Jezebel (37 page)

“
What do you mean
you’re done?”

“
I’m retiring.”

Slowly, Ollie swept his
fingers over Shane’s brow, down his cheeks and chin. “How
are you going to feed and clothe yourself?”

“
I
have more than a quarter of a million stashed away.” Following
in the footsteps of his idol Young Stribling, a heavyweight contender
who never gained a title before his premature death at the age of
twenty-eight, Shane had also hoped to amass a million dollars before
he called it quits.

Ollie’s head jerked
up, his mouth open in shock. “I put away every purse, stayed
away from the banks, the market and only used what I needed,”
Shane explained.

The bell for round two
clanged and Shane charged forward. Not holding anything back, he
cracked his right fist into Clarke’s jaw, spraying sweat in all
directions, spattering the canvas. Shane pivoted and hit him with a
left hook followed by piston-like rights to the head.

The skin above Clarke’s
left eye split open, leaving a quarter size gash. Blood ran down his
cheek and he squinted. Shane took advantage of his handicap, not
giving the other man any room to score any cheap shots or points.

“
That round was all
yours!” Ollie crowed when Shane sat down after round two. He
removed the towel from his shoulder and wiped sweat from Shane’s
face and upper shoulders. “Just maintain the momentum.”

For the remainder of the
resting period Ollie spewed words of encouragement peppered with
heavy doses of strategy. He might as well have been talking to a
tree stump. Shane’s head remained outside the ring, his eyes
repeatedly drifting to the second row.

Did she worry for him? Or
was she repulsed by what he did for a living? The thought not
sitting well with him, Shane stood before the bell. He rolled his
shoulders and moved his feet, feeding off his adrenaline.

Per Ollie’s advice,
Shane sought to reestablish the rhythm. Better to lead, than be led.

Clarke had other ideas.

He remained just out of
Shane’s seventy-inch reach. Even his feet seemed leaden. He
slowed things down, pacing himself and Shane despite his attempts to
increase the momentum.

Impatient and throwing
caution to the wind, Shane stepped forward crowding Clarke. He fired
several punches at his arms followed by a stiff jab to the face, an
uppercut to his nose, spewing blood. Clarke stumbled back and hung
on the ropes. Blood, dark and thick dripped over his lip and onto
his chin.

Shane stalked him, preparing
to finish him off. Chest rising and falling with exhausted breath,
Clarke slumped and Shane’s gaze moved beyond the ring to Gould
and his two cronies sitting in the front row. Like a blow to the
gut, the man’s presence reminded Shane of their one-sided deal.

Time to pay the piper, Shane
mused inwardly laughing at the wise guy’s ashen countenance
like he was about to puke the contents of his stomach.

Shane didn’t see the
fist slam into his midsection. The planted fist knocked the breath
out of him, doubling him over.

Not for long.

Clarke set him back upright
with a sly upper cut. Shane pitched backward almost falling flat if
it weren’t for a quick balancing act. He swayed for a moment
overcome by a bout of dizziness. Clarke seemed to split into three.
Unsure of his opponent, Shane lifted his gloves, protecting his head.

As blood dripped down his
face, Clarke pitched forward wildly swinging. Some remained air
borne, others landed true. Not enough to produce a KO, but enough to
add more points to his card and stun Shane into immobility.

Shane almost laughed at his
change in fortunes. He might as well have been against the ropes.
Unable to find an opening, he simply stood there taking Clarke’s
repeated blows. Shane didn’t get the chance to ponder how
many. He lost count at six.

Thankfully, the end of the
round bell rang and he hobbled to his corner.

Blood and sweat splattered
the ring’s canvas floor. Combine that with an unhealthy dose of
anxiety and Celeste wished she’d skipped dinner.

And yet, she couldn’t
turn away.

The
bout unfolded like a scene from a movie with Shane starring as the
gallant hero. Tall and handsome, he moved with the grace of a
dancer—a deadly one with heavy hands that made mincemeat of his
opponent.

By
the fifth round, Mountain Man Clarke turned into a human punching
bag. He sported a nasty gash over his right eye, a split lip and his
nose had been plugged with so much cotton it was a wonder he could
breathe.

So,
of course by the sixth round Celeste thought she’d become numb
to the carnage. Clarke quickly dispelled her of that notion when he
attacked Shane at the opening bell. One strike after another until
Shane hung on the ropes.

Eye rapidly swelling, his
mouth fell open and he appeared to be laboring for breath. Celeste
willed him to move before the count.

Too late. The referee
scuttled forward and shoved his hand in Shane’s face.

“
1…2…3…4….”

The ropes jiggled as Shane
struggled to move.

From
her vantage point, the feat seemed impossible, but he succeeded in at
least standing on his own. When he moved to rejoin the fray, the
referee grabbed his gloves, deterring him.

Call
the fight! Celeste wanted to scream. Instead, she held her tongue as
the referee dropped Shane’s hands, giving him the okay to
continue.

Gloves up and arms tucked,
Shane moved toward Clarke. Celeste checked her watch. He needed to
outlast Clarke another minute or so and then he could rest.

Clarke had other ideas. The
minute Shane was in arm’s reach he struck. Instead of taking a
defensive stance, Shane gave tit for tat. With every punch Clarke
dished out, he retaliated.

What should’ve been a
long shot, Shane shifted the odds back into his favor. He threw punch
after punch, shot after shot. Now on the defensive, Clarke stopped
swinging in order to protect his head.

Undeterred, Shane battered
his opponent’s arms until they tired and gave up their post.
Although she didn’t know boxing strategy, Celeste knew the
exact moment when Shane found an opening. He drew his arm back and
then rocketed a solid right hook, followed by a nasty upper cut to
Clarke’s chin.

Clarke’s
upper torso twisted, while his feet remained planted. He swayed
slightly and then pitched forward. During his descent, light bulbs
lit up the arena and the crowd roared, half of them leaving their
seats.

“
Timber!”
the guy next to her shouted, his expression tainted with blood lust.

“
1…2…3….”
Each count reverberated through the Garden. Celeste didn’t
join the chorus, she was too busy praying.

“
7…8…9….”

CHAPTER
TWENTY EIGHT

As the dutiful wife, she
should have shouldered her way into the ring, claiming her marital
rights, but she doubted anyone would have believed her. Instead she
remained outside the ring, tears streaming down her face as the
referee hoisted Shane’s arm.

Escaping
the pandemonium, Celeste hurried through the tunnel to the dressing
rooms. What she found was more chaos just on a smaller scale.
Groupies huddled in perfumed circles. The media formed a tightknit
contingent akin to a small militia. And a handful of staff flitted
back and forth trying to wrangle them all.

A man belonging to neither
group barreled past her. “I’m gonna kill him.”

“
Calm down, boss.”
One of the two goons shadowing him, tried to calm him down.

The man whirled around and
Celeste was surprised to find she recognized him. “Don’t
you fucking tell me to calm down,” Abraham Gould hissed. “I’m
ruined.”

Instead of adding to the
traffic in the tunnel, Gould and his two cohorts kept walking,
heading toward the exit. Relieved, Celeste relaxed. Something about
Gould made her flesh crawl.

A calamity echoed off the
tunnel’s walls, and Celeste put Gould behind her. Her future
and what seemed like half of the Garden stormed toward her.

Bruised and battered, Shane
had been swept up and carried by the crowd’s momentum. Without
them, he would have probably crawled back to his dressing room.

Celeste’s
heart lurched. A greenish bruise ran the length of his torso. Most
of his face, still greasy with petroleum jelly, had started to swell
and darken to a grisly bluish-black. He even sported a large goose
egg over his left eye.

And yet, in spite of his
woeful physical appearance, he still did a number on her. All the
times he’d made love to her came to the forefront. Her heart
beat erratically and her fingers itched to touch him, make sure he
was okay.

“
Lady, you better get
behind me or get trampled.”

Celeste moved, heeding the
police officer’s advice. She’d witnessed a stampede or
two, during nightclub raids, and the results were never pretty.

“
Celeste.”
Shane’s guttural growling of name, impeded her progress. He’d
stopped as well, as did the crowd moving around him in a semicircle.

Their gazes locked, and her
nerve endings sizzled as she drank him in. He’d taken a beating
and all she wanted were his hands and tongue on her.

“
Come here and
congratulate me.” Even with his hair plastered to his head and
almost bruised beyond recognition, he still made her think about all
the wicked things he could do to her body.

A lump filled her throat as
she took a step toward him. Two more steps then she ran the rest of
the way, practically barreling into him.

“
Why didn’t you
come into the ring?”

“
I…ah…I,”
she stuttered, no longer finding weight in her earlier reasoning.

“
Shut up,” he
said, right before his lips crashed into. His wicked tongue pushed
past her lips, his fingers tangled in her hair and her body went up
in flames. Celeste melted into him. The faint scent of cologne
intermingled with sweat and salt tickled her nose. His taste was raw,
exotic and highly addictive.

“
Who’s this
champ?” someone asked and then another. Celeste ignored them,
despising the interruption. She wanted more kisses.

To her regret, Shane broke
off their kiss, but he didn’t let her go. With his hands
gripping her waist, his gaze slid over her mouth. So much desire
blazed from him, she ached for a private place where they could be
alone.

“
So
what gives, Brennan? Who’s the mystery lady?”

He ran his tongue over his
lips as if her taste still lingered there. “This here,
gentlemen, is my beautiful wife.”

Shane
opened a floodgate of flashing light bulbs and questions, which he
refused to address. He grabbed her hand and hauled her into the
dressing room.

Kissing her nearly killed
him, but he couldn’t help touching her, loving her. His woman
made him happier than a rat in a trash heap.

“
Shane, are you
smelling my hair?”

“
Mmm…hmm,”
he murmured. Her body, her scent, everything about her had carried
him through the bout.

“
You were great out
there, baby. I’m so proud of you,” she said, pushing up
against him and wrapping her arms around him. Still tender from the
fight, Shane winced.

“
I’m hurting
you,” she gasped, jerking back.

“
Yeah, but it’s
a good hurt.” He tried pulling her back in his arms, but Ollie
wedged between them, splitting them apart.

“
Quit will, ya! Let
the doc do his job.” Ollie pointed to a stool in the corner.
“You can go sit over there.”

Celeste moved, but Shane
grabbed her hand. “Stay with me.” It wasn’t a
question, but she nodded and his heart swelled as if she’d
given him the world.

While the doc saw to his
battle wounds, Shane played with her fingers. He couldn’t help
himself. He was on top of the world. He was the light heavyweight
champion and he had his woman by his side.

“
How is he, Doc?”

“
He’ll live.”
The doctor handed Shane two bottles. “One’s for pain,
the other is for the swelling. If you get dizzy, call your primary
doctor or check into a hospital. I’m not certain, but I think
you suffered a concussion.”

“
Hasn’t
been the first time I’ve been beaned in the head,” Shane
said while the doctor snapped his bag closed and headed toward the
door.

“
I’m going to
hit the road as well.” Ollie reached out and squeezed Shane’s
shoulder. For the first time in their ten year association, Shane
saw tears in the old man’s eyes. “I’ll see you
back in the gym.”