by Cara Nelson
“I’ll take a lower pay rate if you’ll retain my brother, too. We’ve always had each other’s backs. We work better together,” Kyle said.
“I’m open to adding you both to my touring roster of bare fisted fighters, but only if you both merit inclusion. I’m not doing a package deal. This is a substantial investment and you have to prove your skill and showmanship. I liked what I saw on your tapes enough to bring you to the tournament. I’ll be watching your fights. We leave on Tuesday; the tournament begins Friday afternoon.”
“Thank you, Mr. Lambert,” Kyle stood and extended his hand. The billionaire waved it away with a chuckle and Simon ushered them out.
“You didn’t say much,” Kyle observed as they took the bus back to Mattapan.
“You did fine on your own. I was thinking it over.”
“So what do you think?”
“I think it’s a lot of money. And a year’s a long time.”
“You got plans for next year I don’t know about? This is our ticket out of Southie and into the big time. Think about what it would mean for Ma: a hundred thousand dollars if one of us makes the finals. A million if we win. That’s the best kidney specialists in the country, the transplant list, all her hospital bills,” Kyle said. “How could you even think of turning it down?”
How could you think of letting us down? Aaron thought. He shook his head and stared out the bus window. When he got to the gym, he changed, worked out and headed to the club to talk to Neal. On his way to the office, he saw Zoe chatting with Amy over Diet Cokes.
“Hey, can I talk to you?” he said.
Zoe nodded and followed him. He checked that the locker room was empty and led her in there.
“Another unsavory tryst?” she teased.
“No. Moral dilemma,” he said flatly.
“You’re serious. Is this what that bullshit last night was about?”
“Bullshit?”
“Your showboating beatdown with Cole Saxon. It was a slaughter and you were playing the crowd, even I could see it. You posed.”
“So I need to work on my subtlety.” He shrugged. “A rich guy offered me and Kyle a hell of a lot of money if we can win a tournament in Vegas next week. If you make the final round, you get a hundred grand and the winner takes a million. No more fights for two thousand dollars minus the house cut. This is the big time.”
“So what’s the problem? I’m filming a bunch of guys who beat the shit out of each other for fifteen bucks an hour. We all gotta pay the rent, Aaron.”
“This comes with a catch. Apart from making the fights as vicious and exciting as I can, the winner signs a contract to fight for this guy in tournaments for a year.”
“So a year of great income?”
“Yes. But I—or Kyle—would be exclusive to him, going where he said, fighting whoever he booked, day in day out for the next year…”
“So you win, you make all this money, you get to travel…”
“And sign a piece of paper saying this is what I am and what I do for money.”
“Isn’t this what you are?”
“Yeah. I just thought maybe someday, I don’t know, I might be more than this.”
“It’s a fight, it’s maybe even a year of fights. That doesn’t define you. This is a job offer, and it only means what you let it mean,” she said. “If you win in Vegas and move on to kick ass in Singapore or wherever, you’re still the guy with the green scarf who saved me, the guy who wouldn’t let anyone get away with hurting his brother…that doesn’t change.”
“You know what?”
“What?”
“That helped. Thanks.”
“I’m great at pep talks. You should have heard me when Shea, my roommate, had to take her nursing boards. I practically whipped out the pompoms. If the fight’s on pay-per-view next weekend, let me know. I’ll DVR it so I can watch you win after I get off work here, filming the peasants while they brawl.”
“Sure, what’s your number?” he said, pulling out his phone.
She keyed in her number and name to his contacts.
“Have a nice trip,” She said. “Safe flight and all that.”
Aaron nodded and went home to figure out how to tell his ma.
PART II: LAS VEGAS
CHAPTER 7: AARON
His first clue that he was flying into a different world, not just a new city, was the fact that Savannah, the lovely flight attendant, offered him the good vodka. Not the drinks cart with tiny plastic cups of lukewarm ginger ale, but icy cold bottles of top shelf liquor.
“We ain’t in Kansas anymore, baby brother,” Kyle laughed, downing his drink in one.
When they arrived, it was obvious this was a crazy-rich place. The Vines was a newer casino on the Strip, styled as a tribute to old Hollywood. Photos of Sinatra with Ava Gardner, all the most glamorous couples from the decades of sophisticated stardom, adorned the walls. While their rooms were readied, the Dolans relaxed in the cigar lounge, puffing on imported stogies, surrounded by dark leather furnishings and paintings of horses and hunting dogs.
“This, my brother, is the life,” Kyle sighed with satisfaction.
Aaron couldn’t argue with that logic as a busty redhead in an old-fashioned cigarette girl uniform perched on the arm of his chair solicitously.
“Anything I can get for you, big guy?”
“No thanks,” he said, “nothing but our tab.”
“Oh, you’re here with Archer Lambert’s team, right? It all goes on the company account.”
“He has an account here?”
“He owns half the Vines, honey. He can afford it,” she said.
Kyle whistled under his breath, gesturing to the opulent surroundings. “He owns half this? I think I’ll have a drink, my lady,” Kyle said. “Irish whiskey if you have it.”
“Coming right up,” she said.
Aaron checked his phone and found a message that their rooms were ready. “I’m going on up to shower,” he said.
“I think I’ll stay here and get to know the cigarette girl,” Kyle said, waving him on.
Aaron’s room was vast, all burgundy and gold, with a very masculine style. A fruit basket with compliments from the management awaited him, as well as a note from Simon telling him that he had five hundred dollars’ worth of chips waiting for him in the casino when he wanted to unwind. After a shower and change of clothes, he decided there was no time like the present to take the roulette wheel for a spin.
By the time Kyle found Aaron, the latter was up two thousand dollars at the craps table and had a stripper on his knee. She was sipping a Windex-blue drink in a two-foot tall glass while Aaron racked up another three hundred with one shot. He handed his date the three chips and she placed another bet with two, slipping the third chip into her ample cleavage. Aaron’s eyes flitted to the overflowing low neckline of her skintight white dress and wondered if she kept her entire savings account in there.
Kyle took his date and his chips over to the blackjack table. Aaron dominated craps and moved on to roulette, ending the evening full of A-list liquor, nearly four thousand in the black, and nestled securely between the thighs of his very flexible stripper.
Aaron slept a couple of hours and got up to work out. The gym at the Vines was state of the art…it made the equipment he had been using back in Boston look like a pile of old tires. He caught up with Kyle at an all-you-can-eat seafood buffet and polished off a mound of crab legs drenched in butter. The wine was chilled, the desserts lavish, and the women gorgeous and abundant.
“It’s like Dolan heaven,” Kyle said, “Good booze, fine women, cheap food…”
“Did you try the elliptical trainer? It’s smarter than me.”
“That fork is smarter than you.”
“I’m serious. It took my blood pressure. It told me to hydrate.”
“I haven’t been to the gym. I was busy with Bernadette. Try the oysters.”
“I’ll pass. Ugh.” Aaron shook his head. “I’m heading back to th
e gym. We have a tournament to prepare for.”
“I know. That’s why I have to hurry up and relax so I can get back to training,” Kyle joked.
At Craven, the VIP club on the top floor of the Vines, Aaron lounged on a white velvet couch, arms draped around two exotic dancers who made last night’s conquest look flat-chested and modest by comparison. One wore little more than a lacy black slip with garters. The other, the blonde, had opted for red. They were the entertainment at Craven, lingerie-clad waitresses with cat-ear headbands who crawled on top of the tables and danced every hour on the hour, ending curled in someone’s lap and purring. Aaron was trying to flirt with the blonde but his heart wasn’t in it. He couldn’t get Zoe out of his head. First time I saw her, she was calling some thug a fucking moron and kicked him in the balls. What the hell do I want with her? He asked himself. Everything, he answered without hesitation. For the moment, he was enjoying the live band and the company.
The brunette in the black garters brought him another whiskey. He thanked her with a white poker chip and stopped with the glass halfway to his mouth. It had to be an apparition, the combination of jet lag, quality alcoholic libations and the hedonistic thrum of the band creating an unwanted hallucination. It could not be that Zoe Daniels was wielding a handheld camera, stalking through Craven in a jean jacket and a scowl.
She barreled up to his table and stuck her hand in the blonde’s face.
“Hi. I’m Zoe Daniels, this guy’s camera crew. Care to state your name and occupation?”
“Sure. I’m Delilah, and I’m an exotic server. I wait tables and dance on them here in the VIP club. I’m a classically trained dancer, and I’d love to get into film or stage work if the opportunity arises. Let me give you my card.” Delilah produced a business card from her garter belt and handed it to Zoe.
“I’ll keep that in mind. I was hired by a fight club back in Massachusetts to follow the Dolan boys on their excursion to Nevada and document their progress both in and out of the ropes. It’s like a documentary. Real life. Gritty. With upmarket accommodations, and, if I may say so from what I observed, some very talented strippers.”
“Thanks,” Delilah said as the music picked up, “That’s our cue.”
Delilah and her coworkers slithered onto the tables and started to writhe around like cats.. Zoe turned the camera toward them in fascination, and Aaron wondered if he could crawl under the table to escape. He had been having such a good time until Zoe came in to police him. She was like a bucket of ice water on his evening plans.
“Let’s get out of here before she coughs up a hairball,” Zoe hissed in his ear, taking him by the wrist and dragging him toward the exit.
“I wasn’t planning on leaving yet,” he huffed.
“Come on. She looks good, but you don’t want to get stuck cleaning the litter box on that one. High maintenance. Pretensions to act. Save yourself the pain.”
“You just ruined my evening, you know that?”
“Get in the elevator. You can whine on the way to your room.”
“Are you staying here?”
“Are you kidding? I’m on Neal’s dime. I had to take the bus from my motel to find this place,” She said. “No decent strippers would be caught near the bar there.”
“You can come visit us here and pick up these strippers if you’re interested,” he grouched.
“You don’t have any business checking out the strippers. Didn’t your coach ever tell you not to get all hot and bothered before a big game? It throws you off, kills your edge.”
“Are you serious? I’ve been a fighter since I was sixteen years old, and not once have I heard that ridiculous advice. It doesn’t put me off my game. It relaxes me, in fact.”
“Oh, sorry, I didn’t know you needed to be relaxed in the ring. I thought alertness was important and quick reflexes, strategy and power. But if relaxation is your goal…”
“Are you going to let this go?”
“This is legit sports psychology, Aaron. You need to abstain for the sake of your performance in the fight.”
“My performance has never been an issue.”
“Again with the ego, good grief. I’m sure you’re an unforgettable delight. Meanwhile, you have a fight to win.”
“Several in fact. I have to advance to the final round to get the hundred thousand.”
“That’s a lot of money.”
“I know. It’s the difference between life and death.”
“Are you dying all of a sudden?”
“No, my mother is.”
“Oh shit,” Zoe stammered, “I’m sorry. I would not have been flippant if I’d known.” She lowered her camera and put her hand on his arm.
“No, go ahead and film it. This is the pathos, right? Exploit my mom’s renal failure. Neil will love that shit.”
“I didn’t know, Aaron. I swear. Tell me, if you want to…”
“I don’t like to talk about it, but I guess—she’s diabetic and she’s on dialysis. Her kidneys are just shutting down.”
“What do they do for that? I mean, is there a treatment?”
“Aside from having a machine that takes her blood out of her body to clean it? There’s a transplant, but she has to see specialists to qualify, and she’s on public aid. They’re not exactly anxious to help her. If we win the money, she can get the best care and have a shot at getting on the transplant list. It’s a long road, but it would be better than no hope at all.”
“Wow, Aaron.” Tears filled her eyes.
Zoe put down her bag and her camera and hugged him hard, just the way she had in the alley after Kyle got hurt. This time, his arms went around her easily, accepting the comfort.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I knew you were in this for the money, just like I’m in my job to pay the rent, but I had no idea, honestly.”
Zoe squeezed her eyes shut tightly, wishing she could take away the pain she’d seen in his eyes. She hugged him as sympathetically, as platonically, as she could manage. It took a lot of concentration to keep it platonic because she knew what he looked like under that shirt and now there was the added complication of wanting to comfort him and heal him as well. She felt herself plummeting, sliding down the rabbit hole, right into love with the exact wrong kind of man. Instead of an upwardly mobile academic, she caught herself thinking about this thug with the anger problem and the tattoo, who’d lent her the scarf his mother made him and protected her from the alleys of Mattapan. She made herself release him, casting around in her mind for a nonsexual thing to say to him and failing miserably.
“So, show me your room. It has to be better than mine if it doesn’t have a moldy shower curtain.”
“There’s a sunken tub in the bathroom, steam shower, espresso machine that I have no idea how to operate…”
“I’m sure I could figure it out if I had a chance. Let’s make a deal. Give me half an hour alone with the sunken tub and I’ll make the espresso maker work for you.”
“Deal. I’ll be down in the cigar lounge. You have thirty minutes.”
“I need forty-five. Thirty is for the bath, then fifteen to tame the coffee machine.”
“Done.” He let her in to his room and left her there.
CHAPTER 8: ZOE
Zoe wasted no time touring the room. She grabbed a king-size Butterfinger out of the mini bar and started peeling off her clothes. She turned the taps on full force and shook in a liberal quantity of turquoise bath salts supposedly harvested from the Dead Sea. When it was luxuriantly deep, she sank into the scented water and breathed deeply. Laying a cool cloth across her eyes, she nibbled her candy bar, leaned back, and soaked up the Dead Sea saltiness. When the alarm on her phone went off, giving her the five-minute warning, she washed her hair and rinsed it with the handheld shower.
Wrapped in a thick blue towel, she finger combed her hair, slathered on Bulgari lotion, padded barefoot out to the coffee machine. The valves and knobs confounded her. She looked at the laminated instruction card and
eventually used the corner of it to try to unjam a lever. Frustrated and sputtering, she was googling the instruction manual for the coffeemaker when the door swung open.
Aaron gave a mischievous half-smile at her and shut the door behind him. He looked her up and down and she clutched her blue towel more securely around her. She’d been letting it droop a little while focused on the recalcitrant espresso maker.
“Did you have a nice bath?”
“Heavenly. The coffee machine is a lost cause, I think. I’ll have another go at it once I’m dressed,”
She came out of the bathroom to find Aaron adding foam to an espresso. He offered her the cup.
“I figured it out.”
“Don’t look so smug. I warmed it up for you, got it in a good mood so it was cooperative. I could easily have closed the deal once I was dressed.”
“Are you accusing me of cock-blocking you with the coffee machine?”
“Of course not. Just asking for credit where it’s due. I unjammed that lever with the corner of the directions card.”
“So you fixed it.”
“Obviously. But if it makes you feel more manly and in-control to think that you fixed it, go right ahead.”
“Drink your coffee while I try to follow the thread of your logic on this one.”
“Easy, you’re a guy. You think men have to prove themselves with their fists, take care of the womenfolk, blah blah blah. It’s why you’re fist-fighting to pay for your mom’s medical bills…she’s one of the womenfolk you’re sworn to take care of. The coffee machine is not allowed to beat you. It would threaten your sense of manhood and dominance.”
“The coffee machine never had a chance. It’s Italian. Everyone knows they’re lovers, not fighters.”
“And the Irish are the fighters, then?” she challenged.
“The Irish are both,” he said, his gaze darkening, making her catch her breath.
Zoe sipped her coffee and tried to muster a snappy comeback. Something in his voice had made her toes curl. She felt like violating her own rule about him not having sex until after the fight. Ever since he’d kissed her, she hadn’t been able to get him out of her head, but now that she was in a hotel room alone with him.
