Fighting for Forever

by J. B. Salsbury

  I shake my head, not trusting my voice.

  “Making you blush . . . It’s almost as satisfying as making you come.”

  I choke—fucking choke on my own saliva—which only manages to make my face hotter.

  He drops his hand while I catch my breath and clear my throat, a low rumble of laughter reverberating from his chest.

  “I have to admit, making an exotic dancer blush is something to brag about.”

  I press my palm to my throat and then look up at him, expecting to be met with a playful grin. Oh shit.

  His face is etched with irritation, eyes dark and eyebrows low. “Right.” He shakes his head, blinking. “I better get going.” He hooks me behind the neck and pulls me in for a quick, hard, and chaste kiss to my forehead. “Later.”

  I stand shocked still for a few beats. “Bye.”

  Before he’s to his truck, I turn and push my way inside, closing and locking the door behind me. My back slams to the door as I try to calm my racing heart.

  “What the hell was that?”

  The peal of tires sounds on the other side of the door, and I try to assimilate the series of events that led to a pissed-off Mason.

  Early into the morning, I still can’t figure it out.

  Not that it matters. It’s better that he not like me.

  Better for both of us.

  Mason

  She’s a stripper. How could I forget?

  The sweet woman is one of eight adopted kids, loves her parents, and has had to work hard for everything she has. This woman has had to endure the worst kind of pain, witness the gore of the death of a loved one, and talks about it with a fierce protection in her voice that would rival the strongest man. The woman, whose body belongs in a fucking display case as a sample of what perfection and beauty looks like, is a stripper.

  And not just any stripper, not a part-time, just-to-make-ends-meet kind of stripper, not a working-her-way-through-college stripper, but a bona fide career-as-an-exotic-dancer kind of stripper.

  Fuck! And go figure my ass goes and falls for her. Hard.

  I slam my palms against the steering wheel, wishing to God things could be different. Can I date a woman who makes money by grinding her panty-clad pussy against the crotches of random men? That shit has to turn her on. I barely touch her between her legs, and she fucking ignites. No way she doesn’t get off doing what she does.

  The first time we kissed I’d foolishly demanded she tell me why she does it. I wanted so badly to hear that she was as shallow as the stereotype in my head. Rather than answer, she looked at me like I’d asked her to lop off her own arm.

  So why? With all the available jobs, why do something as debasing as stripping?

  It’s because she loves seducing men for money, bringing them to the brink of insanity. It’s exactly what she did to me tonight. I suppose I should be patting myself on the back for getting all I got from her tonight for the price of a coffee and some cheap mini-mart snacks.

  As soon as the thoughts filter through my head, they sour my stomach with guilt. It’s not like she’s ever tried to hide who she is and what she does. She’s never made any promises, at least, not with words, but fuck if our time together wasn’t bringing me the hope of possibility.

  What a fucking surprise to find myself here again, longing for a woman who I can’t have, or at least have all to myself. Sure, Eve gave me parts of her. By giving me her friendship, she trusted me with the most important parts, but I could never have her the way I wanted: fully and completely, body, heart, mind. And now Trix offers me her body as long as I’m okay sharing her with every man who passes through Zeus’s front doors.

  I slam my truck into park outside of my modest condo complex. Hitting the alarm, I move through the grassy, well-manicured courtyard and pass by the saltwater pool complete with hot tub and waterfalls that I know are there, all while noticing none of it.

  It was stupid to pursue things with Trix. We’re supposed to go out on Tuesday, but unless I can convince myself to care for her on a surface-level-only, physical relationship with no attachments, it’s probably best if I cancel.

  Once to my condo, I push open the door and flick on the lights. It’s a clean, modern, bi-level with more space than I need. After signing with the UFL, I moved here with nothing but my clothes, a computer, and my stereo. The organization had the place furnished: overstuffed furniture and sleek tables made of dark wood polished to a shine. It’s decorated to catalog perfection and so not my taste it’s almost laughable.

  I head to the open kitchen for a glass of water before going to bed where I expect to lie there all night, overthinking, while staring at the slow rotation of the bamboo ceiling fan.

  A package on my countertop catches my eye. I move toward the foreign mass of brown paper and tape and find a slip of paper sitting next to it. My gaze jerks up to my living room. Someone was here. Are they still?

  I move fast, taking two steps at a time up to my loft bedroom, and flick on the lights. No one. Bathroom looks the same as it did when I left this morning. I haul ass down to the guest bedroom, my office, the laundry room . . . all empty.

  Dread settles in my gut, a sixth-sense that tells me exactly who was here and what’s in the package. I navigate my way back to the package and snag the note.

  It’s all here and accounted for.

  “Fuck!” I toss the scrap of paper and grind my teeth at the unsatisfying way it floats to the ground.

  Tomorrow night. Zeus’s. Dammit to hell.

  Thirteen

  Trix

  After getting home at the crack of dawn and catching a few hours of sleep, I woke to my alarm as it pulled me from the most delicious dream: waves, sand, and Mason. I dragged myself to the gym and hit the treadmill hard before coming in for my shift. As much as I enjoyed my time with Mason, things ended strangely.

  When he left me at my door, he didn’t mention our date we’d set up for tomorrow night. I don’t know if we’re still on or not, and I can’t even call him because I don’t know his number. I suppose I could ask Gia, but there’s a tiny part of me that’s apprehensive. The intensity of what I feel around Mason scares me, and as much as I want him to smother me with it, I’m terrified of being lost to it.

  My phone on my dressing table chimes with an incoming text, and my heart leaps. I drop the magazine I’d been mindlessly flipping through and snag the device.

  Damn, not Mason.

  My brother Isaac.

  I MADE THE TEAM! BooYah!

  I grin at how much my little brother is starting to sound like the teenage boy he is.

  Of course you did! It’s your highly-tuned Mother Mary.

  Hail Mary, Doofus.

  When I spoke to my parents earlier today, they’d mentioned that he was going to find out if he made the football team tonight. I guess they leave for some kind of training camp to get all the players geared up before the beginning of the school year. It’s almost midnight, so I assume he’s been out celebrating.

  My fingers furiously type and I giggle out loud.

  Whatever . . . will I get to see you when I come home or will your big-shot football-playing self be occupied with your admirers?

  I hit “send” and bite my lip to keep from laughing while I wait for his reply.

  Have your people call my people.

  “Let me guess.” Angel shuffles over, dressed in nothing but patent leather and metal, having just come from her S&M routine. She drops onto her stool at her dressing table and rips off her spiked collar. “Mason?”

  I sit up straighter and curse my eager response.

  She dips her chin to motion to my phone. “It’s so obvious! You’re grinning like a queen at the Pride Parade.”

  A long sigh falls from my lips, and my shoulders droop in defeat. “Nah”—I hold up my phone and shake it—“it’s my little brother. He’s just really funny.”

  “Oh, well”—she continues to unbuckle and remove the painful looking corset until she’s bare na
ked—“never mind. I assumed after all the hot and heavy spit swapping y’all did last night he’d be blowing up your phone today.”

  I roll my eyes and regret filling Angel in on the details of my time with Mason. The second I got to the club after the way she saw us leave last night, she was begging for the tell-all. I gave her most of it just because it felt so good to share it with someone. Being with a man like Mason isn’t something a woman can keep to herself. That goodness doesn’t seem real until it’s spoken out loud between friends. And even then, it almost seems too good to be true.

  “You tease, but it was ah-maze-ing.” I check the timer on my mirror and realize I have ten minutes before I’m up. “When was the last time you’ve been with a man that was content to kiss and feed you jerky?”

  I drop my robe and pull on pieces of the costume I laid out earlier.

  Angel ties the satin sashes of her black Zeus’s robe. “That’s easy. Not since high school.” Her eyebrows pinch and a slow smile tugs at her lips. “What’re you wearing?”

  “Huh?” I’m tugging on a pair of board shorts over a bright yellow G-string. “This?” I stand up and loop the yellow triangle bikini top around my neck and tie it at my back. “I’m changing things up.”

  She stares at me like I slid on a muumuu.

  “What?” I hold out my hands and twirl, grabbing at the super long strands of extensions I put into the back of my hair to make it twice as long and board straight. “Don’t I look like a little surfer girl?” I pop up on my dressing table, cross my legs, and wiggle my painted toes.

  “You’re batting your eyelashes.” She laughs and shakes her head. “Holy shit, they’re gonna love the whole innocent thing you got going on. And barefoot . . . fucking genius.”

  “Thanks!” I don’t tell her where my sexy surf-inspired idea came from.

  “Trix, you’re on in five!” Santos’ call comes thundering through the room.

  “On it!” I hop off the table and check my look one more time.

  “What’re you dancing to, The Beach Boys?”

  I turn toward her with what is probably a wicked grin. “‘Drunk in Love,’ baby.” I snap my fingers and move past her. “Beyoncé up in this bi—”

  “Trix!”

  Angel and I dissolve into a fit of giggles. “Coming, Santos!”

  “Kick ass, babe.”

  And with a smack on the ass from my girl, I’m off to work a crowd.

  Mason

  As I sit in my truck, not far from the alley that I dragged my brother’s broken body from only a week ago, I can’t help but wonder how this is going to play out. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before, but now, as I stare down the dirty backstreet, a wave of dread comes over me. These guys could easily take my offering—this offending burden wrapped in brown paper and twine—and then leave me with a bullet between my eyes.

  I need to stay semi-public to avoid that. Close enough to the back lot of Zeus’s that any gunshot would be heard and reported, but far enough away that I won’t be seen.

  “Pass it on and get the hell out of here.” My gaze swings to the red beat-up Honda Civic at the opposite side of the lot and my chest aches.

  Trix is here.

  I’m tempted to duck inside and watch her dance from a back corner where she won’t notice. After the way I stormed off last night, I can’t imagine she’s interested in seeing me. But as much as my draw to be close to her pulls me in, the reluctance of being witness to her stripping holds me back. The memory of her dancing in that hotel suite is enough to make my blood boil and my fists clench. She seemed to enjoy what she was doing, and I have to wonder how she can possibly draw the line between where her job ends and real physical arousal begins.

  The low growl of motorcycle engines pulls me from my thoughts, and I watch as a small fleet of bikers pulls up to the alley. I recognize all four of them from the other night, the bigger one standing out like a bad omen.

  Kicking out their stands, they lean the bikes and dismount then linger, lighting cigarettes and settling in.

  Fuck. Here we go.

  Eager to get this shit over with and go the hell home, I grab the stupid package and shove it under my arm. With long strides, I head toward them and the bikers notice me right away, stilling conversation and all turning to face me.

  I don’t hesitate in my approach, and the big fucker I dealt with last week steps forward.

  “I didn’t think you’d pull through.” His voice is gravelly and low, jagged in a way that speaks of hard living.

  “You didn’t give me much of a choice.” I hold out the package and he takes it.

  He doesn’t even glance at it, but passes it back to one of his brothers, keeping his eye on me. “Was kinda looking forward to bloodying that pretty-boy face of yours.”

  My fingers itch to ball into fists, but leaving this parting peacefully is in the best interest of all involved. “You’re a man of your word; you back off me and Drake.” It’s a statement of fact, a promise that I need to hear him confirm.

  The biker grins wide, whiskered lips curling back over the yellowed teeth of a chain smoker. “You tell your boy if he crosses us again he won’t live to talk about it.”

  The guy’s eyes dart over my shoulder an instant before I hear the low rumble of male voices behind me. I turn to see a group of guys I instantly recognize just as the roar of motorcycle engines fire to life.

  “Mase?” Wade says, his gaze moving between me and the retreating bikers as they mount their bikes to take off down the street.

  Dammit, fuck! I dip my chin, hoping to sidestep into the shadows.

  He shoves my shoulder. “What the hell are you doing here, man?” There’s humor in his voice, but when I turn to face him, his expression grows hard as he takes in the motorcycle taillights. “Those your friends?”

  I notice Wade is with a few of the newer fighters, some guys who’ve just joined our camp and are clearly being given the hot-spots-in-Vegas tour.

  “No.” The urge to get out of here is so strong my legs cramp with the desire to move. “They were asking for directions.”

  He nods. “Oh, well then, come with us. I was just taking the boys here to check out all Vegas has to offer.” He grabs the back of my neck and motions for me to join him.

  “No, thanks.” I motion to my truck and act casual. “I was just headed out.”

  He’s back to glaring at me with suspicion. “You were already inside?”

  Shit!

  “Yeah, but uh—”

  “Come on, Baywatch.” Pauly, one of the new guys, smacks me on the shoulder. “One drink!”

  It’s easier to just have a damn drink than to figure out a way out of this that won’t get my ass teased for weeks. “Sure. Okay.” I shove Pauly—“It’s Mason or Mayhem to you, asshole”—and reluctantly follow, thankful that Wade hadn’t shown up two minutes earlier and seen me hand off at least ten pounds of drugs. I’ll pop in with them and then disappear as soon as I can.

  Santos, working security at the back door, recognizes me and holds the door open for us, and we shuffle into a dark hallway. I feel the huge bouncer’s eyes on me as I pass, his glare burning into my head. Clearly this guy is protective of Trix. Threat received.

  Techno music gets louder as we move down the corridor and get spit out into the main club. It takes a second for my eyes to adjust to the contrast of dark and day-glow as we shuffle through the room to a vacant table in the back. Thankfully, it’s busy enough that we’ve avoided being right up against the main stage. This might keep Trix from seeing me, and I could still get away with slipping out of here unnoticed.

  We order drinks from a slutty-looking cheerleader and watch as a few dancers I’ve never seen before swivel their hips in nothing but a thin string tied between their legs. Judging by their lack of clothing, I’d say we’re catching the end of their dance.

  “Tomorrow Cam’s going to talk to you guys about training partners . . .”

  Wade’s involved in U
FL Training 101, so I tune him out and scan the room, looking for the flash of platinum and purple, and coming up short. That means she’s backstage or in a private room. My skin prickles with irritation, and I’m tempted to throw open the doors and bust open skulls.

  I shift on my barstool and try to shake off my severe mental discomfort. Fresh off a drug deal, I’m hopped up on adrenaline and what-the-fuck. I breathe through a mix of relief and jumpiness. Don’t go kicking the ass of someone who doesn’t deserve it. After all, this is a legitimate job. Trix’s job. It’s her fucking job! I fist my hair and ready to make my hasty exit when our drinks arrive.

  “Here’s to a successful fighting year, boys.” Wade holds up his beer and clanks bottles with the newbies, but I avoid the cheery “hear, hear” and slug back a good half the bottle.

  “Gentleman, have we got a treat for you tonight!” The announcer’s voice grates on my nerves, ratcheting my agitation. “You got wood? Because we’ve got a girl who’s ready to grind on that. Put your hands together for the sugary-sweet and sultry—”

  Oh, fuck no . . .

  “Trix!”

  Motherfucker! I slam down my beer bottle as the room goes dark. Rippling blue lights flash on the stage, and the sound of crashing waves trickle from the speakers. The crowd roars and yells at a blank stage. The music builds, waves mixing with some Indian snake charmer music, sexy and seductive. My heart pounds in my chest, and I’m transfixed on what I know is going to be a scene that will destroy me as much as turn me the fuck on.

  A soft sultry voice singing about drinking drips through the speakers. Bright lights flash.

  And she appears. Bare feet, bikini, and board shorts. No fucking way.

  I suck in a quick breath and hold it, spellbound by the way she looks combined with the slow roll of her hips. Hypnotizing. The bass drops, but the tempo stays slow, lazy. Like love-making.

  “Holy shit, it’s her!” Wade shoves my shoulder, but I’m locked on the beautiful woman on stage, unable to rip my eyes from the vision before me.