Authors: Stacey Grice
“Yes! Please, Drew. I need you now.”
He entered me sharply, making me gasp at first in pain, but I quickly acclimated to accept him. He pumped into me fast and hard, looking into my eyes the entire time. He brought himself down to engulf my nipple into the heat of his mouth, his tongue circling slowly around until he bit down just enough to send a slight pain shooting through me; a split second of pain that quickly turned into pleasure. The sensation had a direct link to my clit, making me cry out in ecstasy.
“You feel so good, Bree,” he murmured as he drove into me.
“So.”
“Fucking.”
“Good.”
I brought my hips up with each thrust, changing the angle just enough to allow him deeper. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead and over his top lip; how hard he was working was so sexy and I felt my orgasm rising. As if he could sense it, Drew brought one of my legs across the front of his body, turning my body with the movement so that I was on my side, and continued to drive into me. His face was tense, his breaths quick. I loved seeing him like this. I shocked him by turning over all the way, with him still inside me. Now on all fours and him behind me, I clenched around him and moaned before he stopped moving completely, still penetrating me all the way to the hilt. He brought both of his hands to cover my ass, stroking over each cheek softly and then kneading into the muscles. His touch turned light as he caressed up my back and brought his hands around underneath me to my breasts. He cupped them, filling his hands as if they were created to fit perfectly into them. He still wasn’t moving, and with the heat of his hands engulfing my breasts and his fingertips grazing over my hypersensitive nipples, I needed him to move.
So I rocked back, clenching myself around him as my ass met his hips again. He moaned and clutched my breasts tighter and I rocked again, first forward, feeling him almost leave me completely, and then I pushed my body back with enough force to hear my skin slap against his. He groaned in pleasure, releasing a harsh breath and relaxing his hold on the front of me to re-direct his hands to my hips. I moved again, harder this time, loving his moans and his tightening grip around my hips.
I reached back with my left hand to caress his sac underneath us as I rocked toward him again, and the sound of gratification that left his lips was enough to put me over the edge. He could hold back no longer and grabbed onto my hips firmly as he fucked into me hard and fast, holding nothing back. My orgasm hit me like a freight train and I cried out to him, “Brian! Oh God, Brian!”
He soon followed, spilling into me, breathlessly replying as he stilled, “Brianne.”
Chapter Forty-One
DREW
When I woke up on the morning of my interview with Vince Johns, I felt okay. For about twelve seconds, I felt normal, peaceful, like nothing major or life-altering had happened. Certainly not like something life-altering was about to happen. With Bree’s warm body nestled against me, her rhythmic, steady breaths suggesting that she was still in a deep sleep, I was mollified and content. But those twelve seconds came and went and the anxiety over what I was about to walk into hit me. It was nice to have forgotten all of the bullshit drama in my life for that short time, pleasant to wake up to freshness and feel completely relaxed. But as the fog of sleep cleared and my eyes opened, the reality sunk in. This was about to be the most important day of my life. People, lots of people, were going to read this interview and base their opinion of me solely on how I respond to Johns’ questions. My success in the professional MMA world rested not on my fighting abilities, but on my interview skills.
My dream team of all things media consisted of Chris, Arlene, and another expert on handling public relations crises for other celebrities named Diana Augustine. I had spent the previous day in an ordinary hotel conference room being drilled, questioned, and interrogated all “for my own good.” I had sweated through three t-shirts and felt nauseous to the point of throwing up in a bathroom trash can.
Some of my answers explaining isolated incidents of the abuse that I had suffered for years were so shocking to the group that Chris had to excuse himself twice, citing a phone call as his reason that required him to leave, and Arlene got choked up to the extent of shedding tears in the middle of one of my stories. This was some heavy shit, but they all insisted on knowing everything so that there would be no surprises. Chris had the three of them sign confidentiality statements to reassure me that my meeting and the truths revealed would stay in the room. I wasn’t reassured in the least. It was one thing for Mick to know, or Bree, but now everyone in this room was going to know too. And what if I panicked during the interview and revealed too much? Mr. What’s-His-Name at the grocery store and Mrs. What’s-Her-Face at the coffee shop would look at me now and know what I’ve done. There wouldn’t even be anywhere for me to hide. I had to calm down. I had to trust that my “team” knew what was best and would help me handle whatever happened.
Diana was an interesting woman. She struck me as someone who was probably on the debate team in high school. Always an answer for everything. Always a rebuttal. And a rebuttal for your rebuttal. She would make a brilliant lawyer, but insists that the law bores her to tears and she never had the money for college anyway. Could’ve fooled me. The way she spoke was so articulate and perfect, like she had written each statement ahead of time and rehearsed saying it beforehand. She was confident but not arrogant. She also demonstrated how body language could completely change the way that someone reads and responds to you, regardless of the words you were saying. It was fascinating and extremely intimidating. I had a lot to learn, but she assured me that I wasn’t a lost cause. I needed to be honest, but charismatic enough to smoothly deflect from anything that would cross the boundary of too personal for public knowledge.
I left the meeting feeling somewhat confident that I was prepared to handle this interview, but as I rose from bed, I questioned everything. Was all of this even worth it?
Yes.
Yes, it was.
It had to be. Without all of this, I would have nothing else.
I needed to treat this interview like it was a fight. I trained, prepared, rested, and now I was going to need to show up and produce a win.
Bree and I talked briefly about the interview the night before and while she offered to go with me, I resisted. She had enough on her mind and the truth of the matter was that I wasn’t sure how it would all go down. The lack of control I had over the situation made me feel weak and vulnerable and I didn’t want her to see that.
She adamantly insisted on me not being alone, so Pat agreed to go with me and while I was hesitant at first, I eventually accepted. I guessed that I needed some support and I trusted Pat with my life. What I didn’t expect was for Mick to answer Pat’s hotel room door when I knocked.
“What the hell? What are you doing here?” I instantly relaxed a little at the sight of him and went in for the one-armed man hug.
“I’m here for you, ya putz! You wouldn’t answer any of my calls so I finally tracked down this old coot and learned what the hell happened. Y’all have had quite a rollercoaster of shit go down this past week, huh? Anyway, I ain’t got nuthin’ better to do and figured you could use a wing man or whatever,” he joked, patting me on the back as we walked further into the room. “This Vince Johns character is a real asshole. You’ll at least need a good laugh when it’s all over and done with.”
I chuckled at Mick’s easygoing attitude and welcomed it. I was already more at ease. “Yeah, I’m sorry about that. I had to change my number and it’s all been pretty hectic. I didn’t think to message you.” I hung my head, ashamed that I had completely forgotten about such an important person in my life. “Thanks for coming all this way. I guess we should go and get this all over with.”
Pat, Mick, and I rode together in the back of the car that Chris had secured for us for the twenty minute drive through downtown Atlanta, which was chaotic and busy. We ended up in a parking garage at the base of a gigantic building that housed Vince Johns’ office.
Mick pushed the button in the elevator for the 23
rd
floor and turned to face me. “Is your agent gonna be here with you?”
“No. I actually insisted that he not be here. This is something I need to do on my own. They have prepared me well, I hope.” I had never felt such a lack of confidence before.
“Well, we can either go in with ya or wait outside. Whatever you want. But just remember, yer in charge a this whole show. You can leave whenever you want. You don’t hafta sit there and take any shit off this piss ant reporter.”
“Thanks, Mick. I think I’ll go in alone and see how it goes. I appreciate it though.”
“No problem. We’ll be right outside if ya need us.” The elevator chime dinged and the doors slid open, but Mick and Pat hesitated before walking out. Mick turned to me again, gesturing to Pat. “You’re like a son, to both of us, Drew Dougherty, and we’re proud of ya no matter what.” He patted me on the back and headed out of the elevator, me smiling while following behind him.
A receptionist greeted us, offering us water or coffee while we waited to be escorted back into the offices. When she told me that Mr. Johns was ready for me a few minutes later, I nodded to Pat and Mick and followed her into a room that looked eerily similar to the conference room that I had “practiced” in the day before. It was strangely comforting to me.
The room was empty, so I took a seat in the chair at the end of the oval table, facing the door. Soon after, a man walked in. Well, he was a man, but he looked like he couldn’t be any older than me.
“Good morning, Drew. Thank you for agreeing to come meet me.” He entered awkwardly, fumbling around a stack of disorganized paperwork. He dropped his pens twice in the ten feet between the door and me. I stood to shake his hand but he sat down in the chair closest to me to my left, which I found odd. He also didn’t offer his hand. He had yet to even make eye contact with me.
“Please allow me to just get set up before we begin. You don’t mind if I tape the interview, do you? Your publicist already agreed to my terms, so it shouldn’t be a problem. Right? I can record this, right?” He spoke so fast that I couldn’t even get a word in to answer. And he
still
hadn’t looked at my face. I expected a cocky suit and was dumbfounded at the awkward, disorganized Poindexter in front of me.
“Yes. It’s fine. You can record it.”
He nodded his head and continued to “set up,” spreading out his pile of mess into what appeared to be completely random stacks of papers. He spread out his pens, at least ten of them all the same brand and color, and fidgeted at them for a few seconds before he moved on to fiddling with the piles of papers. I observed him in action, trying to wrap my head around what exactly was so intimidating about this guy. He was taller than average, but still inches below my 6′4″ height, maybe 160 pounds at most, with shaggy jet black hair that hung in haphazard waves almost to his shoulders. He wore the thickest coke-bottle glasses that I had ever seen and had a poor excuse for a mustache coming in, like a sixteen-year-old’s peach fuzz, but dark and wiry. When he spoke to me, I could see that his teeth were crooked and it was obvious that he was conscious of it because he spoke in such a way that his lips barely revealed his teeth while talking.
“Do you need to pee or anything?”
The question caught me off guard. “Excuse me?”
“Pee. Do you need to pee? Or get a drink? Or whatever. I would like to get started and once I begin the interview, I don’t like to be interrupted.”
“Oh. No, I think I’m good. Fire away,” I said, still taken back by his bizarre question.
He leaned in towards his tape recorder. “June 28
th
, 2013, at 10:16 am. Vince Johns interviewing Drew Dougherty, also known as Brian Andrew Dougherty. Atlanta, Georgia. Drew, is it true that you and your professional team have agreed to do this interview without any monetary exchange taking place?”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“Is it also true that you and your professional team have agreed that there will be no restrictions on the nature or content of the questions asked?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah? I need you to state that…”
“Yes, that’s right. Ask me whatever you want.” Shit. I was already getting flustered.
“Excellent. We will start with the simple stuff. Where and when were you born?”
“Phoenix, Arizona, on September 21
st
, 1989.”
“Where do you reside now?”
It was starting to bother the ever loving shit out of me that he still hadn’t looked me in the eyes.
“Fernandina Beach, Florida.”
“Why did you move to Florida?”
Why the fuck won’t he look at me? He’s not even doing anything. He isn’t writing stuff down or flipping through his papers. He isn’t reading off any questions from anywhere. His eyes are darting left and right, all over the room, but he won’t look at me.
“I guess I just needed a change.”
“Why Fernandina Beach? It wasn’t to train. Not at Murphy’s Gym. Pat Murphy, from what I can find, is a standup guy, but somewhat of a nobody in this business. No one even knew of him until you came along, I suppose.”
“His gym was recommended to me by a friend and I needed a fresh start,” I answered confidently. “I’m extremely pleased with the training I’ve received so far and will continue to work with him and his team for the foreseeable future.”
“I see. What is your primary source of income?”
“That’s really none of your business.”
“My apologies. I just mean, do you have a full time employer? How do you earn your money to pay for training, travel expenses, etc.? You aren’t sponsored at this point and new to the scene, so it’s a valid question.”
“I have no other job. This is my full time job. I have some money, family money, I guess you could call it, which allows me to live modestly and pay for my training expenses.”