Tap Out (3 page)

“Nope. But what can happen when the worst has already happened? You’ll stay with the car and handle the paperwork?” She paused, and considered Lauren. “You’ll be okay?”

“Um...no.”

“It’s not like we’re at fault. And, if the police give you a hard time, blame it on the real culprit.
Him
.” She gestured to the billboard. “Pileups are probably a daily occurrence around here since that thing went up,” she added angrily beneath her breath.

Seconds passed, until finally Lauren rolled her eyes up, as if seeking advice from above. “How are you going to make it across four lanes of traffic with three suitcases, wearing three-inch heels?”

“Watch and learn. Journalist boot camp training. And plenty of practice getting in quick for the scoop with all my essentials. Clothing, video equipment and camera—”

“Suitcase full of underwear.”

“Well, if there’s an emergency, and I end up in the hospital...”

Lauren’s gaze shifted toward the bus and then back on her. “Judging by the condition of that bus, it seems more than likely.”

Sophie shot her friend a smile. “Got me.”

She set her smaller suitcase on top of the larger one, looped the flexible handle over the plastic, retractable one, and expanded that handle with a solid jerk. The third suitcase containing her equipment had straps like a backpack, and with well-practiced movements, Sophie hoisted it onto her back. “I really appreciate your help.”

“You’re really going to do this?”

“Yep.”

“Call me. I want a firsthand account of Caden’s reaction when you show up on his bus—if he doesn’t spot you dashing across I-70 and make a run for it, that is.”

Sophie straightened. Common sense said
she
should make a run for it, far away from that hunk o’junk. Not toward it.

Weaving her way across the interstate, she focused on her objective and ignored the angry horns and shouts from cars backed up so far they’d fill a stadium parking lot. The racket blocked out the sound of her fist against the glass door window on the far side of the bus, but hey, she’d made it this far. Whipping out her cell, she texted Sal.

It took three tries for the door to open enough for her to squeeze her gear through. Mustering her last bit of strength, she hauled her bags up the four steps, situated them in the aisle between the first row of seats, and tugged the hem of her blouse back into place.

An errant bead of sweat trickled down her cheekbone, but she didn’t care.

She was back on the road to success, via this ridiculous four-wheeled bucket of rust. She’d done it.

It took a minute to realize the bus was quiet, the silence so profound you could hear a pin drop on the worn aisle floor.

A moment for Sophie to look up and find all eyes fixed on her. One by one, the fighters’ faces registered their recognition, then hardened. Quicker than a car airbag—and packing just as much punch—all hell broke loose.

Chapter Two

ACHILLES LOCK: When a fighter grabs his opponent by the ankles and holds on for dear life

Brakes squealed, and so did Sophie, as the bus hit another pothole, sending its riders airborne like skiers taking a mogul wild. Her small suitcase full of undies shifted halfway out of the overhead and bobbled precariously over the aisle. She prayed the fickle latch would hold tight if it headed south, though it wouldn’t matter if this rustcan hit one more pothole and fragmented into chunks of metal.

Bad enough, the grumbles and glares coming from the you’re-not-welcome-to-our-ride committee had only intensified with every teeth-shattering bump. The Boys—as Sal had dubbed his assembly of oversized fighters—had only just ceased directing a less-than-subtle tirade of curses her way.

Hopefully, they’d forget her. Go about their usual business of playing video games on their iPhones, pounding their chests and dragging women around by the hair. She was too wired to nap, which is what usually happened once she’d settled into her seat, much to Lauren’s annoyance. She needed a moment, time to calm herself, gather her wits about her and reevaluate her plan of attack. She glanced over her shoulder, spotted a stiff middle finger gesturing her way, and quickly averted her gaze.

“You said no women on the bus. So what’s she doing here?” someone cried out, parroting the general theme of their insults to date.

Oh
,
Boys.
Here we go again.

“It’s unlucky. She’s unlucky.”

“Downright destructive.”

Sophie didn’t have to turn around to know they were all staring at her. “You didn’t tell them about the documentary,” she stated, narrowing her eyes at the old-timer, her lifeline, her “way in,” who seemed oblivious to the tension around him.

Sal’s cheeks flushed red. “Um...Jerry already had ’em all riled up. Didn’t think mentioning you up would settle the fellas down. Sorry, honey.”

She smoothed a lock of hair behind her ear and tried not to let the news, Sal, or the glowering Boys rattle her. So what if getting them onboard for her documentary was going to be more difficult than expected? A bunny didn’t enter a wolf’s den without expecting some drama.

Perched on his knees, Sal looked over the seatback and addressed the busload of fighters from his spot on the worn spring-riddled seat next to her. “The receptionist at the New Millennium Inn told me over the phone that there’s Wifey and a tech room. I know how you fellas love playing Pac-Man on that box. But listen up—no drinking. You’re gonna end back at a Motel 6 if Jerry catches you imbibing.”

Jerry was the less-than amiable promoter/fight manager who’d helped organize Tetnus. He was also the East Coast chairman of the Xtreme MMA Federation, who’d sponsored the championship qualifiers back in Pittsburgh. She’d had a run-in with the horrible man just before the unfortunate incident with Caden and wasn’t looking forward to their unavoidable confrontation on the road. For now, she had to deal with the problem at hand—figuring out exactly how she was going to win over this group of pissed off pirates.

“Whose “wifey” is going to be entertaining us, you old rascal?”

“Think he means WiFi.”

“What the fuck is
imbibing
?” another fighter questioned.

“Still doesn’t explain what
she’s
doing here.”

Sal cleared his throat, his focus on her rather than on the confusion he’d caused. “Don’t look so panicked. The Boys need time to adjust. Get used to the idea of you riding along with us. Warm up to the notion of you filming them. See, they don’t trust you, honey. Not after you—”

“They hate me,” Sophie commented weakly. She waved off Sal’s obligatory reassurance that somehow she’d misunderstood. That the last thirty-five minutes hadn’t been filled with a tension so thick, you could slice it with a knife and serve it up like a piece of humble pie.

“Hate’s a strong word. It’s more like...despise.”

“Gee, I feel much better,” Sophie muttered. She tried to look on the bright side. Caden was mercifully absent. Though his presence was felt in every snort, angry glare, and unsubtle curse directed her way.

Sophie let out a long breath of air that she hadn’t realized she’d been holding as the bus jerked to a halt within the hotel parking lot. Jeez, she’d barely lasted a half hour. Did she really think she’d survive the bus ride to Vegas? The hotel couldn’t have been a more welcome site.

New Millennium Inns catered to business folk with two large convention rooms, a heated indoor pool with sauna and Jacuzzi, a fully equipped gym, spa treatments, and a restaurant with bar. Nicely decorated rooms with fully stocked mini-fridges, and, if one was lucky, a view of the pool.

This one, just outside of Arnold, Missouri, was large, with two wings off the main entry section. Quasi-expensive, too. She’d stayed at enough of them while on assignment to know the deal. Back when she earned enough money to afford the presidential suite.

Now she’d be lucky enough to afford a room overlooking the air conditioning unit.

A shiver ran up her spine, and she tried to shake it off. Fear of abject poverty ranked right up there with automobile accidents—and look how that had turned out.

A smashed BMW was just the beginning of her troubles. As if her day hadn’t been filled with enough problems, her wallet wasn’t inside her purse. ID, checkbook, credit cards, were all tucked securely within the expensive leather interior. She thought about asking Sal to help her locate a Pittsburgh Trust, but without a valid form of identification and with the additional identity theft protection she’d placed on her account, she’d have to jump hurdles to get everything replaced. For now, she was one piece of plastic away from failure.

A corporate credit card, which she kept separate and tucked within a billfold along with her now useless business cards, was her only hope. That is,
if
the network hadn’t yet cancelled it.”Listen up,” Sal addressed the fighters, “No booze, no women, and no trouble.”

The Boys groaned collectively, just like little boys.

“I understand. Before I married Valeska...” his voice wandered off. Sophie warmed to the older man, who clearly loved his wife. A sign of a good, kind man, a much needed rose blooming through the frost. Even if his warmth wasn’t directed at her, it helped calm her growing nerves.

With a shake of his head, Sal waved the grumpy lot of fighters off the rustmobile. He retrieved her large suitcase and rolled it outside. Another kind act, one that nevertheless smacked of pity. She grimaced. He felt sorry for her, and for the way the Boys had behaved, as if she’d stolen their favorite WrestleMania figure, or worse, ruined
their
chances at winning a million-dollar purse.

Nothing has gone according to plan
, Sophie thought, peeling her silk blouse away from her sticky body. The traffic, rent-a-wreck, less-than-stellar reception and lost wallet, combined with the heat, had thrown her off her game. What she needed was a cool shower and a fresh change of clothes. Refresh. Regroup. Rethink her approach. Then, sweet-talking Sophie Morelle would be out to play hardball. The Boys wouldn’t know what hit them.

“Think you can handle the little one?” He pointed to her lingerie bag jutting out of the overhead, then shook his head. “Just like a woman to overpack.”

Sophie didn’t respond. Handling her luggage was the least of her worries. Her gaze wandered toward the larger one that he had placed in front of the bus, just in time to witness a passing fighter giving it a swift kick.

“That’s it.” She squeezed past Sal and hurried down the stairs. But the fighter was already a few long strides away and out of the range of her designer purse, despite its long leather strap. She watched him disappear behind the sliding glass entry doors.

Sal came up beside her. “Don’t worry that pretty head. I’ll smooth things out with the fellas. It’s Jerry you’ve gotta worry about. He’s booked at the hotel. If you think the Boys are in a snit about you being here, Jerry’s gonna flip his lid, no matter how good of a negotiator you think you are.” Sal rubbed his jaw, and looked at her, considering. “And Jerry’s reaction will be mild compared to Caden’s.”

“Think about your name in the credits, Sal. Tied forever to an award-winning documentary.” Moving her hands, she framed out an imaginary sign in the air. “Famous. All you have to do is get Caden to agree to talk.”

The old timer’s eyes lit up, if only briefly. “Think it’s a bad idea, you interviewing him, after what ya did in Pittsburgh—” With a shake of his head, Sal headed off toward the hotel.

“But you’ll still help me, right?” she hollered after him. Terrific. Her only ally was having doubts, and that thin thread of allegiance binding them was snapping. Squaring her shoulders and grabbing her suitcase’s handle, she followed him inside.

A welcome blast of cold air greeted her as she wheeled her suitcase into the lobby. She unclasped a few buttons on her blouse and tugged the cami beneath it away from her overheated body, allowing the air to circulate over her damp skin. Cotton would have been a better choice, but when it came to clothing, Sophie always dressed for success. You never knew when an opportunity would present itself, and the cameras would be rolling.

Sometimes the best stories were spur of the moment, and a journalist had a certain image to uphold—especially a female reporter. Weren’t women in all walks of life always held to a higher standard? Besides, a late-night television host turned documentary filmmaker had a certain image to maintain. That thought had plagued her the entire sweltering bus ride, while she’d been tempted to slip off her silk blouse and simply wear the cami.

Oddly enough, the receptionist seemed to be quite warm herself, even in the air-conditioning. Sophie watched, fascinated, as the girl unbuttoned a few buttons on her green polyester New Millennium Inn uniform. Both women were so intently watching what seemed to be the security camera stashed away behind the reception desk that they were oblivious to Sophie and Sal.

“See Jessica,” the receptionist admonished her co-worker, “I told you it was really him. I’d be able to spot that hunk of man meat anywhere.”

“You owe me five dollars. I told you he’s hung like a stallion. That wasn’t just extra paint on the billboard,” her friend added, snapping her gum.

“Faux-cock. Stuffing. They slide it into his briefs before each shot,” Sophie mumbled, biting back the rest of her lie.

Slowly, both receptionists came out of their Caden daze and glared at her. The one with a fiver in her hand asked, “How many nights?”

“Two,” Sal responded, holding up two fingers.

Sophie did the same.

“Together?”

“I’m...um...a married man. Maybe a year ago—”

“Separate,” Sophie interrupted, her voice filled with laughter. If the old man thought to shock her, he’d forgotten he was dealing with
Sophie Morelle
.

“I’d like a room near Caden’s, preferably a connecting suite,” Sal continued. His tone had changed, growing softer. The kind a man used on a woman to get her into bed, except coming from Sal, it was more like an older man trying to get a piece of cake he wasn’t allowed to have. Everyone, including Sal—heck, even
herself
—seemed to be fixed on one tantalizingly well-hung slice.

Sophie nearly rolled her eyes.

“I overheard you talkin’. See ladies, I’m Caden’s handler. I need to be close to him, oversee things. He’s gotta get into fighting shape for Tetnus so I gotta put a tether on him, reel him back in a bit. Tame his wild side. Of course, I’ve been known to be something of a lady’s man myself.”

This time Sophie did roll her eyes. Once more, she was reminded that she wasn’t the only one attempting a comeback.

Seems the playboy had missed getting his handsome face bashed in inside the Octagon ring—having it
so
hard with all the modeling endorsements, partying, and naughty escapades. Epic, on all accounts. A sure bet, that’s what he was, at a party, on television, in bed. A tabloid go-to, you could count on Caden to spike daily viewership with tales of his wild antics.

So when he mysteriously disappeared out of the fashion spotlight only to reappear as a welterweight in the qualifying fights for Tetnus, Sophie had found herself in the right place and the right time, and seized the opportunity for scooping an exclusive interview. She remembered the rush of excitement she’d felt, just before that silly incident ruined everything.

“I don’t know how he managed dodging these appearances without Jerry busting a nut,” Sal added, more for his own benefit than anyone else’s. “Being his prized fella, and all.”

Interesting tidbit, how Caden had missed his appearances. She’d have to pay attention to exactly how he planned on getting to Vegas. Clearly he’d been avoiding the bus—proof he was smarter than he looked.

Both girls sprang into action, searching the computer screen intently and muttering about shifting around a reservation, then smiling brightly at the old-school lady-killer next to her.

Sophie cleared her throat. “I’d like a room far away from Caden. Maybe in an entirely different wing, if available.” She didn’t want to chance bumping into him unexpectedly in the hotel corridor. The timing of their surprise reunion—with Caden being the
only
one caught off guard—was going to be well-planned out.

The receptionists’ raised eyebrows said it all.
Crazy lady.

“If you tell me where he is right now, I’ll get signed autographs for you,” Sal promised.

“The weight room!” they replied in unison, each waving a plastic key toward the main hallway. One key went flying, and when both girls bent to retrieve it, the second key dropped.

Dang-diggity.
A relaxing soak in the Jacuzzi, that’s what she needed. Relieve the tightness in her neck, possibly whiplash, definitely tension. A brief but necessary reprieve to mull over her next steps. Then, she’d shower. Afterward, she’d tackle the Boys issue and strategize exactly how, where and when she would approach Caden with her proposal for an exclusive interview. One that would benefit his comeback plans. And hers.