by White, Pat
It wasn’t the first time he’d asked her to keep an eye on one of the wrestlers, but Sandy heard something different in Cosmo’s voice. Jack the Stripper had him spooked.
“You know I don’t like secrets,” she said. Everyone knew it. She was an upfront, honest woman. Sandy never made excuses or told lies. She was what she was, and she expected everyone else to behave the same way, at least with her.
Cosmo rocked back on his heels and rolled his lower lip over his top lip.
“Cosmo?” she prompted.
“I owe someone a favor. That’s why I’ve hired The Stripper. Only ...”
She waited. She’d learned from years of being with Pops that sometimes you had to wait for the important stuff. In some cases, she was still waiting.
“I’m not sure I can trust him,” Cosmo said.
“He isn’t ready to get into the ring? He hasn’t got the moves down?” She tried to keep the panic from her voice. She knew that a sloppy wrestler could cause major injuries to the other boys.
Cosmo shook his head. “He knows enough moves to get by. He’s a jobber after all. He’s set to lose every match. It’s just, he’s got that shifty-eyed look to him. I think the guys that sent him here are trying to take over BAM.”
“That’s happened before. You’ve come out on top.”
“This is different. I feel it in my liver.”
She was surprised he could feel anything in his liver considering the amount of beer he consumed on a daily basis.
“What do you want me to do? ” she asked.
“Don’t mention we had this conversation to anyone, not even Johnny. Stick close to The Stripper when you can. Let me know who he talks to and what he does on his off hours. Befriending him would help.”
She must have made a face.
“I know the thought of getting close to one of the boys is offensive to you, but I really need your help.”
There it was again, the assumption that she found men distasteful, or offensive, or both. Cody must have spun some colorful rumors before leaving BAM for Hollywood, probably because he never recovered from the fact he couldn’t give her an orgasm. Men and their egos.
“I’ll do what I can,” she said.
“Good, good. He’s on the ‘B’ schedule. Starts today. I’ll talk to Johnny about changing your schedule to coincide with The Stripper’s.”
The Stripper. Sandy could hardly wait. She knew for the most part that the guys took on alter egos closer to their true selves than they dared admit.
“Eeeeekkkkkkkk! ”
Missy, valet for Flamboyant Floyd, sprinted toward them teetering on her three-inch heels. She seemed more like a nutcase than an assistant. “Get a doctor! Call the police! Get me a steak!” she cried.
“Calm down.” Sandy reached out to touch Missy’s arm. Missy jerked away, obviously scared off by the Sandy-is-a-lesbian rumor.
“It’s Floyd!” Missy grabbed Cosmo’s hand and started running—more like loping. Cosmo motioned for Sandy to follow.
But she had more important things to do, like tend to injured wrestlers. She knew that Missy could make a melodrama out of eating toast. Floyd was a big guy, a smart guy, too. Missy was probably worked up over a bad haircut or torn trunks.
“Good God, woman. What’s happened?” Cosmo said.
“Jack the Stripper is trying to kill Floyd!”
Chapter Two
What on earth was this about? Sandy tore off past Missy and Cosmo, her eyes trained on the wrestlers crowding the hallway up ahead.
“Out of the way!” she yelled, approaching the group.
She pushed through the circle of boys and froze. A big guy, she guessed Jack the Stripper, pinned Floyd to the ground and was threatening him with a bright pink stiletto clutched in his hand. What was he, a cross-dressing stripper? She hoped he didn’t wear those into the ring.
This was the guy she was supposed to keep an eye on? Peachy. He was a lunatic.
Naked from the waist up, The Stripper looked like he weighed about 230 with barely an ounce of fat on his hard-muscled body. A thick scar ran across his left shoulder blade, and straight dark hair hung to his shoulders—shoulders knotted with tension. He didn’t look juiced, so what made him snap?
“Say it again, you son of a bitch,” The Stripper threatened in a voice so low she strained to hear him. “Say it again.”
Floyd glared at The Stripper, but didn’t utter a word. Great, a game of my-dick-is-bigger-than-yours, or in The Stripper’s case, my-thong-is-smaller-than-yours.
Whatever. These boys shared a code and The Stripper had broken it.
“Knock it off!” She got in his face. “Drop the stiletto. Now.”
He turned his head in slow motion, pinning her with phantom blue eyes. Not baby blue like Pops, or turquoise like Duke. No, these eyes were a dark, almost midnight shade of blue. And they were radiating disbelief at Sandy.
“Give me the shoe and say you’re sorry,” she said.
“You’re kidding, right?”
The slight rumble of his voice made her breath catch. It was the sound of man struggling to hold on to self-control. Great. She’d jumped into a pit of utter chaos. She wanted to ask the boys for backup, but couldn’t risk breaking eye contact with The Stripper and losing her dominant position.
Now what, Pops? Now what do I do?
“Get out of my face, woman,” The Stripper said.
His tone irked her. “Not until you stop threatening my wrestler, man.”
“He’s your wrestler?”
Was that humor in his voice?
“They’re all my wrestlers,” she said. “My job is to keep them healthy and in the ring.”
“Not this one.” He ripped his gaze from her and glanced at Floyd.
That’s when she noticed it: a knot on The Stripper’s head that oozed blood. Floyd must have gotten his licks in.
“Oh man,” she whispered. “What happened to you?” She reached out.
He jerked back. “Get away from me!” His eyes flared with pain he tried covering with anger.
She gently assessed his injury and this time he didn’t move. His eyes narrowed as if warning her that he was coming after her next with the spike heel.
“You’re bleeding.” She showed him her bloodied hand.
“I’ve bled before.”
Great, another macho man.
She glanced over her shoulder. “Dick, toss me my backpack.”
The beefy wrestler hesitated and slid it towards her with the toe of his boot. It was obvious none of these teddy bears were going to defend her against the crazy stripper.
She dug into her bag, ripped open an antiseptic wipe with her teeth and cracked a cool pack. She reached out and swabbed at his injury with the antiseptic.
“What are you doing?” he asked, jerking away.
“My job.” She placed the cool pack against his neck and thought he winced, but couldn’t be sure. He looked like the kind of guy who wore a permanent strained expression to keep people away.
“Your job,” he repeated.
“Yeah, and if I lose it because of you, you’re going to be sorrier than an impotent drunk in a whorehouse.”
That seemed to get his attention. He sat back on his haunches and lowered the stiletto shoe, staring at her like she was a three-headed alien.
“Tip your head forward,” she said.
“No.” He glanced at a few of the wrestlers, then back at her.
Ah, so he wanted to be healed but didn’t want an audience. She stood, put her supplies in her bag and slung it over her shoulder. “Let’s go. You need ice, maybe a few stitches and X-rays to determine internal damage.”
He sat there, stiletto in hand, watching her—more like undressing her with his eyes. Her nipples hardened and she suddenly wanted to knock him around herself.
“What is it with you guys?” She glanced at the group. “Didn’t any of you graduate from high school? You don’t understand English, or what?”
The
Stripper stood swiftly reminding her of Theodore, the family cat who, with silent stealthy leaps, would ambush you while you were engrossed in your favorite TV show.
But this guy wasn’t cuddly, clever Theodore. He was a complete unknown, a lot bigger than Sandy and he’d nearly poked Floyd’s eye out with a stiletto—a weapon still clenched in his right hand.
“Whatever,” she said.
Trying to act nonchalant, she headed for the first-aid room. Either he’d follow her so she could tend his ugly head wound or ... She decided not to consider the “or” option. At least Johnny would be in first aid. Nothing scared Johnny.
Honestly, not much scared Sandy. She’d seen worse than this, especially during Pops’ recent days battling cancer. She’d watched the fight being sucked from his body and the color drain from his sky blue eyes.
A former pro wrestling champ, her father ended up in the ring with an opponent he couldn’t possibly beat. But he wasn’t going down without a fight, and Sandy was staying right there with him, brightening his day in any way she could. When she spun tales about the superstar wrestlers his eyes sparkled a little brighter, his cheeks reddened with excitement. He loved this business. And Sandy loved him.
Are you proud of me, Pops?
“Don’t ever do that again.”
A steel hand gripped her upper arm and pulled her to a stop. Sandy looked up, way up, into The Stripper’s eyes, now nearly black. Sweat beaded on his forehead indicating he struggled against severe pain.
“Don’t do what again?” she asked.
“Humiliate me in front of them.”
“You didn’t need my help with that.”
Stunned, he loosened his grip and she pulled free of him. Instead of turning and running away, she put her hand on his back and led him the rest of the way to first aid. He limped, probably from hitting his knee against the cement, but he went willingly.
You could have knocked her over with a feather. Feeling a bit victorious, she decided to engage him in conversation. It wouldn’t hurt to know how he’d cut his head open, and if he had a tetanus shot recently.
“So you’re the new guy. Where did you come from?” she asked, steering him toward the first aid door.
“Why do you want to know?” He eyed her and slowed down.
“Because I write the gossip column for the Times,” she retorted. “What’s your problem, dude? I’m just trying to make conversation.”
“I hate conversation.”
She swung open the door and spotted Johnny tending Big Red. “Good. You probably wouldn’t be any good at it anyway.”
“What?” The Stripper grabbed her arm again.
“Would you stop with the manhandling?” She yanked on her arm and pulled free.
“What did you say to me?”
“Look, you’d better get that chip off your shoulder and leave it in the Dumpster outside where it belongs or you won’t last two hours here.” She put down her bag. “Actually, I’m surprised you’ve lasted this long.”
“What’s up, doll?” Johnny asked, stepping up beside her.
“New guy needs his head examined.”
“Me? I need my head examined?” The Stripper said.
Oh, for Pete’s sake, was everything an insult with this guy?
“You’re the one with the bloody knot on your head.”
“Who is he?” Johnny asked.
The new thorn in my side, Sandy thought. “He’s the new jobber, Jack the Stripper.” To think Cosmo asked her to keep an eye on this self-destructive, disagreeable bonehead. Days like today made her seriously reconsider her career with BAM.
With a hand on his arm she lead the patient to Johnny’s table. “The Stripper might need stitches.”
“Don’t call me that. And I don’t need stitches,” he said.
“Well, you need something, cuz you’re bleeding all over yourself.”
“I’m fine, I’m…” He hesitated, took a step and turned white. The adrenaline rush must have worn off.
“Grab his arm!” she cried. She and Johnny got a grip on The Stripper and guided him to the examining table before he collapsed.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he mumbled.
Okay, so he didn’t want to be called The Stripper and she needed him to calm the hell down so they could examine his head wound. What was his name again? Jackson, Jacob? She knew it started with a J.
“J, I need you to relax,” she said.
Johnny handed her a washcloth and she wiped the patient’s forehead. “You still with us?”
He didn’t answer.
“Check this out, Johnny.” She turned The Stripper’s head and pointed to the bump.
“Who did that?”
“Maybe Floyd, I don’t know. When I found this guy he was in the process of killing Floyd with a pink stiletto.”
“Killing Floyd?” Red croaked.
“Not really killing him,” she said. She didn’t want to ruin The Stripper’s career before it got started. Then again, he was doing a good job of that all by himself.
“We might have to take him to the hospital,” Johnny said.
“No hospital. I’m fine, I’m ... fine ... fine,” The Stripper muttered.
“Sounds broke to me,” Red offered. “Like a scratched record.”
“Thanks for the diagnosis,” Sandy shot over her shoulder. “What do you think?” she asked Johnny.
“Could be a nasty concussion. Clean the wound and see how deep it is. Then we’ll determine if we need to get him to the hospital.”
A conservative approach was always Johnny’s way. He knew the medical bills could empty out a pro wrestler’s life savings. It’s not like they qualified for affordable health insurance.
She washed her hands in the sink, keeping an eye on her patient. He didn’t move but continued to mumble that he was fine, over and over again. She couldn’t argue with him in one respect — the man did have a fine body.
“Damn,” she whispered. She’d worked with these guys 24/7 and never thought twice about any guy’s body except for it being broken or on the mend. But there was something different about this guy. Something vulnerable ... and incredibly sexy.
Snap out of it! She had to stop being drawn to lost causes and stay focused, assess his injury, administer first aid and move on to the next patient.
A lunatic — that was her first impression of The Stripper, so she’d keep thinking of him that way to keep this silly attraction out of her head. She walked back to him and tried prying the shoe out of his hand.
“I think you’re done with this.” She tugged, but he wasn’t letting go.
“Okay,” she whispered. So what if he had a shoe fetish?
She tried to gently turn his head for better access to the wound, but he resisted.
“You are a stubborn son of a bitch,” she muttered.
* * *
You are a stubborn son of a bitch. The words echoed in Jason’s brain. Stubborn, stupid, insane. Familiar words uttered by a medic in Bosnia as he patched Jason up to be flown out of that hellhole to a real hospital.
No, he couldn’t go. Couldn’t leave Chauncy.
“Gotta get back,” he mumbled, trying to sit up. A firm grip on his shoulders kept him flat.
“Come on, J. Work with me here,” a voice said.
A woman’s voice, and she’d called him J. He opened his eyes but was staring at a bare, white wall. Pressure at the base of his neck made him wince. He turned his head and looked at the source, a beautiful woman with big, catlike green eyes and an angry expression.
“Stop it already,” she said.
Jason drifted in and out of la-la land. Who was she again? A nurse? A field medic?
Wait, no, he’d left Special Ops, became a cop, and joined the DEA. The DEA. Right. His current assignment: to infiltrate a pro wrestling organization. Take off his clothes, act like an idiot, and nail phantom drug traffickers. Steroids. Christ, he wished he hadn’t remembered.
“Come on, just relax,” the
female said. It was the girl from before, the petite blonde who’d challenged him in front of the guys.
A sudden crash vibrated across the room.
“Where’s that son of a bitch?” a man threatened.
The girl moved in front of Jason, placing an open palm on his chest. Her fingertips grazed his naked skin, calming him, making him feel like he was being lowered into a foxhole where he’d be safe.
“It’s over, Floyd. Get out of here,” she said.
“I’m gonna kill him!”
The woman’s cheeks flushed, red creeping down her neck. One eyebrow slightly raised, she stared Floyd down while patting Jason’s chest with her fingertips.
“You’re not going to kill anyone,” she said.
“Right, I forgot. You’re into jerks like Cody Monroe and this whack job.” He motioned to Jason. “That’s why none of the other guys can get into your pants.”
“Hey!” Johnny said.
Something flared in the woman’s eyes and instinct demanded Jason knock Floyd’s teeth out of his head. He struggled to sit up.
“Relax,” the woman ordered, then looked at Floyd. “Did it ever occur to you that there’s no one in this organization worthy of ‘getting into my pants’ including pretty boy Cody Monroe? Go on, get the hell out of here.”
She turned to Jason, her touch warming his skin like a heating pad, relaxing his muscles and uncoiling the knot in his chest.
“Turn your head so I can get a good look at your wound.”
Her voice had softened, soothing him in a way no amount of whiskey could. Then she did something completely unnerving: she smiled. It was a bright, young smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. It radiated an innocence he couldn’t comprehend. Her smile made him look away, turning his back on Floyd, his enemy.
“That’s good,” she whispered.
He felt her swab his head wound. Scuffling and grunts echoed in the background. A door slammed and the woman hesitated, her fingers resting against his shoulder. Her deep sigh warmed his skin. She was relieved. About what? That Floyd didn’t pound on J in retaliation?
Nah. She didn’t even know him.
