was correct. Down the aisle, wearing a green satin robe with white lapels, came Mickey. As he did, I noted that only men like him could carry off a robe like that.
And carry it off he did.
I had to admit to feeling a tingle when he made it close to the ring, caught me sitting there, his head tipped to the side in what appeared to be confusion before it cleared. He gave me a highly attractive smile then he entered the ring.
The back of his robe proclaimed him “The Irishman.”
That wasn’t as good of a nickname as “The Truck” but it wasn’t terrible either.
He promptly took off his robe and I saw what I saw at the gym but more of it seeing as he was only wearing boxing shoes and a pair of green satin boxing trunks with a white waistband and little white shamrocks at the outer side hems.
I saw the man who had to be Junior in the other corner wearing white trunks with a red waistband and stripes down the side.
However, he didn’t look like a Junior. He looked like a Bruiser. He was completely bald and seemed bigger and scarier than Mickey.
At once, I was alarmed.
I became more alarmed when Alyssa cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted, “Fuck him up, baby!”
This was tremendously vulgar, though I thought it was kind of sweet when Junior turned his eyes to Alyssa, lifted a gloved hand to his heart then to his lips then punched it out at her.
“Love you, tiger!” she shrieked in reply.
I couldn’t help but grin since I felt this was all very cute.
The boxers danced around their corner talking to men outside the ring and I crossed my legs, tossed my coat in the empty seat beside me and tucked my bag in my lap.
“He’s a southpaw.” I heard Alyssa say as the man in black pants and a gray shirt—also incongruously wearing a ridiculous black bow tie—motioned the boxers to the center of the ring.