Fighting for Forever

by J. B. Salsbury

  But why?

  This girl with the fruity cereal name, Trix, and her associate, Angel, aren’t here against their will or being taken advantage of. As a matter of fact, they seem to be the only ones in the room, with the exception of their bodyguard, in total control.

  After they started dancing and ended up in nothing but small strips of satin between their legs, I sat there as long as I could. Trix kept her distance from me, choosing to focus on everyone else, not that I’m surprised. My guess is I’m not her favorite person after our less-than-pleasant meeting. And for some stupid fucking reason that bothers me.

  The uncontrollable urge to touch her becomes too much, and I make my way to the small bar in the corner of the room. My annoyance is curbed by a sense of sympathy for Trix and Angel. It’s not healthy for a woman to expose the most private parts of her body to a room full of strangers, letting every man fantasize about a body meant for just one man. Her man, whoever she ends up with.

  And yet I’m hard as steel. My conservative opinions apparently have zero effect on my dick’s response to Trix. Something about her, maybe it’s the yin and yang of our earlier argument to the sultry enticement of her moves, but the stirring in my pants ignores my command to chill the fuck out.

  Why I even care about any of this is stupid. This girl hates me. Hell, I hate her. Okay, maybe I don’t hate her, but I sure as shit don’t like her.

  Jayden palms her breast. Don’t fucking touch her. A low growl rumbles in my chest. I take a step forward to remove his arm from his body, but Trix takes care of it with less bloodshed. Rather than shove him away, she simply grabs his wrist, moves it from her body and shakes her finger in his face while biting her lip. He drops his hand to his lap and grins like a good little puppy.

  “What’s wrong, Tiger?”

  I dip my chin to the pretty dark-haired girl, Angel, as she runs her hand from my forearm to my shoulder.

  “Whoa . . .” Her wide dark eyes meet mine. “You’re big.” She squeezes my bicep a few times. “You must work out.”

  With a slow grind of her pelvis to my thigh, I grip her wrist. “Don’t.”

  Her eyes widen, and I immediately release my hold. “It’s not you. It’s just”—my gaze slides to Trix—“strippers don’t do anything for me.” I’m such a fucking liar.

  “Well, thank gawd. I needed a break.” She pushes into the spot next to me and smiles. “So, what do you do for a living?”

  I have a hard time keeping my eyes from her perky naked breasts and wonder how she can so easily have a conversation while standing here topless. “I’m an athlete. Universal Fighting League.”

  “Ah, well that makes sense.” Her eyes shift around the room. “Are all you guys fighters?”

  “No, just me.” I shrug and settle back, at ease now that I realize she’s more interested in conversation than anything else. “Can I get you a drink?”

  “I’d love a Diet Coke.” She nods toward the mini-fridge. “Think there’s any in there?”

  My lips curve into a smile, and I reach down to grab a Diet Coke from the fridge. I pop the can open and hand it to her. “Here ya go.”

  “Thanks.” She takes a few greedy gulps and then shifts to lean her back against the counter in a casual way, like we’re just two friends in bar. “So, you’re the only fighter. These guys your groupies?”

  “No, Drake’s my little brother.” I nod toward him, and I try to avoid staring as Trix moves to straddle his lap. “They’re in town, visiting.”

  “Visiting from where?” She takes another pull off her soda.

  “Santa Cruz, California.”

  She tilts her head up, eyebrows pinched in thought. “Is that north of Los Angeles?”

  “Mm-hm.” I nod.

  She shrugs and takes another pull from her drink. “Anywhere near San Jose?”

  “Yeah, but coastal.”

  “Trix knows—”

  “Drake . . .?” We all still, heads swiveling toward the small frame of a woman as she comes into view from a darkened bedroom off to the side of the living space.

  My eyes dart to Drake, whose mouth is in Trix’s ear while she straddles his lap on the couch, her perfect tits pressed to his chest and her blond-and-purple-streaked hair tossed all around him. The woman steps into the light, and my breath catches in my throat.

  Long golden hair parted in the middle cascades over her shoulders to her ribs. She’s wearing a tank top and floor-length hippie skirt, which hangs off narrow hips, showing bare feet.

  She’s aged since I last saw her; time combined with rough living has made its mark on her once youthful face, but it’s her.

  “Babe, get your ass back to bed.” There’s no kindness in Drake’s command, not even a hint of shame at being caught red-handed with a naked stripper on his lap.

  Trix cringes and pushes off Drake, her expression twisting in pure disgust and hatred. “I’m taking a break.”

  “No, stay right where you are.” Drake reaches for her, but Santos moves in, and with one look, he sends Drake’s hand back to his lap.

  “Drake, what are you doing?” Jess moves farther into the room, her pained expression meant only for him.

  “I said go the fuck back to bed!”

  I move to him in a few long strides. “Drake!”

  He jumps up, whirls toward me, and within seconds we’re in each other’s faces. Nose to nose, fury charges the air between us, and years of time dissolve as old feuds resurface.

  “Mason?” Jessica’s voice shakes.

  “Back off, Mason, or I swear to God—”

  “You’ll kick my ass?” I push back my anger, telling myself taking my little brother to the ground in front of her will only make matters worse. I step back and relax my stance. “Love to see you try, brother.”

  I slide my eyes to Jessica and force a smile. Her eyes glaze over and a shaky smile touches her lips.

  “Hey, Jess.”

  She rushes to me and throws her arms around my neck. “Mason, what are you doing here?”

  “Jessica, get the fuck over here.” Drake holds out his arm for her.

  A muffled whimper sounds against my chest, but she ignores his command. “I’ve missed you.”

  Drake glares at me from over her shoulder, and the rest of the guys shift uncomfortably around the room.

  “Yeah, hey . . . shhh, me too, Jess. Shhh . . . it’s okay.” I run my hand up and down her back, hoping the touch is soothing enough that she’ll drop the death grip from my neck.

  “Jess, now.” Drake’s not giving up, clearly jealous by her clinging to me. Fuck him. She may’ve chosen him after three years of dating me, but right now, she’s choosing me.

  I squeeze Jess a little tighter, noticing how different she feels in my arms now compared to when we were in high school. Fragile and frail rather than the muscled track star she was back then. “How are you?”

  Took years for me to get over them being together. She was my first everything, my first love. Back then, I thought we’d end up married with two point five kids and a damn retriever. That is until a month before I left for Penn State and I caught her and Drake fucking in his room mere feet from my bedroom door. That was it. She wanted the bad-boy version of me, and she fuckin’ got him.

  I should feel some kind of vindication over the shitty way he’s treating her, but my chest aches at how broken she’s become. The lost look in her eyes I feel in my gut.

  “I’m okay.” She releases me and turns to the strippers, who are now fully clothed and whispering heatedly with their bodyguard. “Why would Drake hire prostitutes when I’m right there in the next room?” A single tear rolls down her cheek.

  Can she really be that clueless?

  “Oh, them? Yeah, um . . . they’re not prostitutes. They’re with me.” Fuck, I don’t know why I said that. I don’t want to protect Drake, but the big brother in me can’t help it. That and I’d say anything to wipe the look of sheer betrayal from her face.

  Her eyebrows pinch
together. “With you?”

  “Yeah.” I hold my arm out to the girls and hope that one of them is smart enough to follow my lead.

  Trix click-clacks over and tucks into my side. The second her heated body hits mine I bite back a groan. Damn, she feels good. And smells even better.

  “Hi, I’m um . . . I’m really sorry about all this. We actually have a policy that we only entertain couples when both parties agree.” Trix tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “If I’d known you were here and not in favor of our being here, we would’ve terminated the contract.”

  I squeeze Trix tighter to my side, proud of her quick thinking and relieved by Jessica’s now-relaxed smile.

  “See, Jess? It’s fine, and really, it’s my fault. I had no idea you were here.”

  Trix looks at her wrist and taps it even though she’s not wearing a watch. “Yep, and our time’s up, so we’ll be leaving.”

  A few of the guys grumble from behind me, well aware that their time is not up. I shoot them a quick glare to quiet them. They groan, but don’t protest further.

  “See? We were just leaving.” I keep Trix close, safe from the horny group of men who look like they’re about to pounce.

  “You’re leaving too?” Jessica asks and pleads with watery-gray eyes.

  “I am, but, um . . . you guys are going to be here for a few days, right? I’ll see you again.” I run my hand along her upper arm.

  “Okay.” She hugs me close, and Trix ducks out of my hold to avoid the group hug. Reluctantly, I let her go, but pat Jess and pull away, hoping to grab Trix before she takes off.

  There’s something I need to say, and I know if she gets away I’ll never see her again.

  Trix

  Santos, Angel, and I move from the penthouse and toward the elevators, eager to get hell out of there.

  Talk about an uncomfortable situation. That poor woman who walked out of the bedroom looked like she’d been kicked in the gut and spit on when she saw me on her boyfriend’s lap.

  I’m no stranger to asshole guys. I’m also not naïve to think that every man I dance for is available, but a striptease is all about the unattainable fantasy—something to indulge in before going back to your woman who’ll bring the illusion to life. But planting an exotic dancer in your girlfriend’s living room to let her watch is a first-class dickhead move.

  We step into the elevator. “Easiest gig we’ve ever worked.” Angel presses the button, which lights up to indicate we’re headed to the lobby. “Paid for two hours and only had to work for one.” She pulls an invisible slot machine handle. “Cha-ching.”

  “I left them VIP passes to Zeus’s so they’ll get their money’s worth.” Santos leans back, his thick hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans. “Quick thinking with the rule about couples.”

  “Yeah, well, there should be a rule about that. I felt so bad for that girl.” I pull a rubber band out of my clutch and have Santos hold my purse while I wrap my hair up in a messy bun. I’m off duty for the night, ready to wash my face, throw on some pj’s, and pass out. “You remember the last girlfriend who got pissed and filed a complaint saying we were hooking. Never trust a pissed-off girlfriend. Speaking of couples”—I stare at Santos and watch his big cheeks turn pink—“did Diane like her anniversary present?”

  The blush on his cheeks intensifies and I grin. After shoving piles of lingerie catalogs in our faces one night, begging for us to let him in on what women think is sexy, we made a ton of recommendations. I guess he took our word for it.

  “She did,” he says, “but probably not as much as I liked seeing her wear it.”

  “Ha! I bet.” The elevator pings and we walk out and toward the valet through the casino. “You’re a good man, Santos.”

  “Nope, I’m fuckin’ lucky is what I am.” He snags our tickets and goes to the valet stand to drop them off.

  “Whoever those guys are, they must have serious cash. Did you see the shit they had lying around?” Angel pulls off one fake eyelash followed by the other and tucks them in her bag.

  “I did.” Illegal shit, but yeah, there was a lot of it. All of it reminded me of my time with Hatch. It’s been a year since he took off and I’ve heard not a single word. The night he stopped in Vegas before he went on the run he’d told me he was headed to Mexico. I wonder if he ever made it or if the guys who were after him found him first.

  If he’s dead, I’ll never get him to confess all he knows.

  Sadness overwhelms me at the thought of going back to my parents’ home empty-handed. All I want to do is bring them the peace of mind they deserve. After all, they’ve given me everything, despite the shit I continue to put them through. They’ve given hope to kids who never had any. Made a family where there once was none.

  “Trix, babe . . .” Santos dips his forehead toward my car, which the valet pulled up and is hopping out of.

  “Right, I’m teaching tomorrow, so I’ll see you Monday.” I give Angel a hug, and Santos walks me to my car, tipping the valet and standing there until I get in, shut the door, and strap on my seatbelt. I mouth thank you and head home.

  At a stoplight, I catch a reflection of my eyes and am reminded of the girl from the hotel room. Her eyes were sullen, almost haunted. It was obvious she and that Mason guy are old friends, and if her expression when she saw him was any indication, I’d say they were close at one time.

  What surprised me was the sweet way he treated her, completely opposite of how he was with me. I mean, sure, I broke his phone, but even after that, he disregarded me like I was scum. Most likely, he takes some kind of moral offense to being in the presence of a woman like me.

  He’s the type who needs a woman who sees her body as some kind of prize to be won. The way his hands ran over that girl’s arms like they were made of glass . . . He whispered soothingly into her hair, close enough that she could glean comfort from the heat of his breath. Yeah, he’s a woman-worshiper.

  When he threw his arm over my shoulder and tucked me tightly into his side, I felt a sliver of what he’s capable of. Strong, deliberate, and aware, he’s probably a gentle lover, firm and deep, but slow and attentive. The kind that lasts all night and late into the day.

  He’s the kind of man a girl like me doesn’t need.

  Or maybe the kind I don’t deserve.

  Not that it matters.

  Four

  Mason

  “Mister”—Sylvia Thomas, the Community Youth Center Director, studies a slip of paper she has pinned to a clipboard—“Mahoney?” She squints up at me through magnified glasses that make her eyes look bulbous.

  “Yeah, call me Mason.”

  “Mr. Mason . . .” She scribbles what I assume to be my modified name on a sticker nametag and then slaps it to my chest. “Great, follow me, and I’ll show you where you’ll be working today.”

  The Community Youth Center doesn’t look anything like I thought it would. It’s sleek and modern, and judging by the smell of fresh paint and new floors, I’d say it’s recently had a major facelift. We move through a series of hallways before we come to a big open gym. As tired as I am from having to drag my ass out of bed this morning, the scent of rubber mats, sweat, and the sounds of human exertion perk me right up.

  “How long have you guys been at this location, Mrs. Thomas?” I raise my voice to be heard over the sound of squeaking sneakers and kids’ voices.

  She smiles back at me, pride shining in her eyes. “We’ve been here for nearly thirty years; although, you’d never guess it by looking at it. The place was a wreck until Mr. and Mrs. Slade funded the complete remodel.”

  Ah, Jonah and Raven. That explains it.

  The gym is filled with kids of all different ages: some as high as my thigh and others that could stand with me almost eye-to-eye. They’re grouped off according to activity. A dozen are playing volleyball, and fewer are on a half basketball court. There’s a group running sprints, some doing tumbling on a large mat, and others simply sitting on the bleachers
, watching.

  “The children are allowed to pick whatever it is they’re interested in. Most days they’re happy to hop around from class to class, but we do have those who choose not to participate.” Her face twists in disappointment. “This is where you’ll be.”

  The large section that’s sanctioned off for MMA is top of the line. It’s padded for safety, and a small pile of gloves, hit pads, and kickboxing bags is set up in the corner.

  She hands me a slip of paper. “Here’s the sign-up sheet for today.” She waves over a group from the bleachers. A few kids amble over, dragging their feet with cautious expressions. “You guys are in for a treat today. This is Mr. Mason, and he’s a professional fighter with the UFL.”

  I nod to the kids and take in their wide eyes.

  “Alright, I’ll leave you to it.” Mrs. Thomas grins and walks away, but turns back, snapping her fingers. “Oh, I forgot! If you need anything, you can ask Trix.”

  My expression falls and my jaw goes slack. Did she say Trix? No. I must’ve imagined . . . I follow her pointing finger to a group of girls who are lined up and seem to be working through some sort of dance routine.

  “She’s our veteran volunteer. Been here longer than anyone. Any questions you have, she’ll have the answer.”

  And sure enough, the stripper-phone-crusher from last night comes into view. Her tiny white shorts, tan legs, and blousy tank top are conservative compared to what she had on last night. Her long hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and she’s grinning big, clapping out a count while encouraging the young girls she’s teaching.

  “Have fun.”

  “Great, okay.” My eyes are fixed on Trix as my mind tries to make sense of what I’m seeing.

  An exotic dancer who volunteers to teach kids?

  She must feel my eyes on her because she stops clapping and searches me out. Her body goes rigid when she sees me no more than ten yards away, staring. A tiny grin pulls at her lips, and her eyebrows dip in confusion.