A Life in Hollywood
Chapter 17 - Lady Gaga - Part 1
Osiah bounced lightly on the balls of his feet inside the small private gym tucked behind the hotel, the kind of no-frills spot that catered to fighters and early risers who didn't want the glossy bullshit of a big chain place. The air smelled like old leather, sweat, and faint bleach from the mats. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting sharp shadows across the scuffed floor. He'd found this spot a couple days ago after asking around—perfect for blowing off steam without dealing with tourists or paparazzi sniffing around.
He'd been boxing on and off since he was a kid. Started in the neighborhood gym back home, where his dad would drag him after school to learn the basics and burn off energy. It stuck with him through high school, then got more serious in college before that blown-out knee ended his football dreams. It wasn't pro level, never would be, but it kept him sharp. Kept the constant low-level frustration from set life from building up into something ugly. The controlled violence of it, the focus it demanded—jab, cross, slip, counter—it cleared his head better than any run or lift ever could.
Gloves laced tight, mouthguard in, he circled the heavy bag. Sweat was already starting to drip down his back, soaking through his shirt. He set his feet, took a breath, and fired off a combo. Jab-cross-hook, pivoting his hips for power on the hook. The bag swayed hard, chain rattling. He followed with a body shot, digging in with his lead hand, then slipped an imaginary counter and came over the top with an uppercut that made the bag jump.
"Again," the trainer called out. The guy was in his late fifties, built like a fire hydrant with scarred knuckles and a gravelly voice that sounded like it'd been through too many rounds. He ran these early morning sessions for whoever showed up—boxers, MMA guys, stressed-out suits looking to hit something. No ego, just work.
Osiah nodded, reset his stance, and went again. Jab-cross-hook, double jab, cross. His shoulders burned nicely, the familiar pump spreading through his arms. He mixed in some footwork, circling left, then right, keeping his head moving. The ache in his old knee was there—a dull reminder from that sophomore year injury—but it held. He powered through, driving a knee into the bag like it owed him money, then followed with short elbows in close.
"Watch that lead foot," the trainer grunted, adjusting Osiah's angle with a light tap on the shoulder. "You're loading up too much on the hook. Nice power though. Kid's got hands."
Osiah grinned around the mouthguard, breathing steady. "Old habits. Football legs don't forget easy." He threw another set—jab, body hook, overhand right—feeling the sweat fly off his brow with each snap. The bag thumped satisfyingly, the sound echoing off the walls. He could feel the tension from the last few weeks melting out of his shoulders, the endless coordination of extras, lighting cues, and schedule headaches fading with every strike.
After fifteen solid minutes on the bag, the trainer waved him over to the pads. "Time to move. Light sparring. Don't gas yourself."
They started with focus mitts. Osiah slipped a jab the trainer threw, countered with a quick hook that smacked the pad loud. "Good," the older man said. "Keep that chin tucked." Osiah pressed forward, working combinations—jab-cross, jab-cross-hook, slipping the return and firing a body shot. His feet stayed light despite the knee, years of muscle memory kicking in. Sweat poured down his face now, stinging his eyes, but he kept the rhythm.
They moved to light sparring rounds next. No hard contact, just touch and flow. The trainer was crafty, using his experience to make Osiah work. A quick jab came in—Osiah slipped outside and countered with a hook to the pads. They clinched up close, working short elbows and knees in tight. Osiah's breathing got heavier, but he stayed controlled, using angles, not just power.
"Alright, reset," the trainer said after the first round, both of them circling. "You're smooth for someone who doesn't do this full time. That knee holding?"
"Barely," Osiah admitted, wiping his face with his forearm. "Old football bullshit. But it works when I need it."
They went another round. Osiah feinted high, went low with a body shot, then slipped a counter and landed a clean hook. The trainer nodded approvingly. "Not bad. You've got that calm under pressure thing. Most guys get wild when they start breathing hard."
"Set life trains that out of you," Osiah said with a short laugh between breaths. "Hundreds of extras, one wrong move and the whole take's fucked. Learn to stay even."
The trainer chuckled. "Explains it. Alright, one more light one. Give me what you got."
Osiah pushed a little harder this round, combinations flowing smoother now that he was warmed up. Jab-cross, slip, uppercut, knee to the body pad. His muscles felt loose and warm, the post-workout buzz starting to build even as his lungs burned. By the end of the hour he was drenched, shirt clinging to his chest, shorts heavy with sweat. He pulled off the gloves, toweled down his face and arms, and chugged a full bottle of water. The familiar endorphin high settled in—clear head, body humming, ready for whatever the day threw at him.
He grabbed his bag and headed toward the car in the lot outside, still catching his breath, legs loose from the session. The desert morning air felt good on his skin as he stepped out.
His phone rang just as he reached for the car door handle, the screen lighting up with Taylor's name. Osiah was still breathing hard from the session, chest rising and falling, sweat cooling on his skin in the morning air. He answered on the second ring.
"Hey," he said, voice rough and a little winded.
"Osiah! You sound like you just ran a marathon. Working out?" Taylor's voice came through bright and teasing, that mix of high-energy pop-star sparkle and the softer, more intimate tone she always slipped into with him. He could practically hear her smiling.
"Boxing," he replied, leaning back against the car for a second. The metal was already warm from the sun. "Clearing the head after the gym. Heavy bag, some sparring. Felt good."
"Mmm, I bet it did. I can picture you all sweaty and focused. Bet those arms look nice right now." She laughed lightly, then jumped straight into it, excitement bubbling over. "Okay, so... the 1989 tour dates are finally locking in. New York kickoff, then London, Tokyo, the whole run. I want you there for some of it. Not forcing you to do the entire grind if it doesn't fit, but the big stretches would be amazing. You said you'd think about it?"
Osiah wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm and climbed into the driver's seat, starting the engine. Cool air from the AC hit his damp skin. "Yeah, schedules are opening up more than I expected. I can do some of them. New York and London for sure. Maybe Tokyo if the timing lines up right. I'm not promising every single show, but I'll be around when I can. We'll make it work."
Taylor let out a happy squeal that made him pull the phone slightly away from his ear, grinning. "Yes! That's perfect. God, I'm so excited. Just knowing you'll be there for some of it... it makes the whole crazy thing feel better. The arenas are gonna be huge, and having you backstage or in the hotel after? Yeah. I need that."
They talked for a couple minutes about the logistics—how some legs overlapped with other projects, how he'd fly in for the key runs. Taylor was giddy, going over specific cities she was most nervous about and how having a familiar face would help her unwind after long nights.
"Okay, also—there's this other thing," she continued, her tone shifting to something a little mischievous. "I might have already thrown your name at Lady Gaga for her Cheek to Cheek shows on the West Coast. LA, Vegas, that whole run. Her main producer's on maternity leave and they need someone solid who can keep the live shows running smooth without losing the vibe. I told her you'd be perfect for it."
Osiah laughed, surprised but genuinely amused as he pulled out of the parking lot. "Cheek to Cheek? With Tony Bennett? Sure, I'll do it. Sounds fun. Intimate setup, good music. Count me in."
"Wait, really? Just like that?" Taylor's voice shifted again, a little pout creeping in, playful but noticeable. "You had to think about mine but said yes to hers in two seconds flat? Wow, Osiah. I see how it is."
He chuckled, merging onto the road, one hand on the wheel. "Schedules matched up better, that's all. Yours is the massive arena tour with all the moving pieces. Hers is shorter, more contained out here on the West Coast. Easier to slot in right now while things clear. Doesn't mean I want yours any less."
Taylor laughed too, the pout melting into amusement. "Fine, fine. I'll take it. But seriously, you're gonna be around Gaga? With those outfits and that voice and the way she moves on stage? I know exactly how your hands work, mister. You're gonna get your grubby paws all over her, aren't you?"
"I'm not really one to make the first move," he said, grinning as he adjusted the AC. The desert heat was already building outside.
"Oh please. We both know how that goes." She paused, and he could hear the shift in her breathing, the way her voice dropped. "You should get tested though. Just in case."
Osiah barked a laugh, shaking his head. "Me? You've had how many boyfriends? Maybe you should get tested."
"Almost none of them went far enough for that," she shot back quickly, but there was a clear smile in her voice, light and teasing. Then it changed—turning serious and slutty all at once, lower and breathier. "But if you do get your hands on her... describe it to me. Right now. Tell me exactly how you'd wreck her backstage before a show."
He heard the soft rustle of fabric on her end, sheets shifting, her breathing already changing. She was touching herself.
"Alright," Osiah said, voice dropping as he settled into the drive, keeping one eye on the road. "I'd start right after soundcheck, when she's still buzzing from running through the set and wearing that tight little stage outfit—the one that hugs every curve. I'd pull her into a quiet dressing room, push her back against the wall, and get my hands on those thighs first. They're thick as hell, strong from all the dancing and performing. I'd spread them open wide while I kiss down her neck, bite just enough to make her gasp and arch into me."
Taylor moaned softly, low and needy. "Mmm... keep going. Fuck, I love when you talk like this."
"I'd drop down on my knees, yank those panties aside, and eat her out right there against the wall. Tongue sliding deep inside her, sucking hard on her clit while she grabs my hair and grinds on my face. She'd be soaked already, dripping down my chin, those powerful thighs squeezing around my head. I'd taste how turned on she is, smell that sweet musk mixing with her perfume. Then I'd stand up, spin her around, bend her over the makeup table, flip that skirt up over her ass, and slide in raw. One hard thrust, all the way to the hilt."
"Fuck... yes," Taylor breathed. The wet, rhythmic sounds of her fingers working between her legs came through the phone clearly now, slick and steady. Her breathing was getting heavier. "Tell me more. How does she feel?"
"Her pussy would be tight and hot, gripping every inch as I stretch her open. I'd grab those wide hips and fuck her deep, steady at first, then harder. Her ass would ripple every single time my hips slam against it—thick, soft flesh bouncing and jiggling with each thrust. I'd watch her face in the mirror across the room: mouth hanging open, eyes starting to roll back, that wild hair all messy across her shoulders. I'd reach up and pull her hair back, arching her more so her big tits spill out of the top of whatever she's wearing, bouncing heavy with every stroke."
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