Got A Hold On You (Ringside Romance)

by Pat White

  “People aren’t always what they seem.”

  “I know, I guess.”

  She studied him with those colorful eyes, and he was lost. Truth was he was insecure whenever she was near him, scared as hell that she’d figure out how much he cared about her. Then what? He hoped she wouldn’t leave.

  He marveled at the way the ambient light from the hallway spilled into the room, illuminating her face so he could make out the sweet curve of her cheek, the fullness of her lips.

  “What about when you were seven, ten, you know, when you were a kid? Did you collect comic books or stamps?”

  “No, no collecting. Just…”

  “What?”

  She shifted onto the bed and he held his breath. Too close. She was too damn close.

  “Jack? What did you do as a kid?”

  “I painted.”

  “No kidding?”

  “Never mind.” He clenched his jaw.

  “No, tell me more.”

  She squeezed his hand again and every muscle seemed to relax. “Mom got me a paint-by-numbers kit, and I threw out the numbers. It was a great feeling. I used vibrant colors that made me feel alive. It was such a rush.”

  “Was?”

  “Dad put an end to it, said not to waste my time. Started calling me Van, like Van Gogh, only he’d say, ‘Van, take out the garbage’ or ‘Van, go tell your mother I want dinner.’ One day I pissed him off about something, I don’t know what, and he burst into my room, ripped my paintings down and shoved them into the garbage can. Doused them with paint thinner and set them on fire. That was the end of my illustrious painting career.”

  “And you never went back to it?”

  “Never had a reason to.”

  Until you reawakened my desire by casting a spell on my soul.

  “That’s sad,” she said.

  “Nah. I found wrestling, or rather it found me. I’ve had a pretty good life.”

  “Getting the stuffing kicked out of you for a living,” she muttered.

  “What’s that, boss?” he teased.

  She frowned. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I’m a big boy. I made my own decisions.”

  “I know, but—”

  “Back to you. What’s your big dream? What did you want to be when you were ten?”

  “Besides a cover model?”

  He chuckled.

  “Hey!” She smacked his thigh.

  “Sorry, but the thought of you modeling something sexy…” His voice cracked. “Never mind.”

  “Watch it, bub.”

  “Go on, what did you want to be, other than a cover model?”

  “No laughing?”

  “Cross my heart,” he assured.

  “I always wanted to be a mom, have a few kids, make brownies and cookies, maybe even learn to knit a sweater or something.”

  His chest ached at the thought of her kissing a little girl on the cheek and sending her off to school.

  “Kinda opposite from the cover model fantasy,” he said, recovering.

  “I know. Dumb, huh?” She glanced down.

  Slipping his finger under her chin, he raised her gaze to meet his. “Nothing to be ashamed about, sweetheart.”

  “It’s a silly fantasy. My career will always come first.”

  His heart sank. “Why’s that?”

  “I could never be completely dependent on a man. Not after growing up the way I did.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My dad was AWOL most of the time. Gambling, philandering, who knows what. He sent money home, barely enough to cover the bills. Uncle Joe helped out a lot.” She looked at Jack. “I still can’t believe he was behind what happened to you tonight.”

  “Maybe he wasn’t.” He couldn’t believe the words slipped out of his mouth. “You’re supposed to take my mind off my injuries, remember?”

  “Right.” She smiled.

  “So? Kismet brought you and your fiancé together to make this perfect union?” Maybe if he kept referring to him as her fiancé, he’d be able to shake himself of her.

  “Actually, YAR brought us together: Young Accountants on the Rise. I joined the group to network, make some contacts, and I ended up making the most valuable one of all. Then we worked together on an audit. Bradley and I share the same belief system and moral code. He plans out his activities three weeks in advance, just like me. Can you believe it?”

  He shook his head. Why would anyone want to?

  “Oh, I have a picture.” She snatched her purse from the floor and fumbled through the contents.

  Good. That should make it real.

  She pulled a small snapshot from her wallet and handed it to him.

  “That was taken at the Northeast Accountants Convention last year.”

  Jack studied the pair. Frankie cracked a warm, yet business-like smile while her fiancé’s nose was turned up a bit too much for Jack’s taste.

  “It’s such a good, solid relationship. He’s so capable and focused.”

  He handed her the photograph and she tucked it away.

  “Bradley wants the same things I want, like financial security, career success. Someday, maybe, I’ll take a few years off to have a child. We decided one would be financially prudent.”

  But does he make you laugh? Does he brighten the golden specks in your eyes when he makes love to you?

  “We picked out the perfect ring. Pear-shaped, clear, a white diamond in a white gold setting.” She extended her hand as if seeing it on her finger. “When he gets his promotion he’ll give me the ring and I’ll have everything I’ve always wanted. A stable, secure life.”

  “Sounds great.” And it did, he thought. What he wouldn’t give to have been raised by a mother like Frankie. So giving, caring, and selfless.

  Too bad Jack wouldn’t be there to see it.

  “Feeling better?” she said.

  “Yeah, thanks.” He struggled to breathe against the tightness in his chest.

  “Water?”

  “No, I’m—”

  “To be safe, to keep the nightmares away, okay?”

  She released his hand to pour fresh water in a cup. A chill blanketed his knuckles.

  “Here, drink.” She placed the cup to his lips and he reached out to steady her hand.

  He never wanted to let go.

  But he had to.

  He downed the water in two swallows and placed the cup on his nightstand.

  “Try to get some sleep.” She shifted off the bed.

  “Where are you going?” He hoped she didn’t hear the desperation in his voice.

  “Getting comfortable in my trusty chair.” She settled into the vinyl chair, leaned forward, and laid her head across folded arms on the bed.

  “Frankie?” He had to tell her how he felt, how special she was, how much he wanted her in his life.

  The words caught in his throat.

  She glanced up, into his eyes. “Don’t worry, Jack. I won’t leave. Promise.”

  He closed his eyes, the pain in his chest consuming him. That was one promise he knew she couldn’t keep.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Thanks for the call, kid, but the worst part of the match was the wounded ego.” Jack shifted into a more comfortable position on his couch, his knee resting on a thick pillow. It felt good to be home.

  “You actually spent the night in a hospital?” Marco asked.

  “Didn’t have much choice.”

  “We thought you were really hurt, I mean for you to spend the night.”

  “Nothing serious. I’m fine.”

  “Sully’s niece didn’t look fine when she stormed into his office this afternoon. What the hell did you do to her anyway?”

  “I didn’t do anything. I told her to fly home. No sense in both of us losing a night’s sleep. But she wouldn’t budge. Felt responsible for the talent, I guess. I woke up and found her bedside.”

  “No wonder she looked like that.”

  “Like what?” H
is fingers tightened around the receiver.

  “She was scarier than Tiger Lady. She screamed so loud we could hear her all the way down in the gym. I thought the old man would have a heart attack. She was one crazed puppy. But then I guess lack of sleep will do that to ya’.”

  Lack of sleep and worrying about someone you care about. Dream on, Hudson.

  “Yeah, well, I’m okay. Taking some time off. Nursing the knee back to working order. What’s the word on Tiger Man?”

  “Canned.”

  “No kidding?”

  “Right after the niece lit into Sully.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Who’s running this show, anyway?”

  “Fate, kid. Fate,” Jack hushed.

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind. I’ll see you later this week.”

  “Yep.”

  He hung up and sank back against the thick cushions.

  It was spinning out of control. His whole world was racing at mach speed and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. Typical.

  It didn’t have to be that way. Look at Frankie. She planned things right down to the type of crib to buy for a baby that hadn’t even been conceived yet. She didn’t wait for chance to step in and aim her in one direction or another.

  Or nearly cripple her.

  He swallowed hard and closed his eyes. During the chaos, the excitement, he hadn’t let it sink in—fate nearly took it all last night. Only later, in the middle of the night, did the horror of his temporary paralysis awaken him, snake its tentacles around his throat and squeeze until he thought he would suffocate. He’d gone too far, abused his body once too often, and he would pay the price with his legs. What then? He’d been so scared, he couldn’t even see straight. But something had calmed him, chased away the madness.

  Frankie.

  He’d ordered her to leave and threw her out of his room.

  Yet he hated to consider what would have happened if she hadn’t come back. With a soothing tone and soft touches, she’d eased the panic, slain the demons he couldn’t fight by himself. When sleep eluded him she’d shared her hopes and dreams, and expected Jack to share his deepest desires as well. He’d shared a few, but not all of them, not the ones involving Miss Frankie McGee.

  It was only normal to dream about the woman. She was an angel, a gentle wave in an ocean of turmoil. She’d done more for him last night than she could ever know.

  And he hadn’t even thanked her. When he’d awakened this morning to find Frankie sprawled across his bed clutching his hand, he didn’t know what to say. He could have started with an apology for being such a jerk.

  Instead, humbled by her presence, words eluded him.

  It had been such a long time, maybe even forever, since he’d depended on someone like he had Frankie. She’d helped him dress, made all the arrangements to and from the airport, and babied him all the way home.

  The babying part wasn’t so bad. She’d fussed over him, repeatedly inquiring about his knee and his back. No one had ever cared for him like that and probably never would again.

  Jack tapped his still swollen knee. “It’s almost over,” he whispered.

  Melancholy settled in his gut. Of course he’d feel some kind of sadness. Wrestling had been his life for nearly twenty years. You don’t walk away from your life, no matter how pathetic, without a little angst.

  Angst driven by the fact he hadn’t a clue what was coming next.

  “Francine. How do you do it?” he said.

  She’d probably had her life figured out by age seven. He could picture her as a little girl, ponytail swinging as she walked, telling her mom that she wanted to be a financial consultant and marry a successful CPA. Yes, she probably used those very words. At age seven.

  And here Jack was, thirty-seven with no clue where to go. He knew he wanted to live in the mountains, but beyond that he drew a blank. Sure he’d had dreams once, a long time ago. Dreams squashed by an overbearing father.

  Jack’s frustration grew ugly and self-destructive the night his father trashed his paintings. Luckily Butch stepped in and challenged Jack’s anger. Butch believed in the human spirit. He always said if you wanted something bad enough, and worked hard enough, it was yours.

  Jack wondered if that translated to people.

  “Damn, I’ve got to let this go,” he muttered, covering his face with his forearm. It was clear from “true confessions” last night that Frankie needed stability and security more than anything. Things Jack didn’t have to offer.

  She made a science out of planning and controlling, whereas Jack kicked back and let life take him for a ride. She hated everything he stood for, and he couldn’t understand why someone would want to be cooped up in an office crunching numbers five days a week. He knew when he quit wrestling he wouldn’t become a suit like Frankie’s husband-to-be. No, this time around he would do what he wanted. He’d find happiness and peace traveling and eventually settling in the cabin.

  He had enough money to carry him for a while. Who knows, with a little luck, the youth centers might even start to show a profit, although Jack wasn’t counting on it. One thing for sure, it was time to paint again.

  Taking a page from Frankie’s book, he mapped out a plan for the next ten years. It would feel so good to be in control for once, to take charge and move in the right direction.

  Even if that direction was away from Frankie.

  A loud knock shook him from his thoughts.

  “Yeah!” he called out, not eager to use the knee.

  “It’s Frankie. Open the door.”

  “Hell,” he muttered, rolling off the couch and groping for his crutches. He hated using the things. They made him feel weak and dependent.

  “Coming!” he shouted, navigating through the mess of clothes, magazines, and scattered mail. He didn’t have it in him to be Mr. Tidy today. It had taken every ounce of energy to climb the stairs to the second floor this morning when the limo dropped him off.

  “Jack, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

  “Fine, give me a minute.” He made his way to the door, shoving his overnight bag aside with the tip of his crutch.

  Leaning heavily on the crutches, he flipped the dead bolt and opened the door. A brown paper bag stared back at him.

  “Frankie?”

  She peeked around the bag. “Brought dinner.”

  He stumbled out of the way as she marched straight to the kitchen acting as if she lived here. She looked beautiful tonight, her hair pulled back in a braid, her cheeks creamy white, and her eyes…they sparkled more than usual.

  Sure they did. Wasn’t tonight her date with Mr. Perfect Accountant?

  Jack’s heart sank. He suddenly wanted her gone.

  “You didn’t have to do this,” he said, hobbling toward the kitchen. He might want her gone, but he wasn’t going to be a jerk...again.

  “Frankie?” He leaned against the breakfast bar.

  She buzzed around his galley kitchen, opening drawers and slapping utensils on the counter.

  “Pots and pans?” she asked.

  “There.” He pointed to a cabinet.

  “Great.” She pulled out a pot, filled it with water, and put it on the stove.

  “Listen, Frankie—”

  “I talked to my uncle today. He claims he didn’t know what Tiger Man was up to last night.” She paused and glanced at Jack. “I’d like to believe him, but sometimes, I don’t know. There’s something he’s not telling me and it has nothing to do with owing people money.” She busied herself cracking eggs, thawing frozen spinach, and shredding cheese.

  “What’s for dinner?” he asked.

  “Stuffed shells. Hope you like Italian. Even brought the wine.” She plucked a bottle of merlot from the brown grocery bag.

  “Stop.” He grabbed her wrist, and she released the bottle, letting it clunk on the counter. “Listen to me. I’m trying to talk to you.”

  Her eyes widened, her pulse beat in her throat, making the
sunflower charm she wore dance with each beat.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Nothing. I want to thank you. That’s all.”

  “Wait until you try it first. I’m not a great cook.”

  “No, not for dinner. I want to thank you for last night, for today, for taking care of me, all of it.”

  “It’s the least I could do considering what my family’s done to you.”

  He squeezed her hand. “You’re not a part of that. Don’t try to make up for something that isn’t your fault.”

  “But I feel responsible. You’re one of Sully’s guys and—”

  “I don’t want you helping me because it’s in my contract. If that’s why you’re here, then just go.”

  Stabbing the crutches against the hard wood floor, he hobbled to the couch and collapsed.

  Well, Hudson, you’ve done it again.

  He’d started out okay, thanking her as politely as he could. But the thought of her coming here out of duty infuriated him. He wanted her to be here because she genuinely cared, maybe even because she liked him...a lot.

  “How about some ice for the knee?” she called from the kitchen.

  “Whatever.”

  A few minutes passed. The clank of dishes, running water, and the ticking of the kitchen timer bounced off the cathedral ceiling into the living room: sounds of home, of a woman taking care of her family.

  “Hell.” He grabbed a news magazine off the floor and stared at the fine print. Only after a full minute did he realize the article reported statistics about sexual intercourse improving one’s mental health.

  He tossed it across the room.

  “You’re testy tonight.” She ambled to the couch and knelt beside him, then propped his knee on an overstuffed plaid pillow.

  He held his breath at her gentle touch. His knee felt better already.

  “How’s this position?” she said.

  “Fine.” His mind raced with all kinds of positions that had nothing to do with an injured knee.

  “Too cold?” She placed the ice bag on his knee.

  “It’s fine.” He crossed his arms over his chest and stared at the entertainment center across the room.

  She rocked back on her knees. “I’m not here because of my uncle or WHAK. I’m here because I’m worried about a friend.”