by White, Pat
Are you proud of me, Pops?
She shuddered, fighting off a case of butterflies. They always hovered before a show since she couldn’t help but worry about not being able to save one of the guys.
Kind of like her inability to save Duke from a lifetime of suffering. Then again, if he would have listened to her instead of lying to her face and performing that dangerous move—
Water overflowed and splashed onto the floor. “Rats.”
Why was she thinking about her brother? He was getting better at wheeling his way around in the chair, and even took a step or two when his physical therapist, Blue, busted his chops.
She couldn’t help Duke, but she could help the other boys, analyze their injuries and suggest helpful treatment. She never lied to them, never sugarcoated her opinion.
And now she was helping one of the boys take off his clothes. Mama would be furious if she knew. She’d lecture Sandy about wasting her training on the “worthless circus” that had taken away her husband. Actually, it was cancer that nearly killed Pops, but pro wrestling destroyed their love long before his illness struck.
Sandy couldn’t blame Mama for resenting the sport. The woman had lost a husband’s love, seen a son crippled, and watched a daughter devote her life to athletes who were into, as Mama put it, masochistic self-abuse. She’d never be able to see past her own pain so Sandy didn’t talk much about work. Instead, she’d send out resumes and report job leads to her mom.
She went back into the first aid room. “Grab my gear and follow me,” she ordered The Stripper.
“Yes, ma’am.” He saluted.
Funny how the rigid movement looked so natural on him. Too bad he wasn’t named something like Private Putz or General Google-burger.
He grabbed her backpack, held onto the lemonade can, and followed. She led him to the women’s bathroom.
“I’m not going in there,” he said.
She turned and stared him down. “Yes, you are. Privacy, remember? You want the boys seeing this striptease lesson?”
“No.”
“Think about it. The ratio of men to women is ten to one. Chances of a woman needing to use this john are pretty slim. Come on.”
She pushed open the door. “Anyone in here?”
“Yes,” said a squeaky voice.
“I’ve got one of the guys with me,” Sandy warned.
“Okay,” the voice answered.
The Stripper hovered in the doorway.
“Get your ass in here, Stripper.”
“Jason, my name is Jason.” He stepped into the bathroom, glaring at Sandy.
Good, his anger was the best way to get through to him, and Sandy sensed he had a lot of it.
“Put the stuff down and stand in the middle of the room,” she ordered.
“What about the lemonade?”
“We’ll get to it.”
Again, he followed her order and stood in the middle of the bathroom. She noticed he faced away from the mirror. Interesting. Circling him, she analyzed his body, clothes and facial expression. He wore a black T-shirt, jeans and black boots, topped off by a leather jacket, also black.
Fingering the rose quartz “hope” stone Mama gave her after Cody Monroe broke her heart, Sandy considered how best to help this man become a polished stripper in less than sixty minutes. He had all the equipment: broad shoulders narrowing to trim hips, thick-muscled thighs and firm buns that stretched his denim jeans, and solid hands. Her gaze drifted back up his chest to his slightly bearded face. Then to his eyes, filled with—
“You having fun?” he asked.
“What did she do to you?” she let slip. It must have been a woman. Only a woman could put that kind of pain in his eyes. Someone broke his heart. Sandy knew that feeling. She shook her head. “Sorry, never mind. Got derailed. Okay, first, you need more clothes.”
“Why?”
“Half the fun is taking them off, not the being naked part.”
“I’m going to be naked?”
“Well, sort of. You’ll be down to your thong, anyway.”
His jaw hardened.
“You do have a thong, right?”
“No, ma’am.” That formal voice again.
“We’ll worry about the thong for the next show. We need to layer you up so you can pull off the clothes slowly, with sex appeal. The more clothes the better.”
“I’m hot.”
Didn’t she know it. “And modest.” She quirked a brow.
“I meant I get hot. I don’t like wearing a lot of clothes.”
The sudden image of him climbing into bed wearing nothing but that silver chain around his neck made her grit her teeth. Crap, she didn’t want to be attracted to this mess of a man, she really didn’t.
“You won’t be wearing the clothes for long. What else have you got in your bag?” she said, reaching for it.
He pulled it away.
“Okay, maybe I don’t want to know. Just pull out the clothes.”
He pulled out a pair of socks, black, another T-shirt and sweats, also black.
“Color blind, huh?” She fingered the sweats.
“How did you know that?”
“My brother is color blind. Wearing black keeps him from looking like an ass. Not much to work with here.” She dropped the sweats on the sink, grabbed the pitcher and shoved it at him.
“What the hell am I supposed to do with this?”
“Make lemonade. It will take your mind off your problems, which I assume are many,” she muttered.
“What?”
“Pay attention.” She dumped four scoops of powder into the pitcher, coughed once from the fumes and handed it to him. “Shake it.”
He took the pitcher, stood completely still and shook the container up and down with his hands. He looked like a robot. And he was going in the ring in forty-seven minutes.
“Let’s try this.” Sandy pulled out her IPhone and cued up a song by Earth, Wind and Fire. “Move your hips in the opposite direction of the pitcher.”
He froze and looked at her, dumbfounded.
“Like this.” Pretending to hold a pitcher between her hands, she shook it up high to her right, her hips swaying low left. He eyed her like she was nuts.
“The hips move, Jason, honest.”
“Not my hips.”
“Why, did you forget to oil them? Come on, loosen up, listen to the music and relax. I’ll move them for you.”
He stepped back.
She put out her hands, palms up, like she was approaching a nervous puppy. “No cooties, promise.”
“This isn’t going to work.”
“Sure it will. Have a little faith.”
He snorted.
“I won’t hurt you. Now relax.” She placed her hands on his hips and moved them in sync to the music. “Slow at first, pretend you’re the spoon stirring my lemonade. Round and round, that’s it, rotate in a circle, good,” she encouraged.
“I feel stupid,” he said.
“You’re using your brain too much.”
“I’m trying to learn, remember?” he said, looking down at her.
“This lesson is easy. Relax your body. You’re way too self-conscious. You have to let go.”
Not possible, Jason thought, feeling her hands on his hips, the soft gentle hands of a healer. He suddenly feared he’d break them somehow.
“I’ll take my chances.” He stepped out of reach.
“Quitter.” She took the pitcher from him, slammed it on the sink and turned off the music.
“Yeah?” He backed her against the tiled wall, pressing his body against hers. Her eyes flared wide, but he didn’t read fear in them. No, he saw challenge, and something else. She wanted to be kissed. Correction, she needed to be kissed. Bad.
That made him even crazier.
Don’t do it!
“Oh, sorry,” a squeaky voice said.
He spun around and saw a fragile-looking female wringing her hands.
“I’m done. I was...” Sh
e pointed at a stall. “Well, sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
She raced out of the bathroom as if he were some kind of fire-breathing dragon, hot on her heels. Great.
“I forgot she was here.” He stepped away from Sandy.
She didn’t move. Her heart raced, he could tell by her pulse, tapping against the charm at the base of her neck. Damn, did he freak her out?
“You could use that kind of focus when you strip,” she said. She sauntered over to the sinks and gave the lemonade pitcher a good shake.
He thought she might be pissed off. Then she turned and shot him a smile that dimpled her cheeks. “Wanna try again?”
“Not really.”
“Tough, I’m not letting you go out there and make a fool of yourself.”
“Why do you care?” he asked, without thinking.
She pursed her lips and the pain that flashed through her eyes felt like a two-by-four slamming into his ribs. He wanted desperately to apologize, but didn’t know what for.
“Do you want to get through this night or not?” She scolded as if speaking to a child.
“Yeah, I do.”
“Good. Then let’s get back to work.” She shoved the lemonade pitcher at him. He took it.
“I’m not getting the whole lemonade thing.”
“Don’t worry, I’ve got a backup plan.”
“What?”
“You’ll see. Now shake your booty. I’m thirsty.”
***
Within the hour, Sandy had given up on her lemonade exercise and Jason discovered her backup plan: a quick shoulder rub and a few shots of whiskey to numb his inhibitions, at least long enough to get through his fifteen-minute match in character.
Two overly made-up, busty blondes escorted J to the ring as the sound system blared rock lyrics about a sexy boy being way hot to touch. He wasn’t feeling very sexy at the moment. He was feeling like a complete idiot—and a little buzzed. Maybe the latter was a good thing. It had gotten him out of the locker room. He hoped he wasn’t dulled to the point of not being able to execute what few moves they’d taught him at BAM training camp.
The crowd cheered and waved signs as he walked down the aisle, the beat of the deep bass hammering against his chest.
I’m a sexy boy, so sexy it hurts…
His blond escorts led him to the metal stairs and he eyed the ring. This was it.
He climbed the steps and slipped through the ropes, remembering Sandy’s words: “Wink like you’re coming on to a woman. Smile like you’ve got a secret.”
Hell, if she only knew.
He started by fingering his leather jacket seductively, letting his hips swing to the beat of the ridiculous music. Jacket slides down ... hang on to it with two fingers ... wink and let it drop to the mat.
High-pitched screams filled the stadium. Okay, he must have done that right.
Wink. Smile. Finger the buttons of the dress shirt he’d borrowed from Floyd. Keep moving the hips, slowly slip buttons through holes, tip the head back, pelvic thrust.
Hell, he hadn’t meant to do that.
An overwhelming cheer rocked the rafters.
Oh well, it worked.
So sexy I’ll burn your fingers, your lips…
His eyelids closed ever so slightly—they were getting heavy anyway—and he swirled his hips like he was stirring lemonade. Sandy liked lemonade. He wondered if she ever made lemonade wearing nothing but her tank top and underwear. Yeah, he bet she did. She was so damned earthy he could picture her in his mind.
Focus!
A sexy boy, a wicked smile, a touch to set you on fire…
The dress shirt slid off his shoulders and down his arms to his fingertips. He let the shirt flutter to the mat.
Cheers, screams, and howls pierced his eardrums. Okay, they were still with him.
He tugged on the waistband of his breakaway pants that Sandy found in wardrobe. The ladies whistled, screamed and hooted. One tried to jump the guardrail, but a security guy held her back.
Unsnap the front of the pants with a wink. Go after side snaps, one by one.
Slow, easy, smooth.
Kind of like how he imagined Sandy would be in bed.
That was not happening. He wasn’t going to bang that sweet thing, a nice girl who was more pure, more real than anything he’d ever touched in his life. He wasn’t going to mess her life up because his hormones were out of control. She was helping him, for Pete’s sake. She deserved better.
Touch me and you’ll see how hot I can be…
He slid the pants down over his hips and they hit the ground. More cheers, more howls.
The only thing left were his trunks and T-shirt, and the trunks were staying on. He gripped the hem of his shirt and rolled it up, up, up, showing off his six-pack, the result of one hundred nightly sit-ups. The shirt was up, and—
Stuck on something. Hell, he’d forgotten to take off his St. Michael medal, the one thing that reminded him who he really was.
Tug, twist, yank. The friggin’ shirt was stuck on his head. The cheers dissolved into laughter. He felt his cheeks burn with embarrassment. His music stopped.
Pull, tug—
WHACK!
Something hit him square in the gut and he doubled over.
Great, California Chris, the West Coast champ, had started the match with a sneak attack. If J could’ve taken off his shirt he would have seen it coming.
SLAP! Chris smacked him across the chest.
J stumbled back into the turnbuckle.
SLAP! KICK!
Damn, he was cornered, being attacked, unable to see and defend himself, like that mission in Iraq.
“ARGH!” he cried, ripping the shirt off his body.
California Chris jumped back. Jason breathed heavily through clenched teeth, pushing back the memory of the choppers overhead—couldn’t get to him, couldn’t get to any of them.
Let it go.
Somehow he managed to shelve the memory, only to walk into a new kind of hell. He’d been ordered to lose tonight’s match to this pretty boy with his slicked-up chest and long, blond hair.
“You ready for a real fight, or did that fight with your clothes wear you out?” Chris taunted.
Sure he did, he knew he would win. He could be the biggest asshole in North America and Jason couldn’t do a damn thing about it.
Chris charged and pinned him against the turnbuckle, straddling the second ropes and throwing five punches to the side of Jason’s head. Fake punches, of course—he doubted this pretty boy knew how to execute the real thing.
Jason acted dazed, which he was thanks to the whiskey.
The booze also made him uncoordinated so he couldn’t undress himself. He was going to give Sandy a piece of his mind when this was—
UGH!
A kick missed its mark and nailed him in the gut—for real. Winded, Jason fell to his knees. Ten minutes of this? Without hurting this pussy boy? No way.
California Chris applied a headlock and whispered into J’s ear. “Three clotheslines, surfboard, sleeper, then Gidget will distract me and you take us over the ropes.”
J wanted to tell him to screw off, but his lungs hadn’t recovered from the kick.
California jumped off Jason and the crowd howled. No, they were actually booing. Uh-oh. That’s not how this was supposed to go. California Chris was the champ, the favorite, the baby face. He was supposed to get the support from fans and win. Jason was supposed to play dirty and lose.
Storming to the center of the ring, Jason glared at California Chris, who charged and delivered clothesline number one. J got up. Another clothesline. J got up again. A third clothesline. He lay there a minute, deciding how much abuse he could really handle.
You’ll do whatever it takes to get the job done.
California Chris slammed a surfboard against Jason’s chest, then kneeled to put him in a sleeper hold. Jason flailed his arms as instructed, wild at first, then slower, slower. He pretended to pass out. Chris lea
ned in and gave him the next move.
“Over the ropes. I’m counted out.”
California released the hold and let J’s head slip to the mat. Jason couldn’t have heard that right. California was supposed to win the match, not be counted out. The crowd went nuts. Gidget must be taunting her ex-boyfriend.
Jason took a few deep breaths, then turned his head and opened his eyes slightly. Sure enough, a babe in a one-piece bathing suit was yelling at J’s opponent. California yelled back, waving his arms.
That was J’s cue to make his move.
He jumped to his feet and charged California from behind. They both went over the ropes, hitting the mat outside the ring.
The place exploded as Jason lay flat on his back, his arm draped across his eyes. He couldn’t believe he was doing this, then remembered his objective: get the bad guys. Figure out who was peddling steroids or worse. Worse? It wouldn’t surprise him. Sandy had been quick with the whiskey for nerves. He wondered what else she kept in that bag of hers. Vicodin? Oxy?
Nah, not Sandy.
Enough! He refused to let a pair of beautiful green eyes blind him.
The referee got in his face. “FOUR!”
Jason knew the drill: if he wasn’t up and in the ring by the count of ten, the match was over and he’d lose. He wasn’t supposed to lose this way. They’d scripted a more dramatic ending.
He crawled on hands and knees to the ring skirt, watching the drama unfold nearby. Gidget stood over California Chris, hands on her hips as if to say he’d gotten what he deserved.
Jason rolled under the ropes into the ring and waited. The crowd cheered, the sound growing louder and louder. He thought about his assignment, about the potential for steroid abuse. None of the guys he’d met so far seemed overly crazed, although he hadn’t met them all. A sure sign of abuse was an explosive temper. Hell, that could describe Jason on a bad day.
The ref grabbed Jason’s hand, pulling him to his feet. J wavered.
“What the hell?” he said.
Gidget launched herself into his arms.
“The winner, and new West Coast champion, Jack the Stripper!” a voice called over the PA system.
Damn, this wasn’t right. Jason ripped his hand from the ref’s and headed for the ropes, anxious get out of the spotlight and away from the cheers and applause.
