Revealed: A Hype PR and Eye Candy Bookstore Anthology

by Bethany Lopez

  The huge workout room is covered in floor to ceiling mirrors and has an abundance of shiny new cardio and weight machines. There's even a red speed bag in the corner, hanging from a black platform that's screwed into a long piece of wood. It's the only area of the wall that isn't covered with a mirror. When I entered the room less than an hour ago, the speed bag was the first thing that caught my attention.

  Now, as I'm five minutes from starting my cool down, the red leather bag is my addiction, summoning me to let some aggression out on it. I crave it. I long to feel the stitches of the bag against my fist and the sound of the pulley as the bag sways back and forth.

  I increase my speed to a full out sprint as I approach the end of my run. My heart rate increases as my speed accelerates. My airways tighten and I begin to pant as I try to catch my breath. I'm pushing my body to the brink and I love every minute of it.

  Just as I finish my sprint and the treadmill automatically moves to a five minute cool down, the door to the workout room opens and my evening of blissful solitude is over. I don't look to see who’s come in, instead focusing on steadying my breathing as my run turns to a light jog and then a brisk walk. I have just seconds left on my cool down when my attention is pulled to the person on the treadmill beside me.

  Annoyed because this jerk had seven other treadmills to choose from but chose the one next to me, I look up at the culprit invading my personal bubble and practically trip over my own feet. Large muscular quads covered in loose gray sweatpants move back and forth as the man next to me increases his starting speed and begins to jog. My eyes trail up to the band of his sweatpants that lie low on his hips, flaunting a perfectly defined V leading down to an impressive bulge–and he's not even hard. He's shirtless and my gaze shifts to the ripples of his abs, his chiseled arms, and his rock hard chest. His skin glistens with perspiration. His strong, sexy neck leads up to the most flawless face I've ever laid eyes on. I feel my skin over heat as recognition clicks in my brain.

  I know him.

  It's hard not to recognize Jase Rudy when his face is plastered all over Sports Center as the number one boxer in the world. A poster of him hangs inside my dad's office with a Sharpie target drawn over his face. There's also a specially made heavy bag with Jase's face printed on the canvas that hangs from the ceiling of my dad's boxing gym. My dad's best boxer, Rodrigo Manuel, has punched and beaten the bag so badly that now Jase's face is almost unrecognizable. His dark blond hair and mesmerizing green eyes roughed up from Rodrigo's repetitive fists.

  But all of the images and footage I've seen of him in pristine condition don't do him justice. His blond hair is shaved close to the scalp on the sides and back of his head, but up top his hair is long and knotted in a man bun. His complexion is clear, his strong cheekbones and long eyelashes softening up his rough features. If it weren’t for his eyes, which suck me in even from the side, I'd be terrified of this ginormous man. We're alone, late at night, and I know it would take little effort on his part to harm me.

  Jase is nothing to be worried about though. His eyes have a vulnerability to them that's hard to explain. I've noticed it before in interviews, and it's even more apparent in person. I know without even talking to him that he has a soft side that he tries to hide from the world.

  I can't believe Jase Rudy is running next to me on the eve of the biggest fight of the year!

  There are no bodyguards around him–no manager breathing down his neck or coach giving him commands in the gym. He's somehow managed to sneak away from his guards to get a few minutes alone–a task Rodrigo has tried to achieve over the years with my father, but my father is always one step ahead of him. Rodrigo never gets a free moment before a fight. He's probably locked in his room right now with security guards outside the door.

  Security is a requirement in this business. A lot of money is on the line, not only for the winner of the fight but also for the millions who bet on the outcome. People are willing to do a lot of things for a little bit of money. Rodrigo's had three kidnapping attempts just this year.

  I wonder if Jase has had the same problem.

  As I stare at him on the treadmill next to me it doesn't even resonate that my time is up and I've stopped walking. Unfortunately, Jase notices. He turns his head in my direction and tilts it to the side, shooting me a sexy grin. He knows I've been checking him out and when I lower my head, embarrassed at getting caught practically drooling over him, he winks at me.

  Great! He thinks this is funny.

  Hopping off the treadmill I head over to the speed bag, happy to put some distance between us. I didn't bring my boxing gloves down with me but hitting the bag with uncovered hands is fine, too.

  Facing the bag I start my assault, tightening my hands in loose fists and then hitting the bag with the side of my right hand. I watch the swivel of the bag as it moves back, then forward, and then back again, and then I hit it again with my right hand as my fist works a small circle between each hit. I create a nice rhythm, each hit coming faster and faster. After I've worked the bag for a while with my right, I switch to my left and use the same motion, matching the rhythm I was using with my right.

  Another couple minutes pass and then I alternate hands with each hit, enjoying the way my fist collides with the bag. My arms grow tired but I continue with each attacking punch. My long brown hair sways back and forth in my ponytail as I work myself to exhaustion–sweat glistening across my forehead and trickling down the center of my breasts.

  "For such a small girl, I'm impressed. You're good."

  The sound of his voice stuns me and I jump a little before regaining control of my body. His low and raspy tone sounds far too intimate for a casual comment like that. He should do voiceover work for audio books. Women would listen to his narration just to masturbate to his voice.

  It's not until he speaks that I realize Jase is no longer running on the treadmill but instead standing behind me on the blue mat. He's been watching me destroy the bag and I was too focused to even notice him.

  Turning my head slightly toward him I reply, "For such a great fighter, I'm disappointed. I know you're aware there are women who can throw a mean punch or two." I wink at him playfully. My response is the verbal version of hitting below the belt but the news of his ex-girlfriend's assault on him a few months ago was all over the tabloids. I don't like being called small. It feels like he just gave me a backhanded compliment so I'm going to hit back twice as hard and refer to him getting bitch-slapped by a woman.

  "My favorite headline had to be, 'Jase Rudy's Ex-girlfriend Punches Through his Over-inflated Ego.' Whoever wrote that headline deserved a raise. Is it hard knowing millions of people have seen you get beat up by a girl?"

  He tenses beside me and I can tell I've struck a nerve.

  Instead of waiting for a defensive response, I turn back and focus on the speed bag. I continue to switch up my hits, right-left, left-right, right-right-left, left-right-left. Each new pattern unplanned. Each hit faster than the last.

  He's suddenly pressed against my back. His chest is touching my shoulders and his hands fall to my hips. "I'm always hard," he whispers roughly and I can physically feel each word enter my ears, travel through my body, and make a nice, warm home in my womb.

  I love that he's having this effect on me.

  I hate that he's having this effect on me.

  I start to move out of his hold when his grip tightens on my hips. "Keep your body steady and only move your arms. You're good at hitting a bag, but your form needs some work. The only time you should move the rest of your body is if you're hitting a heavy bag."

  He's giving me sound advice, but I can't concentrate on my form when his body is pressed up against me like this. All I can concentrate on are the kinky thoughts running through my head and I want him to pacify each one with his body.

  God, it's been so long since I've had sex.

  I turn around to face him and his hands drop from the curve of my waist. I instantly miss the connection. I
gnoring the ridiculous way I already crave his touch, I rest my hands on my hips and argue, "I know what I'm doing. I've been hitting a speed bag for years."

  He laughs while wiping a single drop of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "Some people would say I know what I'm doing a little better than you, Rocky."

  "Rocky?" I ask and then add, "Real original. It's not every day an overrated boxer references the most famous boxing movie of all time, Jase."

  "It's flattering that you know who I am," he replies cockily. I want to wipe that annoyingly beautiful smirk off his face.

  "It's pretty hard not to recognize you when your face is splashed all over this hotel, pretty boy."

  Crossing his arms over his bare chest, Jase ignores my pretty boy dig and asks, "Are you a fan of mine?"

  I hesitate before answering truthfully, "You could say that." It's hard not to be a fan of Jase Rudy when he's close to flawless in his fights. I'm usually not vocal about my admiration because my father would kill me if he found out. To him, Jase is the devil reincarnated.

  "Have you ever had proper training? You're tiny but I bet you'd be unbeatable with the right coach." His observation is genuine and I smile at what I think is a compliment.

  "I only hit the bag to release stress. I have no desire to be a professional, but I've had some professional training."

  "Oh yeah? Who was your coach?"

  Shit. I don't want our easy banter to go away. This unexplainable draw I have toward him will be broken. He'll no longer look at me like the cute girl giving the speed bag an unfair fight, but the daughter of the man who trains his enemy. The man he plans on defeating tomorrow.

  The thought of risking all of this sucks but I have to tell him the truth about who I am. "John Christen."

  He takes a step back, squinting skeptically before responding, "No shit..." he trails off, shock written all over his face. “John Christen was your coach?"

  "Coach and father. The two can be easily interchanged."

  I look down to avoid seeing his disgust at John Christen being my father. Sure, he probably respects the hell out of the man, but my father is still his competition's coach.

  We're quiet for several seconds and the silence is uncomfortable. I've never been one of those women who waits patiently between gaps of flowing conversation. Awkward silence is so uncomfortable for me that I normally just spit out the first thing on my mind and hope whatever I say goes over well. Like right now I want to talk about the new Magic Mike show coming to the strip, Britney's residency coming to an end, or how I blew three hundred dollars in less than an hour on the slots last night. Instead, I bite down on my tongue so I don't fill the silence with word vomit.

  When Jase clears his throat, I slowly lift my head until my brown eyes meet his gorgeous green ones.

  He grins at me mischievously. "So you're Riley Christen. You're the daughter I've heard so much about. A few of the guys on my coaching team can't shut up about you. Now I know why."

  Oh, thank God he's not upset. Actually, he seems intrigued.

  "Are you flirting with me, Jase?"

  "If you have to ask then I'm doing it all wrong."

  He has no idea what he's doing to me. The way his eyes smolder at me while each word rolls off his tongue has me suppressing a groan as I bite down on my lower lip before he notices it quivering. I just know my cheeks are bright red right now.

  My hair is up in a ponytail and my right hand plays with the long strands as I quickly come up with a way to change the subject. "Are you ready for the fight tomorrow? A lot of money is up for grabs."

  He replies confidently, "Please, I could win tomorrow's fight in my sleep with both hands tied behind my back. I'm more worried about tonight." He wiggles his eyebrow suggestively and it makes me curious.

  What could he be worried about tonight, other than not getting a good night's rest before tomorrow's fight? Maybe his worry has to do with me. Maybe it's sexual. A lot of boxers need a release the night before a fight and a few rounds in the bedroom is the most pleasurable way to get out some pent up aggression. I've never slept with someone I just met before, but because I've followed his career I feel like I've known Jase for years.

  I should let him know I'm interested, forget my inhibitions, and have a night of fun, dirty sex with him. There's a little mystery behind those green eyes and I have no doubt he's an animal in the sack. My legs are shaved, my bits are waxed, and even though I've just had a sweaty workout, I'm wearing lace panties underneath these running shorts.

  I'm ready for some action.

  Taking a step closer to Jase, I lean in and get a whiff of his musky cologne mixed with his sweat. He smells unbelievably good. My hormones are racing. I guess it's a smell only a gym rat like me can really appreciate.

  "What's tonight?" I ask invitingly as I flutter my eyelashes up at him.

  "You don't know?" he asks cryptically.

  "No, but I like a little mystery. If you're wondering if I'll want to join you, the answer is yes." I feel like such a hussy right now but Jase is unleashing something unfamiliar inside me and I have to have him tonight.

  He takes a step closer to me–his chest resting just under my chin. He leans down until his eyes are level with mine and then continues to inch in closer until his mouth brushes against my parted lips.

  I let out a faint sigh, waiting for him to kiss me full on, but he pulls away quickly and smirks. "Go get changed and meet me in the lobby in ten minutes. I'm going to show you a fight you'll never forget."

  Chapter Two

  We pull down a dark road, several miles outside the Vegas strip. There's not much out here except desert sand and a few large industrial buildings. Inside Jase's rental car it's dark. The music is streaming softly from the speakers and the only light is coming from the dashboard.

  There isn't a lot of space in the two-door car, causing my bare arm to frequently brush up against him. I've changed into a basic black dress with flats. Jase's delicious scent fills the air and I have to close my eyes and take deep breaths to calm down my libido. I keep picturing him naked and sweaty after winning his fight against Rodrigo tomorrow night, yanking me from the stands and into the nearest room, and fucking me until I forget my own name.

  We pull up to a one-story rundown building. The headlights light up the gravel parking lot as we turn in and Jase parks next to a Jeep. He's out of the car faster than a superhero and then my passenger door is being opened and Jase is reaching for my hand. He gently helps me out of the car and we walk together towards what looks like an abandoned building–my hand still clasped in his.

  "Where are you taking me?" I whisper, holding his hand a little tighter as we walk in the dark.

  "There's no reason to be scared. I've got you," he replies reassuringly.

  "I'm not scared. I'm just wondering what you have planned for us tonight."

  "Sure you're not, Rocky. Just be cool and I'll explain once we're inside." It's not an answer but at least he's promised to explain.

  We approach the side of the building. When we're just a few feet from the heavy steel door, a large man–well over six feet with huge, bulky muscles–steps into the single flickering light hanging over the entry.

  The brooding man doesn't say anything as his eyes roam over my body. He licks his lips, making me feel violated somehow, but then he's done undressing me with his eyes when he nods his chin in Jase's direction. "What's the code?"

  Jase squeezes my hand before answering, "Frazier may weather the storm of Sugar Ray and Cassius Clay."

  It takes me a moment to put together that Jase has just mentioned four professional boxers in a carefully worded sentence. It's some kind of secret code.

  The man doesn't respond as he steps out of our way and bangs his fist against the steel door three times. The door swings opens from the inside and another, much smaller man, stands against the inside of the door and ushers us in.

  The level of noise inside the building is louder than anything I've ever
experienced before. I'm surprised we didn't hear any of it outside. Heavy metal blended with rap is traveling down the dark hallway, and it's mixed with the sound of hundreds of voices. I can't even hear myself think as we continue to walk down the hall.

  The noise is unbearable. I turn my head toward Jase and shout, "What the hell is going on?"

  "I'm about to show you what a real fight looks like," he yells back. "Down here it's much different than those carefully choreographed fights you've been watching your entire life."

  We pass several closed doors before Jase pushes me through the last door on the left, which also happens to be the only open door. He shuts the door behind us and it instantly masks some of the noise so I can finally hear my own thoughts.

  These doors must be sound proof or something.

  Jase grabs my hands in his and finally explains, "I have a fight in five minutes."

  "You're fighting two nights in a row? How come I didn't hear about this fight before tonight? This should have made headline news."

  "I don't expect you to know about these non-sanctioned underground fights, Riley. Your dad has always been a straight-laced boxer and coach. I doubt Rodrigo Manuel even knows about this world. It's not for fighters like him, but it is for fighters like me.

  "I thrive in this environment. I respect my competitors because these fights are fought with heart and integrity. There are no sponsor deals waiting for us after a fight and no press ready to bombard us with questions at the end. I fight here because I love the sport, and so do the other men in the ring. There are no rules down here. The law is written on our fists.

  "Tomorrow's fight will be exciting. I'll win and make enough money to live comfortably for a long time, but tomorrow is not the kind of fight that gets my blood boiling. I fight down here because I love it and I keep coming back because it's the only authentic part of my career."