Love On The Ropes (Ringside Romance) (7 page)

Hell, he hadn’t meant to do that.

An overwhelming cheer rocked the rafters.

Oh well, it worked.

So sexy I’ll burn your fingers,
your lips…

His eyelids closed ever so
slightly—they were getting heavy anyway—and he swirled his hips like he was
stirring lemonade. Sandy liked lemonade. He wondered if she ever made lemonade
wearing nothing but her tank top and underwear. Yeah, he bet she did. She was
so damned earthy he could picture her in his mind.

Focus!

A sexy boy, a wicked smile, a
touch to set you on fire…

The dress shirt slid off his
shoulders and down his arms to his fingertips. He let the shirt flutter to the
mat.

Cheers, screams, and howls pierced
his eardrums. Okay, they were still with him.

He tugged on the waistband of his
breakaway pants that Sandy found in wardrobe. The ladies whistled, screamed and
hooted. One tried to jump the guardrail, but a security guy held her back.

Unsnap the front of the pants with
a wink. Go after side snaps, one by one.

Slow, easy, smooth.

Kind of like how he imagined Sandy
would be in bed.

That was not happening. He wasn’t
going to bang that sweet thing, a nice girl who was more pure, more real than
anything he’d ever touched in his life. He wasn’t going to mess her life up
because his hormones were out of control. She was helping him, for Pete’s sake.
She deserved better.

Touch me and you’ll see how hot
I can be…

He slid the pants down over his
hips and they hit the ground. More cheers, more howls.

The only thing left were his
trunks and T-shirt, and the trunks were staying on. He gripped the hem of his
shirt and rolled it up, up, up, showing off his six-pack, the result of one
hundred nightly sit-ups. The shirt was up, and—

Stuck on something. Hell, he’d
forgotten to take off his St. Michael medal, the one thing that reminded him
who he really was.

Tug, twist, yank. The friggin’
shirt was stuck on his head. The cheers dissolved into laughter. He felt his
cheeks burn with embarrassment. His music stopped.

Pull, tug—

WHACK!

Something hit him square in the
gut and he doubled over.

Great, California Chris, the West
Coast champ, had started the match with a sneak attack. If J could’ve taken off
his shirt he would have seen it coming.

SLAP! Chris smacked him across the
chest.

J stumbled back into the
turnbuckle.

SLAP! KICK!

Damn, he was cornered, being
attacked, unable to see and defend himself, like that mission in Iraq.

“ARGH!” he cried, ripping the
shirt off his body.

California Chris jumped back.
Jason breathed heavily through clenched teeth, pushing back the memory of the
choppers overhead—couldn’t get to him, couldn’t get to any of them.

Let it go
.

Somehow he managed to shelve the
memory, only to walk into a new kind of hell. He’d been ordered to lose
tonight’s match to this pretty boy with his slicked-up chest and long, blond
hair.

“You ready for a real fight, or
did that fight with your clothes wear you out?” Chris taunted.

Sure he did, he knew he would win.
He could be the biggest asshole in North America and Jason couldn’t do a damn
thing about it.

Chris charged and pinned him
against the turnbuckle, straddling the second ropes and throwing five punches
to the side of Jason’s head. Fake punches, of course—he doubted this pretty boy
knew how to execute the real thing.

Jason acted dazed, which he was
thanks to the whiskey.

The booze also made him
uncoordinated so he couldn’t undress himself. He was going to give Sandy a
piece of his mind when this was—

UGH!

A kick missed its mark and nailed
him in the gut—for real. Winded, Jason fell to his knees. Ten minutes of this?
Without hurting this pussy boy? No way.

California Chris applied a
headlock and whispered into J’s ear. “Three clotheslines, surfboard, sleeper,
then Gidget will distract me and you take us over the ropes.”

J wanted to tell him to screw off,
but his lungs hadn’t recovered from the kick.

California jumped off Jason and
the crowd howled. No, they were actually booing. Uh-oh. That’s not how this was
supposed to go. California Chris was the champ, the favorite, the baby face. He
was supposed to get the support from fans and win. Jason was supposed to play
dirty and lose.

Storming to the center of the
ring, Jason glared at California Chris, who charged and delivered clothesline
number one. J got up. Another clothesline. J got up again. A third clothesline.
He lay there a minute, deciding how much abuse he could really handle.

You’ll do whatever it takes to
get the job done.

California Chris slammed a
surfboard against Jason’s chest, then kneeled to put him in a sleeper hold.
Jason flailed his arms as instructed, wild at first, then slower, slower. He
pretended to pass out. Chris leaned in and gave him the next move.

“Over the ropes. I’m counted out.”

California released the hold and
let J’s head slip to the mat. Jason couldn’t have heard that right. California
was supposed to win the match, not be counted out. The crowd went nuts. Gidget
must be taunting her ex-boyfriend.

Jason took a few deep breaths,
then turned his head and opened his eyes slightly. Sure enough, a babe in a
one-piece bathing suit was yelling at J’s opponent. California yelled back,
waving his arms.

That was J’s cue to make his move.

He jumped to his feet and charged California
from behind. They both went over the ropes, hitting the mat outside the ring.

The place exploded as Jason lay
flat on his back, his arm draped across his eyes. He couldn’t believe he was
doing this, then remembered his objective: get the bad guys. Figure out who was
peddling steroids or worse. Worse? It wouldn’t surprise him. Sandy had been
quick with the whiskey for nerves. He wondered what else she kept in that bag
of hers. Vicodin? Oxy?

Nah, not Sandy.

Enough!
He refused to let a
pair of beautiful green eyes blind him.

The referee got in his face.
“FOUR!”

Jason knew the drill: if he wasn’t
up and in the ring by the count of ten, the match was over and he’d lose. He
wasn’t supposed to lose this way. They’d scripted a more dramatic ending.

He crawled on hands and knees to
the ring skirt, watching the drama unfold nearby. Gidget stood over California
Chris, hands on her hips as if to say he’d gotten what he deserved.

Jason rolled under the ropes into
the ring and waited. The crowd cheered, the sound growing louder and louder. He
thought about his assignment, about the potential for steroid abuse. None of
the guys he’d met so far seemed overly crazed, although he hadn’t met them all.
A sure sign of abuse was an explosive temper. Hell, that could describe Jason
on a bad day.

The ref grabbed Jason’s hand,
pulling him to his feet. J wavered.

“What the hell?” he said.

Gidget launched herself into his
arms.

“The winner, and new West Coast
champion, Jack the Stripper!” a voice called over the PA system.

Damn, this wasn’t right. Jason
ripped his hand from the ref’s and headed for the ropes, anxious get out of the
spotlight and away from the cheers and applause.

Suddenly he realized Gidget still
clung to him like a frightened three-year-old to her mommy. He peeled her off
his body and set her aside. She could barely stand, as if hypnotized by J’s raw
sexuality.

“Stay,” he ordered, as desire fill
her eyes. He didn’t want her desire—or anyone else’s, for that matter. He
wanted to be alone. He needed to think, to figure out how to extricate himself
from this new challenge.

He stormed down the ring steps,
past California Chris, who played unconscious. Jason was champion? Yeah, a
champion of idiots. He was no champion, especially not a champion of anything
that mattered. Now, if he could nail the perp in the next seventy-two hours
that would be a champion move.

“Hang on Stripper! You forgot
something!” the ref called over the PA system.

Jason turned in time to catch
Gidget as she launched herself at him, wrapping herself around him from her
arms to her ankles.

“What the hell?” he muttered.

The crowd roared, distracting him
for a second. He started to pry her off when he spotted a boy in the front row,
whistling with his pinky fingers. This was big stuff for the fans, especially the
young men who believed in the fairy tale that if you fought hard enough you
could get the girl. Who was Jason to destroy this kid’s fantasy?

He mustered a smile and waved at
the fans, trying to act the part of champ and hero. Fine, he’d be a star for one
day, but just one. Then he’d set things straight with Cosmo. Jason couldn’t be
in the spotlight, not if he was going to do his job.

With one last wave, he walked up
the ramp and slipped past the curtain into the back. A group of guys were
waiting for him, laughing, applauding, and giving him the thumbs-up.

Then his gaze caught on Sandy, who
glared, her hands planted firmly on her hips. 

“What?” he said.

“You’re a piece of work,” Sandy
snapped at The Stripper. She turned and headed for the first aid room.

So, Jason was like all the rest of
them, reveling in the glory and soaking up the female adoration. His shyness,
his supposed inexperience at stripping had been an act. She’d watched him out
there in the ring, completely uninhibited—and welcoming the embrace of Gidget
the tramp.

Yet in the bathroom she thought
she’d seen something raw and vulnerable in The Stripper’s eyes. Time to seriously
think about getting out of the business.

“What?” Jason grabbed her arm and
she turned to face him.

He looked ridiculous with Gidget
still wrapped around his torso. Sandy raised an eyebrow at his voluptuous cling
on.

“Hey, this wasn’t my idea,” he
said.

“I don’t see you complaining.”

“You’re jealous?”

“Hardly.”

“Great job!” Cosmo called,
shuffling up to them. “At ease, Gidget. Get off The Stripper and let him get
some massage time with Sandy. He worked hard tonight. He deserves it.”

Sandy seethed. Cosmo wouldn’t
really reward The Stripper with a one-on-one massage, would he?

“I’m working on Headbanger,” Sandy
said.

“He can wait. Stripper needs you.
Give his muscles a go before they tighten up on him.”

“I’ll do it, I’ll do it!” Gidget
offered.

“Great idea,” Sandy said.

“Not the kind of massage he
needs,” Cosmo said, pointing for Gidget to leave.

“Bye, Stripper.” Gidget stood on
tiptoe and kissed his cheek.

“Oh, brother,” Sandy said.

Cosmo’s cell phone rang. “Perini.
Yep. Nope. Horse feathers!” He hung up. “Cowboy Gil just pulled out of the
Silverdale Special next month. He and Cody Monroe were the only two who could ride
a horse and shoot the toupee off of Headbanger. Guess I’ll have to call Cody’s
agent and get him back here. Will probably cost me a fortune.”

Her heart sank. Cody was coming
back?

“I’ll do it,” Jason said, his eyes
locked onto Sandy.

“You know how to ride?” Cosmo
asked.

“I know how to shoot.”

“Outstanding! A cowboy stripper
who can shoot. Excellent. Well, go on, Stripper, Sandy will take care of you.”

She
so
didn’t want to, no
sir. She wanted to be as far away from this guy as possible, and not just because
he was a womanizer who pretended to be a gentleman. No, she wanted to keep her
distance because she thought she could read him, but in reality she hadn’t a
clue what he was about. He offered to ride and shoot in place of Cody Monroe.
Why?

Don’t read anything into this,
girl. He probably just wants to boost his notoriety
.

Then reality struck: She wanted
away from this guy because his damned striptease set her body on fire.

She marched toward for first aid,
The Stripper right behind her.

Frustration settled across her
shoulders. It had been way too long since she’d had good sex. Come to think of
it, had she ever experienced good sex? Making love with Cody was like needing a
chocolate fix and swallowing the entire candy bar before you tasted it. He was
always in a hurry, fast and frenzied. She’d never climaxed when they made love,
which she’d attributed to her own failings.

Why on earth was she thinking
about orgasms?

“I’ll be good.”

She stopped and whipped around to
face The Stripper. “What did you say?”

“I’ll be good,” he repeated,
glancing at the floor.

Damn him for humbling himself, or
had he read her mind? “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shrugged. “I’m trying to calm
you down. I’ll behave, I’ll do whatever you want if you’ll just stop being so damned
pissed off at me.”

“I’m not pissed off at you!”

Johnny poked his head out of the
first aid room. “Everything okay?”

“Fine, damn it,” she snapped.

“Oh, okay.” He shut the door.

She was making an ass out of
herself.

“Well, let’s get this over with,”
she said, marching into first aid. She tossed her pack beside an empty massage
table. “Lie down.”

Johnny eyed The Stripper and they
both shrugged.

“Should I take a shower first?”
The Stripper asked.

“After.” She pulled out eucalyptus
lavender oil and rubbed it between her hands.

“What about—”

“Stop talking and lie there.”

“I’ll be right back,” Johnny said,
helping Daring Durk to the door.

She started on The Stripper,
spreading her hands across his shoulders and down, tracing his chakra points
with her fingertips. Heat raced up her arms. She didn’t want to have her hands
on this guy. He reeked of sex and danger. A tickle of heaviness settled low
between her legs.