Love On The Ropes (Ringside Romance) (6 page)

Jason had absolutely no response
for that one.

“Oh, there’s my security manager.
Cooper!” Cosmo waved at a guy in a black T-shirt, then turned back to Jason.
“Keep working on those moves, Stripper.” The man gave him a fatherly tap on the
shoulder and took off.

J slid down the wall, landing on
the cold cement. How had he gone from catching drug lords to stripping in front
of thousands?

Sandy kneeled in front of him and
gripped his shoulders with firm, determined hands. “Don’t you fall apart on me,
Stripper. You’re on in an hour and we’ve got work to do.”

The Stripper looked like he’d just
lost his best friend, more like his dog since she guessed he didn’t have many
friends. She sensed he kept his distance from people—a couple of miles perhaps?

She gave his shoulders another
shake. “Make lemonade.”

He looked at her like she’d
ordered him to put on ladies’ underwear.

“Get up.” She stood and extended
her hand.

With his “you’re completely
insane” expression, he did as ordered and she pulled him to his feet. Man, this
guy was solid. But was he tough? She knew a lot of the guys weren’t what they
appeared to be.

“Lemonade. Let’s go.” She led him
toward the first aid room.

“You mean, take a bad situation
and make it good?” he asked.

“No, I mean make lemonade.” They
walked into the first aid room where Johnny was working on The Cruiser’s knee.
“Hey, guys.”

“What’s going on?” The Cruiser sat
up.

“Giving The Stripper some help
with his routine.”

“This I gotta see.” The Cruiser
visibly drooled. The twenty-five-year-old punk had been hitting on her for the
past two months.

What was it with these guys? They
knew her rule: never get involved with the talent. Well, almost never. She’d
thrown that rule right out the window when she’d dated that jerk Monroe.

Sure, someday she’d leave her
position at BAM and move on to a more traditional job. When she did, she’d look
for a straitlaced kind of guy, a guy she could trust. A guy she didn’t have to
worry about being crippled or dying thanks to his job.

“It’s over here,” she said,
digging into a bag of supplies. She pulled out the can of powdered lemonade and
handed it to The Stripper.

“What am I supposed to do with
this?”

“We’re going to make lemonade.
I’ll be right back.” She grabbed a pitcher out of her bag and headed for the
drinking fountain.

“I’m surrounded by crazy people,”
The Stripper muttered.

“Yeah, says a stripping wrestler
who can’t strip.” Sandy went around the corner and filled the pitcher. She needed
it for the show anyway. It was Pops’ tradition ever since she could remember:
make lemonade, have a few swigs before the show for good luck. All athletes had
their own superstitions, and she’d inherited his.

With her nervous stomach you’d
think she was the one about to head into the ring. Oh sure, she knew lemonade
was probably not the best thing for the flutters, but it reminded her of Pops
and made her feel close to him, even though he was miles away.

Are you proud of me, Pops
?

She shuddered, fighting off a case
of butterflies. They always hovered before a show since she couldn’t help but
worry about not being able to save one of the guys.

Kind of like her inability to save
Duke from a lifetime of suffering. Then again, if he would have listened to her
instead of lying to her face and performing that dangerous move—

Water overflowed and splashed onto
the floor. “Rats.”

Why was she thinking about her
brother? He was getting better at wheeling his way around in the chair, and
even took a step or two when his physical therapist, Blue, busted his chops.

She couldn’t help Duke, but she
could help the other boys, analyze their injuries and suggest helpful treatment.
She never lied to them, never sugarcoated her opinion.

And now she was helping one of the
boys take off his clothes. Mama would be furious if she knew. She’d lecture
Sandy about wasting her training on the “worthless circus” that had taken away
her husband. Actually, it was cancer that nearly killed Pops, but pro wrestling
destroyed their love long before his illness struck.

Sandy couldn’t blame Mama for
resenting the sport. The woman had lost a husband’s love, seen a son crippled,
and watched a daughter devote her life to athletes who were into, as Mama put
it, masochistic self-abuse. She’d never be able to see past her own pain so
Sandy didn’t talk much about work. Instead, she’d send out resumes and report
job leads to her mom.

She went back into the first aid
room. “Grab my gear and follow me,” she ordered The Stripper.

“Yes, ma’am.” He saluted.

Funny how the rigid movement
looked so natural on him. Too bad he wasn’t named something like Private Putz
or General Google-burger.

He grabbed her backpack, held onto
the lemonade can, and followed. She led him to the women’s bathroom.

“I’m not going in there,” he said.

She turned and stared him down.
“Yes, you are. Privacy, remember? You want the boys seeing this striptease
lesson?”

“No.”

“Think about it. The ratio of men
to women is ten to one. Chances of a woman needing to use this john are pretty
slim. Come on.”

She pushed open the door. “Anyone
in here?”

“Yes,” said a squeaky voice.

“I’ve got one of the guys with
me,” Sandy warned.

“Okay,” the voice answered.

The Stripper hovered in the
doorway.

“Get your ass in here, Stripper.”

“Jason, my name is Jason.” He
stepped into the bathroom, glaring at Sandy.

Good, his anger was the best way
to get through to him, and Sandy sensed he had a lot of it.

“Put the stuff down and stand in
the middle of the room,” she ordered.

“What about the lemonade?”

“We’ll get to it.”

Again, he followed her order and
stood in the middle of the bathroom. She noticed he faced away from the mirror.
Interesting. Circling him, she analyzed his body, clothes and facial
expression. He wore a black T-shirt, jeans and black boots, topped off by a
leather jacket, also black.

Fingering the rose quartz “hope”
stone Mama gave her after Cody Monroe broke her heart, Sandy considered how
best to help this man become a polished stripper in less than sixty minutes. He
had all the equipment: broad shoulders narrowing to trim hips, thick-muscled
thighs and firm buns that stretched his denim jeans, and solid hands. Her gaze
drifted back up his chest to his slightly bearded face. Then to his eyes,
filled with—

“You having fun?” he asked.

“What did she do to you?” she let
slip. It must have been a woman. Only a woman could put that kind of pain in
his eyes. Someone broke his heart. Sandy knew that feeling. She shook her head.
“Sorry, never mind. Got derailed. Okay, first, you need more clothes.”

“Why?”

“Half the fun is taking them off,
not the being naked part.”

“I’m going to be naked?”

“Well, sort of. You’ll be down to your
thong, anyway.”

His jaw hardened.

“You do have a thong, right?”

“No, ma’am.” That formal voice
again.

“We’ll worry about the thong for
the next show. We need to layer you up so you can pull off the clothes slowly,
with sex appeal. The more clothes the better.”

“I’m hot.”

Didn’t she know it. “And modest.”
She quirked a brow.

“I meant I get hot. I don’t like
wearing a lot of clothes.”

The sudden image of him climbing
into bed wearing nothing but that silver chain around his neck made her grit
her teeth. Crap, she didn’t want to be attracted to this mess of a man, she
really didn’t.

“You won’t be wearing the clothes
for long. What else have you got in your bag?” she said, reaching for it.

He pulled it away.

“Okay, maybe I don’t want to know.
Just pull out the clothes.”

He pulled out a pair of socks,
black, another T-shirt and sweats, also black.

“Color blind, huh?” She fingered
the sweats.

“How did you know that?”

“My brother is color blind.
Wearing black keeps him from looking like an ass. Not much to work with here.”
She dropped the sweats on the sink, grabbed the pitcher and shoved it at him.

“What the hell am I supposed to do
with this?”

“Make lemonade. It will take your
mind off your problems, which I assume are many,” she muttered.

“What?”

“Pay attention.” She dumped four
scoops of powder into the pitcher, coughed once from the fumes and handed it to
him. “Shake it.”

He took the pitcher, stood
completely still and shook the container up and down with his hands. He looked
like a robot. And he was going in the ring in forty-seven minutes.

“Let’s try this.” Sandy pulled out
her IPhone and cued up a song by Earth, Wind and Fire. “Move your hips in the
opposite direction of the pitcher.”

He froze and looked at her,
dumbfounded.

“Like this.” Pretending to hold a
pitcher between her hands, she shook it up high to her right, her hips swaying
low left. He eyed her like she was nuts.

“The hips move, Jason, honest.”

“Not my hips.”

“Why, did you forget to oil them?
Come on, loosen up, listen to the music and relax. I’ll move them for you.”

He stepped back.

She put out her hands, palms up,
like she was approaching a nervous puppy. “No cooties, promise.”

“This isn’t going to work.”

“Sure it will. Have a little
faith.”

He snorted.

“I won’t hurt you. Now relax.” She
placed her hands on his hips and moved them in sync to the music. “Slow at
first, pretend you’re the spoon stirring my lemonade. Round and round, that’s
it, rotate in a circle, good,” she encouraged.

“I feel stupid,” he said.

“You’re using your brain too
much.”

“I’m trying to learn, remember?”
he said, looking down at her.

“This lesson is easy. Relax your
body. You’re way too self-conscious. You have to let go.”

Not possible, Jason thought,
feeling her hands on his hips, the soft gentle hands of a healer. He suddenly
feared he’d break them somehow.

“I’ll take my chances.” He stepped
out of reach.

“Quitter.” She took the pitcher
from him, slammed it on the sink and turned off the music.

“Yeah?” He backed her against the
tiled wall, pressing his body against hers. Her eyes flared wide, but he didn’t
read fear in them. No, he saw challenge, and something else. She wanted to be
kissed. Correction, she needed to be kissed. Bad.

That made him even crazier.

Don’t do it!

“Oh, sorry,” a squeaky voice said.

He spun around and saw a
fragile-looking female wringing her hands.

“I’m done. I was...” She pointed
at a stall. “Well, sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

She raced out of the bathroom as
if he were some kind of fire-breathing dragon, hot on her heels. Great.

“I forgot she was here.” He
stepped away from Sandy.

She didn’t move. Her heart raced,
he could tell by her pulse, tapping against the charm at the base of her neck.
Damn, did he freak her out?

“You could use that kind of focus
when you strip,” she said. She sauntered over to the sinks and gave the
lemonade pitcher a good shake.

He thought she might be pissed
off. Then she turned and shot him a smile that dimpled her cheeks. “Wanna try
again?”

“Not really.”

“Tough, I’m not letting you go out
there and make a fool of yourself.”

“Why do you care?” he asked,
without thinking.

She pursed her lips and the pain
that flashed through her eyes felt like a two-by-four slamming into his ribs.
He wanted desperately to apologize, but didn’t know what for.

“Do you want to get through this
night or not?” She scolded as if speaking to a child.

“Yeah, I do.”

“Good. Then let’s get back to
work.” She shoved the lemonade pitcher at him. He took it.

“I’m not getting the whole
lemonade thing.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got a backup
plan.”

“What?”

“You’ll see. Now shake your booty.
I’m thirsty.”

***

Within the hour, Sandy had given
up on her lemonade exercise and Jason discovered her backup plan: a quick
shoulder rub and a few shots of whiskey to numb his inhibitions, at least long
enough to get through his fifteen-minute match in character.

Two overly made-up, busty blondes
escorted J to the ring as the sound system blared rock lyrics about a sexy boy
being way hot to touch. He wasn’t feeling very sexy at the moment. He was
feeling like a complete idiot—and a little buzzed. Maybe the latter was a good
thing. It had gotten him out of the locker room. He hoped he wasn’t dulled to
the point of not being able to execute what few moves they’d taught him at BAM
training camp.

The crowd cheered and waved signs
as he walked down the aisle, the beat of the deep bass hammering against his
chest.

I’m a sexy boy, so sexy it
hurts…

His blond escorts led him to the
metal stairs and he eyed the ring. This was it.

He climbed the steps and slipped
through the ropes, remembering Sandy’s words: “Wink like you’re coming on to a
woman. Smile like you’ve got a secret.”

Hell, if she only knew.

He started by fingering his leather
jacket seductively, letting his hips swing to the beat of the ridiculous music.
Jacket slides down ... hang on to it with two fingers ...  wink and let it drop
to the mat.

High-pitched screams filled the
stadium. Okay, he must have done that right.

Wink. Smile. Finger the buttons of
the dress shirt he’d borrowed from Floyd. Keep moving the hips, slowly slip
buttons through holes, tip the head back, pelvic thrust.