Chapter One
Bored beyond belief, Zel Tesla dragged his gaze away from the gyrating, whip-cracking dancer
entertaining the room. Heady cigar smoke melded with the faint aromas of aged rums and cognacs in the
VIP room of Las Vegas’ hottest gentleman’s club. An invitation-only crowd of promoters, agents, fighters
and hangers-on packed the darkened space.
Smirking, Zel noticed his sparring partner, Gary, surreptitiously adjusting himself. A little farther down,
Mace McCoy, his soon-to-be opponent, relaxed in his chair and sipped his beer. Stocky and heavily
muscled, Mace had always reminded Zel of a bulldog. He even had the pronounced lower jaw and
underbite. Their eyes met briefly across the darkness. Even in the friendly atmosphere of the get-together,
the spark of aggressiveness and competition reared its head. For the first time in quite a while, Zel was
actually looking forward to a fight. Worthy opponents were few and far between.
Zel’s gaze returned to the performer on the low dais at the front of the room. Dressed like a Gothic
pixie, the young woman in shiny black latex panties and side-lacing red stiletto thigh-high boots danced
seductively and swung her whip. Brittle streaks of red wax clung to her perky breasts.
While her show appeared to enthrall the rest of the room, it did very little for Zel. She brought visions
of flogging and boot-licking to his mind, neither of which he found particularly sexy. Luckily the two
previous performers had appealed to him. For the most part, so far Troupe Eros, an infamous touring
group of exotic dancers and burlesques, impressed him. For once the upper management of Lazzo
Promotions, the parent company that promoted and profited from a trio of mixed martial arts leagues, had
chosen a worthy entertainment for their mixer prior to the Caged World Championships.
The curtain fell as the Gothic pixie’s dance ended. Hip-hop music filtered through the sound system,
masking the sounds of the stage being struck and reset. Scantily clad waitresses roamed the room, offering
alcoholic beverages and cigars. Zel dismissed a waitress by lifting his glass of ice water. Smiling
understandingly, she moved along to the next patron. Curious as to the next performer, Zel picked up the
glossy program resting on his lap and thumbed through the pages.
Before he could find the right page, the lights dimmed and a soft, pulsing Latin beat began playing. The
curtain lifted to reveal a bathroom and dressing area reminiscent of the art deco heydays of Miami. Black-
and-white-checkered floor and subway tiles lent an air of realism to the set. A white clawfoot tub sat
downstage, a black lacquered vanity and tufted chartreuse bench just to its right. An armoire stuffed with
bright silks and satins and a dresser overflowing with lingerie rounded out the furniture props. A bottle of
tequila, shot glass, saltshaker and bowl of limes perched atop the dresser. Gauzy white curtains framed a
false balcony and billowed in a fake breeze. Potted palms gave the scene a South Beach feel.
Brassy and bold, the salsa tune’s tempo and volume increased. Finally, a colorfully costumed young
woman strutted onto the stage, her ample hips swiveling side to side in perfect rhythm with her music.
Enthusiastic applause greeted Chula Rubens, the world-renowned BBW burlesque.
The sight of the voluptuous beauty paralyzed Zel—he couldn’t even lift his hands to clap.
When the stage lights fully illuminated her face, he recognized her as the sultry, curvaceous goddess
gracing the billboard near his training center. In that photograph, her shiny black hair splayed wildly about
her head as she reclined against a mound of pink pillows, her luscious figure barely covered in upscale
lingerie. Seeing the real thing eclipsed the billboard he’d often lusted after. Zel swallowed hard and
watched.
Tonight Chula wore a strapless hot pink gown similar to Carmen Miranda’s gaudy getup. As
Bored beyond belief, Zel Tesla dragged his gaze away from the gyrating, whip-cracking dancer
entertaining the room. Heady cigar smoke melded with the faint aromas of aged rums and cognacs in the
VIP room of Las Vegas’ hottest gentleman’s club. An invitation-only crowd of promoters, agents, fighters
and hangers-on packed the darkened space.
Smirking, Zel noticed his sparring partner, Gary, surreptitiously adjusting himself. A little farther down,
Mace McCoy, his soon-to-be opponent, relaxed in his chair and sipped his beer. Stocky and heavily
muscled, Mace had always reminded Zel of a bulldog. He even had the pronounced lower jaw and
underbite. Their eyes met briefly across the darkness. Even in the friendly atmosphere of the get-together,
the spark of aggressiveness and competition reared its head. For the first time in quite a while, Zel was
actually looking forward to a fight. Worthy opponents were few and far between.
Zel’s gaze returned to the performer on the low dais at the front of the room. Dressed like a Gothic
pixie, the young woman in shiny black latex panties and side-lacing red stiletto thigh-high boots danced
seductively and swung her whip. Brittle streaks of red wax clung to her perky breasts.
While her show appeared to enthrall the rest of the room, it did very little for Zel. She brought visions
of flogging and boot-licking to his mind, neither of which he found particularly sexy. Luckily the two
previous performers had appealed to him. For the most part, so far Troupe Eros, an infamous touring
group of exotic dancers and burlesques, impressed him. For once the upper management of Lazzo
Promotions, the parent company that promoted and profited from a trio of mixed martial arts leagues, had
chosen a worthy entertainment for their mixer prior to the Caged World Championships.
The curtain fell as the Gothic pixie’s dance ended. Hip-hop music filtered through the sound system,
masking the sounds of the stage being struck and reset. Scantily clad waitresses roamed the room, offering
alcoholic beverages and cigars. Zel dismissed a waitress by lifting his glass of ice water. Smiling
understandingly, she moved along to the next patron. Curious as to the next performer, Zel picked up the
glossy program resting on his lap and thumbed through the pages.
Before he could find the right page, the lights dimmed and a soft, pulsing Latin beat began playing. The
curtain lifted to reveal a bathroom and dressing area reminiscent of the art deco heydays of Miami. Black-
and-white-checkered floor and subway tiles lent an air of realism to the set. A white clawfoot tub sat
downstage, a black lacquered vanity and tufted chartreuse bench just to its right. An armoire stuffed with
bright silks and satins and a dresser overflowing with lingerie rounded out the furniture props. A bottle of
tequila, shot glass, saltshaker and bowl of limes perched atop the dresser. Gauzy white curtains framed a
false balcony and billowed in a fake breeze. Potted palms gave the scene a South Beach feel.
Brassy and bold, the salsa tune’s tempo and volume increased. Finally, a colorfully costumed young
woman strutted onto the stage, her ample hips swiveling side to side in perfect rhythm with her music.
Enthusiastic applause greeted Chula Rubens, the world-renowned BBW burlesque.
The sight of the voluptuous beauty paralyzed Zel—he couldn’t even lift his hands to clap.
When the stage lights fully illuminated her face, he recognized her as the sultry, curvaceous goddess
gracing the billboard near his training center. In that photograph, her shiny black hair splayed wildly about
her head as she reclined against a mound of pink pillows, her luscious figure barely covered in upscale
lingerie. Seeing the real thing eclipsed the billboard he’d often lusted after. Zel swallowed hard and
watched.
Tonight Chula wore a strapless hot pink gown similar to Carmen Miranda’s gaudy getup. As
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