by White, Pat
Some were packing up their gear, some were getting ready to work out. Floyd stood straight. He was dressed in a flashy maroon suit and had slicked back his hair. “What the hell do you want?”
“I need to talk to you,” J said.
“What, you come to say good-bye? Cuz that’s the only way I’m listening.”
J glanced at Sandy, who shot him a nod of encouragement.
“I came to…” J swallowed back his frustration. “Apologize.”
“Really?” Floyd cocked a brow in disbelief.
“I didn’t understand how things worked around here. I thought you were insulting me before, that stuff about my mom.”
“She died last year,” Sandy added.
J felt like a heel for telling that lie, but no one would ever know the truth.
“Anyway, I’m new to the whole wrestling thing. I didn’t know you were joking around.” He hesitated again, hoping he’d keep down his lunch. “I overreacted.”
Missy came rushing into the room, bumped into Jason, shrieked and raced to Floyd’s side. “I heard he came looking for you. I called the police.”
Hell, in a single day J had gotten into a brawl with Floyd, was dangerously close to blowing his cover, and would be locked up with the drunks. Why did he join the DEA again? Oh yeah, to put away the bad guys.
Sandy eyed Missy. “You didn’t have to call the police. Everything’s fine. It was a misunderstanding.”
“I saw it all! The Stripper tried to kill Floyd.”
“If I’d wanted to kill him, he wouldn’t be talking right now.” Damn, how did that slip out?
“But you didn’t want to kill him, right, Stripper?” Sandy spoke up. “And now you’ve apologized. What do you think, Floyd? Can you give him another chance?”
“Don’t you dare,” Missy warned.
Sandy knew Floyd hated confrontation and would love nothing more than to accept The Stripper’s apology and move on. But at this moment his pride was on the line. She needed to act fast.
“Ya know…” She ambled to the sinks and rinsed her hands. “When Pops was laid up with cancer he used to tell stories about the old days—stories about the new guys when they joined his promotion.” She eyed Floyd through the mirror. “I’ll never forget the story about Floyd when he first joined the promotion. He didn’t know where to go for his list of moves or how to warm up for a match. But Pops helped you, didn’t he?”
Floyd nodded.
“You were green and naïve, kind of like The Stripper.” She ignored the fire in J’s eyes. For some reason he hated the stage name, but she was trying to save his butt, and calling him by his moniker reminded Floyd that this was show business. “The Stripper doesn’t know much about pro wrestling other than, thanks to his magnificent body, he’ll get a paycheck. A paycheck he needs to support his sister. The Stripper could use your help, Floyd. He’s a little green, kinda like you were fifteen years ago.”
The room fell silent. She’d been green, too, like the rest of them. Sometimes she wished she could go back, become innocent again, maybe even regain her optimism about the future. But futures were short in this business, even for those who didn’t abuse drugs.
“I’ll help,” said a voice from behind Floyd.
Rey Risque stepped in front of Floyd and extended his hand to The Stripper. The Stripper didn’t move at first. She glared at him. Take it! This is the opening you need.
The Stripper finally shook the guy’s hand, a comical sight since Rey was a little dude, barely five feet two. He was an acrobatic wrestler, and the crowd loved him.
“Welcome,” Rey said.
“Thanks, man.”
He glanced at her and Sandy read appreciation in The Stripper’s eyes. So, the man did have a congenial side. Not bad. His eyes even warmed to a lovely shade of blue-green.
One by one, the boys stepped up to The Stripper and shook his hand. They joked about him not bringing ladies’ footwear into the ring or strangling them with his thong. He recoiled at that one, but then stood firm, shaking hands and even smiling.
Whoo-hoo! There was hope for him yet. Hope for this creature that she suspected was a lost soul.
“I’m not forgiving you, ever!” Missy cried, and stormed out of the locker room.
“Missy, wait!” Floyd called after her. With a sigh, he took a few steps toward The Stripper and extended his hand.
“Sorry about tackling you,” The Stripper said.
“I’m sorry about your head. You okay?”
“I’ll live.”
Sandy noticed a perverse sense of satisfaction in Floyd’s expression. Fine, let him think he’d gotten the better of his adversary. That would satisfy his ego and give The Stripper some breathing room.
Cosmo ambled in as Floyd was heading out after Missy. “He’s okay, Cosmo,” Floyd said nodding at The Stripper, then glancing at Sandy. “See you guys Thursday in Tacoma.”
“Well, that worked out, didn’t it, son—I mean kid.” Cosmo shook The Stripper’s hand.
Sandy slung her backpack over her shoulder. Mission accomplished. “You guys need anything before I take off?” she asked. No one spoke up, so she started for the door.
“I need something.” The Stripper’s deep voice stopped her in mid-step. She turned around.
“I need your phone number,” he said.
The room grew oddly silent. The guys knew the rules: they benefited from her skilled fingers, massage techniques and the first-aid experience she’d gained from patching up Pops, Duke and Curt. Other than that, she was off-limits.
“No can do, Stripper. Later.” She breezed out of the room and down the hallway.
No, Sandy didn’t give out her phone number to anyone in the wrestling world. He had no way of knowing that, of course. He had no way of knowing that, or the fact she’d never, under any circumstances, give that guy her number. Why? She wouldn’t give Jason aka “The Stripper” her phone number because she’d be way too tempted to invite him over for a game of strip poker.
As she headed for the parking lot she admitted to herself that he fascinated her, from his hardened attitude to his expressive eyes. She hadn’t felt this kind of attraction since Cody seduced her last year—seduced her, used her and left to become a movie star.
After that betrayal, she’d vowed that no man would hurt her again, especially not another brainless wrestler who abused his body for fame. Sorry, Pops, that’s how I feel. But Pops didn’t see things the same way. He thought of the boys as talented athletes devoted to the world of pro wrestling. Sandy saw them as broken men risking their lives for notoriety.
Yet her heart went out to them. She was a healer, after all.
At any rate, no one in the wrestling world knew her address or home phone number, not even Cosmo. He had her cell number, but she didn’t want any part of the wrestling business when she was off duty. Except for her biweekly visits to Pops’ place, she preferred not to think about work. Instead, she looked forward to hanging out with her calico, Madame Bovary, who purred in her lap as Sandy beaded jewelry for her nieces.
She worked hard to keep the boys from seeing her as an attractive female. She was one of the guys, only better: she could actually heal them instead of beating them up.
As a kid she’d loved hanging out at wrestling shows. She was a behind-the-scenes girl, a sidekick to big brothers Duke and Curt. She had no desire to get into the ring and pretend to be something she wasn’t, yet she could use her talent to help the boys be a little more comfortable while they were killing themselves. It was the right thing to do and it should made Pops proud.
* * *
Three days later, sitting in his rented Chevy outside the arena in Tacoma, Washington, Jason mentally prepared for the show. Not that he was scheduled to go into the ring tonight, thank God.
He rubbed a scrap of paper between his forefinger and thumb. He’d gotten Sandy’s home phone number from his buddy, Totem, and planned to call and thank her for helping with Floyd. But instinct warned him
the girl needed her anonymity and her space. He’d heard about her broken heart thanks to some asshole named Cody Monroe. J sensed that once she left a stadium or the BAM office she was someone else, someone not related in any way, shape or form to pro wrestling.
He sympathized.
Sometimes he didn’t know who the hell he was: drug dealer, DEA agent, stripping pro wrestler or failed son. Failed son? Whoa, brother.
He’d been stalling outside the stadium. He wasn’t nervous. It wasn’t like they were putting him in the ring any time soon. A part of him dreaded that day. But for now he was still on reserve, waiting in the wings for an opening.
He shoved the slip of paper with Sandy’s number into his leather jacket and headed for the locker room. It would probably be a boring night, sitting around watching the wrestlers cheered on by groupies. The guys loved it. Who wouldn’t?
Jason, that’s who. There was a lot more to this man than six-pack abs. There was the stuff inside, the stuff that kept him awake at night: his fears, his dreams. Things he shared with no one.
And right now his dream was to nail whoever was trafficking steroids at BAM, if that person even existed. Leave it to Meek to send him on a wild goose chase, making him suffer in show business hell.
Then J remembered Totem’s warning about something bigger going down at BAM. Was it possible? Maybe. But whether this case was about peddling steroids or something else, Jason would nail the bastards.
First, he’d get a hold of a few of the guys’ cell phones so he could run contact numbers through a database of known felons. He could do that after they emptied out the locker room for the show.
J finally got out of the car. Following some of the roadies through the back door of the stadium, he bumped into one of the female wrestlers.
“Hey, sorry,” he said.
“No problem.”
“Wait, aren’t you—”
“Catherine Zelinski. They call me The Cat.”
Everyone knew Catherine Zelinski from her very public screw-up with the secret service. Apparently Cosmo spared no expense recruiting her for BAM. He was banking on her notoriety bringing in the bucks. From government agent to pro wrestler. You’d better watch it or this is going to be you, McBain.
“Good to meet you.” He shook Cat’s hand, trying to keep the pity from his expression. Then again, could she be working undercover with a different law enforcement agency? She could be the wildcard Totem warned him about. Nah. Now he was getting paranoid.
Laughter from down the hall drew his attention. “Sounds like a party.”
“Not exactly.”
Pity flashed across her light brown eyes. “Nice meeting you.” Wrapping white tape around her palm, she walked away.
Howls of laughter echoed from a dressing room. He followed the sound.
“Stop it, you guys. You’re being jerks.”
It was Sandy’s voice. He’d recognize it anywhere.
“Oh, shoot, girl. This is hilarious,” a man said.
“It is not,” she protested.
“I’ve never seen anything like ... that!” A man burst out laughing.
“It’s awful. Stop it,” Sandy protested.
“I haven’t laughed this hard in weeks!” a woman cried.
Good, J could use a good laugh. He turned the corner and froze.
There, on the TV screen, was his audition tape for BAM. Jason, with no stripping experience whatsoever, a man who hated being exposed, out of control or vulnerable, was making an ass out of himself for an audience of a dozen wrestlers crowding the locker room. He’d made the tape for BAM’s official files in case investors started asking questions. That son of a bitch Cosmo should have destroyed it.
“Uh-oh,” Rey Risque said.
Sandy stepped in front of the TV. The room fell silent except for the faint music of “Sexy Man Moves.”
“Cosmo brought it down to show us,” Rey said. “He thought you might need help with the, you know, dancing?”
A few of the guys snickered.
Jason could flatten them in two seconds: unconscious, out cold. Why was he taking this abuse? Because he needed to finish his assignment and move on to meth labs and drug trafficking in schools. And he couldn’t move on until he’d finished here.
“It’s really not that bad,” Sandy offered, punching the off button with her knuckle. “You seem a little ...” She paused. “Stiff.”
Skipper McGee spit coffee across the room in a fit of laughter.
“Shut up,” Sandy said. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
Her eyes automatically went to J’s crotch.
He would not get hard. He would not get hard.
“I can’t deal with this.” He walked into the hallway and leaned against the cement wall. Meek was getting his revenge all right. This was humiliating as hell.
But he couldn’t let the jerk win. He’d make something good come from this ridiculous assignment.
“Hey.”
He glanced down and there she was, sweet Sandy, sympathy coloring her green eyes.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he said.
“I’m sorry, okay? Cosmo shouldn’t have let the boys see that video.”
“Damn right.”
“That’s like showing someone’s resume to the rest of the staff.”
“Yep.”
“It’s personal stuff.”
“Agreed.”
A few seconds passed.
“Cosmo thought maybe ...” She hesitated, and her eyebrows curled into a frown.
“Maybe what?”
“That we could help.”
“What, you want to take off my clothes for me in the ring?”
She glanced at her purple tennis shoes, her face flushing bright red. He hadn’t expected that reaction. Was she embarrassed? Or turned on?
Truth be told, his mind wandered off a half dozen times since he met this spirited little thing, wandered right into fantasies of her lying beneath him writhing and moaning, begging him to come inside of her.
Hell, it had been way too long since he’d gotten laid, but it sure as hell wasn’t happening with this mark. He needed to keep his distance and his secrets. This sweet thing could peel away his protective shield as easily as peeling skin off a banana.
“Hey, you two! Exactly the people I have to see,” said Cosmo, shuffling up to them, hands in his trouser pockets. “How’s it going?”
“Good,” Sandy said.
“Fine,” J added.
“Wonderful. Well, you ready, son—I mean, Stripper?”
“Ready for what?”
“You’re going on in an hour. Glad you got with Sandy to help you polish up your moves.”
His brain completely shut down. They were expecting him to parade in front of thousands of people and strip? Tonight?
“But I’m not on the card for a few more weeks.”
“First rule of wrestling: the card can change at any time. It’s going to be a great show,” Cosmo said. “And you’re falling down for our West Coast champ. That is, after you take it all off for the ladies.” He winked. “But don’t take it all off. We need to keep it clean for the kids.”
Jason had absolutely no response for that one.
“Oh, there’s my security manager. Cooper!” Cosmo waved at a guy in a black T-shirt, then turned back to Jason. “Keep working on those moves, Stripper.” The man gave him a fatherly tap on the shoulder and took off.
J slid down the wall, landing on the cold cement. How had he gone from catching drug lords to stripping in front of thousands?
Sandy kneeled in front of him and gripped his shoulders with firm, determined hands. “Don’t you fall apart on me, Stripper. You’re on in an hour and we’ve got work to do.”
Chapter Four
The Stripper looked like he’d just lost his best friend, more like his dog since she guessed he didn’t have many friends. She sensed he kept his distance from people—a couple of miles perhaps?
She gave his s
houlders another shake. “Make lemonade.”
He looked at her like she’d ordered him to put on ladies’ underwear.
“Get up.” She stood and extended her hand.
With his “you’re completely insane” expression, he did as ordered and she pulled him to his feet. Man, this guy was solid. But was he tough? She knew a lot of the guys weren’t what they appeared to be.
“Lemonade. Let’s go.” She led him toward the first aid room.
“You mean, take a bad situation and make it good?” he asked.
“No, I mean make lemonade.” They walked into the first aid room where Johnny was working on The Cruiser’s knee. “Hey, guys.”
“What’s going on?” The Cruiser sat up.
“Giving The Stripper some help with his routine.”
“This I gotta see.” The Cruiser visibly drooled. The twenty-five-year-old punk had been hitting on her for the past two months.
What was it with these guys? They knew her rule: never get involved with the talent. Well, almost never. She’d thrown that rule right out the window when she’d dated that jerk Monroe.
Sure, someday she’d leave her position at BAM and move on to a more traditional job. When she did, she’d look for a straitlaced kind of guy, a guy she could trust. A guy she didn’t have to worry about being crippled or dying thanks to his job.
“It’s over here,” she said, digging into a bag of supplies. She pulled out the can of powdered lemonade and handed it to The Stripper.
“What am I supposed to do with this?”
“We’re going to make lemonade. I’ll be right back.” She grabbed a pitcher out of her bag and headed for the drinking fountain.
“I’m surrounded by crazy people,” The Stripper muttered.
“Yeah, says a stripping wrestler who can’t strip.” Sandy went around the corner and filled the pitcher. She needed it for the show anyway. It was Pops’ tradition ever since she could remember: make lemonade, have a few swigs before the show for good luck. All athletes had their own superstitions, and she’d inherited his.
With her nervous stomach you’d think she was the one about to head into the ring. Oh sure, she knew lemonade was probably not the best thing for the flutters, but it reminded her of Pops and made her feel close to him, even though he was miles away.
