Fighting for It
Page 1
Copyright © Jennifer Fusco 2015
Excerpt from Going The Distance © Jennifer Fusco 2016
Author photograph © Mark Borderud 2013
Cover photo © NAS CRETIVES/Shutterstock
The right of Jennifer Fusco to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Published by arrangement with InterMix,
A member of Penguin Group (USA) LLC,
A Penguin Random House Company.
First published in this Ebook edition in 2015
by HEADLINE ETERNAL
An imprint of HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
eISBN 978 1 4722 3605 0
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
About the Author
Praise for Jennifer Fusco
By Jennifer Fusco
About the Book
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Acknowledgments
Exclusive preview of Going The Distance
Find out more about Headline Eternal
About the Author
Jennifer Fusco is the author of the Ringside series, where the hard-hitters of Las Vegas’s Stamina boxing gym are K.O.-ed by the women they never saw coming . . .
Jennifer loves writing hot alpha males, and strong female characters who are sexy, sassy, and careful with their hearts. She lives in Southwest Florida and spends what little free time she has going to the beach, walking her dog, Grissom, and watching her son’s soccer games.
Chat with Jennifer at www.facebook.com/authorjenniferfusco, connect with her on Twitter @jenniferafusco, and visit her website at www.jennifer-fusco.com.
Praise for Jennifer Fusco’s knockout romances:
‘Jack and Daniella have great chemistry and smokin’ sexual tension. I read this in one night. Fusco’s voice pulls you into the sexy, sweaty world of boxing. A must read!’ Jamie K. Schmidt, USA Today bestselling author
‘Fusco’s debut is a knockout. Emotionally intense, it takes the reader for ten rounds of edgy heat and a journey of redemption while they root for Jack and Daniella to win’ Tawny Weber, New York Times bestselling author
‘Jennifer Fusco writes exciting, sexy romance that keeps you up way past your bedtime. You’ve been warned!’ Robin Covington, bestselling author
‘A heartwarming hero and a strong glimpse into the gritty world of professional boxing’ Cecy Robson, bestselling author
‘A sizzling-hot must read for fans of the sport! Fusco packs a sexy punch’ Jennifer Snow, author of Breaking Her Rules
By Jennifer Fusco
Ringside Series
Fighting For It
Going The Distance
About the Book
Heavyweight boxer Jack Brady was destined to be world champion. But his shining career suffered a devastating defeat with the loss of his last fight.
Ten years ago Daniella Chambers ran away from Vegas and from her first love. But the death of her father, and the struggling boxing gym he left behind, have called her back.
Though the odds are stacked against them, Daniella’s determined to save Stamina and to rebuild Jack’s career. Soon their old spark is reignited as they embark on a gruelling training programme for the world championship. With their relationship and the fate of the gym on the ropes, Jack and Daniella face the greatest fight of their lives – both in and out of the ring.
Ready for round two? Don’t miss the next electrifying Ringside book, Going The Distance.
For Butch Chambers, my dad.
Chapter One
“Let’s get outta here,” the blonde whispered into his ear. “Come on, honey. I’ll let you do me in the bathroom.”
It wouldn’t take much. Quick trip to the restroom. Ten minutes. Tops. He gazed at the blonde.
Nah. Pass. As much as he liked the company of a hot blonde, he didn’t get off on restroom sex. But he wouldn’t rule out taking her home.
“Hey, Jack,” Jimmie, the bartender said. “Think you’ve had enough?”
Jack raised his glass in a drunken salute. He had had enough of a lot of things. But booze and girls ready to drop their zippers weren’t two of those things. What he’d had enough of was the town that had dragged him down and put his career in the gutter.
Vegas.
Las Fucking Vegas.
Jack Brady despised Las Vegas. He didn’t just hate the damn place. He fucking loathed his hometown as much as he hated himself. Every single inch. The candy-colored lights¸ the watered down booze, and loudmouthed tourists turned his already soured stomach. He sat on his barstool with the blonde clinging to him for dear life and glared at a photo of the famous skyline hanging on the wall.
Shithole.
Tipping his head back, he drained his glass, swaying in his seat.
“Well if you won’t do me here, take me back to your place,” the blonde offered.
He wouldn’t mind sneaking out and stealing a few hours of anonymity.
He’d had enough of people in town talking. And lately, all anyone who ran in his circles focused on was the life and death of his trainer, R. L. Chambers, and his out-of-control boxer that sent him to his grave. The muscles at the base of his neck tightened. The bullshit gossip that Jack’s lack of respect for his trainer paved the way to R. L.’s early demise made him want to hurt himself.
Bad.
He had known something was wrong. R. L.’s lack of appetite, his weight loss, the graying of his skin had signaled a decline. But his manager never said a word. And Jack, he could kick himself for not making his mentor see a doctor.
He knew the toughest of men eventually wore out. At si
xty-three, he didn’t expect R. L. to go so soon.
Moisture prickled behind his eye, but he dared not let it form into a tear. His trainer, his mentor, deserved more than piss-ass drunken sobs. A helluva lot more.
He turned to the blonde and lifted his glass, toasting the memory of R. L. “To broken dreams and broken people.” He would’ve taken the drink, but the glass was empty. The second his glass hit the counter, it disappeared.
“Time to go home, Jack,” the bartender said. “Go on. Take your friend with you.”
“You can’t cut me off,” he slurred. “I’m just getting started.”
“You started at eleven this morning,” said the gentle voice. “Look, I know that R. L. was everything to you. He was like a second father, better than that shit bag your mother married. What was his name?”
“Gary,” Jack slurred.
“Yeah, that’s right, Gary. R. L. was more of a father to you than your stepdad, but you can’t let it eat you up.” He paused, giving Jack a look of concern.
There wasn’t enough whiskey in this whole damn bar to make him forget his terrible childhood, no matter how much he drank. He’d come up short in the family department, and he knew as well as anyone that even though his last name was Brady, his life at home didn’t resemble The Brady Bunch, not one bit.
He paused in thought and chuckled under his whiskey-soaked breath. If his childhood had mimicked the iconic television show, viewers would have watched Mike Brady drink himself to sleep while Carol, the mother, shook her ass down at the casinos happily delivering drinks, blow jobs, or whatever else the customers wanted for an extra twenty bucks. Now that would have been one hell of a program to watch: The Brady Bunch, Las Vegas style.
“You got enough money left for a cab?” The bartender interrupted his thoughts.
He shook his head. Fucking cab. He didn’t need a dirty cab. Dude needed to call a limo. For the champion. The heavyweight champion of the world.
But he wasn’t. That was some other poor bastard who stole his money, his career, and his title along with it.
The reality of it hit him hard.
What the fuck did he need a title for? Shiny piece of shit. Didn’t mean nothing. He lifted his hand and ran it across his sweaty brow.
What did he need any of it for? His manager was dead. His career? Over. Everything he worked for? Gone. And all that was left was an empty glass and a horny blonde.
And who gave a fuck about it? No one. Not even Jack.
He was okay with the other things he had to occupy his time.
Jack drew his cell phone from the pocket of his jeans and scrolled though the names. He stared down at each one. Amber. Tasha. Nikki. The list went on. He could have his choice and the blonde at the push of a button, but having and wanting were two different things. Company might do him some good. Take the edge off. Maybe he’d take the girl home after all.
“Get outta here, Brady. Sleep it off.” The bartender dried a glass with a soiled rag.
“I’m not going home. It’s too damned early to go home.” He leaned sideways to motion to a man across the bar, but tumbled off the stool. Luckily his feet did their job. He grabbed hold of the lip of the bar to steady himself. It took longer than he expected to right himself. Taking a moment to gather his bearings, Jack shook his head as if arguing with an ex-girlfriend who didn’t exist, “Tell you what, Jimmie. R. L. was a good man. A damned good man. Not like anyone else in this fake-ass town.”
“Damn straight.”
“Shut up. We got a game going here,” a man’s voice called from the corner of the bar. “No one wants to hear your fucking whining.”
Jack turned his head in the direction of the man, who was standing by the pool table, cue in hand. A glass of draft beer sat on the table next to where he stood.
“You wanna drink that beer or wear it?” Jack demanded, pushing the blonde off him for her own safety. He stuck out his chest. Eyes narrowed. Temper spiked.
“You wanna piece of me?” The man, dressed in a black motorcycle T-shirt and jeans, shot back. He stood up from leaning over the pool table and walked toward Jack.
Jack gritted his teeth, taking in the fat belly of the pool-playing son of a bitch. “I said, do you wanna drink that beer or wear it?”
“You wanna take this shit outside?” the pool player said. Then he took a few giant steps toward Jack. They were nose to nose. “Waddya say? Bitch.”
A hand clapped on Jack’s shoulder and the bartender stepped in between the two men. “I don’t need any trouble in here. If I call the cops, things will get real messy. For all of us. Let’s just take a breather.” Jimmie pushed Jack and the guy who’d been playing pool apart.
Jack’s eyes narrowed on the fat-ass biker. He smelled hot wings and beer on his breath. It’d only take two seconds for Jack to make Fat Ass regret eating those wings.
One quick punch.
“It’s all right, Jack,” Jimmie said calmly. “Come on, man. No trouble,” he addressed Pool Player.
Jack waited until the pussy took a step back. Only then did he back down.
The man returned to his game, and Jack’s gaze switched between Jimmie and the fat ass. Then the blonde reappeared, wrapping her arms around his waist. Jimmie gently guided both of them to the door. Pushing it open, the cool, dry desert air hit him in the face. The breeze cleared some of the fuzziness from his head and brought the whole ugly night into perspective.
“Sorry about that back there, Jimmie. I didn’t mean to . . .” Jack’s voice trailed off.
A hand, like a heavy weight, landed on Jack’s back, right between his shoulder blades.
“R. L. was a great man. And you two were tight, like blood, maybe even closer. I’m sorry for your loss,” Jimmie said. “Come on back tomorrow morning and I’ll make you some eggs to go along with that hangover.”
Jack nodded, and after nearly tripping down the steps, he followed the blonde into the black of the night.
Chapter Two
The door to Jack Brady’s apartment swung open, but damned if he remembered saying, “Come on in.” A woman with huge tits and legs that went on for days walked inside and pulled back the curtains, ripping him from complete darkness. And, with a night as wild as last night, darkness was a necessity. Sharp rays of sunlight pierced his eyes. Fuck. He hated everything to do with mornings. He lifted his arm, blocked the sun, and cursed the person who came up with the idea of mixing Jack and Coke.
Dust motes swirled in a path of light that led to the hourglass-shaped woman standing in his living room. “Hey, baby.” He raised his head from the arm of the sofa and drew in the length of her body. Her curves wouldn’t quit and, maybe, if she were lucky, she’d find out he didn’t either.
Women tended to come and go from his apartment as he pleased, but this one could stay as long as she liked.
If his head didn’t hurt like a bitch he’d pull that brown-haired beauty down to him and spend the afternoon working off his hangover. Naked. Then he might go another round with the blonde in the bathroom.
“Move your ass,” the dark-haired woman said. “It’s after two.”
He felt his brow furrowing. Air caught in his throat. “Who the hell are you?”
His question was met with a long, exasperated sigh. “I’m the woman who has a vested interest in you not getting your ass suspended. Now, get up.”
Fire shot through his blood. He raised his torso and swung his legs around to a sitting position. His head spun. Jesus. He felt like shit. He could’ve lain on the warm leather of the sofa all day. Watched some movies. Slept.
“Shakes send you?” Damn it. He didn’t have time for Shakes’s lame-ass requests.
“I’m not Mr. Shakes’s errand girl,” the woman said flatly, and she stepped into the sunlight. “I own you.”
Jack’s body gave an involuntary jolt. His stomach clenched and he studied her face, took in the tits and the long legs and—oh shit. “Dani.”
“It’s Daniella now.”
In an instant, he was eighteen years old again. His heart nearly stopped when she cocked her slender hip and perched her hand on it. Her stance took him back to the last time he saw Daniella Chambers.
The summer before she went off to college.
God, her body was smoking back then. But now. She’d left town a girl and came back a woman, all right. In a second, his old feelings rushed him. The biggest mistake he’d ever made was letting her go. He’d loved her. He doubted he ever stopped loving her.
But one thing was for sure: she quit loving him. She hated his wandering eye, and how he’d played fast and loose with her heart. Back then, he’d screwed everything up between them. On purpose? Possibly. For the best? Yes.
She was way too good for him then, and now, well, some days he hated himself.
“Don’t act like you didn’t know I was coming.” She sounded pissed.
Jack lifted his hand and scratched his head. Daniella Chambers. It made sense. With her old man dead, who else would’ve inherited the Stamina gym? He sure as hell wouldn’t have left it to Shakes or one of the guys. Her father had willed Stamina to her, and knowing how much she meant to him, that was how R. L. had wanted it.
Now Daniella owned the gym he trained and grew up in. She owned his home.
And now him, too.
His stomach turned with an involuntary roll.
She might hold the keys, but he didn’t have to like it. He had hoped he’d never see her again. He clenched his hand into a fist, fighting against himself to tell her to go to hell. He held back a trail of firewater, the kind that rolled in his gut and threatened to burn its way up his throat after hearing bad fucking news.
She owned him.
It would take more than a few Jack and Cokes to wrap his head around this one.
“Shakes said you haven’t worked out in a week.” She was nagging him already. Great. Just great. “I bet you didn’t run either, did you?” Oh, he’d run all right. He’d run out of here to keep from hearing her damn mouth. No way this was happening.
He didn’t take orders from beautiful women. He gave them.
“Well.” She glanced down at him like he was something stuck to the bottom of her fuck-me heels.