I gave up on the punching bag. Kya dancing, her copper curls thrown back, was all I could see. She had moved everything– her fingertips dancing up to the lights, down the swaying hypnotic plunge of her hips, to her small feet in red snakeskin heels. And, the feeling of her tight waist in my hands. I flexed my fingers inside my gloves.
How did I let her get to me?
"You gotta shake her off, whoever she is." My coach, Aldous Antoine, crossed his arms over his barrel chest. "There's only one way to get a woman out of your workout."
"I already ran this morning," I said.
"I'm talking circuits. Sit-ups, lunges, push-ups, high kicks. Thirty each. Then, run in place for two minutes. Go," Aldous said.
I swore at him, but dropped to the floor and counted the sit-ups out loud. Aldous watched his watch, and I knew if my pace slackened, he would increase my running time. It was a nasty workout, more punishment than training. Though, if anyone knew how to get a fighter in the right mindset, it was Aldous.
The first circuit finished, and I ran in place.
"Get your knees higher. Don't make me add burpees," Aldous said.
I would have talked back, but the circuits started to work. The heart-pumping, full body movements made it hard to think about anything else. No snappy comebacks, no pretty women in tight black dresses. I groaned out loud.
Aldous lifted one eyebrow. "She in there good, huh? Well, then what you need is a sparring partner."
My coach flagged down one of his friends at the far end of the gym. The silver-haired man nodded and brought over a young fighter.
"You part of the touring school?" I asked.
"Yeah. I can fight," the kid said.
"You can fight or you hand out fliers at the fights?" I asked.
The young man scowled and his ears burned red. By the time we got in the ring, he was ready to give me all he had. He bounced around more than moved his feet. I rolled my eyes at Aldous.
"This sparring or a middle school dance, sweetheart?" I asked.
The kid lunged forward with an off-balance right hook. I tapped him on the back with a sidekick as he went by, and he stumbled hard.
"I'm not the one who was sucking face at the nightclub last night," the kid said. "Though, I guess I can't blame you, that girl looked tasty."
I sent one kick to his sternum and when he stepped back, I kicked his other knee. He bent forward and a quick chop broke his nose. "That's no way to talk about a lady. Next time, watch your mouth or more than blood is gonna end up in it."
I grabbed a towel, mopped my face, and the back of my neck. Aldous jumped in with the kid's coach. They helped the kid up so they could assess the damage. I knew from experience that Aldous would set the broken nose himself. I stepped out of the ring.
A nondescript man nodded at me from the far corner of the gym. Medium height, medium brown hair, brown eyes, but there was something direct in his stare, something disconcerting. I stalked over and he flicked a business card into my hand.
"Matt Smith. We've met before," he said.
"Sure. What are you selling, Matt Smith? You some kind of reporter?" I asked.
"No, not a reporter." Matt Smith's expression never changed. He seemed used to not being recognized and just waited.
"Some agent wanting me to sign off on, let me guess, granola bars? Vanilla yogurt?" I asked.
"No, Mr. Morris," he said.
"Look, Mr. Smith, I don't remember meeting you." I flung the towel over my shoulders and hung on to the ends with both hands.
"Mr. Morris, I'm a private investigator," he said. "You hired me to find your sister."
I wiped the sweat out of my eyes with a clean corner of the towel. "Oh, right. I didn't recognize you. Thought you wore glasses." I looked at the business card he had handed me and recognized the name of his company. "You gotta admit that 'Matt Smith' sounds like a fake name. Though, I suppose fake names are helpful in a business like yours."
"Yes, fake names can be helpful," the private investigator said.
"You really spent ten years working missing persons in Arizona?" I looked the average man up and down. "You don't look more than, what, thirty?"
"I'm older than I look. After Arizona, I retired. Worked as a bail bondsman. Finding people is a special knack I have. Now, I work on referral only. Kevin Casey gave you my number and here we are," Matt Smith said.
"Do I even want to know what my slime ball manager needed a private investigator for?" I asked.
"Like I said, I specialize in finding people." He shrugged and said no more.
"Yeah, well, whatever you did, you impressed him. And, I'm assuming I can expect the same level of nondisclosure?" I asked.
"As I told Mr. Casey outside, I have no reason to discuss my work with people who are not involved."
I hopped from one foot to the other. My legs were cramping, and instead of talking, I should have been stretching. I considered asking the private investigator to wait while I cooled down. He probably would have shrugged his shoulders and waited with the same unreadable calm expression on his face.
"I understand if you've changed your mind," he said. "As long as my retainer is paid, there is no reason you need to know information you no longer find valuable."
"I've got your valuable information right here," my young sparring partner yelled. "You broke my nose and that is a fact. A fact I'm sure the police are going to want to know."
"The police will be interested in knowing a MMA fighter broke your nose while you willingly sparred with him?" Matt Smith asked.
The young kid scowled behind his wads of gauze. "Yeah, it's funny, but just wait until you say something he doesn't want to hear."
Matt Smith stepped back as the kid reenacted the entire fight. When it came to the kick to the sternum, the kid got too into his acting and the wads of gauze blew out of his nose on to the ground. I laughed as the kid swiped them up before stalking away.
"Sorry about that," I said. "What were you saying about my sister?"
"Look, if you're not ready to hear it, then just say so. You can always reach me at that number," the private investigator said and turned to go.
"No, don't listen to him. What, are you afraid I'm going to punch you?" I asked. "I keep my fighting in the ring."
"Except for that police officer," Matt Smith said.
"Of course, you would know about that."
"Good business practice to run background checks on my clients," he said. "Never know what trouble a client can be after the contract is signed. Best to know ahead of time."
"Speaking of knowing," I said. "You were going to tell me about my sister."
"Ah, yes, Ms. Dana Maria Morris. She is currently working in Las Vegas, though she does not have a permanent address." Matt pulled out a small black notebook.
"Then, how do you know she's here in Vegas?" I asked.
"I've, ah, been to her place of work."
"But she's gotta be sleeping somewhere. She got a man?" I asked.
"No, I'm sorry to say, from what I've seen, she has been living out of her car," Matt said.
My fists crushed the white towel. "And, what kind of work is she doing these days?"
"Dana Maria is also known as Pixie Dust. She is an exotic dancer in the back of O’Malley's Casino," he said. His eyes widened, as if expecting a blow from me at any moment.
He was right. I did want to punch him in the mouth, but I knew he was telling the truth about my older sister.
“So, my sister is here in Vegas," I said.
"Yes." Matt handed me a slip of paper. "Here's the name of the place she works. First shift is tonight sometime after eleven."
I turned in a full circle. On the second pass, I saw that Kya was standing nearby.
CHAPTER FIVE
Kya
I had to suffer an elevator ride with Kevin Casey in order to get into the gymnasium. Down in the lower levels of the casino, hotel, and arena was the place all the athletes trained before the big events.
"Not supposed to let endorsement agents down here," Fenton's manager said, "but I'll make an exception for you."
I slipped out before the elevator doors were open all the way. "Thank you, Mr. Casey. I appreciate it."
"Well, wait. Don't you want to discuss how you can show your appreciation?" he asked.
I dodged between two boxers whipping jump ropes at lightning fast speeds. Fenton's manager was stuck on the other side, too wide to slip between them without getting tangled up. The gymnasium was cavernous with two full-sized boxing rings, a three-lane running track around the perimeter, plus every amenity of a regular gym.
In the second ring, Fenton squared off against a young man. The young fighter appeared erratic and clumsy. Fenton was lithe and lethal, his laser blue eyes fixed hard on his sparring partner. I knew I was trespassing, as well as intruding, so I stuck to the wall and found an out of the way vantage point. From a distance, I could see the young man talking. He must have said something Fenton took offense to, because with three hard moves, Fenton took down the novice and left him howling in the middle of the ring.
It was definitely not a good time to interrupt, so I kept to the shadows. Fenton toweled off and climbed out of the ring. Then, he spotted a nondescript man on the opposite side of the gym. I wondered how I had missed the man earlier – he stuck out like me. I took a step towards them, worried that he was a rival agent.
The look on Fenton's face stopped me. A grim cut to his jaw made my heart clench. Ridiculous, I knew, to worry about Fenton getting bad news. I imagined explaining to my boss how I was only worried because a client never accepts a new contract when they've received bad news. Still, I knew it was more. The sad look on his face made me want to comfort him.
I had just witnessed the brutal way Fenton Morris could take down an opponent and yet, I was worried he could not take the obviously bad news the nondescript man was delivering. My feet moved before I could think about what I was doing. If I interrupted something serious, Fenton might be fed up with me and throw me out. One wrong move and my bonus, my promotion, and my secure mortgage would all disappear.
I marched across the gym, veering to the side so Fenton would not see me coming. The brown-haired man noticed me, but his expression betrayed nothing. The cool way he assessed everything with his plain, brown eyes was disconcerting. It was as if he could discern everything about me in one glance, while all I could figure out was that he was of average height.
The nondescript man stepped back as I approached, and Fenton looked up and around. He immediately pressed his mouth shut and palmed the piece of paper. A memory flashed back from the nightclub, and I remembered telling him my parents were dead and I had no other family. Fenton had said he was equally on his own. Now, he was talking to a strange man about his sister being in Las Vegas. He did not want me to know, and from the way he glanced all around, it seemed he did not want anyone to know.
Better off alone, I thought. Fenton Morris loved his lone wolf image.
"Please, don't let me interrupt," I said. "I just thought I should let you know Mr. Casey let me down here. I didn't want you to see me and think I was stalking you."
Fenton's smirk reappeared. "Bet you had to sweet talk ol' Kev."
"Luckily, the elevators are fast around here," I said.
"I'm shocked he didn't hit the stop button. Where do you think I learned that trick?" Fenton asked.
I remembered he had stopped the elevator on the way up to his penthouse. The hot tangle of our lips and bodies came back to me in a warm rush. I shook my head to cool my thoughts.
"Where did your friend go? I didn't mean to interrupt," I said.
Fenton looked as surprised as me. The brown-haired man had faded away. "Not sure I would call him a friend. Then again, he's not the one stalking me."
"I noticed you haven't had security throw me out yet. Next, you'll be coming up with ways for me to show my appreciation, just like your manager," I said.
"You wouldn't be able to handle it," Fenton said. His eyes swept up and down my body. "You bring any sensible shoes to Vegas?"
"Yes. I run every morning. Why?" I asked.
"Well, you could join me for the rest of my workout if you think you're up to it," he said.
I straightened up to my full height, still seven inches shorter than Fenton. "You need another sparring partner?"
He glanced over his shoulder where the young fighter lay on a bench with an ice pack over his nose. "No. There aren't any rings or referees where we're going."
#
The Las Vegas Overlook Trail was a silent expanse of blue sky and sun-baked earth. After the neon and concrete of the Strip, I was shocked to find a large swath of open terrain stretching out before us.
"This is part of your training?" I asked.
"My coach isn't keen on joining me, but it beats jumping rope in front of a mirror," Fenton said. He started up a steep trail and I trotted after him.
"You struck me as the big city sort, you know, never far from asphalt or skyscrapers," I said.
"I prefer it out here." He stopped for a moment and looked back at the Vegas Strip. The melancholy look passed over his face again. "People get all tangled up in big cities, it's not good for them."
I wondered if he was talking about his sister, but refrained from letting on what I had overheard. "That's why I love Chicago. There's the city, but then there's Lake Michigan and all the parks. Nature is never very far away."
"Oh, so that's where you're based," Fenton said. "You think you can handle this hike? They have hills out in Chicago?"
I scowled and picked up my pace. If I was going to convince Fenton to forget about my nightclub lapse in judgment and still consider signing with my company, I needed to stick to my script. "This is no problem. Like I said, I run every morning. I also take very excellent vitamin supplements."
"Oh, here it comes," he said. He chose the rougher of the two trails in front of us and kept going. "Alright, Ms. Allen, give me your best pitch. Just remember, I'm not one of your country club athletes happy to be inserted into a catalog wearing a cardigan."
"That is exactly why you should sign with me," I said. "It is my job to protect my client's interests and broker the deal between the product and the athlete. I built my career on making sure my clients are never put into campaigns they do not approve of one hundred percent."
"And, you have a successful career?" Fenton asked. He stopped on a crest, and I walked into him.
I smoothed back my hair. "Yes, I do."
"And, that's all you want?"
I frowned at the question. "Well, no, but my job allows me to earn the things I want."
He faced me on the narrow trail. "You want to earn things, not have them given to you, right?"
"Yes." I planted my hands on my hips.
"Then, you'll understand how I want to win the title fight on my own. I am going to earn that title without anyone paying for my gym time or giving me free shoes or putting their names on my shorts," Fenton said.
"Just because you sign off on an endorsement doesn't mean you aren't succeeding on your own," I said. "You are the talent; you are the only one that can win the title. The endorsements just make sure you earn money as you go. If you think about it, they give you the freedom to go where you want and do what you want. You wouldn't have to fight for money."
Fenton looked over the top of my head, back towards the Vegas Strip. "That's not the way I want to do things. Besides, I might be a kid off the street, but I know if I win the title fight before I sign an endorsement deal, I'll get a bigger payday."
He turned and continued up the trail at an even faster pace. I forced my breathing to stay steady and deep as I tried to convince him. "That's exactly why you want to sign with me now. After you win the title fight, all the brand name endorsements will be after you. They are volatile and have leagues of lawyers to change the contract around. If I get you set up nicely with the vitamin supplements, then you'll have a steady base to negotiate fro
m."
"Very sly, Ms. Allen. I thought I heard your reputation was based on upfront dealings and trust," he said.
"I am telling you the truth. I will take better care of you than some big brand name agent," I told him.
"First, tell me what you get out of the deal," Fenton said.
"I get to branch out into a new sport. I know what people call me. Just because I rep golfers and tennis players doesn't mean I can't handle your business, too."
Fenton paused on the trail and smirked down at me. "I would love for you to handle my business."
My cheeks flared red from more than exertion. "I thought we agreed this was strictly professional."
"Is it professional to evade my question?" he asked. "Do they teach you that in agent school?"
"Fine. If I sign you, then I get a bonus. I also get an office and a chance to get off the road," I said.
He did not ease up his fast pace. "And, what will you use the bonus for? Tropical vacation? Sports car?" he asked.
"The bonus will just cover the closing costs on my first home," I said.
Fenton stopped to admire the desert view. "A house? With a picket fence and everything?"
I frowned at the same view and felt him watching me from the corner of his eye. "It’s the next step. Buy a house, build equity."
"What kind of instruction manual on life did you read that in?" he asked.
"It’s what people do," I said. "I know it doesn't really fit your whole fight hard, play hard vibe, but it is what makes sense for me."
"So, instead of being out on the road, you'll be going to the same office every day. Then, you'll go home to the same house every night. Where's the fun in that?"
"Who said life was fun?" I turned around and faced the steep trail back down to the car. "I have a plan, and I'm sticking to it. I don't see anything wrong with that, no matter what you think. I'm going to work until I have security. A solid bank account, a house, and way to take care of myself. Once I have that, then I can figure out what else I want without risking everything."
Fenton followed me down the trail, moved in front of me, and held out his hand. "I get it. Why do you think I want to do everything on my own? I can't involve other people until things feel stable. Gotta be on solid ground first."
The Fight (A Standalone Novel) (MMA Bad Boy Romance) Page 3
