Going The Distance (Ringside #2)

by Jennifer Fusco

  Miles traveled: 744. Tucumcari, New Mexico.

  Ava opened the door and planted both feet in New Mexico’s soil. The reddish-brown dirt covered her shoes the moment the wind whipped across the highway. She stretched out her muscle aches. She gazed at the tiny motel in front of her. One story. L-shaped. Dismal.

  Stopping at places like this was how horror movies started.

  “This is it,” Mike said, stepping out of the SUV. “We’re done for the day.”

  She didn’t want to seem stupid, but he couldn’t mean they were staying here.

  “You can’t be serious.” She looked down the line of tiny rooms. Bars covered the front windows, and the exterior paint started to peel. A man was sitting in front of his unit smoking a cigarette. He gave her the eye and she wondered where she’d put her pepper spray.

  “I have to train. We have to stop now,” Mike said.

  Her stomach gave an involuntary roll. “We can stop now. It doesn’t mean we have to stop here.”

  He frowned. “What’s wrong with it?”

  Would he like a list? In alphabetical order? Surely, there had to be safer accommodations up the road. She took her phone out of her purse and searched their location. “The St. Francis Bed and Breakfast is on this road. Their website says they’re close to a fitness center.”

  “This place is fine. It’s clean. It’s cheap.”

  “It’s scary.” She placed a hand on her hip.

  Mike opened the rear door and grabbed his gear. “It’s not that bad. Come on.”

  She took one last look at the St. Francis Bed and Breakfast website and memorized the address in case he changed his mind. The place offered garden seating for breakfast and drinks on the balcony overlooking the desert. The luxurious King Suite came with a free massage. Now, that was worth traveling for. The Best Rate Motel of Tucumcari boasted thirty-two-inch TVs and free internet.

  She sighed. It was going to be a long night.

  She followed Mike into the motel’s tiny office. He was in the midst of laying down cash and taking the key for room 109.

  “May I have the room beside his?” she asked the woman behind the counter.

  “Not rooming with him?” the gruff-voiced woman asked.

  “No. I just want to be close enough so he can hear my screams.” She flashed Mike a satisfied grin.

  If the clerk was insulted, the woman didn’t show it. She handed Ava the key to room 110 and processed her credit card. Ava sighed. At least Ed wouldn’t bitch over the fifty-dollar room charge on her expense report.

  Mike grabbed his bag and held the door open for Ava as they walked to their rooms. He didn’t say a word. For the past ten and a half hours, they’d traveled through one hellacious thunderstorm, had two arguments, and rode the rest of the way in silence. Maybe the idea of traveling with him had been a mistake.

  He stopped at the door to his room. “See you in the morning. Be ready to go at five.”

  “May I have your keys? I need to get my bag.” He handed her his keys, marked with a keyring with the Stamina logo, and his motel room door closed behind him.

  Ava retrieved her things from the SUV and opened the door to her room. A stench of mildew hit her in the face. Now, she understood why the man had been smoking outside. He could inhale mold spores inside, or carcinogens outside. The motel was a real pick-your-poison.

  She didn’t feel safe propping the door open, so she walked deeper inside the room, hoping to find a window to crack. Luckily, the bar-covered window opened and the foul air dissipated. The room was simple, clean, and didn’t send her running for the car.

  Score one for Mike.

  She set up her laptop on the table by the window and searched for the most direct route from the motel to Madison Square Garden. By her calculations, she had three more nights on the road, three more long stretches of opportunities to get Mike to talk, and nail down an interview worth printing.

  She thought about calling her mom, letting her know she wasn’t dead yet, when Mike appeared outside her window. He wore a distracting pair of running shorts that showed off his muscular legs and firm ass. His Stamina Gym T-shirt pulled tight across his chest, clinging to his well-defined pecs. From his massive biceps she could tell he spent a lot of time lifting weights, and by his lack of body fat she guessed he ran a lot. The man was simply delicious.

  He bent in front of her, stretching out his thighs. His shorts hiked up a few inches and her mouth watered. In her whole career, she’d never seen an athlete so fit. Allowing her mind to wander, she couldn’t help but imagine what he may look like naked. Every inch, so firm, so toned. Her fingers tingled in response.

  Mike started another set of stretches, and Ava decided it was time to call her mom. She wasn’t a voyeur, and if he was going to continue to move that fine body outside her window, she needed to find something else to do before he turned her into one.

  Pushing the buttons, she called her mom and gave her time to answer.

  “How’s it going?” she asked when her mother said hello.

  Holly let out an audible sigh. “Scoop isn’t himself today. He just lies around the house.”

  Ava shook her head. “He’s a Persian cat. He’s supposed to lie around.”

  “I’m taking him to see Dr. Marx.”

  Ava wondered just how much money her mother had spent at the vet. There was nothing ever wrong with Scoop, other than being utterly spoiled and eating too much tuna. She hoped Dr. Marx didn’t take advantage of an older lady with nothing to do but fret over her cat.

  “I’m sure he’s fine, Mom. You probably overfed him again. I’m sure one long trip to the litter box will straighten him out.”

  “I hope you’re right. How are things there? Are you staying at a nice place?”

  Ava looked around the depressing room. Then, she glanced out the window. Mike ran wind sprints in the parking lot. Sweat dampened his T-shirt and she could see the definition of his eight-pack abs. Not wanting to upset her mother, she said, “The view is fantastic.” At least she didn’t have to lie.

  “Are you making progress on your interview?” Her mother followed up with an equally tough question. Her mind flashed back to the silent hours spent on the road.

  “It’s not going as well as I’d hoped, but tomorrow is another day.”

  “That’s the spirit, dear. Thanks for calling but I have to run. Scoop’s salmon is almost ready to take out of the oven.”

  “You baked salmon for the cat?”

  The oven door closed in the background. “He just loves it.”

  “I’m sure he does.” And when she hung up with her mother, she diagnosed Scoop’s issue right away. Her mother had started cooking for the cat. She’d put his wants above her own. In cat lingo that was bad. Anointed as the king of the castle, he’d probably never move again and rule his kingdom from the back of the sofa. What he needed was a healthy cat food and a few hours of exercise.

  Thinking about food, even the cat’s food, sent her stomach rumbling.

  She left the room in search of a vending machine. According to Google there were several restaurants around, but she wasn’t up to venturing around the neighborhood without Mike. He might not speak to her, but he was man enough to protect her if something went wrong.

  Except Mike was nowhere in sight. She guessed after his long bouts of stretching and wind sprints, he’d taken off for one of his five-mile runs. The motel wasn’t as deserted as she thought at first glance. A housekeeping cart sat outside one of the rooms. Strange. What type of place cleaned rooms at night? The cigarette-smoking guy continued to puff away in front of his room, and the desk clerk stayed visible through the office window.

  She ate her dinner of vending machine crackers and a Diet Coke on her walk back to her room. As much as she’d love to go for a run of her own, she’d wait until they stayed in safer surroundings. Secure or not Mike didn’t seem to care what kind of place it was. He knew he could handle himself. In the hours they’d been together she learn
ed he wasn’t afraid of anything. Yet the only place he seemed to be truly comfortable was in the gym. He relied on his trainer and his boxing brothers. He never mentioned anyone or anything in his life besides boxing and Stamina. She didn’t know how she was going to get him to talk, to give her the interview to make both of their careers.

  With as much disdain as he carried for her, she was lucky he didn’t dump her off on the side of the road. He didn’t want her, and he damn sure didn’t need her. She caught a glimpse of Mike running up the road, heading back toward the motel. She studied his stride. Even-paced and tight. Only he could run five miles after driving all day. He had dedication, she’d give him that. He stuck to his regiment. Then an idea hit her. Maybe his habits were giving her the answer. He had to make talking to her part of his routine.

  ***

  Ava stood by the SUV at five a.m. Sharp. No Mike. She didn’t want to automatically go all Holly Phillips on him, but part of her did start to worry. She checked her watch. In five minutes, if he didn’t show, she’d knock on his door. Maybe he lost track of time.

  Five minutes later, after the cigarette guy appeared for his morning smoke, Ava decided to find him. She knocked three times. In a beat, his door opened with a jerk.

  “Is everything okay?” She peered inside the room, secretly hoping there were no shady characters hiding in Mike’s room.

  “I can’t find my wallet.” Concern lined his voice.

  Ava felt her face tighten. “When was the last time you had it?”

  Mike walked back into the room, searching. “When I checked in, I paid cash.”

  “And then you went for a run.”

  He gave her a sharp look, like he’d caught her spying. “Yeah. I ran. I left my wallet in my bag.”

  She stepped inside his room. He’d made his bed. “Did you pay for dinner?”

  He scratched his head. “I mixed protein powder with water for dinner. I drank it here. I didn’t go anywhere.”

  “You’re sure you left it here when you went for a run?”

  He grunted something that sounded like positive.

  “I’m going to go by the office and see if anyone turned it in,” she said. However, the feel of the neighborhood didn’t give her the warm fuzzies, nor did it fill her with hope that the motel housed a bunch of Good Samaritans.

  The tiny office was dark and locked. A sign listed the opening hours at six a.m. She had no choice but to go back and help him look. Mike walked around outside, searching the dumpsters, and beside the vending machine. Clearly he’d come to the same conclusion she had.

  His wallet was gone.

  He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Some son of a bitch stole my wallet,” he said, once she was within earshot.

  “The office doesn’t open until six. We can look around the room again.”

  “I checked it.” He growled.

  She would’ve offered to go get him a coffee if he drank the stuff. Standing in the dark was all she could do for him at the moment.

  “Everything was in there,” he said into the distance. “Cash. Credit card.”

  “Driver’s license?” She blurted out the question before he finished talking.

  “Driver’s license,” he confirmed.

  Oh. Shit.

  Her shoulders fell. “Can we call Daniella? Is there something she can do?” she asked.

  He gave a half shrug. “She can bring my passport to New York. I’m going to have to show some kind of identification to fight.”

  Her heart sank. This was bad. Really bad. She knew this no-tell motel was a bad choice. Not that she’d ever say so to Mike, but the part of her mother that lived inside her had feared something like this might happen.

  “You’re going to have to drive,” he said, “if we don’t find it. I can get Daniella to wire me some cash, but you’ll have to do the driving.”

  She looked up at his unshaven face. “At least I won’t have to worry about you dumping me off on the side of the road.” She gave a light smile. A lame attempt at a joke.

  He gave her a stern look, silently scolding her for making fun of his situation. But as part of her wanted to shrink under the weight of his stare, her heart lifted. Finally, he needed her. And, if he was going to let her drive, it meant he’d accepted that he needed her.

  If he needed her, and she proved she could be trusted, he’d talk.

  And Ava might get her interview after all.

  Chapter Ten

  At six thirty a.m., Ava heard the words she’d longed to hear all morning. Mike handed her the keys and uttered a very gruff, “Let’s roll.” Electricity skittered up her forearm when he touched her, her body’s reaction of his fingertips brushing against the palm of her hand. She ignored the sensation. They had more pressing matters at the moment.

  While Mike completed one final search around the dumpster, she’d inquired at the office, letting them know of the lost wallet, and asked if she could leave her name and number in case it turned up. The woman behind the counter met Ava’s request with a nonchalant, “Ifyouown’tto.” Whatever that meant.

  Mike had accepted his wallet wasn’t going to turn up, and they needed to hit the road, putting an end to a frustrating search.

  Fifteen minutes later, Ava exited a fast-food drive-thru with a large coffee and breakfast burrito, and headed out of town. At last. The only good part of the last twenty-four hours.

  The sound of food wrappers and Mike’s occasional crunching on a protein bar filled the cabin of the SUV. He drank his bottle of water in silence and chewed as if he were deep in thought. She thought the day might go like the day before. They’d ride forever in silence. He’d flash her pissed-off glances that she was breathing his air, and she’d try her best to ask a question or two.

  Her gaze followed his hand as he reached for the radio and searched for a station. “I should’ve listened to you,” he said after skipping over a few channels of static.

  She nearly spat out her coffee.

  “You had your reservations about staying there. I should’ve taken that into consideration.” His voice softened.

  Her heart squeezed at words she never thought she’d hear. “I’m sorry someone stole your wallet. That sucks.”

  The mood in the car lifted. She genuinely felt bad that his wallet was gone, but a night alone in the hotel from Psycho would take a while to forget.

  “Guess I’ll have to answer your questions, or you’ll make me sleep on the backseat.” His wrapper crinkled and he placed his trash by his feet.

  “I’m not that mean. But, for tonight, I pick the hotel.”

  He smirked. “Deal.” He looked out the window. “Riding shotgun sucks.”

  She nodded. “It does. Gives you time to think.”

  “About what?”

  “About whatever you’d like to tell me. What do you think your fans would like to know?”

  “How should I know what they’d want to know?”

  They’d been traveling less than an hour and it was already starting. Could he be any more frustrating? She knew he’d just lost his wallet, and while that was a ginormous pain in the ass, she didn’t need to be his verbal punching bag.

  She kept her eyes on the road. Stay professional, she told herself. “Okay, I’ll start. What do you think makes a great boxer?”

  He sat quiet longer than she expected him to. A quick glance in his direction told her he was working his answer out in his head. He shifted in his seat. “Good fighters test their limits. They know them, but they never cross them.”

  “You seem like a guy who doesn’t cross lines. Have you ever crossed one in the ring?”

  “Only in sparring and only with someone I trust. If you’re going to push yourself to your athletic limit, you need to make sure you’ve got someone there that has your back, someone who supports you no matter what and won’t take advantage of your weaknesses. There’s only one person I trust like that. It’s Jack Brady.”

  Her heart sank. Did he really have no one else oth
er than Jack that he trusted? Not that there was anything wrong with Jack Brady, but somehow it surprised her that he wouldn’t have said Daniella or Shakes.

  He must have serious trust issues.

  Ava tucked the growing list of questions in the back of her mind. Conversations about trust weren’t meant to be had at sixty-five miles an hour. No. Maybe she could break down his defenses once they settled in for the night and he relaxed. She gave a brief nod, letting him know she was moving on to the next question. “In the ring, is it more important to be respected or feared?”

  “Respected,” he responded quickly. “The thing about fear is sooner or later men face their fears and, if they’re lucky, beat them. Once you’re beaten the fear fades. Respect never dies.”

  “How does it feel to knock someone out?”

  Mike let out a heavy sigh. She allowed her eyes to move in his direction and she noticed the deep lines on his forehead. The question had taken him somewhere, the way thought-provoking questions do.

  The impulsive side of her wanted to pull over and dig deeper. However, Mike wasn’t her usual interview. If he caught on that she knew how much her question moved him, he’d give her some off-the-cuff answer and shut down.

  So, instead of pulling over, she evened out her speed, glued her eyes to the road, and waited for whatever he intended to give her. With another quick glance, she took in the contemplative look on his face. Her heart squeezed, and she knew whatever turned inside his mind was actually coming straight from experience.

  He sighed again. “In sparring and training, you prepare for the knockout. You plan for it because you know your opponent is planning the same for you. The first time I knocked a guy out, I was a kid and I thought he was dead. The guy landed”—Mike gestured with his hand—“like a tree falling over. He was out cold and it scared the shit out of me. I didn’t want to hurt anybody. I only wanted to win.”

  “And now?” Ava asked during his brief pause.

  “Now, I don’t feel anything. A knockout is the point where planning and execution meet. There’s no celebrating because it’s what you’ve planned for. There’s no fear because you’ve planned for that, too. The knockout simply means your job is over, and it’s done whether you’re the guy on the mat or the one with his hands in the air.”