Love On The Ropes (Ringside Romance)

by White, Pat

  Love On the Ropes

  By Pat White

  Copyright 2013 by Pat White

  Original copyright 2006 by Pat White

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter One

  “In other words, you want me to go undercover as a professional idiot—I mean, wrestler.”

  DEA Agent Jason McBain would have laughed at the ludicrous order if he weren’t so burned out from three months of undercover hell posing as a drug dealer.

  “If you’ll let me continue,” Supervisor Ronald Meek said.

  Jason steepled his fingers and pretended to listen to the Dickless Wonder. Meek was in rare form today, spouting statistics, theories and strategy. The man could rationalize it fifty-seven ways to Sunday, but Jason knew what this was about: Meek didn’t want him around.

  Of course not. Meek was still burning about Jason’s collar of the Kamachi drug ring. He didn’t appreciate Jason outperforming him, and he was embarrassed that he’d nearly gotten Jason and the team killed by passing along bad intel. Fact was, Jason could outthink, outshoot and out piss every guy in the friggin’ unit. They hated being reminded of that, which was what the Kamachi case did.

  “We’re not sure how they’re distributing it,” Meek continued. He handed the five agents assigned to his team a spreadsheet.

  Jason glanced at the pristine white form. They were sending him away from the action because he did his job and did it well. He glanced around the black lacquered table at his fellow agents: Dugan, Steck, Andrews, Totem. They were supposed to work as a team, like in Special Ops. But here every man seemed out for himself.

  “We’ve tracked the activity from Des Moines to Omaha, then from Dallas back to Chicago. The drug is a hybrid steroid—dangerous stuff, especially when used by kids. It pops up after the show comes to town. These wrestling promotions are run by an owner, a handful of office staff, plus a dozen or more wrestlers. Pro wrestling is the connection to the drugs. I’m guessing Chicago is the hub of this operation.” Meek looked at Jason. “Of course, it’ll be your call. You’ll run things as you see fit.”

  Hell, if Jason were running things he’d tie Meek the Geek to a ring post and let a four-hundred-pound wrestler use him as a punching bag.

  Meek continued his lecture, tapping a fancy blue pen on the manila file folder. Jason reached into his suit jacket looking for gum. His hand brushed against Sophia, his six-inch Komodo. Now there was a thought: he could arc the blade across the conference table in 1.3 seconds, nail Meek between the eyes and be out of here before lunch. Nah. He’d lose his job for sure, and it wouldn’t look too good to write “fired for killing my boss” on a job application.

  Jason’s mind wandered as he listened to Meek’s voice drone on like a siren suffering from a low battery. Using Sophia on him would be a waste of a good weapon. Better to use her on something productive like cutting the shoulder-length hair he’d grown for his last assignment. Jason hated the style: long, shaggy and out of control.

  “You still with us, McBain?” Meek asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You can have two agents as field support if you need them.”

  “I won’t.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Even after the Kamachi collar they still thought him a big, dumb thug. Dumb as a cement post, that’s what he’d overheard Meek say, probably because Jason wasn’t into small talk and looked more like a bouncer than a DEA agent. Yet they’d seen the file and knew he’d earned his degree like everyone else. Okay, so it wasn’t from Harvard like Meek’s or UCLA like Kyle Totem, who sat quietly on Jason’s left. But it was still a degree, paid for by the U.S. government. A degree he’d earned post-military, which in his opinion was the better education. His time with Special Ops taught him how to stay alive.

  “So, when do I begin this,” Jason hesitated, “assignment?”

  “As soon as you’re ready.” Meek closed his folder and eyed him. “You might need a few months to bulk up for the part.”

  Bulk up, his ass. At six-two, J weighed in at 220—mostly muscle. He’d been working out since he was fourteen. He had to be strong to protect his family.

  “I’m in good enough shape.” He didn’t know much about pro wrestling, but he knew it wasn’t a real sport and suspected there wasn’t much athleticism involved.

  “I’ve secured a spot for you in BAM, a wrestling promotion out of the Midwest,” Meek continued. “The owner, Cosmo Perini, owes the Feds a favor so he’s agreed to let you go undercover. Your stage name will be Jack the Stripper.”

  J clenched his jaw. A friggin’ stripper? Keep a lid on it. Don’t lose it in front of this jerk. “Jack the Stripper, huh?” he said.

  A couple of the guys snorted.

  J didn’t have to ask who came up with that idea. It was the perfect way for Meek to sabotage his career—by making J the joke of the division. Hell, by making him the joke of the entire agency.

  “Don’t cut your hair or shave too close,” Meek said. “Jack the Stripper is a heel, a skuzzy character, according to Mr. Perini.”

  Wonderful. J just finished an assignment that lasted three months too long in a seedy part of Detroit. The only thing that kept him going was the thought of getting his buzz haircut, shaving, and sitting in a hot tub for three days. It would take that long to wash the scum off his body.

  Instead, he’d have to keep his shaggy hair and three-day stubble, and become a freak stripper for a fake sport. Jason reconsidered stringing up his boss and slapping him around a little. Who needed a job, anyway?

  “The promoter’s information is in the file,” Meek said. “Contact Mr. Perini and schedule training sessions so you’ll look convincing in the ring. I’ll expect a report every week. Sooner if you run into trouble.”

  Was that hope in his voice? Ass hole.

  “How long do you expect this assignment to last?” J asked.

  “As long as it takes.”

  Which meant forever. Meek wanted revenge, and he’d found the perfect way to get it: by shipping Jason off with the circus.

  J took a slow, deep breath. Sure, suspects convicted of distributing steroids could end up with a ten-year plus sentence depending on their criminal history, but Jason wanted something sexy, something exciting, like busting meth labs or heroin rings. Instead he was stuck with distribution of a drug preferred by cheating athletes and macho teenagers.

  “Now, on to the Hutchinson case,” Meek said. He glanced at J. “That’s all, Agent McBain.”

  J wanted to sit there to prove to Meek that he could handle listening to the high-pro
file stuff he’d be missing, but he couldn’t risk it. After months in undercover hell, he was burned out. In this state, even a controlled guy like J could lose it. He wouldn’t, not in front of this bozo.

  “Thank you, sir.” Jason stood, grabbed the file and casually strode toward the door.

  “McBain?” Meek’s high-pitched whine called out.

  J turned. “Yes, sir?”

  “I spoke with Robert Dunham yesterday.”

  Jason waited. Dunham made the big decisions, set up teams, cut people loose.

  “I got the impression that if you nail this assignment as effectively as the last you could get your own team come fall.”

  J tried to act appreciative.

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” he said.

  He left the conference room and headed for the elevators, heat burning his neck. Wasn’t it just like Meek to taunt him with the promise of his own team? J’s dream had always been to call the shots, to run his own group of agents. But so far he’d ended up working for incompetents like Meek.

  “Jason, wait,” Agent Totem called out as he reached the end of the hall. The man caught up as J pressed the down button.

  “It’s bullshit, man. Total bullshit,” Totem said.

  Totem wasn’t a bad guy, just kind of submissive when it came to authority figures.

  “Thanks for the support, but—”

  “No, listen. Meek is holding back. I think there’s something else going down with the wrestling promotion. I’m not sure what, but there’s more to it. Watch your back.”

  “Agent Totem!” Meek called from the door. “You were getting coffee?”

  Totem glanced over his shoulder. “Just wanted to wish McBain good luck, sir.”

  “You should be more focused on your own career.”

  “Yes, sir.” He looked at J. “Bastard,” he whispered.

  “Thanks.” They shook hands.

  Totem went back into the meeting room. Before closing the door, Meek shot J his patented, rat-like smile. He sure was holding something back.

  J turned back to the elevator. So, was this a setup, a way for Meek to torch his career? No matter. He’d wait it out. Sooner or later the top brass would figure out Meek had shit for brains and an ego the size of the Pacific Ocean.

  J got into the crowded elevator and thought about his next move. Research, plan, execute. Study his enemy and become him in order to catch him. Only this time he wasn’t sure who the enemy was.

  A minor detail. He’d figure it out.

  A tall brunette squeezed in next to him. Her scent reminded him of Daria. Damn, he needed a long soak in a hot tub, maybe a massage to go with it. The stress from staying alive these past few months, then being ambushed by his boss this morning had stripped him bare.

  The brunette smiled. He’d been staring at her. Get a hold of yourself, man.

  The self-imposed celibacy was messing with his head, causing him to lose focus. He smiled back. Maybe he should break down and take this female out for a night of hot, fast sex, going fifty on the Harley.

  Her face flushed two shades of red. She’d read it in his eyes, which meant his normally, impenetrable armor had cracked in a few places thanks to his last assignment and this morning’s ambush.

  The doors opened and he brushed past her. He had a job to do. No female would throw him off course.

  Make that female or male. Meek thought he was torching J’s career? Not happening. J would become the best pro wrestler in the business, find out who was dealing steroids or worse, and nail the son of a bitch.

  * * *

  “Are you a masochist?” Sandy Ryan, medical assistant extraordinaire, stared down the stubborn pro wrestler. Make that stared up. Hmmm, maybe that’s why the six-foot plus beast wasn’t listening to her. He towered over her by a good seven inches.

  “Sit your butt down,” she snapped.

  He flopped down as ordered. They never argued with her. Men in pain were like that: they gave in and gave up. Maybe if they’d listen to her once in a while they’d be in less pain.

  A few of them would still be alive, too. Damn steroids. When were the boys going to learn that they were not as invincible as their stage personas? When were they going to admit that fellow wrestlers were dying of heart attacks every year from abusing the dangerous drug?

  Curly Carlisle sat on the locker room bench and sighed, stretching out his neck.

  “Sit still so I can start with the ice,” she commanded.

  “Yes, sir.”

  She took a step back and stared him down. “You trying to piss me off? Because I’ve got five other guys I could be working on.”

  “Sorry,” he muttered.

  “I’ll bet you are.” She pulled an ice pack out of her bag. Cracking it a few times to activate the chemicals, she ground her teeth at the guy’s subtle insult. She’d heard the rumors about her being the ice queen lesbian. Usually she didn’t care, but with her baby sister’s news about being pregnant a lot of things were bothering her that usually didn’t. Truth was, she’d turned thirty-one last February and if she didn’t watch herself she’d become an old maid like Aunt Doris. She cringed at the thought. Doris was so lonely and sad, always talking to her goldfish, Victor. Was that Sandy’s destiny?

  “I gotta get to a meeting with Cosmo in twenty,” Curly said.

  “You’ll leave when I’m done with you.” Sandy placed the ice pack against his neck. “Hold this,” she said, her voice softening a bit. She couldn’t help it. Whenever she focused on the healing process, her voice, her whole body, automatically softened.

  Too bad she wasn’t soft and welcoming when it came to men. Where on earth did that come from?

  She went to the sinks and rinsed a washcloth under hot water. Glancing into the mirror she thought, No wonder I’m single. Strands of blond hair escaped from her ponytail and clung to her cheeks. Worse, her worn makeup made her look like a cover model for antidepressants: circles shadowed bloodshot eyes; her skin was pale and lifeless. She’d totally forgotten to apply blush and lip color this morning thanks to oversleeping. Madame Bovary, her spoiled Calico, had woken her at two a.m. determined to play feather chase.

  Sandy knew men valued a woman’s looks more than anything, at least most of the men she’d met, and especially her ex-boyfriend, Cody Monroe. Oh, crud. Why did she have to think about him?

  Truth was, men wanted showpieces. Sandy was a geode: rough on the outside, sparkly on the inside. Too bad she couldn’t trust a man enough to let him have a crack at finding the gem inside. Not after the number Cody had done on her.

  That’s fine, she thought, wringing out the washcloth. She’d experienced enough emotional pain, always picking the wrong guy to let have a crack at her. Sure, a few of them had scratched the surface—just enough to hurt her—but no one worked hard enough to get inside.

  Her strawberry-blond waves tickled her cheeks. She put down the washcloth and re-wrapped the tight bun. Better. Professional. She should cut her hair, but the length made her feel feminine. Besides, Mama would disown her. Which is what her mother would do if she found out Sandy wasn’t actively looking for another job and a potential husband.

  “We’re going to try a new approach,” she said, walking back to Curly. Two more wrestlers joined him.

  For a second she felt intimidated by their size, but only for a second. She’d grown up hanging around BAM shows and most of the wrestlers were like big brothers. That’s why she lectured them about their health. However angry she was at how they abused their bodies, deep down she cared about the boys.

  “Hey, Sandy,” Oscar said.

  “Hey.” She removed Curly’s ice pack and applied a hot compress.

  “Is he gonna be okay?” Oscar asked.

  “Probably. What did you do to him?”

  “It’s not my fault.” Oscar shrugged. Everyone loved Oscar, his warm smile and wicked sense of humor. “He let me do a pile driver on him.”

  Sandy glared at Curly. “If you’re going to do moves
like that against my advice, I’m not wasting my time on you.” She handed him the ice pack. “Go check in with Johnny.”

  She packed up her bag.

  “Where are you going?” Curly asked.

  “To find someone I can really help.”

  She marched toward the door, whipped it open and bit back a groan. She’d never understand why they did this to themselves. Pro wrestling didn’t have to be so dangerous. It was almost as if some of the guys enjoyed punishing themselves.

  She headed for the trainer’s office. There were probably a slew of guys lined up for therapy or muscle massage. There was no shortage of injuries.

  If only the wrestlers would listen to Johnny, the head physician, they’d be in better shape. They certainly wouldn’t listen to Sandy, a girl they thought of as their little sister thanks to all those years hanging around watching Pops, Curt and Duke rassle.

  Some days she wished she would have listened to her own common sense and pursued a medical degree instead of EMT training and massage school. She would have quit wrestling by now. Instead, she’d opted to make Pops proud and maybe, did she dare hope, earn his love?

  “Sandy!”

  She turned and spotted Cosmo Perini, her boss and owner of Brawlers and Maulers, heading in her direction. Cosmo always reminded her of her Pops: a little scatterbrained but with good intentions. Pops would have liked working for him if the cancer hadn’t ended his career.

  “What’s up, Cosmo?” she asked.

  “Glad I caught you. I... I have a favor to ask.”

  She let her twenty-pound backpack slip to the floor.

  “There’s a new guy, Jack the Stripper.”

  She quirked a brow.

  “Jason is his real name. Anyway, I’m bringing him on from a small promotion in Detroit. The guy’s got real talent, still raw, and he’s hardheaded. I’m afraid—”

  “He won’t admit when he’s hurt?”

  He smiled. “You can always read my mind.”

  Just like she’d always read her dad’s mind.

  “Could you keep an eye on Jason for me? You know…” Cosmo glanced at the cement floor, then into her eyes. “On the QT.”