The Brawler: The End Game Series (Book 3)

by Piper Westbrook

  Their time together had been nice. But short-lived. Now he was in Reno and she was in Las Vegas mooning over a man who wasn’t good for her. “And I don’t even have doughnuts.”

  “Doughnuts?” Waverly asked.

  Oops. “Just thinking about breakfast.”

  “You brought doughnuts to the gym but didn’t eat any?”

  “Pax swiped all twelve of them. Jackson wasn’t there anyway. Okay, what are you laughing at?”

  “Don’t know why,” her sister said between giggles, “but this reminds me of something you did when you were…seven? No, eight, because it was my graduation party.”

  What would Christmas be without an embarrassing remember-when story?

  “It was a scorcher. You piled five scoops of ice cream on one freaking cone and searched the entire estate for Jackson because you wanted to give it to him yourself.”

  The ice cream had dripped everywhere and she’d been sentenced to the indoors for the rest of the day. It’d been mortifying and so not funny.

  “It was adorable, the crush you had on…” Waverly’s laughter died and her face paled. “Oh, Aly. Not Jackson Batiste.”

  “Isn’t that what people told you? ‘Oh, Waverly. Not Jeremiah Tarantino.’ Or what about ‘Oh, Veronica. Not Simon Smith.’”

  “Mom and Dad consider him family. He…he’s like a brother to you.”

  “Get over it. We’re not related.”

  “Not biologically—”

  “Or in any other way.”

  “Then you two are involved? Seriously?”

  “Wow, because bringing a man doughnuts is a certain sign of sex delirium?”

  “Are you having sex with him?”

  “No.” Not at this very moment. “If I were, what difference would it make? You and Jeremiah can joke about scandalized reputations, but for me it’s real and it hurts. You were in porn, and still people don’t obsess over your sex life as they do mine. I’m such a slut, right? So what’s one more man?”

  But Jackson Batiste wasn’t just one more. He was someone she’d known most of her life. He was someone she’d hurt, who’d hurt her in return. He was a man who made her feel safe and beautiful.

  As her mother had said, if something could make her feel beautiful, Aly should make it hers.

  Problem was, they’d both chosen to back away.

  “Get over the crush, before he notices,” Waverly said gently. “Don’t complicate things. Don’t be the girl trying to catch his attention with sweets.”

  “Okay,” she said, because that was easier than the truth. “Want to get something to eat?”

  “I’d love to.”

  “Great. Waffles, please. And I take my eggs scrambled.”

  “Your house, your food, your duty to cook.”

  “I could cook, but that means you’ll have to eat it.”

  No hesitation. “Where do you keep the skillets?”

  Aly skipped ahead of her to the kitchen. “Thought so!”

  “Brat.”

  “Merry Christmas to you, too.”

  * * *

  Tonight was the night to bring out the new toy. Putting his Hennessey Venom GT on the road would be Jackson’s way of celebrating Christmas. No clubs, no strippers, no repeat of last night in Reno.

  Corbin’s idea to turn the city out had been his attempt at apologizing for hooking up with Ciera Byron. But liquor, luxury, and ladies hadn’t made up for a damn thing when Corbin had been too preoccupied getting VIP’d by strippers to actually say sorry.

  Dez had left his wife at home but had returned to Vegas with her name in permanent calligraphy on his biceps. Jackson imagined it’d be New Year’s before she let him back in her bed.

  As for Jackson, he had no apologies, but had last night been a match of Batiste versus Reno, he’d have taken a loss. That it had been a hundred-thousand-dollar night didn’t nick him. He’d eaten, gotten massaged, been entertained on a superficial level. There’d been fans on the street and hecklers in his path, cameras in his face and women’s whispers in his ears.

  There had been pressure. He thrived under pressure. But this morning he’d craved Vegas and left Reno hours ahead of his hungover cousins.

  He’d wanted a break from the lifestyle of Jackson “The Brawler” Batiste, Las Vegas’s king.

  Who decided to call him that anyway?

  No one rode in the Venom with him, only one security vehicle followed, and he felt all right. At least, better than he had trapped in a flashy-ass motorcade in downtown Reno.

  Dressed in a tux, with a bottle of Perrier Jouet and a two-foot-tall peppermint candy cane—an impulse gift he’d bought for Aly—beside him, he drove.

  A formal Christmas dinner was something he’d never experienced as an adult. Depending on his calendar, he could be found training or nightclubbing. Childhood memories showed him images of the Batistes gathered around a table passing trays of turkey slices and biscuits and bowls of potatoes.

  Knowing that anything the Greers hosted was drenched in class and extravagance, he’d anticipated a decent turnout.

  Not dozens of automobiles—and more coming—angled with precision along both sides of the private street. The massive estate, beaded with lights, looked as though the sky had opened up and rained glimmering white-gold. The brightness blazed over the street and touched the swaying waves in the lake.

  Because the Venom was his 1.2-million-dollar new toy, Jackson didn’t want to share. He waited for his personal valet to emerge from the security car and take the Venom’s keys, then he joined the flow of guests entering the house.

  Rarely did tangibles do more than mildly amuse him anymore, but from the harp—paired with a diamond-gowned harpist—set up in the foyer, to the gold place cards in the dining room, to the ballet dancers performing in the ballroom, to the decked-out Christmas tree that looked like something Paul Bunyan could’ve felled, even Jackson couldn’t deny being impressed.

  In the span of twenty-four hours he’d experienced a hundred-thousand-dollar night in Reno and a million-dollar Christmas dinner…and all he cared about right now was giving Aly a candy cane.

  “Shall I take those?” an usher offered.

  Jackson handed him the champagne bottle only and carefully perused the rooms. Political figures, athletes, TV celebrities, musicians, corporate somebodies. They knew his name, shook his hand, commented on his upcoming fight. But none of the faces he scanned belonged to the woman he searched for.

  The peppermint was almost overpoweringly fragrant even through the cellophane. Or had anticipation heightened his senses?

  Casting a glance at the wide spiral staircase that speared the center of the floor, he didn’t see Aly among the people loitering on the stairs.

  They’d drawn the boundary and erasing it would make them liars. Yet he wanted a teasing look, a smart-mouthed remark. A reaction.

  “Glad you could show, Batiste.” J.T. Greer’s large frame carved through a knot of guests. “I saw Pax and his sons come through a half hour ago. They’re being taken care of.”

  “Appreciate it.”

  “Act like family, you get treated like family.” Some referred to J.T. as a titan, but tonight vulnerability could be detected in the set of his deep, angry frown. “A word?”

  Dread leaped through him for a second before he dismissed it. J.T. wouldn’t have found out about Jackson’s familiarity with Aly’s body and waited until Christmas night to kill him. But then again, the Greers did everything in extreme style.

  “A word about?”

  “BC Group. My lawyers are in the study. What are you drinking?”

  “Shots.”

  “Anything?”

  “Yeah, surprise me. It’s a holiday.” As they walked, Jackson tried to focus. What kind of conversation could he hold if he was preoccupied with getting another greedy look at the man’s youngest daughter?

  A server waiting outside the study took the drink order
and returned quickly with a vodka shot, which he knocked back before even settling into a leather chair in the mahogany and indigo room.

  J.T. sat behind his desk. “Batiste, you enjoy a good story, right?” He addressed his lawyers. “Tell him the story.”

  As the men talked, J.T. retrieved antacids from a drawer and washed down a couple on a violent gulp of water.

  Interpreting their legalese, Jackson registered, “The Villains’ previous owner is after lighter consequences, thinks he can get them if he delivers Greer.” He pointed his empty shot glass at J.T. “You know investigators are going to call bullshit on Tarantino’s talk, but that doesn’t eliminate doubt.”

  “And doubt poisoning my army is the last fucking thing I need,” J.T. added, punctuating the statement with a savage swear. “Outside the NFL, there’s a situation with BioCures.”

  Jackson listened to him explain that the energy company’s execs and some shareholders had expressed reservations months ago in light of Luca Tarantino’s initial allegations that J.T. had threatened bodily harm if not allowed to purchase the Las Vegas Villains. Jackson, who liked to stick to the shadows and keep an eye on his most lucrative corporate investment from comfortably afar, hadn’t known the severity of the reservations.

  Essentially, they would flex some corporate muscles to urge him to sell enough of his claim on publicly traded BioCures to relinquish his status as the majority shareholder. Diminishing his presence in the company would strengthen their guard against his family’s scandals.

  “We suspect someone wants in—or wants more—and sees a potential opening should J.T.’s investment be trimmed,” one of the attorneys said.

  “That bullshit’s not happening.” J.T. stood, rested his fists on the desk. “If or when Tarantino’s statement leaks, BC Group is going to apply the pressure. I need your support—”

  “Of course.”

  “—and I need you to be vocal. Involved. Out of the shadows. Consider it?”

  Could he be relied on when it counted? Could he be more than the fighting machine—the bastard—he was born to be?

  “I’ll consider it.”

  The tall wooden door pushed open, and J.T.’s already mean expression turned unrepentantly ugly. “Damn it, knock.”

  “Sorry, Dad.”

  Jackson’s heart staggered, bearing the impact when he saw Aly waltz into the study a few steps ahead of her mother.

  Aly’s ass shone under the metallic gold-green fabric that fondled her slender body as she moved.

  She was all shimmer and curves and long limbs, scarcely contained in a gown held together by strands of jewels.

  A meaningful, appreciative glance passed between the attorneys, and Jackson eyed them coldly.

  Keep staring at her and I’ll crush you fuckers.

  Aly arrived at the desk, set down a shopping bag. “Merry Christmas, Daddy.” She wiggled a sprig of something woven into her shiny, slicked hair.

  Mistletoe. She’d tied mistletoe in her hair.

  “Careful of my makeup,” she warned, offering her cheek for a kiss. To the rest of them, she said, “Excuse me, fellas, but my father insists that I knock, so—” She rapped on his desk obnoxiously.

  “All right. All right.” J.T.’s smile appeared painful, but it was genuine. “Go, men. Enjoy the party.”

  As the attorneys left, accepting drinks from the server waiting at his post, Jackson approached Aly. She stood between her parents now, a treasure dangling out of his reach, a beauty out of his realm.

  “Merry Christmas,” Jackson said to her, presenting the oversize candy cane.

  At the exact moment she ventured forward, suddenly near enough to taste.

  Grab her face, lick into her mouth. Pull her close, drink her moans.

  Rather than do it and have Joan threaten castration or J.T. call him out for a street fight, he laid the cane in her hand and murmured against her hair, “So you won’t steal mine the next time you’re in my ride.”

  A snort of wry laughter or a smartass remark was expected. Not tears.

  “I need to speak with my parents.” Taking the candy, she added in the silkiest whisper, “Tonight, if you want me, Jackson, find me.”

  It was the sexiest proposition he’d ever heard, or the most baffling. Either way, he left the office dazed, hard, and confused.

  Chapter Nine

  Aly stared at the door as it closed, cutting off her view of Jackson. Tonight he was total temptation and if her thoughts alone could determine which list Santa Claus put her on, then she’d just booked a standing reservation on Naughty.

  As for the comically big candy cane he had for her, he should’ve given it to her with a kiss, as was customary should a girl go to the trouble of sticking mistletoe in her hair.

  Had whatever he’d done in Reno last night taken the edge off, as his uncle implied it would? Was the connection she felt really about nothing more than a man and a woman wound too tight and needing a screw?

  “Aly,” Joan said, stepping in front of her in glorious red-carpet worthy perfection, “are you all right? You seem upset.”

  Blinking, prying her stare off the closed door, Aly said, “Absolutely jolly. I’m at the most fabulous party in Vegas.”

  Approvingly, her mother smiled, then said to J.T., “Our youngest says she has business advice regarding the team.”

  And here we go with the patronization. “When we spoke on the phone earlier, you said you’d keep this need-to-know and issue an internal statement if the guys start asking questions. I don’t think that would be most effective.”

  “This decision doesn’t affect your department, Aly,” her father said, dismissing her. Taking Joan’s hand, he started toward the door.

  “J.T. Greer, I’m a member of the Villains unit, I have a voice, and you will fucking listen.”

  Goodbye, salary. Hello, severance pay. Now that she could foresee termination of employment, she instantly missed the stadium, her colleagues, and even her fun-size office in S-Dubs.

  “You, Aly, are a replaceable accessory to the Villains unit,” he said gravely. “Function in the role we gave you.”

  “So stay in my place?”

  “Precisely.” The swell of music, an upbeat rendition of some old Christmas song, infiltrated the room, announcing that the ballroom was now open for dancing.

  “I won’t stay in my place, sir, when you’re too unfocused to see what’s best for business.”

  Joan’s gaze snapped to Aly. “You will not disrespect your father—”

  “Sometimes, Joan, there has to be separation of business and family, even when the family’s part of the business.”

  “Oh, there can be a separation. Starting with a note of gratitude for your contribution to the publicity department and termination of your employment based on your insubordination and flagrant disregard for our franchise’s image.” Joan yanked her hand from J.T.’s grasp. “Then I can list the sacrifices we made to raise you—”

  “No need,” Aly said. “Your unadulterated resentment toward the daughter you didn’t want isn’t exactly a best-kept secret.”

  “It’s not resentment. It could never be. What it is, Aly, is worry.” Joan reached out as if to pat her cheek, but instead touched the mistletoe in her hair. “Wearing this, collecting kisses, looking like an advertisement for sex—this makes you feel beautiful?”

  “Unique. Playful. Funny. I could go on, but at some point it’s just going to turn into boasting.”

  “Antics like this—”

  “Aren’t crimes against propriety. So, if I’m not fired, I’d like to offer a business suggestion.”

  “One-woman mutiny,” her father muttered, rolling his massive shoulders.

  “Persistent, not mutinous,” she countered. “I suggest that the team be made aware once we receive confirmation of what Jeremiah’s father is alleging.”

  “And distract our men, send them into a damn panic going into division
als?”

  “No. It’s to prepare them for media speculation and to get higher performance from each player.”

  Intrigued, J.T. crossed his arms. “Higher performance?”

  “Yes, because this presents a test. It’s motivation. How well each man responds to the noise in his ears will help us gauge his delivery and adaptability, as well as how much respect he has for our leadership and fidelity to our franchise.” Aly hooked the candy cane on her wrist. “Ultimately, Luca Tarantino’s desperation will create a useful evaluation that can be to your advantage—if you choose to see it that way.”

  He scratched his blond-and-gray goatee in consideration.

  “Think about it,” she said. “Now, outside these doors are too many guests who haven’t seen my mistletoe.”

  “Aly,” Joan began.

  “I’ve said what I came to say.” Pointing at the bag on the desk, she added, “There’s a gemstone globe inside. Pick a location, because I’m sending you on an after-play-offs couple’s vacay.”

  “Oh,” her mother said softly.

  “Thought I’d try dipping into my trust fund for something other than beautiful things for myself. And, underneath my antics and tendency to make you worry, I accept that your business and marriage come first.”

  “We took you to task, and a vacation gift still stands?” J.T. asked.

  “The vacation’s a vacation.” Opening the door, Aly also opened the floodgates to a tidal wave of brilliant music. “The gift is understanding. Should you run out of gift ideas, that’s on my wish list.”

  So was a Bugatti, but understanding mattered more.

  * * *

  When it came to sex, Aly considered herself free-spirited. Adventurous, even.

  But there were hard limits that included rape-play—because it only dragged her back to a bad night in New York—and PDB: public displays of banging.

  Judging from what she’d glimpsed when she’d passed the third-floor loft and almost been struck with a red scallop Valentino pump, a pair of someones was having frantic, rough, dirty-talking party sex.

  Taking the spiral stairs fast, she’d almost dropped her candy cane and lost her balance. Somehow she arrived unharmed in the bustling gourmet kitchen where a handful of guests inelegantly devouring chips, sodas, and candy were in the catering staff’s way.