by Missy Blue
I heard his breathing quicken as a low grunt raked through his throat. The arm below my head, bent, and a moment later, his hand buried itself in my hair while his other hand roamed my body freely as his hips moved, thrusting into me deeply. I moved my hips back on him in time to his thrusts, meeting each of his upward pushes with a sharp downward movement. He grasped my breasts before his hand moved to my throat, squeezing lightly as I breathed deeply through my nose.
He was hitting some magical spot deep within me, sending sharp tingles of pleasure racing through my pelvis with each movement. If felt so indescribably wonderful that I had to struggle to keep my orgasm at bay. I wanted to feel this feeling forever. But his thrusts became so insistently hard, so deliciously rough, that I was finding it more and more difficult to ignore the pleas of my body to release. I felt him grow even harder inside me as I squeezed down around him, feeling my own moisture gush around his length.
"Fuck, Ash…" I whispered, and at hearing me utter his name, his hand tightened slightly around my throat and his other hand tightened in my hair. "I'm about to come…"
He bit the back of my neck. "Do it," he rasped. I squeezed around him again, and he growled deeply in his throat. "Ah, Jewel, fuck. Come for me."
And I did, feeling like my entire lower half was imploding and exploding at the same time. I turned my face into the pillow to cry out my release as his hands gripped me tighter. I was still trembling when I felt Asher's thrusts increase in both force and speed and then he grunted quietly into my skin, and I felt him throbbing inside of me, still moving his hips as he rode us through both of our aftershocks.
"Holy shit," I breathed, trying to catch my breath. "Let's take a nap and then see that again in instant replay."
Him
I GLANCED OVER at Jewel’s sleeping form in the bright light of the afternoon, before I checked the ESPN website on my phone for any news.
The entire MMA community was in an uproar. According to the reports and eyewitness accounts, I had been the clear winner, and the general consensus was that something was definitely fishy.
I lowered my phone and sighed. I instantly regretted it as a sharp pain tore through my side. I had over-strained myself last night. But it was worth it. Jewel is always worth it.
I leaned back against my bed and lifted my hands above my head, staring off into space, deep in thought. Bailey had found out that Marty White had been fired. Good. I hoped he would fall off the edge of the planet and never be heard from again. Because if I saw Marty, I didn’t think anyone could hold me back. I’d kill him.
And as for Blaise…I'd always known Blaise to be shameless, but he had taken things to a surprising level. I realized there was little that could be done about it now, but my concern was trying to predict from where Blaise's next attack would come. I didn't believe for a second Blaise was through with me, but just how far he planned to take things, I couldn't be sure. Unfortunately, Blaise knew quite a bit about my personal life, from where my family lived, and he could probably find out pretty easily, if he didn't already know, where Jewel lived. I rubbed a hand over my face as worry gnawed at my gut. Things could get really, really ugly if Blaise wanted them to.
My phone went off in my hand. I glanced at it and saw that it was Bailey. Going out into the hallway, I took the call. "Can you meet me downtown for lunch?" Bailey asked. "Wanna talk to you about something."
"What?" I asked suspiciously.
"Just get your ass downtown, okay? The sandwich place. Half an hour. Gotta go." He hung up without another word and before I could argue.
I told Jewel I was meeting my brother and that I’d pick us up both some lunch and frozen yoghurt. Driving into downtown Pittsburgh, I parked the Charger across the street from the sandwich deli. I saw Bailey standing at the counter, getting ready to pay for my order. He smiled at me when I got to his side.
"Hey, bro," he greeted. "Got you a turkey club, no mayo, extra tomato. Right?"
"Yeah, thanks," I said, glaring at my brother suspiciously. "Bailey, what's this all about?"
Bailey paid for our lunches and accepted a tray with three large brown paper bags on them. I wondered who the third one was for and glanced around for Tess.
"Come on," Bailey said with a grin.
Bailey strolled right over to a table where a man was sitting, his back to us. He was dark haired and dressed in what looked to be an expensive navy suit.
"Oh, thanks, man," the man said. Bailey grinned down at him and pointed over his shoulder. The man followed the movement and turned.
Fuck me.
Bradley Wilcox.
My eyes shot to my brother as Wilcox got to his feet. He was much taller and bigger than he appeared on television and I eyed him as I extended my hand. Finally, I shook his hand.
"Bailey?" I asked my brother uncertainly.
"Hey there, Asher Prince," Wilcox said. "It's great to finally meet you. I'm sorry things ended the way they did at Ithaca. Why don't you have a seat, and some lunch, and we'll talk?"
Bailey only grinned at me and pointed to the only other available chair. I took it, glancing between both men in disbelief. I waited until the bags with our lunches had been passed around.
"What's a big-time event organizer doing with the peasants?" I said, maybe a little too harshly. Bailey kicked me hard under the table, but Wilcox only laughed.
"Is that how you think I look at you?" Wilcox asked. "I don't. I'm sorry if I haven't been very visible. My work keeps me pretty busy."
"Too busy to attend your own tournaments and keep an eye on things to make sure they're handled fairly?" I asked bluntly, folding my arms and leaving my bag untouched. Wilcox considered my words as he took a bite from his sandwich. He nodded as he chewed.
"Basically," he conceded. "You do have a point. It's not intentional, though."
"So what's up?" I asked, shrugging negligently. "You didn't call me down here to eat sandwiches and bullshit."
"Jesus, Asher," Bailey said in annoyance.
Wilcox locked eyes with Bailey and grinned. "You weren't kidding about him," Wilcox said.
"Kidding about what?" I demanded, glaring at my brother.
"About you being a no-nonsense hard-ass," Bailey supplied. "And a slight dick."
"Listen, Asher, you're absolutely right," Wilcox said. "I didn't call you down here to eat sandwiches and bullshit. I called you down here to talk to you about Ithaca." He paused to wipe his mouth. "Your brother here started blowing up on me on the phone immediately after the fight. I was in Las Vegas on business at the time." He took a sip from his iced tea. "You missed the official meeting, Asher, and I can’t say that helped the situation at all. But when I got back home I started getting bits and pieces of the story—of everything that happened involving you over that weekend. That your girlfriend was assaulted by fans and then publicly humiliated—really sorry to hear about what happened to her, by the way—that you fired your manager, and that, most interestingly, you lost the tournament when everyone else who scored it beyond the judges' booth said you won." Wilcox fixed me with a piercing stare. "All of these things were very interesting to me. So, I re-watched as much footage as I could get, including your bout with Logan. I scored your fight with him seven times, and each time, Asher, you came out the winner."
"Not according to the judges," I said.
"Blaise Colton has a big problem," Wilcox said bluntly. "And that is, that he thinks he’s smarter than he actually is. There's an old saying: When you grease the palms, it makes the fingers slippery. The judges were only too happy to rat him out and point their fingers at him. He paid them before the match to score it in Logan’s favor no matter what." Wilcox shook his head. "It was a dumb fucking move. Luckily, you've got a pretty big fan base, Asher, and a lot of people around you that support you. This shit never sat well with them from the get-go, and thus it’s something I can’t let go. Mostly due to your stubborn brother here." Wilcox clapped down on Bailey's shoulder. "Anyway, I scored your fight, like I said
, and I had a new set of judges come in and score your fight, just to keep things honest. You won."
My head swam. "So, what does this all mean, then?" I asked. "Isn't it just water under the bridge, now?"
"This means that Blaise Colton owes me a big, fat fucking fine and will be banned from entering fighters in any MMA tournaments for the rest of his shitty life," Wilcox said bluntly. "He’s done, he’s washed up. If he can't enter fighters into the big, high-dollar purse tourneys, no one is going to want to work with him. He doesn't manage any clients—he doesn't make any money. He’s going to have to find a new line of work entirely." Wilcox took another sip of his tea. "He’s also going to lose that gym of his. You were the main draw, Asher. You were the reason why people wanted to go. I suggest you take back your investment and go elsewhere."
"I plan to," I said. "We've already severed the business agreement. The bank is going to handle getting me my investment back. I'm thinking of opening up my own place."
Wilcox nodded vehemently. "Excellent idea. Really. Great idea." He reached into his suit coat and drew out a large white envelope. "Maybe this will help you get started." He slid the envelope across the table toward me.
I glanced at it, then up at Wilcox, who looked back at me impassively. I then glanced at Bailey, who grinned widely. I had no trouble believing that if Wilcox weren’t sitting there, Bailey would be rubbing his hands together.
I picked up the envelope. "What’s this?"
Wilcox smiled and gestured toward me. "Why don't you open it up and take a look?"
Hesitantly, I tore the envelope open and pulled out a thick piece of paper. I realized I was holding a check. It was made out to me, and it was for the amount of three million dollars.
My eyes snapped back toward Wilcox, blazing. "You won, Asher," Wilcox said simply. "Fair and square." He took another bite of his sandwich. "Never let it be said that Bradley Wilcox is an unfair man."
"This is for three million," I said, "the purse was for two."
"Consider it...reparations," Wilcox said. "For your pain and suffering." He thought for a moment. "And a bribe to come back to Ithaca Part Two, next year."
I licked my lips, hardly able to believe what I was holding in my hands. My mind whirled. My own gym had just become a reality. I could set Bethany and the kids up permanently.
"Asher?" Bailey was saying, and I snapped my head up, and saw Wilcox holding his hand out. I shook myself and grabbed it, giving it a firm shake.
"Thank you, Mr. Wilcox," I said humbly. "I appreciate this. Appreciate it a lot."
Wilcox wiped his mouth and tossed his napkin into his bag before crumpling it. "Not at all, Asher. Like I said, you won fair and square. Thanks for being a part of the tournament, and I wasn't kidding about that being a bribe for next year." He winked, then laughed. He clapped me on the shoulder. "Thank your brother, here, too," he added. "He really had your back." He shoved his lunch bag into the nearest trash receptacle. "If you gentlemen will excuse me, I've got to get back to the office. I've got some blacklisting of one Blaise Colton to do." He nodded and waved, then exited the deli.
I shook my head at Bailey. "Don't even know what to say, man."
Bailey grinned crookedly. "You're my baby brother," he said quietly. "No one fucks with my family. I'm not about to allow you to get fucked in the ass over some bullshit like last weekend. You won that, fair and square, like Wilcox said. That's yours."
"I owe you like, a cut or something," I said lamely, gesturing with the check.
Bailey shook his head. "No. I don't want any of it. You’re the one who nearly got beaten to death for it. But I do want you to open up your own place. You've got too much talent, Asher. You're too smart to be working for anybody but yourself, especially for a douchebag like Blaise. I bet you could take back all of Blaise's clients, and even Connor and Leon. At this rate, Blaise is not gonna have that place for too much longer, let alone a pot to piss in. He brought this on myself. Hell—you could buy his share of the property from him. He won't be able to hold onto it, and it would save you the hassle of trying to find a new location. You'd just have to change the name and then it would belong solely to you." My head whirled. I couldn't believe how my luck had changed in the blink of an eye. Bailey leaned back in his chair and grinned. "So, what's your first move, little brother?"
I didn’t have to think twice. It was time to make my wish come true.
I got to my feet. "Why don't you come with me and find out?"
Chapter Twenty-Five
Her
ALL OF PITTSBURGH knew about me.
The only surviving victim of a prolific serial killer.
It had been over three weeks since my identity had been leaked. The papers had been calling me nonstop. How in the hell had they gotten a hold of my cell phone number? I refused the calls, ignored the voicemails, and refused to give any interviews. I wanted to be left alone. I accepted the sensationalism for what it was and sincerely hoped the interest would die. Quickly.
The bus dropped me off a couple of blocks from The Harmony Center. I had my dress rehearsal before the real showcase this evening. I was ready, my costume was ready, and I felt confident about my physical ability to pull off the performance. But mentally, I was still a mess. I hadn’t performed live on stage since the attack. I’d had countless nightmares about Jackson James sitting in the audience, watching me, stalking me, and then…
My stomach erupted in nerves. My heart pounded and my breathing increased through my nose. My hands and feet went freezing cold and I tightened all of my muscles to keep the shakes at bay.
Stop it. It’s over, I told myself. Over. You did it. You stood up to him.
It’s finally over.
He no longer defines who I am and who I will become.
As I strode down the street, I recalled the last time I'd been here. My first date with Asher. Instead of heading straight to The Harmony, I jogged over to the studio space. There was a sign in the window, like there always was, and at first my eyes skimmed over it, like they normally did. Then I froze.
It took me several long moments to register that the sign said something different than it normally did.
‘SOLD.’
I continued to stare at it, confusion creeping over me, followed by anger, and then disbelief. I stood rooted in place on the sidewalk and barely noticed when my duffel bag slid off my shoulder and thudded to the dirty pavement.
Sold.
In the instant the word clicked in my brain, my heart broke.
All of my dreams, all of my wishes, had been wrapped up in this dirty little space. All of the long years ahead I saw in my mind—walking through a roomful of blossoming ballerinas, guiding them to become what I should have been—was shattered. All of that was gone. Swept out of the little studio space before me, like the dust on the floor.
The rational part of my mind told me that this wasn't the only studio space in Pittsburgh. But the emotional part of my brain refused to hear the logic. This was the first space I'd looked at that had struck me with inspiration for dance again.
After my attack, I'd stopped caring about almost everything in my life, dance included. When my family and I had first come to Pittsburgh, and I'd come to the downtown area, my old love of dance had stirred immediately when I'd passed this place. I had halted in my tracks—I remembered it so clearly—and I'd gaped through the window, instantly seeing in my mind polished wooden spring floors, rounded barres spanning the length of the room, floor to ceiling mirrors. And just like that, my passion had sprung back to life.
And now...now it was all gone.
Him
I WAS FLOORED as I watched her movements.
The height of her leaps, the straightness of her legs, the strength and control Jewel had over her muscles, the fluidity of movement and absolute grace she embodied, the ease with which she executed her complex and expert choreography, blew me the fuck away.
Nothing I did in the ring compared to the strength and skill my girl w
as showcasing to everyone right now.
Her eyes would dully move across the audience from time to time, but I knew she wasn't really seeing anything or anyone. She was ‘seeing’ with her emotions.
She wore simple tight black dance shorts and a ripped black top. Several layers of black tape covered her mouth. Every so often, after a change in beat in her song, she reached up and ripped off a layer of tape. I took it to mean that she was shedding some sort of silence, some sort of fear.
At the climax of the song, the houselights dimmed completely, but there was very faint backlighting from the backstage area. I could see her silhouette as she moved, but what caught my attention were the glowing red streaks of paint suddenly illuminated in the darkness. I studied them curiously for a moment, not sure what they meant, until a set of streaks on the inside of her ankle caught my attention. It pulled my memory back to that awful night when I'd first learned of her secret.
I abruptly realized I was staring at the brutality she had inflicted upon herself. At one time, the only way she knew how to deal with the emotional pain that was tearing her apart.
I watched as she spun on the ball of one foot, her head back, her beautiful long hair streaming out behind her, her arms down at her sides and her hands gracefully poised. I studied the straightness of her supporting leg, the point of the other foot lifted to the knee, the arch of her back. The paint flashed around as she spun, and I could only watch in silent amazement. She bore her scars boldly, shamelessly, defiantly. This is who I was, she seemed to be saying. This is what I did.
As the lights crashed back on, she stared at the audience fiercely as she came out of her turn, extending a leg at hip-height, straight out to the side. Her dark eyes were flashing with something like anger and she yanked the last scrap of tape off her mouth, revealing a thin black X over her lips. She executed a leap combination and as the music wound down, the passion and anger seemed to leave her movements, grace taking their place. Her movements slowed, and gradually, as the music faded out, she resumed her original position, kneeling on the floor, in the middle of the stage. The lights dimmed.
