A/N: Hello! I know I've been gone quite awhile, sorry about that! However, while I was gone, I got loads of inspiration, which is exactly why I'm writing this fic. It's new, never been done before, and fresh. Also, I think I really have bettered my writing, so if it sounds different... yay (At least for me that is.)For those of you reading TEOC, I'm 95% done with the next chapter. Please don't forget to review, I need 5 to continue 3/26/13 A/N: I fixed some MAJOR mistakes in this chapter, so feel free to read it again if you already haven't. :P But if there are some few remaining ones, I'm sorry. ~Gord. ALSO, if you're reading this story would you mind giving my other fic a read? LOVE YOU GUYS!
I miss the Tylenol bottle again. My fingers make a mad dash for the pills that have flown out of the bottle on the nightstand. I finally grasp one, and slide it onto my tongue, swallowing it dry. The aftermath of last night comes flooding back into my brain.
Come on, Fitch! You've got this! Tony screams. The crowd goes crazy as I take another blow to the jaw. Blood flies from my swollen lips and scatters onto the mat. I wobble unsteadily as she takes another swing, but I duck.
"Fuck! Come on, Fitch! Come on!" He shouts more. I throw my gloved hand at her nose as I hear her grunt. "This is ridiculous!" He picks up a pack of stacked papers off the foldable table, throws them to the ground, and stomps them out. I punch her again, catching her off guard. She puts up her fists, and concentrates on unsteady stature. Boom.
Her glove connects with my temple. A red copper taste fills my mouth and spittle flies out from between my teeth. As camera flashes go off, the commentator says loudly into the microphone, "And Red Riding Hood is down! We've got a K.O. over here!" The ref counts. Everyone in the crowd stands up and makes noise. My opponent spits on the mat and snarls. The referee, Thomas hustles over to her, and holds up her arm.
"Aaaaaand, we've got a winner hereeee! Miz Fitgerald!" The announcer states. More camera flashes go off, and my eyes shut before I hear-
"Oh shit! Look what- fucking hell! I'm going to have to deal with this! Would you- Jesus, fucking Christ! Somebody get her up. Quick! God dammit!" He pulls out his cellphone, and starts to call somebody. He shouts angrily into it. I blink slowly, and before I know it, my eyes have shut.
I'm awake, but I don't open my eyes. I don't have the strength right now. I'm in a hospital bed. I don't need my eyesight to tell, I'm all too familiar with this building's presence. I used to come here a lot, having amateur boxing matches when I was fourteen, and getting the shit knocked out of me. The smell is all too hard to miss. The doctor is examining my head. I can feel little droplets of blood soak into the towel wrapped around my head. "Yeah, she'll be fine. Just a minor head injury," I feel cold, gloved hands prod at my noggin. Not the kind of gloves I'm used to though, they're the plastic, disposable kind.
"Girl's gotta tough skull."
"When will we be done here?" Tony asks. I can already hear the blank, lets-get-this-over-with tone in his voice. The kind of tone that you can imagine him hurridly tapping his Alden brand penny loafers in, checking his watch over and over again.
"Let me disinfect her. Her head will be fine, so will her lip."
"Yeah, I know. Hurry up, yeah? I've got places to be, people to fucking deal with."
"A busy lad, aren't you?"
Tony just looks at the man and checks the time on his phone. I close my eyes once more.
.0.
My phone rings. It's an iPhone 5. Top shit, innit? I tap the answer button. "Hello? Fuck! Worst. Migraine. Ever."
"You know last night's fight, Em? Have you seen what they've put in the bloody news? It's in the fucking tabloids, too!"
"Nah, Tone. It's about fucking eight in the morning."
"Correction, miss, its one in the afternoon."
"Yeah, well. It's a Saturday, alright?" I scratch my head, "What is it?" I jerk my hand back at the soreness of my scalp.
"Turn on your telly. Give it a watch."
"Alright, see you." I hang up. Dickhead. I think to myself. I sigh and sink even lower into my bed as I search for the remote. I flick on the television and turn to the nearest news channel. "Shit!" The television is blaring, set to maximum volume. I automatically grab the clicker again and set it on mute. I silently read the subtitles.
"First time defeated female boxer, MMA fighter, Flyweight gold medal champion twenty year old Little Red Riding Hood, also known as Emily Fitch has been knocked down by twenty-one year old Franchesca Fitzgerald. Broadcast last night on Box Nation, a new British boxing channel, captured Emily Fitch being knocked out for the first time in her four year expanse.
"Let's see if Southgate locals have a bit to say about this.
'Personally, I knew one of 'em was gonna go down like that. Boxing belongs to the men, yeah?' A scruffy looking bloke notes.
Welsh prick. Another woman says, 'I think that she shouldn't stop fighting. She's been such a strong head throughout her entire career and I really look up to her.', The camera switches to a few boys, probably about fourteen or fifteen, 'Yeah, she's about done.' One of them says, the other two nod. 'Franks cracked her a bad one, didn't she? Yeah mate, she's done.' The camera switches to a playback.
In full HD, you can see me being punched, square on the right side of my face. Fuck. I really took it, didn't I? Saliva and blood shoot out of my open mouth as I fall onto the mat and the referee counts. I blink rapidly, before eventually shutting my eyes. "Wow," I say to myself. I shut my eyes and rub my sore as fuck forehead. Every side of my head aches. Every inch. Fucking migraines are killing me, and I already know Tony's going to try to make me go out today. After-the-match party or something.
I unlock my phone and call Tony back. It rings three times.
"I saw it. I can't fucking believe this. I've already got enough shit on my plate."
"Well, you better start healing fast. We've got an after-"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know, alright?"
"Suit yourself. Now fuck up, or shut up. And by that, I mean get ready for tonight, by 7:30. We're trying to get there at eight. I'll have a limo come swing by and pick you up, drop you off, you'll take a few pictures, make a statement, answer a few questions, shake hands with Franky."
"You sound like a robot."
"I'm your manager. What can I say? Oh yeah, a bunch of actors and models will be there, too. A lot of the top shit fuckers. So come dressed to impress, and we'll have Linda come round at 7:10 to do your makeup. Cheers." He hangs up.
I push back the covers and stretch for a bit. The sun catches my eye and I wince. I walk into the bathroom and examine myself. My hair is a mess, dark strands of raven black flying everywhere. I've just recently dyed my hair from cherry red to pitch black. Although, the press still won't stop calling me Little Red Riding Hood. My attention soon evaporates from my hair to the bandage that my hand is tracing over. Also my busted lip if I forgot to fucking mention. I peel back the bandaid covering my temple, and I see a stamp of blood the size of a five pence coin. My chin is scraped from the mat. I must have bit the dust when I fell down. Luckily my mouthpiece was in, I would've bit off half my tongue with that fall. I smile, examining my teeth. Ever since I started professionally boxing, at 16, none of my teeth have been chipped the slightest.
My elbows are a little bit scraped. My knees are alright. I look a bit roughed up, but it's fine. Nothing I haven't had before. But you already know the media will be raving about it. A busted lip, a head bandage. Its not like I haven't walked outside with a busted lip before, but it's about the fact that I lost that the paparazzi and their cameras will be all over. I turn on the sink and wash my face. I give my porcelain cheek a tug and pull. "I'm still fit as, though." I state as a matter of fact. Shutting off the sink, and leaving the bathroom, I close the door.
.0.
My head is tilted back as the steam from the shower knob rolls out each sizzling drop of water against my pale skin. Lacing shampoo through the roots of my hair, I hear my front door open. On impulse, I draw back my shower curtain and turn off the water. I hear footsteps approaching, and I hide behind a nearby wall. As they draw closer, I steady my hands for an uppercut.
Before I even know what I'm doing, I swing at Linda, (yes, Linda), and in the midst of seconds right before I knock the absolute bollocks out of her, she catches my fist. "What the fuck?" I ask her. My brain is just now processing that Linda is not an intruder or some crazed fan, and or paparazzi, and also the fact that I am stark naked. "I was a makeup artist for Scotty Cardle. Threw a hell of a punch while drunk. So it's no big deal, I've handled worse." She's American. I can tell by her accent.
"Sorry," I retract my arm. "But, weren't you supposed to come round at 7.10? It's 6.50. And, how did you get in?"
"I have a key."
"How'd you get it?" I raise an eyebrow.
"Tony Stonem. He said this might happen, but it's not like it's a big deal or anything. Like I said, I've handled worse." She shrugs, while checking me out. I immediately cover myself up with my hands.
"Right. I'm going to go finish what I was doing..." I turn around and walk back into the bathroom. I rub my sore head, which is pulsing with a definite migraine. I'm definitely not going to be drinking tonight. After I climb back into it, I finish my shower, dry off, and walk into my bedroom to find Linda in there, sorting through my closet.
"What're you doing?"
"Dressing you up."
"You're only here to do my makeup." I challenge her.
"And then some."
I sit down on the edge of my king sized bed while I watch her sort through her suitcase sized makeup bag. She pulls out a black dress, black tights, and red heels. "That's what I'm supposed to be wearing?" She nods, pulling out a case full of makeup supplies.
"Look, that isn't going to work. I've got one searing headache, and I can't be bothered. I'll give you £1,000 if you fuck off, yeah?" I bargain with her, rubbing my forehead.
"Deal." She says, packing up her suitcase. "Oh, speaking of Tony, he wanted me to give you this." She tosses me a tabloid paper. I set it on my bed.
"Thanks. Contact Tony tomorrow. He'll take care of everything." I listen while she shuts the door.
"Shit." I sigh and lie down on my bed. I rub my sore temple. I know I've been acting as if my knockout never existed, but in the life of Emily Fitch, you've gotta act like shit's alright. Especially in front of the public eye. I take another aspirin off of my nightstand, swallowing it, feeling the dry lump slither down my throat. "Alright, Fitch. Gotta take matters into your own scarred, tiny, glove worn out hands."
I sort through a pile of clothes in my bathroom. I stop and look at the mess. I should probably get a maid or something. I live in a big arse fucking place. It can't look like shit. And again, it can't look like shit to the public eye, either. Good thing I keep my shutters tight. In the pile of the clothes scattered around the obsidian floor, next to the some-kind-of-really-expensive-tree wooden cabinets, which has a grand marble sink, or should I say, sinks attached. Nice, innit? Yeah, I've worked hard for all this. Riches aren't everything, but a nice sink is cool to look at, I guess.
I pick up a gray, waist length trench coat, with black buttons. I lumber toward my walk in closet, and out of all the most expensive looking, really appropriate pieces of clothing, which Tony had sent to me, by the way, I pick out simple, black tights. Shuffling them on, I pull on the tights, while hopping one legged deeper into the closet, I scope out a pair of ratty, white Vans shoes. I button up the coat. My black hair has dried by now, but I don't bother fixing it. Fuck the makeup, I think to myself. I pick up my Vans and set them down at the door, and I check the time as well. 7.25 PM. I've got a bit of time, so I leaf through the tabloid. The first thing I see is, "EMILY FITCH: BOXING CHAMPION LOSING HER GAME?"
There's a few pictures of me, and a very large one of me getting punched square in the face. Yeah, that'll look good on my portfolio. I keep reading. Just more talk about how I'm losing my game, how it might be time for me to drop out. And then a bunch of rumors I rip up the tabloid and walk upstairs towards the balcony. I slide open the crystalline sliding glass door, and look down at the streets. I see the long, sleek, black limousine waiting for me. I jog toward my room and grab my mobile off the charger. Heading back downstairs, I slip on my Vans, open up the door, and quickly lock it before jogging toward the limo.
Orange-headed Alo steps out of the limo, clad in his silly black on-the-job hat, white button down, black suit jacket, black pants, and Converse, not to mention his golden cufflinks, and Men in Black sunglasses, fag in hand. As soon as he sees me approaching, he immediately stands up straight, and gives me a military salute with his right arm bent, his hand sticking out, touching his forehead after taking off his sunglasses with his left hand. He opens up a door for me."Getting lucky tonight, eh, Em?" He asks while getting in the driver's seat. He starts the car, turns on his headlights and starts driving.
"Not with this headache, Alo." I reply, sitting in the seat behind him.
"Yeah, well, I'd be happy to give you a massage, yeah? Or better yet, give that girl Franky a punch for ya."
Alo always was the boy to hit on an older woman. Sure, he's only two years younger than me, but still. He'd lay any girl if it wasn't for his girlfriend Mini, and their one year old baby, Grace. He's cool. A nice driver, and he keeps me company. He's not anyone I'd share my feelings with, though. I'm too tough for that.
"Mate, I think I can handle this one, right? Not to mention I'm as gay as a window." I roll down the window, and reach for his fag that he's got in his left hand, popping off my seatbelt, and reaching over the driver's seat before plopping back down and buckling up.
"That's true. Oi, Em, are all girl boxers lezzer? Reckon you can get me one of those?" I laugh at his question.
"I don't know, Alo, can't really speak for all of us, can I? And if you ever got into an argument, she'd drop your arse fast enough." I pick up the lighter sitting beside me, and set fire to the cigarette held between my left hand's index and middle finger. He chuckles at my comment. "You aren't too dressed up, are you? Tony said he was gonna have some chick come to your house and doll you up."
"I turned her down, gave her £1,000 to bugger off. Not to mention she saw me naked." I take a toke on the cigarette. "Woah! No kidding?" He reaches back for the fag, which he takes a drag on, and passes it back to me.
"Yeah. Didn't seem interested though. Straight girl. American. I almost swung on her, too. She came into my house out of bloody nowhere. Had no idea how she got in. It was okay, though. She said she used to work for Scotty Cardle. No wonder how she caught my punch."
"Thee Scotty-fucking-Cardle? No bloody way!" He makes a roundabout turn. Alo rolls down my window so I can get rid of the cigarette's ashes and then rolls it back up.
"Yeah. Besides, I couldn't be arsed to get all dressed up like that. I got knocked out remember?"
"Yep, but you didn't come out with anything too bad. At least the dogs won't be raving over it as much as a, I dunno, a concussion or something."
"Psh! Yeah bloody right. Course they'll be raving over it. It's the matter that I lost, remember?
"Hm. Alright, babe, here's your stop," He says, parking a corner away from my actual location, stepping out of the limo and opening up my door. He shuts it for me, and wraps me up into a hug. Its this thing we do before I show up at something public like this. He always parks a little bit away, so that I won't be bombarded at my own car. The parking, I meant, not the hug.
"Have a good one, champ." He says into my small
"Tell Mini I said hey, yeah?"
"Of course."
"Laters, Ginger." I wave bye to him as he drives off.
I walk towards the entrance of the party. Dozens of paparazzi are surrounding it. Thank God they hadn't noticed the limo yet. Jesus Christ. I keep my head down as I walk briskly towards it. I can see the lot of them, with cameras danging from around their necks, flashes ready to strike. One tall man murmurs, "Is that Emily Fitch?"
"Miz Fitch! Miz Fitch!" A swarm of bodies run toward me, microphones and recorders in hand.
"Is it true that you're now a failure?"
"Are you thinking of ending your career? Or possibly your life?"
"Miz Fitch! Is it true you are having an affair with Franky? The woman who beat you down?" One of them grabs at my chest.
I slap their hand away. "Fuck off!"
I walk even faster away from them. At least five other paparazzi's flashes go off, blinding me or a split second. One woman shoves a microphone in front of my mouth. "Do you have any comment on what's happened? Do you resent Franky?"
"No. I don't." I answer, hoping they'll fuck off now.
"Miz Fitch, why aren't you dressed up tonight?"
"Do you have any scars?"
I run even faster. The bouncer at the door stops me as soon as I get to the entrance. "I.D." He tells me. The paparazzi are starting to close in. Tony shows up beside him. "Emily come in."
"Jesus Christ!" I brush myself off. They're acting like bloody monkeys out there.
"Sh. There's some important people here. Act nice, alright? And why aren't you dressed appropriately?" He hisses.
"Whatever. I'm going to the bar." I wave him off and examine my surroundings. Classy music is playing, there's a man on the piano, up on stage, with a jazz band. He was right. Actors, actresses, directors, musicians. The furniture looks like it came from the queens house, expensive. There's a chandelier hanging with the prettiest bulbs. All the men are in suits, the women in dresses, their hair done, wearing makeup. Everybody's here. And I'm the only one dressed down. This place is huge. A bit like a mansion. The walls and ceiling are a velvet red, the suave carpet is a dark colour.
Even James Cook is in dressy attire. He's having a conversation with some bald bloke, sporting a goatee, wearing pinstripe suit. As soon as he spots me trying to find the bar, he stops his conversation with the man, mid sentence, and walks off. Baldy seems appalled and frowns at him. James didn't seem so interested anyway. He waves at me and smiles a toothy grin. One thing I hadn't noticed was that he was missing one tooth, in the bottom row.
"Oi, Emsy," He calls over to me.
"Oi, Jamie," I copy him. He picks me up in a hug and ruffles my hair. He walks with to me to get a drink.
"No dress tonight?"
"Nah, mate. Didn't have the time for it." He nods in understanding. "'Nough about me. What happened to your tooth?"
"Oh yeah, that," He slides his tongue over his teeth. "That there was Donnie O'Keefe."
We sit down at the bar, he orders a simple pint, I order a glass of cranberry juice. While he chugs his lager down, I check out what he's wearing. His hair is in a side part, gelled a little bit, with a classic taper cut. He's in an olive green suit jacket, with a white button down, black dress pants, and a pair of black leather loafers. He's also got a clean shave. He's wearing glasses. He sets the glass down on the counter. I look at his arm, which has a Baume Mercier wristwatch strapped on it.
"I missed you, mate," I wrap my arm around his neck. I plant a kiss on his cheek.
"Yeah, yeah. So what was up with you gettin' knocked down by that girl? What's her name? Fran? Oh yeah, Franky."
"I dunno. I don't remember anything, really. Is that all you're having?" I point to his empty glass. He wipes the back of his mouth with his hand. He sniffs. "You're talkin', babe. With what you're havin'."
"Come on," He says, he lifts me up off the stool after I finish the drink, and sets me up on my feet, "Some people are gonna be wanting to talk to you. I spied her here, as well. Franky, I mean. Gotta meet and greet some of the other famous cunts. You know the drill, Ems."
"Yeah, I do." He loops his arm with mine. You can almost hear the paparazzi outside hassling another incoming famous person. Thank God they're not allowed inside. "Look, there's Michael Radner. Let's go talk to him, yeah?" He gestures to him with his hand.
Jamie and I walk up to Michael who is holding a wineglass in one hand while tapping his foot to the beat of the jazz band. "Hey, Michael!" James says in a friendly way.
"Hey, James! Who's this lovely lady here?" He smiles. He's Irish. Tall, brown haired, blue eyed, casual black suit. Jamie shakes Michael's hand. "She's my great friend, Emily Fitch, best mates for life." James says.
"Oh, I think I know you. I saw you on the news this morning." He reaches out for my hand and kisses it.
"Oh yeah, and you were in that new movie, Nuisance, right? You're a lovely actor." I flash a smile at him. A fake smile at that.
"Right well, I think we've gotta be goin' now, Michael. See you later, yeah? Take care, mate." We both walk away. James loops his arm with mine again. "Arsehole." He murmurs. I see Tony waving from a corner in the room. "I think Tony wants to talk to me," I tell him.
"Right, go on, girl." He lets me go.
He walks off toward some woman. I start towards Tony, who's looking dazzling himself. He's talking to a girl, she's got peroxide blonde hair, medium length. She has pale skin, long legs, and she's wearing the skinniest, tightest black pants, black high heels, and a white lace top, with diamond earrings. When he sees me approaching, he tells her something like 'hold on,' because when he walks away she doesn't seem surprised.
"Emily, this is somebody I want you to meet, her name's Naomi Campbell, three time BAFTA award winner, director, actress, producer, and occasional model."
"So? What's she got to do with me?"
"You're going to be starring in a movie with her."
"What about boxing?" I ask him, giving him an odd look. I don't quite fancy where he's going with this.
"You're laying off the boxing for a bit," He says, as if its casual. My face contorts into a look of anger. "Everybody thinks you're losing your spunk? Well, you're gonna stop boxing for a while. Do something you haven't done before. So you're going to star in a movie with Naomi Campbell," he pokes me in the chest with a deviant smile, "and you're going to make best buds with her. It'll give something else the hounds to report about. It'll also give time for this whole Franchesca thing to blow out."
"What the fuck? Why would you just do that? Without my consent? I haven't fucking signed anything!" I shout. He looks around hastily, checking to see if anyone has heard my profanity. "Emily, be quiet! Lower your voice." I do as he says but with a growl laced within my words.
"You shouldn't be surprised. You almost fucked over your whole appearance coming out in that," He snarls, "You're doing this movie, Fitch. It's for the good of the both of us. If you want to represent yourself well, you'll do this. I'd thought that you and Naomi could get together. See, she's going to be cast as a lead role in a new movie, 912: Deathcall, which has actually got some action in it. They needed a female role, so I figured you'll be happy to do that job."
"How long am I doing this?" I touch my bandage. He knows I'm pissed off. He smirks at me.
"However long it takes. We need to get everything settled. You'll meet her and some more important men and women on Sunday, at 6.45 AM sharp. You'll be signing papers, particularly a contract. And a lot of more stupid shit like that."
"Why can't I just meet her now?" I want to get it done and over with, but at the same time I just want to piss Tony off.
"On Sunday, Emily." He walks away. The rest of the night is a blur. When the time comes, I shake hands with Franky, take pictures with her, I make a commentary speech about what happened at the match and so on, and how my loss to her does not in any challenge our "friendship." I could actually care less about what's happened, I just want some bloody sleep. Soon after, Tony drops me off at home, where I finally do succumb to slumber.
A/N: Hope you enjoyed it! That was the first chapter, and sorry for any mistakes. I'm typing on a new computer so its kind of different, not to mention I'm using a whole new different word document program that isn't Microsoft Word like I'm used to. Please leave a review, and tell me what you think! Also, if you're confused about what Emily was wearing or what Cook's haircut looked like, here are the links to what they look like. I also hope this wasn't too shabby, as I went back to proofread, which, hopefully I did a good job doing, and I put in some major parts and removed some.
Emily's outfit: +/g+oo.+gl/o+Dg5+H (remove the plus signs)
Cook's haircut: +/g+oo+.gl/+9a1+8k (remove the plus signs) If the links don't work, just tell me and I'll PM you the actual links. Thanks for reading!