“So, Miss Stern, where should we have this interview?”
“Your place. It would shed a lot of light about how you live,” I answer.
He clicks his car open. “One honest interview and a side of first base make-out coming right up.”
***
Ty lives in a rundown neighborhood in Concord. He has a chain link fence, and it’s dotted with girlie mementos firmly tucked into its holes. There are thongs and bikini tops and love letters and phone numbers on the fence, all in different colors and sizes. I brush my fingers along the fence links as we walk to the locked gate and instinctively pluck out one pair of undies and examine it, only to discover that it’s used and smells of the woman who wore it.
Christ on a cracker. I think I just totally lost my faith in humanity.
Fan letters are jamming his mailbox full and a huge American flag waves from his red-roofed, one-story house. A vintage, custom-made Harley-Davidson is parked on his wooden porch, and a black-lace bra rests on its leather seat. The image of Ty screwing a girl on his Harley in the middle of the exposed yard makes my fingers shake with fury. I feel whiplashed, sick and frustrated.
I can't believe I kissed the guy. What the hell was wrong with me?
Yes, I judge a book by its cover, and it’s becoming apparent that the content matches the cover pretty perfectly.
We get in the house and Ty slams the door shut with his foot, but I’m still haunted by the sex shrine fencing his place.
There is something about the reaction Ty gets from girls that seriously pisses me off. It’s the same reaction I have to him.
Complete. Lack. Of. Self. Control.
The letters. The underwear. The bra. Even if Ty were the nicest, most loyal guy on earth, it’s too much to handle. We sit across from each other and he rests his head back against his armchair. His living room is slob-central, full of men’s gadgets, books, Xbox games, three laptops, clothes and weightlifting equipment. I press my fingers to my eye sockets and try not to think about all the underwear I’ve just seen outside. The man is literally surrounded by pussy 24/7. How can I even concentrate on the interview?
His low voice soothes, “They’re just fans, you know.”
I drop my head into my hands. “And they're majorly supportive, in more than one way.”
“Come on, that’s bullshit. They don’t even have the guts to come and see me face to face.”
“Some of them do.” I think about the bra hooked on the Harley.
“Yeah, some. And they're good for killing time. I think I'm done killing outside the cage. Now let’s do this interview.”
I place the recording device on a table between us in his living room and take out a notepad and a pen. I hate taking notes when I interview people, afraid to miss the flicker of emotion in their eyes when they say something important, scared they'll close up when I scribble something like a shrink and remind them that, ultimately, this is not a conversation, more like an interrogation. But busying myself with setting everything up allows me to gather my thoughts. Tyler really does seem to be genuine about his intentions toward me, but it's difficult to place my trust in his hands, because these hands have touched, caressed, pinched and stroked so many other women.
I turn the recorder on. "Start from the beginning. What made you become a MMA fighter?"
"Anger tantrums, mostly." He chuckles to himself, running a hand over his buzzed hair thoughtfully. He stares hard at the floor, not meeting my eyes. “I’ve always been physical, and as a kid, I was all over the place. Everyone knew how easy it was to get Tyler into a fight. I wouldn't back down, no matter how big, older or scary the other kid was. It wasn't bravery, it was rage."
I purse my lips, drawn to his sudden fragility. Tyler is always honest, but he isn't the brooding type.
"Let me guess, you always won?"
"Nope," he answers casually. He sends me a lazy smile, shaking of his weird mood. "And it didn't matter. Still doesn't. I want to win...but I don't need to. I want everything else that comes with the fight. The anticipation, the head games, the thrill, the fear, the pain, the touch of my skin against someone else's. I need it like I need to breath. And if I manage to pay my bills by entertaining a bunch of people while doing what I love...well, it's a win-win situation."
He enjoys pain. Thrives on it. How sick is that?
"So you were a handful as a kid?" I steer the conversation back to the original subject. My body is inferno hot, and I feel a bead of sweat traveling down my spine.