The Final Fight (Fighting Series Book 8)

by J. B. Salsbury

  “No, I mean . . .” I pop the tops of four beer bottles then place them on the service bar before leaning in to the man. “Why don’t you just ask if I’ll have sex with you?”

  His eyes grow wide, and right when I think he’s going to fumble his way through a long explanation about how his intentions are completely honorable, he shocks me by laughing. And not just any laugh, but a full-blown guttural belly laugh.

  Okay. Not what I expected.

  “AJ, that is most certainly not my intention—”

  Ah-ha! The denial—

  “But when you eventually jump me and beg for it, I won’t turn you down.”

  “Oh my God!”

  His eyes grow wide. “I’m kidding!”

  It shocks the crap out of me, but I’m smiling and laughing. What is it with this guy? “I honestly don’t think you are.”

  “Try me.”

  “No.”

  He scowls, but he’s still smiling. “Why not?”

  Because he’s probably right. Because sex with a hot guy is not my priority. Because I don’t want to be another good time he had in Vegas. Because I don’t have time for the complications that men bring to a woman’s life.

  “I’ll tell you what. I’ll give you my phone number if you can correctly guess my shoe size.” Because men like him never see anything below a woman’s ass.

  He runs his teeth along his lower lip, but not in an overly sexy way, more like he’s trying to figure out how to respond.

  “Can I get a drink?”

  I look at the older man waving a fifty-dollar bill in my direction. “Sure.”

  Taking his order and mixing his drinks, I’m all too aware of the hulking man still standing at the bar, watching me with hawk-like precision. I drop the ice scoop and spill whiskey before I finally finish and make it back to him.

  “Seven.”

  My jaw falls open. How in the hell did he know that? And he can’t even see my feet. “How did you—?”

  “Take this.” He slides a cocktail napkin with a phone number on it toward me. “I’ll talk to you later.”

  “What makes you think I’ll use it?”

  His cocky smile says he knows I’ll use the number.

  It’s the same cocky smile that makes me think he’s probably right.

  With nothing more than a lift of his chin, he backs away and disappears into the crowd.

  “How in the hell did he guess that?” I whisper to myself.

  Two hands clamp my shoulders from behind, making me jump and bringing me back from my internal questioning. I look up to see Enrique.

  “I owe you, woman.”

  “No, you don’t. I appreciated the hours.” I grab my phone and my bag from the cupboard under the register. “Bruce, you guys good?”

  He tosses a bottle Cocktail-style and grins. “Yeah! Now get out of here.”

  “Break a leg, Texas!” Enrique already has a line of glasses in front of him.

  “Thanks!”

  I duck under the service bar, slide my backpack on, and speed walk to the other side of the casino toward the amphitheater.

  It isn’t until I get there that I realize I have the wadded-up napkin with Braeden’s number held firmly in my hand.

  ~*~

  Braeden

  I had to pat myself on the back for taking the plunge and getting a more expensive ticket.

  I’m only a dozen rows back from the stage, more off-center than I’d like, but close enough that I’ll be able to see AJ with a decent amount of clarity.

  I grabbed a beer before taking my seat, but it’s doing jack shit to calm my nerves. I haven’t been this excited to see a woman again in a long time, and I’ve never met a woman who’s a performer, and in Las Vegas no less. That’s no small-time shit.

  Today, when I saw her at the bar, I caught a hint of a southern accent after asking for her number. I knew it was a mistake that it slipped out as if she forgot to hide it. She drew out her vowels, and her eyes grew even bigger than they already were, giving her away.

  It was cute as shit.

  The lights flash and then dim. A grin I can’t hold back hits my face. The cast comes out in various costumes, a story being told through aerial stunts and some circus-type shit, but I’m focused on every face, searching out one in particular. Some are painted, which makes it hard to tell, and having not seen her body in anything but baggy clothes or her button-up tuxedo shirt, tie, and vest from behind the bar today, I can’t tell which of these women twirling through the air is her.

  Holy shit, these people are flexible!

  They’re folding their bodies in half, hanging from the ceiling held up by nothing but strips of fabric; this kind of crap isn’t for the faint of heart.

  I forget to search for her and get sucked into the story as it unravels. An innocent fairy, who gets lost in a seductive world of dance and pulsing music, gives into her innermost desires and finds herself in an undulating mass of bodies and touch. Fucking hell, this is erotic as shit, and I feel the stir of blood rushing between my legs.

  Right when things really heat up, the lights come on for a twenty-minute intermission.

  I groan and shift in my seat to give my dick some breathing room. My beer is empty and I have to piss, so I flood my mind with images of The Crucible course from boot camp. It starts to work when my phone vibrates against my thigh. The sensation just inches from my dick has me forcing my mind back to the Weaver Obstacle as I fish it from my pocket to see a new text.

  How did you know I wear a size seven?

  If that isn’t a shot straight to my groin . . . no amount of creative thinking can help me now.

  Do I know you?

  Her typing bubble pops up instantly, and I love that she wasn’t thrown off by my response.

  You mean I’m not the only woman with size seven feet that you gave your number to?

  I shift in my seat, my pants growing uncomfortably tighter.

  Would you be jealous if I dick?

  “Oh shit!”

  DID. Not dick.

  LOL!!! Sure.

  That was a typo. I don’t talk about my dick with women unless they ask nicely.

  She doesn’t text back, and after a few minutes, the lights of the amphitheater start to flash for people to take their seats.

  I punch out a quick text then shove my phone back into my pocket, grinning like the stalking pervo I am.

  ~*~

  AJ

  “Oh my gosh.” My heart flutters wildly in my chest.

  I study the text again, sure I misread.

  Gotta run. Intermission is over. Break a leg. Can’t wait to see the second half.

  The second half . . . he’s here?

  I shove my phone into my backpack when I hear the orchestra begin. Following the rest of the cast, I slide into position.

  Don’t read too much into this, AJ. He could’ve already had the ticket before tonight, but then why didn’t he say anything?

  And why in the hell does having him here make it feel like my first night on stage? I suppose it’s the fact that I’ve never had anyone I know pay money to come see me perform. No one in my family can afford to come to Vegas let alone the hundred-plus bucks they charge per ticket. I’ve heard they offer friends and family a discount, but even that would be too expensive for anyone back home to make a trip out. And for what? To see me as a back-up tumbler?

  So, AJ, I hear you’re performing in a big Las Vegas show. Who do you play?

  Tumbler number 23.

  I groan and shake out my legs, stretching and running in place to get the blood circulating because it’s all suddenly seemed to flood my face.

  “Don’t let it get to your head. Do not let it get to your head,” I whisper-chant the words over and over until I hear my cue to go on stage.

  With a nod to the three other performers, we take a collective breath and move into the blinding lights.

  And even though I can’t see a single face in the crowd, I swear I can feel his eyes o
n me.

  Three

  Braeden

  “Is there something I can help you with?” The big bearded guy wearing a suit and an ear com who has been eyeing me for the last half hour finally speaks up.

  “Nah, man, I’m good.” I motion to the double doors that lead backstage and shove my left hand deeper into the pocket of my jeans. “Just waiting for my wife.”

  “She a performer?”

  “Yeah.”

  He checks his watch and then resumes his protective stance. “Shouldn’t be long now.”

  “Great.” I lean on the opposite wall, hell bent on waiting however long it takes because, after I finally picked AJ out of the literal circus of performers, I was stupefied. I’ve never seen a person move like that before. It was like she was floating on air half the time, and some of the flips and shit she pulled off were just shy of miraculous.

  She didn’t even have a big part in the show, but when she was on stage, she stole it.

  The doors behind bearded guy swing open, and a cluster of people come out: a couple of dudes so tiny I could carry one in each arm, and a threesome of girls all talking about grabbing a bite to eat.

  I wonder briefly if AJ might be hungry.

  I wonder if she managed to eat after her bar shift.

  I wonder how she could work on her feet behind a bar all day and then pull off the kind of physical stamina she did tonight.

  The door swings open again, and another group of performers files out, still no AJ. I start to think maybe she went out a different exit when the door cracks open and she pushes through alone.

  Her eyes land on me and she stumbles a bit. “Braeden? What are you—?”

  “Honey!” I hold my arms out wide and cross to her, folding them around her tiny but—whoa! —very firm little body. “What a great show! I don’t ever think I’ll get used to seeing my wife perform.”

  “Your wife?”

  “Shhh.” I put my mouth close to her ear, and the sweet scent of her skin makes me want to dart my tongue out for a taste. “Just go with it.” I pull back before I make a total fool out of myself by burying my nose in her hair. “Are you hungry, my little love muffin?”

  Her quick laugh makes a snorting sound. “You know I’m always hungry after a show, pookie bear.”

  I link my hand in hers and drag her away before bearded dude realizes neither of us is wearing a wedding ring. “I have the perfect place, shnookems.”

  Her feet move quickly in Adidas, and I’m grateful that, although she’s sporting similar leggings to what she had on last night, tonight she has on a form-fitting tank top, and damn, just like her costume from the show, it’s leaving very little to the imagination.

  “Wait.”

  “Huh?” Just thinking about her body and the way she can move it is distracting.

  She freezes as we approach the main casino and pulls back on my hand. “I’m parked in employee parking.” She motions behind her with a jerk of her head.

  “Muffin, I’m not taking you to your car. I’m taking you the hell out of this place so I can feed you.” And I want to get you alone, somewhere quiet, so I can hear you talk.

  “We’re far away from Pete’s ears; you can cut it with the endearments.”

  I stop and look down at her, her big hazel eyes giving away a little insecurity. “Those weren’t only for his benefit.”

  “Why did you tell him we were married?”

  “Because if I’d told him the truth, he would’ve banned me from the hotel.”

  She steps closer, so close it’s making our size difference painfully obvious. She can’t be taller than five and a half feet. “And what is the truth?” Her left eye squints in a humorously curious kind of way.

  “The truth is that I bumped into a woman at the bar last night that I decided I wanted to know better. Golfing was out of the question, so . . .” I shrug. “I showed up at her work, uninvited, gave her my number, showed up at her next job, and then waited for forty-five minutes, staring at a door just to catch a glimpse of her and hopefully a chance to talk to her again.”

  She sucks in a deep breath as if it’s the first one she’d taken since I started talking. “That’s all very sweet, but I can’t go anywhere with you. I don’t even know you.”

  I nod and consider her concern. As annoying as it is to prove to her that I’m not some psycho—well fuck. That’s exactly what I am.

  “I’m not out to peel you and make a dress out of your skin.” But I respect her for knowing how to take care of herself. With a quick snap of my wrist, I pull out my wallet and my Marine Corps-issued ID. “My name is Braeden Matthew Daniels.” She takes the card and stares down at it. “I’m twenty-five years old, live on base at Camp Pendleton, and my brother and his family live here in Vegas, so I come to visit often.” I nod to the ID. “Take a photo of it and text it to a friend.”

  “You don’t have to do this.”

  I push back her hand offering the ID. “I refuse to take that back until you do it.”

  She takes a photo, but doesn’t send it. “Okay, I’m good.”

  “Why won’t you send it?”

  “Because the only people I could send it to would just worry, and I don’t think you’re going to . . . what did you say? Peel me and make a dress out of my skin?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Right. I don’t think you’re going to do that, so . . . what’s for dinner?”

  ~*~

  AJ

  I cannot believe I agreed to go on a date with this guy.

  After everything he said, I’m not sure if I should be flattered or scared.

  When I walked out and saw him leaning against the wall, ankles crossed, one hand in his pocket as if that big body was nothing more than a place to store all that confidence, I got excited. I was happy to see him! What is wrong with me?

  Maybe it’s because he’s got the kind of face you would trust immediately, that All-American smile that makes a woman envision her future babies with him. He could get any woman he wanted with a simple wink. Why would he work so hard for me?

  Everything about this guy screams broken heart, and yet I’m too curious to turn him away.

  He hands the hotel’s valet guy a ticket and turns toward me. “Okay, so I’m dying to know where you learned all the shit I saw you do tonight.”

  As stoked as I’ve been to get this job, it’s a lot lower on the performing totem pole than I wanted, and I’m a little embarrassed I didn’t land a better role. “I like gymnastics.”

  He rubs his jaw, and I can tell he’s fighting a smile. Come to think if it, every time we talk he’s on the verge of smiling. “I can see why. You’re incredible.”

  I hike my backpack up higher on my shoulder. “Are you sure you were watching me? My role in the show is pretty minor.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure.” He kicks the toe of my shoe with his . . .

  “Adidas too?” But whereas mine are the white with green stripes, his are the classic white with black.

  “You have great taste in shoes.”

  “You never did tell me how you knew what size shoe I wear.”

  He wets his lips, and I have to look away as the action warms my cheeks for some ridiculous reason. “Can’t tell you that. It’s classified.”

  “So, what, if you tell me, you’d have to kill me?”

  “Naw, nothing like that, just . . .” He leans in and whispers. “I can’t give away my best moves . . . yet.”

  A dark gray hot rod pulls his head up and gets his attention. Thank God because a few more seconds of him whispering and I’d have been reduced to a quivering mess.

  Braeden moves to the passenger side door of the beast as the engine gurgles out a low growl, and he opens it, motioning for me to get in. “M’lady?”

  A second of hesitation cements my feet to the floor. “Where are we going again?”

  “The Dirty Drummer off Fiesta. They have the best pulled-pork sandwich; you’re gonna love it.” He squints. “Wai
t. You don’t have something against barbeque, do you? Because, if so, there’s no future for us and we should end this now.”

  I grin and shake my head. “I love barbeque.”

  “Alright then, woman, get your ass in the car and let me feed you.”

  Clutching my phone in my palm, I slide onto the sleek leather seat, and after he closes me in, I reach over to fasten my seatbelt. He tips the valet and pats the guy on the shoulder, saying something that makes the attendant smile.

  Either Braeden is a genuinely nice guy, or he’s the world’s best con artist.

  The sound of his denim-covered ass hitting the leather seat and a click of his seatbelt later, we’re pulling out of the Kairos Hotel and Casino onto Las Vegas Boulevard.

  “This is a great car.”

  He rolls his window down, leans back, and pops his elbow out. “Thank you. She’s been good to me.”

  I trace circles on my phone screen. “So, you’re a Marine.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Fourth generation Daniels to serve our great country.”

  “Have you seen a lot of war then?”

  He sucks on the inside of his mouth for a second. “I’ve been on two deployments: one for six months, another for eleven.”

  “That’s a long time. I’m sorry, but . . . that sounds awful.”

  “It’s my job. Uncle Sam says I go, I go. I don’t mind. Makes me feel useful.” He puts on his blinker and stops behind a cab at a red light. “What about you? I know you’re not from Vegas.”

  “And how would you know that? Oh, let me guess, is it like the shoe-size thing?”

  “No.” The light turns green, and his eyes are back on the road. “It’s the accent thing.”

  “I do not have an accent!”

  “You do when you’re not actively trying to hide it.”

  “That’s not true. And I don’t try to hide anything.”

  “We’ll see.”

  I can’t look over at him out of fear that he’ll see my lack of confidence, but I can hear the smile in his words.

  The lights fly by, and I’m like a kid at Disneyland with my face pressed to the window. No matter how many times I see them, they have yet to lose their appeal.

  It isn’t until we turn off on a side street and then another that the lights are lost behind the big buildings, and I settle back in my seat and face forward.