Tap Out (25 page)

Sophie snorted, trying to harden her heart and gain back some self-control. Respect, that’s what this was about—or rather, his disrespect.
Groupie
. She’d gone and let him in, closer than other male, trusted him, and he’d gone and pulled a Hawley on her.

She struck her best Sophie Morelle pose—shoulders squared, hands on her hips, with one hip thrust out to the side. “History is learning from your mistakes. And you’re my biggest one.”

Instantly, she regretted her words—way too revealing. Rule number one when dealing with a lying male cheat was don’t let him sense your weaknesses. And, she’d laid it right on out there for him, on the Sophie-reveals-all table.

“Darling, there’s no arguing size with you,” he paused, his lips twitching, probably because he’d caught the flush spreading across her cheeks and down to her chest. But his demeanor suddenly changed, from aggressive male to a softer version of himself, more like the Caden she’d grown to love. “It wasn’t mine, you know. The duffel bag. I was just trying to figure out what the fuck was going on. Who’s taking or distributing the drugs.”

Damn
,
the elevator was small.
Nowhere to hide tonight.

“Performance-enhancing drugs, Caden. And needles, for what?” She frowned, thinking about the duffel bags Jaysin had exchange with his large friend. Her instinct reassured her that no way was Caden involved. Yet the evidence...

Caden snorted, interrupting her thoughts. “Shows you don’t know jack about the sly ways some athletes get their fix.”

That did it. “You’re the voice of experience, huh? Bet there’s not a drug out there you haven’t indulged in.”

“Not performance-boosting stuff. Never. I’m a lot of things, but a cheater—no way. I’ll win based on my own merits, not because my muscles are souped-up on steroids or fresh blood infusions. Never done any of that shit, and don’t do the other shit anymore, either.”

She bit her lip and studied him.

He looked right at her, his eyes hooked on hers. Either he was a damned good liar—and of course he was, the man excelled at everything else, why not lies?—or he was telling the truth.

Her heart quickened, wanting to give in and believe him. Wanting him. “So how did that duffel bag get in the trunk of your rental?” she blurted out.

“Think about it, Sophie. Haven’t I been trying to get the answer to that question from you the entire ride?” He straightened and turned away, as if he was disgusted with her. “Fuck, you know what? Believe what you want. I’m used to figuring things out on my own—why would now be any different?”

The elevator stopped, and a split second later, Sophie found maneuvered onto the exterior carpet.

“See you around,” he growled, his tone teeming with frustration.

He was gone. Done with her. She’d been feeling the same toward him for days. So why did she feel so alone? Abandoned. And unjustly accused. So reminiscent of how she felt when the entire town of Hawley had turned on her? Maybe, just maybe, that’s what she’d been doing to Caden.

The police had released him. Here he was in Vegas, training hard for Tetnus. Antisocial, keeping to himself rather than working out with the Boys. No time to solicit buyers or sell drugs, from what she could tell.

She’d been so ready to believe the worst of him. Heck, that’s how she felt toward everyone—it was better to assume the worse than expect the best, right?

These nagging doubts played around in her mind all the way down the hallway and far into the long, sleepless night. Searching for a truth that seemed just out of reach.

* * *

“Another water with lemon,” Caden ordered, nodding at the empty glass on the bar in front of him.

Bracken tossed back the rest of his tequila and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

“The shit I’ve had to do...” his brother mumbled, his way of explaining why he was drinking on the job, before he changed the subject. “That twat Jerry’s not our dealer. You were right. Interesting guy, though, with his fingers in quite a few pockets, maybe even links to organized crime. I’m gonna keep my eyes on that fuckhead.”

“So it’s one of the Boys.”

“Probably. Did you do as we discussed, plant the rumor that some hard-prick biker wants to meet a couple fighters, share the shit? That I was looking for some low-key fights, off-premise, an easy way to get in shape without of the bullshit training?”

No-bullshit training was more like it. From daybreak to well past nightfall, Caden had been following workout regimen that left no room for woes or aches of any kind.

Training for Tetnus was no joke. He had to put on muscle and then drop weight a day before the bouts to make fighting weight. And then put it all back on again. He followed a highly restricted, lean-protein diet, extreme carb-infused workout, and balanced it with weight lifting and stretches to elongate his muscles. Despite the vigorous training and dietary restrictions, it would all be worth it if he won Tetnus.

And some pill-popping peddler was looking to make things easier, ruin a fighter’s credibility.

“Yep. Pissed a few fighters off, too. You’re going to be an unpopular man with most of them.”

Guys from around the country would give their left nuts to qualify for a chance at becoming the greatest fighter around. Sure, the argument remained that boxers were the toughest. Not so. What mixed martial arts fighters had over boxers was serious, mad-ass skills in a host of disciplines. Boxers...box. But an MMA bout was more than exchanging punches and whoever lands the best throws or whoever falls down first wins or loses, respectively.

MMA fighters trained in several styles of fighting. Hell, one of the MMA Gods, named Royce Gracie, proved that size doesn’t matter. Six foot one and at 180 pounds he took on a taller wrestler who outweighed him at a whopping 486 pounds and won. He took down more fighters using Jiu-jitsu than any other guy around. Fuck, a mind-blowing headache wouldn’t bother a guy like that.

The bartender placed another water in front of him, and leaned over the bar as she did so, flashing some skin. He could almost see her belly button, the way her low cut shirt gaped open—a few more buttons had been unbuttoned since she’d served him the first glass of water. But when her gaze drifted to the man sitting next to him, she beat a hasty retreat back to the other end of the bar.

“Guess that’s my signal to head out. I’ll be out in the neighborhood following a tip. We’ll keep in touch. Text me if you hear anything more. You’re looking fit, bro. Rooting for you.” Bracken faux-punched Caden in the arm, and left.

There was more than meets the eye happening behind the scenes out here, that much was for sure. The fact that the duffel had been hidden in Caden’s rental car and no one had come to claim it was downright bizarre. Sure, Jerry was the king of shitty business practices but Caden, and subsequently Bracken, had ruled his involvement out.

Someone was missing something. But what?

Caden took a sip of water and felt the bartender’s eyes on him. He ignored her. Another time, another place, another freakin’ woman ago...

He hadn’t seen much of Sophie since arriving in Vegas, except for a quick elevator ride the night before. She’d done something with her hair, was wearing it loose around her face so it curled against her cheeks. Not the prim, proper Sophie he’d grown used to. Her long, wavy hair offered her the perfect way to hide—which is exactly what she’d done, pretending she hadn’t seen him. Yeah, like the surprised flash of desire that had filled her eyes when he’d entered the elevator wasn’t enough of a hiya.

Sal got a kick outta keeping him informed of her whereabouts. Tonight, she’d kept to her room, located a few floors above the rest of the crew. Not far enough away from that bonehead, Anthony, though.

Last night, Caden had come in from his run and had been drawn to the casino by the Boys’ shouts. The big bonehead had had his hands all over her. At the sight of him lifting Sophie into his arms, Caden charged forward, ready to act on an unexpected surge of violence. He wanted to protect her from that player’s hands. Drive his point home to the fighter using some non-verbal communication, likely fists. Hands off. So reminiscent of the kind of anger he’d had as a kid—which was the only reason he stopped, turned, and walked away. Control was key in a situation like this. And, Caden had been anything but in control of his emotions.

What did she see in the guy?

“Can I get you anything else?” the brunette asked. She’d come out from behind the bar and approached his barstool. Maneuvering herself between the bar and his legs, she thrust her breasts at him. “Anything you want.”

He forced a smile onto his lips. “Tempting. But I’ll stick to water, sweetheart.” Damn, what he wanted was a stiff shot of Jack. And a woman, someone to bury deep inside and work off some tension. Hard, fast, and unrelenting—just like his daily routine. But somehow during his cross-country journey, he’d changed. A quick roll on the mattress wasn’t enough, unless it was with Sophie.

Pushing his barstool back, he put some distance between himself and the buxom bartender. Glancing at his watch, he figured he’d bump up tomorrow morning’s run, work off some of the bullshit clouding his thinking. The streets of Vegas were cooler after midnight. Jerry could go fuck himself and his curfew. Then, he’d head over to the adjacent casino where a sparring cage had been set up. Just as he’d done the past few nights, Caden hoped to pick up a bout or two. Perfect his skills on new blood, before the big finale with Tetnus. Work off his frustrations. His anger.

Spread a rumor here and there.

“Another time. I’m here all week.”

Caden reached into his sweat pants pocket, pulled out some bills, and placed them next to the empty glass.

“Thanks for the drink. It was just what I needed,” he commented.

She shrugged, and tucked a napkin into his pocket. No points off for effort.

For a second, he paused. Why the hell not follow through on what was so blatantly offered? A week ago, she’d have already been on her back with her legs spread wide.

Someone else came to mind, her legs spread and all.
Fuck.
She plagued him worse than any drug habit. With a shake of his head, he set off for the Strip. Man, how he wished he’d forget ever getting involved with—ever
caring
about—Sophie Morelle.

Chapter Nineteen

CLINCH: The face a fighter makes when he gets the credit card bill.

One for Team Caden
, he thought, smirking. His cheek smarted, but he ignored it. The punch to his face left him invigorated. Alive. Knowing this peacock prancing about the cage underestimated him. He let him land a punch, a strategy used to draw the man in closer. Close enough where he could land a lethal kick and take things to the mat.

A few minutes ago, Jaysin Bouvine had put a hurting on a guy. Knocked the man out cold with a single jab. Concussion, or worse. Ruined his chances at Tetnus. But it gave Caden hope, because if a douchebag fighter like Bouvine could manage to win a sparring match, Caden’s chances at winning Tetnus were in the bag.

Douchebag and his crew seemed to be having a premature victory celebration on the other side of the cage. Caden moved away from them, not giving a shit how much Jaysin thought he was going to somehow miraculously rise to the top of the MMA food chain and win. Dumb luck.

Not the kind of luck that had ever graced Caden’s life.

Not the kind of luck he wanted, either.

His opponent stepped in and attempted a kick.

Caden stepped back, blocked it, and visualized exactly how he was going to take the man down.

A light flashed, momentarily blinding him. Enough time for the peacock to punch him in the kidney. Blinking away small, illuminated stars, Caden instinctively shot his elbow up, blocking another swing. Pivoting on his toe, he swung around and nailed the guy in the back of his legs. He buckled, unsteady on his feet. Throwing his weight on the man, Caden knocked him onto his back and fell forward with him.

They grappled and rolled.

Someone shouted—a woman—but his mind was locked on his opponent. He flipped him onto his stomach.

Caden had the amateur’s head in a can-opener when another light flashed brightly, causing his pupils to dilate. His opponent wiggled free.

“Fuck me,” Caden ground out, and searched the side of the cage for the obnoxious light.

His gaze halted on two familiar faces, one with a brightly lit handheld light meter, and the other one pointing a goddamned video camera at him. He shook his head, and gestured a time-out at his opponent. Stopping the sparring match wasn’t part of the MMA rulebook, but the breathless guy was all too eager to take a coffee break.

“If you pull this shit during Tetnus, I’m going to give you a beating,” he growled, leaning into the cage and glaring down at Sal.

A muffled noise caused Caden’s gaze to shift to the woman standing next to the old-timer.

Her hair was tucked beneath a baseball cap, which was pulled low over her forehead. She was wearing a tight, pale blue T-shirt with the words
Tap Out
stretched tightly across her chest. Crisp white slacks covered her long legs. And, she had on flats, pale blue, to match her T-shirt. A casual look for her, probably so she wouldn’t draw attention to herself. Funny how that hadn’t exactly worked out.

Sophie in a simple T-shirt was downright breathtaking.

Man, she was gorgeous, in a wholesome, natural way. He wanted to make the words on her shirt ring true. Make her tap out in submission as he pinned her to the floor. Hear her moan his name. Over and over. Until he found himself completely tapped out as well.

Stick to the plan
, he reminded himself.
One that doesn’t include her.

Sophie shifted on her feet. Nervous?

Good.
“Get that freakin’ light outta my eyes,” he hollered down to Sal, who was still holding the huge light fixture on Caden. Turning, Caden pinned his gaze back onto Sophie. “You filming me?” he demanded.

Her chin rose up a notch. “Yes.”

“Gonna smack me over the head with your camera, sweet thing? Ruin another chance at me winning the title?”

“I thought we’d worked that out, darn it. It was an accident. Besides, you promised you’d help me. You promised me an exclu—”

“Exclusive? Shit on a brick. What more do you want from me?” He paused, and scowled.

“Aw, come on, Caden,” Sal interrupted, “don’t know what happened between you two out there in the desert. Bit by a rattler or something, with all the melodrama.”

Caden snorted.

“Melodrama?” Sophie said, her voice high and sounding offended. “I haven’t seen him in two nights.”

“Oh, she’s seen enough of me, alright. Seems like she’s looking for another eyeful.”

She cocked her head to the side. “Jeez, every woman in America is hoping for an eyeful of you and your baby jewels. Looks can be deceiving, isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

“All you need to do, sweetheart, is open your eyes. The truth is staring right back at you.”

She flipped her hair off her face. “Are you telling me I got it all wrong?”

Her voice was hoarse but it was the doubtfulness of her tone that felt like a kick to the kidneys. Caden leaned into the cage. “I never lied to you,” he ground out, his own voice raw and vibrating with frustration.

She gasped. For a moment, they studied each other. Her eyes thoughtful. His, for sure, brimming with anger.

“Baby jewels? Is that what all this melodrama is about?” Sal demanded. “Sophie, honey, there’s nothing baby about him. I’ve seen him in the showers, ya know. Caden, you do much better with the women when there’s sugar in your tone. Want some advice?”

“No,” Sophie quickly shot out, and stomped her foot.

“Sal,” he warned.

The desire to pound a fist into the cage changed to a feeling of disbelief. The old-timer was either clueless, or had a death wish. Judging by the way Sophie stood glaring at him, Caden wouldn’t have to get his hands dirty.

In his typical, oblivious fashion, Sal continued, “A nice bottle of wine, some candles, and soft music. Did the maid clean up your room, Sophie? Clothes tossed all over the place could ruin the mood I’m aiming for. And, come to think of it, Caden is in training...”

Man, she was gorgeous, with her hands on her hips and her eyes throwing daggers at the old-timer. Damned drugs. Whoever was responsible was going to pay dearly.

Yet, Caden wasn’t about to roll over and beg for her forgiveness. She was a reporter, let her fucking figure it out.

It all boiled down to trust. Something he didn’t give lightly...or ever, really. Though he demanded it from others. Cleary, she had trust issues—hell, with everything she’d told him, he didn’t blame her. But it rubbed him raw. He slammed a lid down hard on whatever silly emotion that had him wondering about a future. With her. A future that was decidedly better off without her. Like all the other women that’d come into his life, he’d give her what she wanted, then send her packing.

“Interview’s over. Keep on filming, what the fuck do I care? But keep those lights out of my eyes.”

He shot one parting glance at her, standing with her hands at her sides and looking all hurt, like someone given her a solid teeth-rattling takedown.

* * *

Sophie wiped her mouth, set the napkin on the room service tray, and poured a second cup of coffee, hoping the caffeine would help refocus her attention on the images flashing by in her viewfinder. According to her notes, she’d need to film a few additional sparring bouts, and then just the grand finale—Tetnus. She’d covered everything from the street roots of MMA to training to intimate snapshots of fighters—give or take Caden’s incomplete exclusive.

“I never lied to you
.
”
Damn.
Damn.
Damn.

The Caden-coaster she’d been rolling around on since hitting Vegas was interfering with her objectivity. MMA fans would eat him up. It’s not like she couldn’t edit out the sexy bits he’d filmed for her eyes only. And, unless he’d lied to her in Sedona, he’d left her more exclusive information, too. Add the drama of his arrest to the mix...She swallowed hard.

That’s what any credible investigative reporter would do, right? Caden had handed her a prime opportunity, heck, he’d tossed it into her lap. The title of her piece said it all:
Bets
,
Drugs
,
and MMA—Sophie Morelle Investigates.

After all, wasn’t that what the Double Jerks were all about? Taking bets and selling drugs?

But was Caden part of it?

She peered at the viewfinder. Her heart rolled about painfully along with the man projected there. She snapped her eyes shut, trying to block him out. Except her memories played out as well, frame by delicious frame.

With his hair tussled and wild from her fingers after sex. His smug look of satisfaction after she’d moaned his name as she climaxed. His piercing regard, and the hurt in his eyes when he’d asked her to give him a chance to explain. The rawness of his tone, as he’d glared down at her from the cage. “I never lied to you.”

She hadn’t expected him to be at the training ring—yeah, right, who was she kidding? Her conscience has nagged her all the way to the Octagon cage. She’d wanted a glimpse of him. Some small means of understanding him better, and what motivated him to do the things he did.

Or didn’t do.

She wanted to believe him. Trust. The word of the century. She wanted to go out onto a limb, and trust him enough to hear him out. But the company Caden kept made it difficult.

Last night, she’d been discretely filming Jaysin Bouvine for about an hour before Sal and Caden both arrived. What she hoped to record was something juicy and illegal. Catch him in the act of dealing drugs. Instead, she recorded Jaysin the jerk and genuine underdog, who, by all accounts—though mostly his own—was rising out of the fighter food chain and into the limelight.

His confidence level had pulled a 180-degree shift. His movements around the room, his brutal victory over a smaller sparring opponent and his subsequent boast fest smacked of self-importance. Cool and conceited beyond belief. Like Caden, Jaysin had bulked up. His biceps were enormous, along with his torso and legs. She caught him preening and flexing his way around the facility, posing for photographs and a few other reporters’ interviews. A genuine showboat.

Heck, Sal had even gotten him to sign her release form to use whatever footage she’d captured of him for her documentary. Clearly, the man wasn’t in the right frame of mind.

He’d changed. Drastically. Now he was bigger, meaner, and eager to be a moneymaking star. It was startling, to say the least.

Just what the world needed—another arrogant male meathead.

Boy, she disliked him. But fans loved an underdog story. They’d respond to how the lamest dog around transformed himself into a vital contender.

She prayed he wouldn’t win. The manhandling jerk deserved what was coming his way. She intended to portray him in the right light, so to speak. Make fans love him so they’d hate him even more when they witnessed firsthand what a dickhead he really was.

She hit the pause button, deciding to review last night’s footage while it was fresh in her head. Every minute counted, so she needed to decide if another night of filming was necessary.

Score five for Sophie. Five in-depth interviews, about Tetnus and with the Boys opponents. It helped balance out her documentary by filming from a different angle, different points of view. Except, no matter who she talked to, they all marked one welterweight as the fighter to beat.

Caden.

With fresh eyes, she examined the footage of him in the cage. He was beauty in motion, graceful and subtle in his movements. He didn’t jump around like other fighters, bobbing on their feet around the mat. Caden either stalked his opponent, or stood his ground like he was waiting for a wave instead of a fight. Letting his opponents come in close and allowing them to hit and kick him. Sophie hit Pause and studied Caden’s smug grin—the same one he used on her numerous times. When she’d gotten him all wrong and had read him the wrong way. Which was exactly what his opponent was doing, judging by the man’s overtly confident gestures.

Caden wants his opponents to underestimate him.

She forwarded the footage several frames until she found their exchange last night. She hit Play, and watched closely as Caden said, “All you need to do, sweetheart, is open your eyes. The truth is staring right back at you.”

She rewound it and hit Play again. And again.

Damn.
Damn.
Damn.
This snapshot directly contrasted to the warrior in the cage who’d only seconds ago been frozen on her camcorder. Whose every action was purposefully trained on provoking his opponent. She frowned. What if he had been telling her the truth? That this bit of video was a glimpse into the real Caden. Raw. Open. Honest. That the truth was just like he’d said it would be, there in his face, his tone, and his gestures.

And, in his eyes. The hurt she’d seen there that had stuck with her well into the night, because her instincts told her it had been genuine.
Damn.
Damn.
Damn
. He’d trusted her. And, she’d gotten it all wrong. She’d done what his foster parent had done, doubted him and then bailed on him.

Her hand shook and coffee splashed out of the mug.
Shit.
She jumped up, grabbed a few tissues from the nightstand and wiped the dark drops off the tile. A few more drops landed on her fingers. She blinked.

Tears.

This wouldn’t do. She stood and dabbed her eyes. She had a documentary to edit, damn it. And her indecision was messing with her emotions big time. She wanted to believe him. But one nagging question plagued her. If she’d gotten it wrong, then how did the duffel bag get into his trunk? And, he knew about it—wasn’t that evidence enough?

Jaysin? From what she could tell, he was the real criminal here. But how to prove it? And, what to do about Caden?

All she wanted now was to take a ride up to the penthouse. Apologize, and offer to listen to his explanation. Give him the benefit of the doubt. Not pull a Hawley on him.

Damn.
Damn.
Damn
. When the truth had gotten too blurred, too distorted, and too tough to handle, she’d shut the door in his face.