Tap Out (7 page)

“That right?” Caden slowly got up from the bed and sauntered toward her. Sophie stood ramrod straight, unwilling to back down. Reaching out, he placed a finger high on her chest. Both the location and lightness of his touch surprising her. What was he up to?

She glanced down, and instantly regretted it. In one smooth movement, he ran the tip of his finger along the soft skin of her throat, skimmed it up and over her chin and then flicked her on the nose.

Her eyes shot to his face and, noticing his smirk, narrowed. Wrong woman to pull such a little boy move on.

He straightened. “Enough. Five minutes remaining...”

“You’ve been as cooperative as ice on a sunburn.”

“Tsk. Tsk. You haven’t even begun to burn yet, honey. Or melt.”

“Sounds unpleasant. I’m a redhead, remember, with a strong aversion to the sun. As far as melting...”

“I’m amending our deal.” Caden said, changing the topic.

“We didn’t agree on one to amend.”

“I’ll give you what you want, answer any questions you have within our remaining four minutes. But I want something in return. Something legit. Something material.”

“So if I give you what you’re asking for—something material, like the cold omelet over on the table—you won’t hold back in answering my questions? I’ll have to postpone our interview if you want money.”

“Thatta girl, back to thinking like a reporter. Out to get her story no matter the cost. What I want is better than money. That’s why there’s a condition.” Caden’s gaze raked over her from head to toe before continuing, “If you can’t produce the goods, I get a consolation prize, without having to answer a single question. So, we on?”

“Depends.” She mimicked his earlier tone exactly and issued her own naughty smile. A lame attempt at disguising her excitement about getting a shot at interviewing him. “Is it something expensive?”

“I’m sure you can afford it.”

“Is it something I’ll miss if it’s gone?” She had to admit, the prospect of uncovering what exactly he
wanted
from her was downright titillating. Her gaze fell on the rumpled bedspread, then catching herself, slid back his way. That bed held a whole assortment of sordid prospects, all of which were downright titillating.

“Kind of the point of the whole matter...” he murmured, vaguely. “A case of curiosity. Genuine curiosity.”

Sophie frowned, and weighed her options, quickly making her decision. “Agreed. Believe it or not, I hate surprises.”

“Take off your panties.”

What?

“I want your panties. A token of our new—albeit brief, at three minutes and counting—business arrangement.”

Oh, how she wanted to give this man a wake-up call with a quick knee between the legs. Did training for the Octagon ring include honing some kind of woman-gone-commando radar? Likely, given what some of these fighters wore in a bout and what those ring girls paraded around in. How was she going to hand over her panties when the only pair not locked in a suitcase on the bus was hanging out to dry in her bathroom?

“Be right back.” She stepped toward the en suite door next to the bed. It opened without a problem.

“Nope.” He slapped his palm against the door and slammed it shut. She turned and shot him a deadly look.

The smug lift of his lips was still sexy as hell. “Now.” He held out his palm and leaned over her. It took all her will power to maintain a cool, collected, professional expression. Caden was clever, she’d give him that.

“What’s the forfeit?” Sophie asked casually, as if she hadn’t picked up on his game. Dang, the sly devil must have heard about her fiasco at the Hair of the Dump. Clearly Caden planned on winning—knew what wasn’t underneath her skirt—and had no intention of giving her an exclusive. In a way, she couldn’t blame him. Heck, if this was how he planned on getting his frustration with her out...

“It’ll take you a second to wiggle outta them. If you need help...”

“I need to know my options. The forfeit?”

The devil leaned in closer. Sophie was acutely aware of the size of him. So big in all the right places.

“Our conversation has me thinking...” he rasped softly, his voice a rich throaty baritone. “About something moist, and red.”

Lay one on me
,
baby
, every hormone in her body sang out. Sophie ignored it, fighting for control. “You know what they say about a man who thinks too hard?”

Caden paused, and gave her a lopsided grin. “What do they say, sweetheart?”

“Within the time he needs to act, the moment’s gone by.”

“Guess times up for thinking then,” he shot back, lowering his head. So close she could smell the sweet bubble gum on his breath mixed with heady scent of his cologne, all spice and tangerine. Two choices: back down or step it up.

Sophie Morelle was no coward.

She placed her palm onto his stomach and gave him a lame shove. Caden grinned down at her, triumphant, and shifted slightly backward.

Hooking her fingers around the hem of her skirt, she began to lift it. Slowly. Her eyes locked in battle with his. His smug grin disappeared, and his lips tightened into a thin line. She could have sworn his nostrils flared.

Gotcha.
“Seems you’re thinking too hard,
sweetheart.
Thinking, does she or doesn’t she?” Despite her brave words and even braver actions, no way was she going to go Hollywood starlet on him and flash Caden her coochie.

Her mouth was just below his. Close enough to feel the warmth of his breath as he exhaled sharply. Close enough for her to straighten on her tippy toes and narrow the distance to mere inches. She moistened her lips with her tongue.

A raw, intense heat flashed between them. She felt him bend down, a fraction of a second before his mouth covered hers, warm and oh-so-blatantly male. Bold and demanding, as his tongue moved inside to tangle with her own, sending every tiny nerve into a flurry of sensation. She thought about pushing away but logic fell victim to desire. Later, she’d blame it on the liquor. Now, in this moment and against her better judgment, she wanted
all
of him.

She grabbed his shoulders and tugged up against his big, bare chest. He felt so darn good. His mouth opened further, devouring her, leaving her breathless and wanting more. No question this wicked man could kiss. Could probably do a lot of things well. And, didn’t you know it, she wanted to find out just how naughty he could be.

He pressed her back pressed up against the en suite door, pinning her in place with his massive chest. He shifted his hips forward, pushing his big erection up against her belly, hard and powerful.

Holy dang-diggity.

Someone moaned. Him. Her. It didn’t matter; nothing mattered but the swell of desire flowing out of her in one sensual wave after another.

His big hands moved beneath her skirt and cupped her bare bottom, his palms warm and assertive as they raised her up and tugged her lower half closer.

“Jesus,” she heard him breath against her ear, before his mouth reclaimed hers. He rubbed his erection over the warm spot between her legs in tempo with his tongue. Once. Twice. She spread her legs further, losing count, and counting on the lovely tension building within. Whoa. Had she’d ever climaxed during foreplay? His hands, his fingers, weren’t even involved, except for being fixed on her bottom to anchor her in place as he moved against her.

All she needed to do was tug her skirt up around her waist. Take the full length of him out of his sweatpants and into her. Climb up his big body, wrap her legs around his back, and enjoy the sweet ride.

She broke free of his mouth. Moved her hands off his shoulders and to the sides of her skirt. Relying on pure, feminine instinct.

Caden stepped back, forcing her to follow. His hands dropped and their bodies separated.

Before Sophie could even miss his warmth, miss the lovely feel of him against her, catch a chill from the polar vortex that had blasted its way between them, she was nudged to the side.

He reached over her head. “Nice locking lips and all,” he rumbled, his voice deep and aroused, as he yanked the door open and pushed her through it. “But time’s up.”

Chapter Five

OMAPLATA: What a fighter says when his plate’s empty

One tap on the gas pedal and the convertible’s engine hummed like nobody’s business. Man, Caden loved this car. With a top speed of 210 mph, the sleek black Aston Martin DBS shot from 0-62 in 4.3 seconds flat. He itched to hit the pedal harder, test its worth out on the nearly deserted highway. The sweetest ride around, when it wasn’t stuck behind a piece-of-shit school bus.

More proof that asshat Jerry was cheaper than air.

Fortunately, Caden had caught on to the promoter’s tight-wadded ways in enough time to have his manager arrange for this sweet ride. A miracle worker, considering Harold had done it all from their home base in Nashville. Best business manager around. Not exactly the busiest one, though.

Not since Caden had bid
adios
to his endless schedule of endorsements, appearances, and other trivial bullshit. Next up for Harold was terminating his contract with Ultimate American Male. That’d keep him busy for a spell.

Caden ran the pads of his fingers over the leather steering wheel. Renting the Aston was a splurge, reminding him just how much money he’d be giving up by not resigning with the underwear line. One reason he hadn’t yet parted ways. Hell, he’d learned at a young age what it was like to have your stomach churn in hunger, and though his savings account was nothing to complain about—thanks to Harold’s keen investment sense—memories of those dark nights in the alleyways of Nashville were hard to shake off.

Winning Tetnus and the million-dollar purse would lessen the blow to his wallet. Lessen the anxiousness in his gut, the fear of losing it all. His money. Pride. Even his fucking sanity. Again.

Go big or go home. And Vegas was just the place to do it. Once Ultimate American Male executives laid eyes on him after Tetnus was over, they’d probably be more than happy to rip up his contract. He’d traded in a life of sin for getting his face smashed up in Sin City.

“There isn’t even a bathroom on it? Gotta be nuts to travel cross-country on an old school bus,” Harold’s voice came back over the Bluetooth. Given the early morning hour, Caden was sure his call had woken his manager up. Nothing bothered the guy, and he’d stuck by Caden through the worst of it. Caden trusted him as much as he trusted anyone, which wasn’t saying much.

“That sums it up,” Caden replied, rolling his neck and wondering if he’d warmed down enough after this morning’s training. He’d been up before daylight and hit the pavement for a run, sprinting hard and mentally pushing himself even harder. A lame attempt to sweat out the restlessness that had him wired and needing either a good fight or a good fuck. His cock had been hard all night. Not much he could do about it, except whack off. His other option had been to jerk open the en suite door and give that cheeky redheaded tease part two of what’d turned into a very hands-on interview. Thank God he’d settled for his own hand.

Man, he’d enjoyed battling it out with Sophie. The memory of her standing with her hands on her swaying hips, a rosy flush on her cheeks, played out in his head. The way she’d grabbed her skirt and gave him her best Dirty Harry impersonation—hell, she was full of surprises. Rarely did anyone go tit for tat with him, or give him back what he dished out. Especially a woman. His last few flings did exactly what he wanted, and left his bed with smiles on their faces.

Damn if Sophie Morelle didn’t spike his interest, and in such an unexpectedly provocative way. Sure, the feel of her tight curves in his palms, even the way her eyes flashed when he’d touched her chest in that silly taunt, had snagged his attention. But even more than her hair-trigger response time, he liked her fearless attitude, how she didn’t give a half shit about him being a celebrity who needed to be treated with kid gloves. That smart, sassy mouth on her, the challenge of her, was such a fucking turn-on.

But locking lips with her, getting it on with that reporter—a celebrity in her own right—was a bad idea. The bottom line was he didn’t need any distractions. Good thing Sophie Morelle was just an image in his rearview mirror. Now he could concentrate on what was ahead.

He tapped on the gas to punctuate the thoughts.

“So the promoter stopped you out in the hotel parking lot and threatened you?” Harold asked, his voice sounding higher than normal. Caden rolled his neck again, trying to wake up. Certain he’d missed part of the conversation. “Don’t tell me you paid him off again?” Harold continued.

Caden scowled, remembering his early morning confrontation with the greedy man. “Yep. At the rate I’m paying him off, I’ll be broke before Tetnus begins. Anyway, I dodged him when I headed out for my run. Avoided the bus entirely when I went back inside to shower. But wouldn’t you know it, he was leaning against the trunk of my rental when I came back outside. Demanded I take him for a quick ride while Sal watched over the bus.”

Harold laughed, then added, “Did you ask him why the venues he’s scheduled for appearances are complete dives? Every single one of them. Cheap and shady. The kind of places amateur fighters might go for an unofficial cash-in-hand bout.”

“Told me it was money issues, then bust into a long-winded tale of hardships and woe. Realized it was nothing worthwhile. That’s when I hit the gas pedal. Figured at a hundred miles an hour, it’d be hard for him to yip-yap without swallowing a whole lotta bugs.”

“Well listen to this. On the schedule you faxed me, he scratched out Wichita Athletics. I can barely read what was swapped in, but I ran a search for what I can make out—Wichita Fight Club? There’s no legitimate venue listed under that name.”

Caden grunted.

Harold’s comments only confirmed Caden’s suspicions. Something about Jerry’s choice of venues didn’t add up. Sure he was tight-fisted. But beyond that, the man was a bona fide media whore. Loved the attention, the spectacle of a larger venue. The more Jerry’s ugly mug appeared on the screen, the better payouts his fighters received—or that’s how it seemed. So, why the biker bars and obscure VFW halls?

“I’ll let you know when I know more.” Caden made a mental note to keep his eye on the man, get a take on whatever stupid scheme the promoter had concocted. “Figured I’d make the two appearances I’d agreed to—or one, if Wichita is a no-go—and see what’s up.” The upcoming venues couldn’t be any worse than the holes he’d started fighting in. “On the upside of things, if no one but a couple bikers show up, I’m game with that. I’m not looking for any publicity. Been there, done that.” Caden paused, and frowned. “Speaking of unwanted publicity, did you find out what that reporter’s up to? She showed up at my door last night looking for an interview.”

“Oh my God. Does that woman have balls, or what? Thought the temporary restraining order would have done the trick?”

Caden squinted at the odometer. If the bus moved any slower... “You thought wrong. I wasn’t going to pursue it, anyway. What happened was an accident.”
Though the devil in high heels was completely at fault.
He contemplated telling Harold about the near drowning in the pool, but it was too early in the freakin’ morning to get all worked up about nothing.

“That woman is something. Said so yourself. Hot as hell, and just as bloodthirsty—your exact words.”

He thought about the look of bliss on Sophie’s face after locking lips with her...
Jesus
. “And mad as hell, when she wakes up and discovers our entourage headed out without her.”

“Serves her right.”

“Yeah. So? What’d you get on her?”

“Nada. Her former network has distanced themselves from her. Said she was on some kind of sabbatical. Whatever that means. Not sure when, or if, she’ll be back on air. I get the feeling they’re done with her.”

Caden leaned back into his leather bucket seat, wondering just how much backlash she’d received when Ultimate American Male cancelled his ads. Served the little spitfire right. That woman was as confident as she was curvaceous—and God help him, he’d spent enough time thinking about those curves.

“Keep searching. I wanna know exactly what that fireball is angling toward.”

Harold inhaled faintly. But it was enough for Caden to pick up on it before the sound blended in with purr of the engine.
Here we go again
. “Um...I know this isn’t a good time to rehash this issue, but Ultimate American Male is waiting for your decision.”

“Right. Bad timing. Let you know soon. Talk to you later.” He pressed the disconnect button on the dashboard, feeling guilty for stringing Harold along.

Miles flew by, giving Caden ample time to contemplate what lay ahead of him.

He loved the hardcore sport of mixed martial arts. Nothing better than a well-planned and executed fight, where his heart rate accelerated and his mind was in perfect sync with his body. In the Octagon cage, he’d be expecting the punches and kicks. He’d be in control.

Signing another modeling agreement would be the kiss of death to his MMA career. The Boys were getting younger, stronger, and more technically skilled in abstract fighting strategies like Brazilian Jujitsu and Muay Thai. He’d missed his opportunity three years ago. Ended up modeling instead—easier to maintain a wicked stupor and numb his demons when all he had to do was flex some muscle and smile. He dealt with his less-than-stellar childhood the best way he could.

In retrospect, his hardcore lifestyle had been a form of escape.

Escape. Just like when he was a teen, taking to the streets with his brother Bracken, deep into the underbelly of Nashville. Always on the move. Always on the go. Always struggling to get by. They’d had each other. They’d survived.

Bracken seemed to have come to terms with his demons. When he’d been promoted to second grade NVPD detective, Caden had to scratch his head. Such a one-eighty from his hell-raising youth. He was rumored to be damn good cop, too. Their eldest brother, Michael, who’d escaped their father’s fists by heading into the Marines, would have been proud of Bracken.

Except, Mikey was dead. Killed in an Afghani roadside bombing three years ago. His posthumous Purple Heart had come by mail, and was now tucked safely away in Caden’s wallet.

The Kelly men were fighting men. It must run in their DNA.

There’d come a point where all the hard living had come back to bite him. It was now or never to get his head on straight and his body in top form. The thought caused Caden to readjust his long legs, suddenly growing antsy. Man, he was actually looking forward to picking up the pace of his training.

He tugged his iPhone from the overnight bag wedged between the front seats and plugged it into the auxiliary jack, anxious for some music to break the dismal silence. Thumbing through his playlist, he found the perfect Blake Shelton song to blast away the memories. A silly song about a bee, of all things, always cheered him up. Caden cranked it and sang along in harmony.

The sun began to rise, and so did Caden’s spirits. He needed a strong cup of coffee. But first, he had to ditch the bus. To hell with Jerry and his temper; he’d meet up with him and the others in Wichita.

Caden maneuvered the Aston into the passing lane and gave it some gas. The car picked up smoothly. The Boys’ faces filled the windows, their shit-eating grins full of envy, and Anthony gave him an approving thumbs up. Caden hit the accelerator hard, ready to blow past the bus, hoping to catch sight of Jerry’s furious mug in his rearview mirror and not a moment sooner. The man had to be livid, after passing up such a sweet ride to drive that can of rust on wheels.

He was two-thirds of the way past the bus when suddenly something sailed out of a window. Small like a finch. But bright, fuchsia pink.

It landed on the shiny black hood and slid across the polished chrome all the way up to the windshield. Caden stopped singing and his eyes narrowed. A thong?

“Panty fight!” One of the Boys screamed, rolling the material in his hand into a tight ball and hurling it toward Caden.

Lingerie in every shade imaginable soared out of the bus. One after another, in a wild array of rainbow silk. Blue briefs whizzed overhead, accompanied by a matching bra made out of fishing twine, or some other transparent material. Caden ducked, avoiding a yellow nightgown. An interesting assortment of naughty nighties, panties, and bustiers followed. Inexplicably, his hand shot up and snagged a bit of black lace.

“Whoo hee. Sophie Morelle’s got some sexy underwear,” another of the Boys hollered. “Guess now she’s really going to be the Commando Queen.”

Caden glanced down. Purple, not black. Lace-trimmed, silky and fuck-all transparent. He tossed the negligee into the back of the car, as if it had sparked up and burned him. What the hell? Knowing she slept in a sheer bit of material was an image he
so
did not need after last night. Thinking was about her off somewhere, panty-free, made his cock stiffen.

“Damn, that’s a hell of a lot of lingerie,” he muttered, as the hail of undergarments began to dwindle. “Serves her right.”

Caden had a pair of boxers for each day of the week—a simple, no-nonsense plan, despite the fact that Ultimate American Man’s signature garments were form-fitted briefs. Sex sells, and Caden had been the biggest attraction they had, which equated to a hell of a lot of brief sales. Which is why they were still hounding him to resign a multimillion-dollar contract.

He was crazy turning down that kind of money.

Jerry gestured violently from the driver’s side window. Caden shot past him, cranked the music up another notch, and with an overhead wave, headed off on the long expanse of highway.

He approached the I-70 on-ramp in record time. Spotting a Cuppa Joe sign at the last exit, he slowed and turned smoothly off the road. Grabbing his overnight bag from the middle console, Caden stretched his long legs as he ambled out. No need to put the top up as the car was fully equipped with an anti-theft system. All he needed to do was secure his bags in the trunk.

Shifting the driver’s seat forward, he lifted his suitcase out of the bucket seat. Took two steps toward the trunk, and stopped. Frowned. And turned to take a closer look at the back seat.