Fighting the Fall

by J. B. Salsbury

  “You sure about this, Eve? Once you give me the okay, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop.”

  “Yes. Even if only for tonight.” She pushes up and brings herself to the edge of the bed. Her chin tilts back, and she hits me with the full force of that angelic face. So innocent, so fucking beautiful. “I want you.” Her eyes go to my dick. “All of you.”

  With a knee on the bed between her legs, I lean forward, and she scoots back so her thighs cradle my hips.

  “All of me?” I nip at her lower lip and push inside in one thrust.

  A sexy-as-fuck moan rumbles deep in her throat.

  I thrust again, harder. “You got it.”

  And in this moment, for one night, I’m hers.

  Five

  Eve

  Here I go again. Or better yet, there he goes again. With my knees tucked up to my chest, arms wrapped around my shins, I watch him get dressed. The cool air washes over my naked body, making me shiver, but I refuse to cover up. Discomfort is the least I deserve for what I’m doing to my heart.

  It’s dark, but I can make out the sleek lines of his powerful body as he slides on his pants one leg at a time. Buttoned and zipped, he grabs his shirt off the floor, gives it a firm shake, and pulls it over his massive torso decorated in tattoos on both ribs in a flurry of black ink. Waves like water and intricate patterns. I don’t have time to study exactly what they are. As soon as the condom came off¸ he said he had to go.

  The hollow ache in my chest is a harsh reminder of how stupid this was. I knew what I was getting myself into, understood this was going to be a one-night stand, and I begged him for it anyway. But I’m not like other girls, and now that the butterflies and orgasms have faded, my heart rages at what I’ve done. I’m such an idiot.

  He moves toward the bed where he left me sated and now completely sober. With a sigh that I don’t think he wanted me to hear, he sits at the very edge of the mattress, keeping his distance. Fuck. That burns. His eyes are narrow, and there’s a hint of a pity in his expression. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that’s the look of regret. The ache in my chest blooms in a suffocating rush.

  “Eve, I—”

  “You don’t have to say anything.” I use my voice to disguise the heaviness in my chest. “One-night-stand rules. No apologies. No expectations. Two satisfied participants.” I grin. It’s fake.

  “Right. Well, um . . . thanks. That was fun.” He pats me on the arm. Fucking pats me as if I’m a kid he just bought ice cream for! There ya go, kiddo. Enjoy!

  I resist the urge to groan and bury my face into my pillow. I got what I wanted: one night of ah-mazing sex with the hottest guy I’ve ever seen. Why do I feel so sorry for myself now that he’s leaving?

  Because I want more. I always want more. That’s my problem. I want to be the girl that a man can’t live without.

  He stands to leave, and rather than follow him out, I memorize the look of his back as he disappears through my bedroom doorway. I force myself not to look away and burn the image into my head with hope that it will penetrate this time.

  How many do I have to throw against a wall before one sticks? The internal grind of guilt and humiliation is my own form of self-mutilation.

  I pull my comforter over my body and close my eyes. Tomorrow is a new day: an opportunity to start over with improved determination.

  Tonight I’ll lick my wounds as a reminder of why I need to stay away from men like Cameron. I’ll beat myself up for all the reasons I should’ve said no even with the knowledge that given the chance to do it again I’d have said yes.

  ~*~

  Cameron

  Re-energized.

  A few hours with a good-looking woman will do that to a man. After leaving Eve’s, I was able to rack up a few solid hours sleep; then I was up at sunrise and out the door for a run. The best of Social Distortion playing in my ears and the bright desert horizon in the distance, it was as if I’d left thirty pounds of pent-up tension behind.

  Sweat soaked and starving, I dig through my refrigerator for some eggs when the scent of warm sugar and cinnamon wafts up from my chest. The moisture and heat from my skin intensifies the trace of Eve I haven’t yet washed off. I breathe in deeply and groan; the smell of her lotion alone brings me back to being between her legs. Fuckin’ heaven.

  “Dad?”

  I peer around the open refrigerator door to find Ryder fresh out of bed but dressed for the day. His hair, the exact shade of blond as his mother’s, sticks up all over, making him look like a human firecracker. He studies me for a second, eyebrows pinched. “You lost?”

  “No, I’m looking for the eggs.” It seems like a ridiculous conversation, but Ryder’s whole life has been a front row seat to the Fumbling Brain Damaged Dad Show. I resume my hunt in the fridge. “Hungry?”

  “I’ll grab a protein bar on my way out.”

  I give up on the eggs and grab two protein bars from the pantry, tossing one to Ryder. “It’s Sunday.”

  He catches it on the fly. “Yeah, I know. But Theo got new skins on his kit, and we wanted to jam before he has to be at work.”

  The older he gets, the more he’s been avoiding our Sunday routine. When he was a kid, he had no choice but to join me, but now that he’s older, he has the freedom decide what’s best. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.

  I notice then that there’s a tiny smudge of black makeup below one eye, and his fingernails are painted black. “What did you do last night?” I motion to his arsenal of emo-punk dead giveaways.

  He glares at me, his pale blue eyes bloodshot. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

  “After party.” I take a sip of my coffee, focusing on my son, but my mind goes back to Eve: her body, warm and welcoming, wrapped around mine. The sounds that fell from her lips ring through my skull, and I turn to hide my dick swelling at the memory.

  “Some party.” Ryder motions to the side of my neck; his lips tick into a knowing smile. “Did you get assaulted by a vamp?”

  I hold up my stainless steel coffee mug but can’t see shit in the reflection. My gut tightens at the memory of her mouth at my throat while I was thrusting inside her tight little body. Goose bumps break out on my skin and my neck gets warm. Had to have left a mark. Great.

  The last thing I need in my already fucked-up head is the complication that a woman brings, especially a girl like Eve. She’s young, and if her dance moves and party skills are any indication, she’s not giving up her wild Vegas nights any time soon. I don’t have the energy to keep up with a girl like her. Not with everything else I have going on in my life or the fourteen years I’ve got on her.

  But fuck, the sugary scent of her hair, sweet taste of her skin . . . What I wouldn’t do to taste her everywhere.

  Last night is a perfect example of what happens when I lose focus and follow my dick rather than logic. Once she led me into her house, the need to be deep inside her took over, and foreplay was non-existent. Not that she seemed to care. If I’d had my way, I’d spend hours pleasuring every inch of that body: full hips, round ass, and gorgeous breasts that fill two hands. I groan and get Ryder’s questioning eyes.

  “Vamp . . . ha-ha, smartass.” No use in throwing out some made-up story about falling down the stairs or wrestling with a vacuum cleaner. Ryder’s no idiot to the ways of bachelor life.

  “Mom called last night,” he says through a cheek-full of protein bar.

  Perfect buzz kill subject. I drop my chin and bite down on the string of curses that are pushing to be said. “Figured she might. Everything okay?”

  He coughs out a humorless laugh. “Is anything ever okay when it comes to her?”

  Fuck, I hate this. After D’lilah and I got divorced, she really took a turn for the worse. The drinking and partying were out of control, and I threatened to fight for full custody. She checked herself into rehab when Ryder was eight. Unfortunately, her sobriety only lasted until she checked out. I had no choice but to make good on my threat. I’d lost o
ne child I couldn’t save. There was no way I’d risk losing another.

  “She’s doing her best, Ry.”

  “Her best is shit.”

  “You know your mom.” I force back what’s really on my mind. Like the fact that she thinks she can pick and choose when to come and go from his life. His birthday’s around the corner, and she hasn’t given a shit about more than half of them. “Cut her some slack. She’s having a hard time dealing with . . .”

  “I know. But she’s not the only one who lost Rosie. I don’t see you getting shit-housed every day.”

  If it were possible to curl up and die, I would’ve done it the day I pulled my baby girl’s body out of that pool, but I knew I needed to make up for what I’d done. I didn’t take my brain damage seriously enough. If I’d worked harder in rehab rather than throw all my focus into getting back into the octagon, she’d still be here. I’ll never forgive myself for that.

  My chest is heavy and my skin clammy. The urge to comfort Ryder pricks at my throat, but I know my limitations. Talking this out with him will only bring out the anger and shame: all of the crap that makes my legs threaten to give way beneath me. I can’t go there, won’t allow myself to feel anything even close to what I felt that day.

  It’s survival. Necessity. I have to stay on my feet.

  Six

  Cameron

  “Mornin’, Layla.” I stop off at her desk and sort through new messages. “World still turning after the fight on Saturday?”

  “Seems to be.” She hands me the hour-by-hour schedule of my day. “You’ve got a lunch meeting with Jonah and Owen and then two more on site this afternoon.”

  Lunch. I forgot, not that I should be surprised. I’d planned to sit down with the guys and talk game plan to make sure this intro of new fighters runs smoothly.

  “Looks good.” I thank her and move into my office only to sit down and see her sit down across from me. She’s smiling, and I don’t have a good feeling about what the smile is about. “What?”

  “Did you have fun at the after party?” There’s a casual anticipation to her voice that makes me leery. She can’t possibly know about Eve? They’re not even friends. Are they?

  I tug at my shirt collar to hide the memento from last night that marks my neck. “I did. You?”

  “I heard you gave Eve a ride home.”

  She doesn’t pussyfoot around the subject¸ I see. Not good, the last thing I need is my employee knowing I slept with a twenty-four-year-old girl. “She had too much to drink.” I shrug, playing it off. “You guys left. I was her only option.”

  She twirls a section of hair. “A cab would’ve been an option.”

  I pin her with a glare that only widens her grin. “You trying to get at something? If so, get to it. I’ve got a busy day.”

  “Just thought that was super cool of you.”

  “Thanks, because that’s what I live for. To be super cool.” I shake my head and flip through my notebook. Hell, it’s like being in grade school again with these women. “Happy to hear my life is gossip-worthy.”

  “Oh well, Mason told Blake”—yep, grade-school he-said-she-said bullshit—“that she didn’t even put up a fight, which is kinda surprising since Eve’s, ya know, off men.”

  I take a grateful breath that my nosey assistant actually believes that Eve really is off men. Blake, Layla, Eve, this circle runs a little too tight for my taste. It’s good that last night was limited to just that. One night of fun with lasting memories of her luscious body. I can’t ask for more than that.

  “If you—”

  The intercom on my desk phone buzzes. “Mr. Kyle? There’s a man here to see you.”

  I press the orange talk button. “A man? Gonna need more than that, Vanessa.”

  “He says his name is Rusty Faulkner.”

  Faulkner? What the fuck is he doing here?

  “Says he’s here to talk to you about a fight.”

  “Holy shit.” My old rival in more ways than one. We both fought for the UFL back in the day, but he never honored the sport, always treated it like a free ride to becoming a celebrity. For him, it was always about the show, and less about the fighting. Just the sound of his name has my muscles bunching.

  He’s been lying low for years. Opened an MMA training gym in Portland, or so I hear, but he hasn’t been turning out any exceptional fighters as much as he’s producing fame-hungry actors.

  “Who’s Rusty?” Layla mouths.

  “Douchebag.” I grab my notebook and hit the intercom. “I’ll be right down.”

  A click sounds from the speaker. “I’ll let him know.”

  I scan my schedule for the morning. Free until lunch. Perfect.

  “What do you think he wants?” Layla’s up, her yellow legal pad tucked under her arm and a pen behind her ear.

  “Come with me.” I stand and head toward the lobby. “Whatever it is, it ought to be good.”

  Passing through the training center, I ignore the voices of fighters talking shit back and forth. Heated, but harmless enough. As long as they don’t kill each other, I’m good.

  Walking down the hallway toward the lobby, I can already see the telltale white Ferragamos propped up on the coffee table. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  Lounging against the leather couch, feet up as if he fucking owns the place, is Rusty Faulkner. Other than his hair being a little thinner than I remember, he hasn’t changed a bit with his black suit, red tie, and neck dripping in gold jewelry.

  “Rusty, what brings you to Vegas?” I move toward him and he stands.

  “Fuck me sideways.” He shakes my hand. “Cameron ‘Kyle-Driver’ turned big dick promoter and now the Prez. You’re dippin’ your stick in everything, huh?”

  I ignore his attempt to get me riled. After I stopped fighting and started promoting, this dick bag treated me like shit stuck on his shoe. I was a better fighter and a great promoter while he dropped off the radar after he retired. And now I’m CEO. Asshole can’t stand to be one-upped by a washed-up fighter with a fucked-up noggin.

  “You show up in my house, represent a past I’m not interested in relivin’, and now you’re talkin’ shit?” I cross my arms over my chest, afraid that if I don’t lock them down I might take a swing. “Speak your peace.”

  “Cut to the chase, huh? Don’t want to talk about old times? Relive the glory days.” His eyes slice to Layla. “You Kyle’s woman?”

  She juts out her chin and shakes her head. “No, sir, I’m Layla, Mr. Kyle’s assistant.”

  “Assistant. Very nice.” He draws out his words, making his implication clear.

  “Easy. Layla’s man is Blake Daniels. Not sure if you caught his fight this weekend, but you’d be smart to keep your opinions about Layla to yourself unless you want Blake in here mopping the floor with your corpse.”

  He raises his eyebrows and shrugs. “Business it is.” His eyes scan the room before coming back to me. “Right here in the lobby?”

  I don’t answer and wait. The more I’m around this guy, the more I feel as if he’s got something to say that’s just gonna piss me off.

  His beady brown eyes narrow on mine. “I’ve been training.”

  “You come all the way here to tell me that?”

  “Rumor has it you’re coming full circle. Going back into the cage?”

  It takes everything I have not to give away my shock. How the hell does he know that? No use in covering it up, but the board strictly said they didn’t want talk of the possibility until they made a decision. Something about a media nightmare. “Not sure what you’re talking about, but if I ever had the opportunity to re-enter the octagon, I’d take it.”

  “So you need a challenger.” He scratches his jaw and shrugs. “I’m interested.”

  “You shittin’ me?”

  This little nugget of good news almost makes it worth all I had to do to get here. I’d pay money for the opportunity to kick this guy’s ass, but to get paid to do it is better.

  “Not
even a little. You and I were lined up to fight back before you quit.”

  My body tenses. “I didn’t quit.” The words are shoved out through clenched teeth.

  “Uh. . .” He scratches his chin. “Pretty sure you did. I was at the press conference.”

  He knows exactly why I had to walk away from fighting. He fucking knows it!

  I’m breathing heavily as I step into his space. As expected, he doesn’t back down and a slow grin spreads across his ugly mug. I’m giving him what he wants, falling right into his trap, but fuckin’ A if I give a shit.

  “I’ll take the fight. You pick the date and—”

  “Cam.” Layla’s at my side, her hand on my forearm. She looks from me to Rusty. “Would you mind giving us a second?”

  The asshole completely ignores Layla’s question, and my fists clench ready to teach the dick a lesson in manners.

  She jerks her head to the side, and I follow her out of earshot of Faulkner.

  On tiptoes, she leans in. “What are you doing?”

  “What does it look like? I’m taking the fight.”

  Her gaze swings up to the ceiling where she stares as if she’s trying to gather strength, and then swings it back to me. “I see that. But why not give him an answer later? You don’t call these shots, Cam. The board does.”

  Good point. “Knee-jerk reaction.”

  “I get that, but right now you’re CEO. Not a fighter.”

  Fuck. I take a deep breath. “Agreed.”

  “All right.” She pushes back her shoulders and cradles her legal pad to her chest. “You good?”

  Brain damaged, not incompetent. I glare my response.

  She nods, sharp and quick. “Good enough.”

  We move back to Rusty, and he doesn’t even try to hide his greedy eyes as they move over Layla’s body. Sick fuck. I’d give anything to have Blake walk in while this shit’s going on.

  “I’ll meet with the board first and then give you my answer.” Not that it matters what they say. I’m taking this fight.

  “Gotta be complicated, eh, Cam?” He pulls a card from his breast pocket and throws it on a nearby coffee table. “Here’s where to find me.”