Chapter 1
Welcome to The Tropes and Triggers Masquerade Series, a collection of short stories. There will be tropes, and there will be triggers. All stories are told in 1st Person, Dual POV and contain explicit sexual content.
“The Bartender and The Bully” aka “The Blackmailed and the Boxer” aka “Barbie and the BattleAx” is on the aggressive, obsessive side of the scale. The Bully is not a good man, but he loves the FMC. For him that is good enough. If only he could convince the FMC. . . well, that’s what this ~18k word tale is about.
Chapter 1 The Bartender
I practically ran down the hall to get to my room.
It was the night before the Masquerade, and I was flooded with joyful curiosity. My first stop was finding where I would be staying.
The main housing was in a separate building like a hotel. Each FMC would have her own room, and there were a variety of rooms one could get. I suspected each space would be nice, but there was still a range of “wow rooms” to “HOLY FUCKING SHIT!! rooms,” if you know what I mean.
It all depended on how much money the MMC wanted to donate to his FMC’s fantasy masquerade.
I felt incredibly lucky. Apparently, my match was in the top 10% of donors, and not just with my room. All FMC’s got a ride here, but I flew on a luxury private jet.
I coordinated my special look for tomorrow’s ball with the Event Coordinator, yet my Match still curated a second option for me to consider, including shoes and jewelry. The front desk staff said I would get to keep all of it, even if I chose not to wear it for the evening. Everything was waiting in my room.
Oh, and my room! It was one of five on the second-to-top floor. Aka almost the penthouse! I couldn’t wait to see what it looked like, which is why I stopped pretending to have some dignity. I sprinted down the hallway with the widest smile I could muster.
After months of hell and torment, I was thrilled to have some good luck and positivity. I didn’t want to say I deserved this, but it was a nice reprieve after all I’d been through.
I finally reached my door and unlocked it. My jaw dropped, and I screamed happily as I rushed inside. I danced by the in-room jacuzzi and jumped onto the king-size canopy bed.
I landed on my back with my arms and legs spread wide like a starfish. Blush pink curtains framed the bed, and the curtains were adorned with twinkle lights and blood red roses.
I inhaled deeply, and the scent of the roses filled me. I sat up and ran my finger along one of the decorative petals.
“They’re real,” I said in awe.
An end table was on either side of the bed. One had a vase of probably 50 long-stemmed red roses. The other had a black gift box and a white envelope with a red ribbon and . . . another damn rose.
A tinge of disappointment pricked my heart.
In my application, I had mentioned at least twice that I hated roses.
Not just disliked.
HATED.
Because of him.
I used to love roses, but he tainted them, twisting them from something beautiful to something corrupt.
I pulled my shoulders back and reached for the box and letter. I would not let him ruin this event for me. This was my new beginning.
I pulled the items into my lap as I sat cross-legged on the bed. My packet from TTMM was there too. My dismay lessened as my excitement built again. This is where I found out my Trope Designation and my Trope Match.
I squealed and opened the packet.
“Welcome! We are pleased to announce your Trope Designation is THE BARBIE.”
My smile flat-lined. What? How?
That was another slap in the face. Another reminder of what I was here trying to forget. What an awful coincidence. I kept reading, still determined to push through any setbacks, no matter how unpleasant.
“Your Trope Match is THE BOXER.”
My heartbeat picked up with my stress. This had to be a coincidence, right? There was no way. There were how many professional and amateur boxers in the USA, let alone the world? There was no way they would match me to him.
Right?
I eyed the white envelope with trepidation. My answer would be in there. I was sure.
Treating it like it was a thorn about to prick me, I carefully opened it and set the rose and ribbon aside.
I knew as soon as I saw the handwriting. My face paled, fear filling me. I thought I may be sick.
How is this possible?
“Baby,
I’m sure by now you know it’s me, your BattleAx. I’m told our Trope match is The Barbie and The Boxer. It makes me smile to know the nickname I gave you six months ago stuck. You were my Barbie the moment I met you, and you’ve been my Baby since I fell in love. I’m sure you have numerous questions. I look forward to answering them and to doing so much more during the Masquerade. I never got to see you in that dress I bought. I would consider it a great honor if you wore it for me tomorrow night.
Please, Baby, won’t you do that for me?
Waiting for your presence the way a drowning man waits for air,
All my love,
Your BattleAx.”
I eyed the black box like it threatened me. I knew what dress it contained. I rolled out of the bed and grabbed my suitcase. I looked over the room one last time in a sad farewell. It would have been fun, but there was no way I could stay.
I had to get out, and I had to get out now.
