Tap Out (5 page)

A renewed sense of anger swelled up inside her. She fought for control.

Remember Christiane Amanpour.
Make nice
,
or drown without your documentary.
She cleared her throat. “It expired. You never officially filed, or went to court...”

“Attempted murder. Hell, a second attempt—”

“Both accidents.”

“I thought being wacked in the head by a three hundred pound camera hurt like hell until—”

“Hardly three hundred pounds. How could my cameraman carry such a weight?”

“—being trampled on at the bottom of a pool by a hundred and fifty pounds of demented redhead with some sort of vendetta against me.”

She sucked in a breath, exasperated yet struggling to find a way to make the best of the situation. No time like the present to clear the air, right? “Can we discuss this logically? Preferably somewhere safer? You’ve got to be getting tired of treading water. Especially while holding
one hundred and thirty five pounds
of certifiable redhead, one who doesn’t have a vendetta against you.”

The look he shot her screamed
demented
. “I’m standing.”

“What?” Sophie looked down. Sure enough, she could see his big feet through the water. She searched the tile wall until she found the sign painted on it that indicated the depth—or lack of it. Six feet deep. A few steps to the right and she’d be able to stand on her own.

He laughed unpleasantly, in amused disbelief or something closely resembling it. Once more she itched to dunk him.

“Idiot,” he muttered, moving a few feet forward into shallower water, dragging her along. With a firm tug, he freed himself. Her arms fell to her sides as her toes connected with the pool bottom.

He turned, and she watched as the one fighter certain to make her documentary a success trudged his way through the water toward the cement stairs in the corner.

She really needed to work on not pushing the panic button every time things spiraled out of control. Heck, back in the day, Sophie Morelle would have swallowed pints of chlorinated water, drowned, and resuscitated herself in order to get the story. Her attention narrowed on the man climbing out of the pool. And from this angle, she had all the validation needed—with buns like that, undoubtedly every woman in America would want more of the troublesome fighter.

Except Sophie. That would be a disaster worse than a little tap on the head or a ruined career. What she needed from him was strictly professional. A means to an end. And then that would be the end of her interaction with
him
.

“See you around, Caden,” she shouted. He’d better get used to the idea she wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

“Not a fat chance in hell, sweetheart. No way are you gonna ruin my career...
again
,” he warned from the side of the pool before stalking away in one wet, handsome mess. The Boys wandered off after him.

Sophie tiptoed her way toward shallow water, yet her steps were determined and certain. Like Caden, she wanted her career back, and more. Move over, Diane Sawyer. Sophie Morelle was about to reinvent herself.

No man, in any shape or form—muscular heartthrob or unpleasant memory—was going to stop her.

Chapter Four

HEEL HOOK: Typically employed by a female fighter, when she sticks a stiletto in her opponent’s eye

Caden adjusted the weight on the bench press bar, just enough for a few final agonizing lifts. Fatigued, he was ready to catch some early evening Z’s, and be asleep by ten. A far cry from his party animal past, of boozing it up all night and lounging around in bed all day. With company, of course.

Tomorrow, he’d head over to the St. Louis Mixed Martial Arts Club to pick up some hardcore sparring partners. Battle away the years of abusing his body, along with any lingering doubts about just how committed he was to winning the welterweight title. The bruise on his elbow barked as he completed a lift. He tried to ignore it, and thoughts of the woman who’d caused it.

No way was Sophie in Missouri on vacation. Seemed more like the Cabo San Lucas type. High end. High maintenance. Not that he knew her well, or hardly at all.

He had caught a few episodes of
Late Night with Sophie Morelle
back when he could stand the sight of her. Every bar, café, and goddamned sports pub on the planet tuned their televisions to watch the gorgeous television host talk smack. The guys Caden knew loved the bullshit spewing from her mouth, and respected her for having balls of steel when a belligerent star got freaky.

Sophie held her own, alright. Never seemed at a loss for words or had a hair out of place. The consummate, smart-ass, sexy-as-shit television host. So, what was the fuck was her deal?

Clenching the bar, he pushed up, held the position, and slowly lowered it, feeling the shake in his tired biceps. Fighting for control of his movements. Fighting for focus on tonight’s training.

Fighting against the direction his thoughts had taken, and the image of
her
, with her runny mascara and her hair looking like a shampoo commercial gone bad. For a second there, she’d looked human. Not the demon spawn he’d built her up to be in his mind since he last saw her in Pittsburgh—before his world went black.

Fuckability factor aside, that woman was trouble.

Tried and
proven
trouble. His chances at a comeback had crashed to a halt when that camera had smashed into his head. Knocked him out cold and almost ruined his shot at qualifying for Tetnus. Luckily, greedy Jerry declared him a winner anyway. Caden had heard it was an accident, that Sophie had been tripped, causing her to fall into the cameraman. But he still hated the sight of the mouthy reporter.

After eleven more repetitions, he released the bar. It clanged hard back into place on the bench press.

What he did know about her, he didn’t like. She was dangerous. Relentless when it came to getting her story. Uncaring of who she hurt. Unfazed by the drama that always seemed to unfold around her. No one’s wind was strong enough to knock her sailboat off course. And she sure as hell knew how to suck the very breath out of a man.
Literally.

Caden didn’t believe in coincidences. He needed to put a finger on some logical explanation for her sudden appearance in Missouri. He’d bet his rental car—a sweet ride in the form of an Aston Martin DB5 convertible—that it had something to do with him. Sophie Morelle was not the kind of trouble he needed in this stage of the game.

“How in the blazes did you get out of tonight’s gig? Dang it, I needed you there,” Sal’s voice reverberated loudly as he approached the bench.

Caden winced. Was it too much to ask for a peaceful workout? Bad enough his thoughts had screwed with his focus.

“Ah, what does it matter?” Sal continued in a low voice, drawing up a small stool.

Caden sat up and wiped the sweat from his forehead. The old timer seemed frazzled, with his white hair standing up in all directions. “Late night wind kick up out there?”

Sal didn’t seem to hear him as he searched in his pocket for a worn leather flask, which he withdrew and opened with shaky hands.

“How’s it going, Sal?” Caden pressed. All joking aside, he was worried about the busybody of a man.

“Just a sec. and I’ll tell ya just how it’s
not
going.” Bringing the flask up to his lips, he took a long drink, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Easy there, big guy. What have you got in there? Whiskey?” The smell of booze was hard to ignore.

Normally, Caden avoided getting involved with other people’s business. But he’d grown fond of the old timer, one of the few people who didn’t bend over and kiss his ass every time he frowned. Sal had been around long enough to know not to get caught up in the celebrity shit.

“No offense, but do you think you can handle that?”

Sal nodded, and took another long swig.
Oh
,
fuck.

“Never seen Jerry so pissed off.”

Caden began his warm down, and rolled his shoulders. “Can’t say that I’m surprised. What else did you expect to happen at a biker bar? Nothing but trouble. God knows why he’s scheduling appearances at dives. Starting to cost me a pretty penny—and more—having to bribe my way out of making them.”

“And more” was putting it mildly.

It had taken some serious finagling to get out of tonight’s appearance. Since flying into St. Louis two days ago, Jerry had been nagging him about joining the Boys and trying to renege on their agreement. Caden’d greased the man’s palm big time to only having to make two appearances and to not having to ride on that crap-for-wheels bus. It didn’t stop Jerry from busting his balls and pressuring him into doing more.

Whether or not he liked Jerry was irrelevant. Caden was part of his fight team, sponsored by him, and most importantly—and what he’d best keep reminding himself—was that notoriously tight-fisted man was also a major sponsor of Tetnus.

Go figure.

Clearly Jerry had high hopes for his team—
him
—winning.

At least they shared a common goal.

Caden was already regretting what else he’d offered up in exchange. “You know, with the wad of greenbacks lining his pocket, that asshat should be grinning all the way to the bank. And...God help me, he’s riding along with me for the rest of the trip in my rental car.”

“Not anymore. No wonder he’s madder than a fighter caught in a choke hold. Bad enough all hell broke loose tonight. Jerry totally flipped his lid right dab in the middle of all the hoopla, cursing and screaming threats. He promised the Boys that he’d be on tomorrow’s bus.” Sal took another hard swig.

“Tastes better when you sip it,” Caden lied. The news about Jerry’s change in transportation plans made him smile. “Okay, I’ll bite. You gonna fill me in on all the hoopla?”

“The bus is leaving tomorrow at 6:00 a.m. sharp. He told all the Boys to either be on it or forget about Vegas, and that shot at the title.”

“Bullshit. No way is he going to can his best fighters.” It’d probably take Sal all night for him to spit out the truth about tonight’s fuck-up, given how he was three sheets to the wind.

“Told everyone that he’s driving the bus himself, so he can monitor who gets on and off. Don’t know how I’m going to break it to her.” Sal murmured the last bit in a low voice, causing Caden’s ears to strain to catch his words.

There could only be one
her
—the troublemaker in high heels. Man alive, she seemed to have occupied his thoughts for the better part of the day. But something else was up, and he intended to find out what it was. “What’s got you all riled up tonight, old man?”

“My word is my honor. My reputation. This means a lot to her. You should have seen her handle the Boys on the bus. And tonight.”

“You’re talking about that reporter, right?” he asked, already guessing the answer. Caden gave himself a mental pat on the back. Keeping himself off that bus was money well spent.

“
Most
of the Boys seem to have taken a liking to her.”

“Imbeciles. What was Sophie Morelle doing at our gig?”

“Jerry’s face looked like a parsnip. The man must take blood pressure medication or else he’d have been wheeled outta that place on a stretcher. Bad enough only ten people showed up. Bad enough the Boys downed enough liquor to fill a stadium. The worst of it all happened after Sophie moseyed on in. That’s when the night went from bad to life-threatening.”

“Usually does when she’s around. She was at the gig because...?”

Sal looked at him, and something crossed his face, something slightly devious. Or was it perturbed? Or most likely nothing, except mad-ass drunk.

“Trust me, Sal. Whatever happened, that woman will get over it. She’s a survivor. What did she want from you, anyway?”

Sal looked like he was ready to tear his hair out. Good thing he had so little to work with. “Dang, I hate to disappoint a pretty lady.”

Caden snorted.

“Now I’ll never see my name in the credits.”

Caden tossed the towel onto the bench, braced his elbow on his legs, and leaned forward, angry. “What exactly do you mean,
credits
? Like television credits?”

Sal opened, then closed his mouth. But the truth was written all over his face.

“Fuck! You sold me out, didn’t you? How much?”

“It’s not what you think.”

“Figures the one guy I trust in this whole operation pulls a classic Wall Street move by going all public and shit. Here, everyone thinks Jerry’s the shark when the manatee swimming beside him is much more lethal.” Caden shook his head in disgust, as Sal ran his hand over his belly, clearly missing the point.

“I know you said that you could give a fudge about being a celebrity. Hanging your hat up for good. No more interviews or...”

Caden glared, causing Sal to fidget on his stool.

“Exactly
who
drank enough liquor to fill a stadium? What were you thinking?”

“Can’t an old man get his five minutes of fame, like that Andy Holwar fella? Like...you?”

Caden laughed, a shallow sound. It was that or give voice to the stream of cusses he was barely holding back. Fifteen minutes of fame for any other reason than fighting was time wasted.
Years
wasted. “I wouldn’t sell someone out. Besides, how would you feel about having your crotch plastered on billboards nationwide?”

Sal scrunched up his face, considering the question.

Jesus
. And Caden had been thinking Jaysin Bouvine coveted his celebrity the most. Little did they know what a load of bull it all was.

Caden considered the money he’d been dishing out to Jerry. “You could have given me a heads up. Not sell me out like that. What’s she up to, anyway? Filming fighters? Busting balls?”

“She asked me to help her out. Wants to follow you fellas around, get some interviews for a documentary. The lady’s dang persuasive. She had most of the Boys feeding from her hand, before Jaysin got fresh.”

“I knew she was up to no good. Poking her nose in our business. I’ll bet my ass that woman doesn’t know jack about MMA.”

“I’m gonna need more than my name in the credits now. Gotta pay for the damages caused by tonight’s brawl. Jerry put a number on it, in the thousands,” Sal muttered, his voice hoarse and pained. “Valeska is gonna kill me.”

He shot Sal a look, then said softly, “Didn’t I warn you that woman was trouble?”

The old timer’s fist shot out, a bitch move that would have hit a lesser fighter square in the face. He would have grazed Caden, had he not spotted it coming at the last second and dodged it. For an old feller, he packed a punch.

Both men jumped to their feet. No way did Caden want to take down Sal, but if he threw one more...

“You got a hard on for Sophie Morelle, old man?” he taunted.

Sal swayed on his feet, looking disoriented. Suddenly, all the air blew out of him in one long exhale, and he sat down. “Thought you were talking about Valeska.”

“Easy,” Caden said with a shake of his head, the rush of adrenaline he always felt before a fight vanishing as abruptly as it came. Sal had really pissed him off, breaking his trust like that. Something to take note of for the future, then move on. Caden wasn’t a hot head like some fighters. Preferred to keep his head on his shoulders and fight a well-planned, logical battle.

“Listen. It’s late and I need to be up early to train. Spit it out, man. Sophie showed up. A fight broke out. Some chairs got smashed.” He should have known better than to ask about her, but found himself doing so anyway.
Damned curiosity.

Sal cleared his throat. “No panty lines.”

“What?” The image of the wet redheaded reporter came to mind. With her blouse clinging to her like a second skin and her pert nipples at full attention beneath the soggy, body-hugging material. Man, that woman had curves in all the right places. Her ass was tight but curvy, just the way he liked it.

He shrugged, and hardened his voice. “Let me guess. Sophie Morelle crashed the gig in some expensive, red spandex number, and in full commando mode.” His cock sprang to life within his worn sweats. “Must have been some sight. Shame I missed it.”

“Back in the day, a woman wouldn’t think to leave the house without painting her lips. Girls these days...” Sal paused, grinning like a cat who’d licked a shitload of cream.

Caden shook his head. “The brawl...?”

“Jaysin Bouvine seems to have taken a liking to Sophie. Or maybe he wants to be a super star, like yourself. He was all over her, a goddamned octopus, with his hands everywhere.”

“Let me guess. She liked it,” Caden bit out, his voice sounding harsher than expected. He flexed his fingers, unwinding them from the fist he’d made.

“Guess again. Who do you think started the brawl? Smacked Jaysin’s hand hard with the back of one of those killer shoes. Broke the heel clean off, too. The other Boys—hell, the entire bar—had to jump in and pull him off of her.”

Caden tensed. No matter how much he disliked Sophie, she didn’t deserve to be taken down by the likes of Bouvine. Caden was going to have to have a fist talk with the asshole. “Was she hurt?” he murmured, his tone sounding threatening even to his own ears.

“Nope. A bit mussed up but as cool as a cucumber. Even when Jaysin announced to the entire bar how she didn’t have any panties on. I was hoping she’d reach for that other killer heel. If I were a betting man, my money’d be on Sophie. Of course, Jerry had a fit. Blamed the entire event on me, cause I brought her aboard.”