Fighting the Fall

by Jennifer Snow

  Tyson nodded.

  “All right, I’ll see you later. Call Melinda.”

  As his father left the gym, Dane Hardy, one of Tyson’s senior trainers and fighters, grinned at him from inside the octagon, where he was shadowboxing and warming up.

  “What?” He knew what, but he wanted to see if the guy had the balls to say it.

  He didn’t. “Not a thing, man,” Dane said, climbing down from the cage and heading toward the front desk.

  Tyson knew his father’s latest suggestion of gymnastics would sound lame to the other guys. As much respect as they had for his dad, they all knew he’d become a little punch drunk over the years. Decades of concussions and head trauma had resulted in symptoms similar to Parkinson’s disease—tremors, slow movement at times, and muscle stiffness, all things that seemed to disappear when Alan was sparring. But he trusted the older man’s judgment and if his father thought he needed extra flexibility and balance work, he’d do it. He’d only lost one fight his entire career. His father’s guidance hadn’t steered him wrong yet.

  Dane handed him a bottle of water and a towel. “But I do have to ask: What’s he going to have you do next? Cheerleading?”

  The guy couldn’t resist. “If it means keeping the belt.” He took a swig of his water. “Tell me again—where’s your championship belt?”

  The guy grumbled something unintelligible as the front door opened.

  “That’s what I thought,” Tyson said as he turned.

  His grin evaporated as a tall, thin, blonde woman walked into the gym. Her six-inch heels and her red lips meant she had to be lost and looking for directions. Tyson turned away and began restocking the mini-fridge with water bottles. Let the other guys fight over who would help her. Still, he was aware of the sound of her heels approaching on the gym floor.

  “Hi, can I help you with something?”

  What a surprise. Dane was the first to jump on it. The man had a permanent hard-on for tall, thin blondes . . . hell, so did most men. At one point, he too had been partial. Now, he wasn’t so stupid. The hotter they were, the farther away he stayed. And by the look of this one, several miles wouldn’t be safe enough.

  “Are you Tyson Reed?” Smooth and deep, her voice wasn’t what he’d been expecting. Neither was the fact that she was asking for him.

  “Today, I wish I was, but no . . . the guy you are looking for is that man right there,” Dane said.

  “Couldn’t have said I’m not here?” Tyson mumbled as Dane stepped behind the desk and reached for another bottle of water.

  “I could have, and you could get me on a fight card sometime this decade . . .” the fighter said, making a crude hand gesture as he went back to his training.

  “Nice,” the blonde said with a frown.

  “If that offended you, you better leave now before someone lets an f-bomb slide.” He rested his hands on the counter and waited for the sales pitch he was ready to shut down. These training gear companies really knew how to sell their products. Hot women with absolutely no knowledge about fighting but could flirt their way to a “yes” passed through his gym on a weekly basis, pushing everything from hand wraps to nearly illegal supplements.

  “Okay, let’s start again,” she said, relaxing her shoulders and lifting her Tiffany diamond–encrusted sunglasses from her eyes and sliding them up over her hair.

  The dark brown eyes weren’t what he’d have put his money on either. Wasn’t it normally blonde hair, blue eyes?

  “I’m Parker Hamilton.”

  Was that supposed to mean something to him? He waited.

  So did she, a confused frown appearing on her face the longer the silence continued.

  He didn’t have time for this. “Well, great chat.” Turning, he resumed stocking his shelves with supplements, making sure the labels all perfectly lined up and faced outward.

  “You don’t know who I am?” she said.

  Oh shit. He turned and lowered his voice, not wanting the other guys to hear. “Look, I’m not proud to say this, but there’s been more than one tall blonde in my bed, so forgive me if in my no doubt drunken state, you were passed off as a fantastic dream.”

  Her mouth dropped. “You arrogant asshole.”

  “What? I said ‘fantastic.’” What did she want from him?

  “You could only imagine just how fucking fantastic it would be, but trust me, you’ve never had the pleasure.”

  “Great use of the f-bomb—especially the double entendre.” He cocked his head to the left and folded his arms. “Well, if you’re not here to claim you are carrying my child or provide an explanation for the mystery rash I had a few months ago, what are you selling?”

  “I’m an actress.”

  “Then you’re really lost.”

  “I want to train here.”

  “And I want a new Maserati. Guess we’re both out of luck.” He picked up the cardboard box that had held the supplements and broke it down.

  “I’ll pay you to train me . . . it’s for a part in a movie.”

  His eyes did a quick once over. Without the heels, he’d guess she was five six, five seven . . . she couldn’t weigh any more than a hundred pounds and most of that was in her ass and the obvious doctor-enhanced boobs. Not a trace of muscle definition anywhere—at least not from what he could see. “Cage Masters—two blocks away on West Sunset Road—they can help you.”

  “I went there. They said if I want to learn how to fight like a girl, I needed to talk to Tyson Reed.” Her smile could only be classified as pure evil as her lips curled at the edges, revealing a perfectly straight row of white teeth.

  Again, not exactly the teeth of someone who got punched in the mouth regularly.

  “I believe that’s called ‘trash talk.’ I Googled it,” she said, placing her hands on her hips.

  He commanded his eyes not to follow.

  “She Googled it,” Dane said, appearing behind him.

  He fought a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Apparently. Look, Ms. Parker . . .”

  “Hamilton.”

  Whatever. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I can’t help you. In fact, you would probably need a group of trainers and dieticians full-time for a year to take this—” he gestured toward her body—“and make it look like someone who’s been training MMA.”

  “I’ve got three months and I’m willing to pay a hell of a lot more than these guys, I’m sure.” She gestured toward Dane and then leaned across the desk, giving him the perfect opportunity to stare at her ample chest pouring over the top of her tight white tank top.

  He didn’t take it. The once-over on her body had been mistake enough. His dick and his head were often on opposing sides of most of his decisions where women were concerned, and this time he was sticking with the head outside of his gym shorts.

  Besides, three months? No way was that possible. And he had his big fight soon. No, letting her train at his gym was a bad idea on too many levels. “Sorry, the answer is no.”

  “How much?”

  “I’m not interested in your money.”

  “You’re going to refuse a paying member?”

  “You’re not a paying member. You’re a walking cock-tease and I’ve got real fighters, training for real fights. Besides, I told you. I don’t even know how you got the part. Your body type doesn’t exactly scream cage fighter.” He’d like to pin her in a cage, but that was totally different.

  She bit her lip; admittedly, he was shocked he hadn’t gotten slapped for the cock-tease comment. “I don’t have the part yet. The audition is in a week.”

  Now she was just insane if she thought he could help her that quickly. “Well, I hate to be the one to shatter your Hollywood dreams, sweetheart, but even if I wanted this liability, I really can’t do much in a week.”

  “I’ll pay you a thousand dollars to try.”

  He paused. A thousand dollars? She really was insane or just had more money than she knew what to do with.

  “My age
nt said that for now, I just need to know a few moves—the right stance or a few punches . . .”

  Sounded simple. But he knew from experience, nothing with a hot blonde was ever simple. This too would somehow come back to bite him in the ass. But another extremity was begging to get up close and personal “training” this woman—exactly why this was the worst idea ever.

  “No.”

  “I can even just sit in on a few classes first. You won’t even know I’m here.”

  She was persistent. “Oh, sweetheart, everyone would know you’re here.”

  She flashed him what he could only assume was her best on-camera smile.

  “That wasn’t a compliment.”

  She pouted.

  He looked away. He hated pouting women. That simple little gesture with their lips was like kryptonite to him. He often found himself giving in too easy, too fast at the sight of a tempting bottom lip.

  “Please.”

  “No. I’m sorry, I can’t help you.” He had his own fight to prepare for. He had fighters to train and a gym to run. He didn’t have time for this shit.

  She sighed, reaching into her purse. A second later, she slid a copy of her photo sheet toward him. “My number’s on here. Think about it. Please. I’ll go as high as two thousand for the week. Call me when you change your mind.”

  Obviously, she thought money was a motivator for him. It wasn’t. The gym was doing great and his MFL payouts kept him living his modest lifestyle just fine. He stashed the photo sheet under the desk. He’d toss it out when she was gone . . . or keep it for his own viewing pleasure. “Don’t wait by the phone, Ms. Hamilton.”

  Chapter 2

  Later that day, Parker’s eyes flew across the script as she retrieved the pages from her printer.

  It was good.

  The dialogue was fresh and edgy and the character she would be auditioning for, Jessica “The Crusher” Carlisle, was one of the best female leads she’d ever read. Based on a true story, the movie was about a single mother whose marine husband died overseas and her everyday struggle to find the courage and strength to keep fighting inside and out of the cage. It was powerful and exactly what she’d been looking for. The script was funny, touching, and full of Oscar-worthy moments. Even the secondary characters were relatable and appealing. Excitement gathered in her chest as she flipped to the front of the script. She didn’t know the screenwriter or the director and the e-mail from Ian had warned her it was a low-budget indie project, but it didn’t matter. It was brilliant.

  Going to her computer, she Google searched the director, but his IMDB credits were two other indie films with budgets less than five hundred thousand and casts no larger than ten actors. Neither had done well at the box office or at the film awards.

  She stared at the paper coming out of her printer as the rest of the script collected in the tray.

  Was this the right part for her? She was used to working with big-name directors, high budgets, and leading men whose name rivaled hers for the first screen credit. Would this role be viewed as desperation in the eyes of her peers? An admission of defeat?

  The last thing she wanted was to accept a role that would only further destroy her career and confirm she was done. She’d worked too hard over the years to make sure her acting career didn’t fizzle out in adulthood, the way most child actors’ careers did. Too many of her former costars were working normal nine-to-five jobs now, struggling to land roles in theater productions or commercials, trying to hold onto their dream. She knew she’d been lucky to have had the extended career she did, and she wasn’t ready to walk away from it all. She still had so much to offer, so much passion for film.

  As the printer spit out the last page of the script, she picked up her cell phone. Whenever faced with a career decision, she always called her grandmother, a former Hollywood actress who’d raised Parker from seven years old after her parents died in a house fire. She didn’t remember too much from that life-changing event, but she knew it had been the end of her normal childhood and the start of her path to stardom. The overnight transition from her middle-class home in Phoenix with her parents to the luxurious lifestyle with her grandmother in LA had been just the beginning.

  Three rings later, her grandmother answered. “Hello.”

  “Hi, Abigail.” Her grandmother always insisted she call her by her first name, never by the dreaded title of Grandma. At seventy-nine years old, her grandmother didn’t look a day over fifty, thanks—in part—to the cosmetic procedures she continued to have done.

  “Hi, darling, I was just thinking about you this morning.”

  “You were?”

  “Yes. I saw a review of that movie you were in last year, Dancing on Fire . . .”

  She cringed. Labeled as the Dirty Dancing of the decade, her latest film had brought in low numbers at the box office and depression-inducing reviews from critics. She’d had her doubts about the film, but Brantley had convinced her to take a chance on it anyway, claiming that it might be the project to save her downward-spiraling career after the last few box office disasters. She’d trusted his judgment against her gut and her agents’ warning, even though her “downward-spiraling career” had only started when she’d started to accept roles in his film projects.

  He’d been the original director on the project, but had been replaced when the male lead refused to work with him. After their breakup halfway through filming, she was relieved that he had been replaced, but by that time, she also realized the movie was going to be a bust, not a boost to her career, and it was already too late.

  She kicked herself whenever she thought about how stupid she’d been to trust him. Their relationship had been only as real as the ones depicted onscreen. Based on a mutual love of movies and a desire to be one of Hollywood’s powerhouse couples, it had lacked depth and a strong connection.

  She wasn’t in any hurry to enter another one.

  “Which review?” she asked. “The one from the LA Times claiming the only good part of the movie was the final credits or the one from USA Today that said ‘Parker Hamilton’s portrayal of a ballerina would have been more believable had the actress learned how to dance . . .’” She knew every critique word for word, and they shook her confidence every time she considered auditioning for a new role.

  “No, this one was actually quite positive.”

  She sat straighter. “Really? Where are you reading it?”

  “The Phoenix Valley Review.”

  She sighed. Her grandmother’s community newspaper was hardly the starred review she’d been longing for. Still, she said, “What does it say?” She must really need an ego boost these days if she needed to hear this.

  Abigail cleared her throat, and Parker could hear the paper on the other end of the line as her grandmother read, “Dancing on Fire has to be Parker Hamilton’s best film since Lego Barbie . . .”

  Okay, maybe this review wouldn’t make her feel better. She’d starred in sixteen movies since her second role at nine years old playing a little girl who builds a Barbie doll out of Legos and the doll comes to life.

  “‘She was graceful and elegant and her character was wonderfully flawed . . . A hit for Ms. Hamilton . . .’ The rest just goes on about the movie’s plot,” her grandmother said.

  Short and sweet. “Can you . . . uh . . . save that for me?”

  “Sure, darling.”

  “Anyway, I was calling because I have a new part I’m considering auditioning for . . .”

  “That’s wonderful. Who’s the director?”

  She flipped to the front page of the script. “Kilroy Clarke,” she said slowly, still unsure if auditioning for this part was the right thing to do. She’d heard of indie projects never getting finished because of lack of funding. Would they even have a budget to pay her high salary quote? The script was so good, she wasn’t sure she cared.

  “Kilroy Clarke . . .” Abigail was repeating the name over and over, trying to place it. “Is he an international?”

>   “No. He’s an independent filmmaker. You’ve never heard of him either?” She’d been hoping her grandmother would have. With her sixty-plus years in the movie industry, there were few people she didn’t know.

  “No. I’m sorry, darling . . . I can ask around. See if someone can put me in touch with him.”

  “No,” she said quickly. “That’s not why I’m asking.” For years her grandmother’s influence and contacts had helped secure her roles. This time she wanted to do this on her own. Get the part because she deserved it, without having to wonder if Abigail’s influence had swayed the decision to cast her. “I was just wondering, that’s all.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. It’s fine.” She bit her lip as she retrieved the rest of the script from the printer and stared at it.

  “What’s wrong?” her grandmother asked in her silence.

  “I’m just undecided about whether or not to audition.” The day before she’d been excited and eager, but Tyson Reed had made her doubt her decision. Was he right? Would it be impossible for her to look and act like an MMA fighter in such a short period of time? After the reviews from Dancing with Fire, the last thing she needed was another role where she couldn’t live up to the demands of the character.

  “Have you read the script?” her grandmother asked.

  “Yes, it’s brilliant.”

  “Then audition. Trust me, those are few and far between these days.”

  Her grandmother was right about that . . . and even fewer were coming her way. She released a deep breath, decision made. “Okay, I will. Thanks, Grandma.”

  “I don’t know who you’re referring to. There’s no old lady here.”

  * * *

  It was pitch black in his bedroom when Tyson sat upright, tossing his covers aside. He’d heard something, and he listened for a repeat of the noise that had just woken him. A quick glance at the clock revealed it was just after two a.m. The last time his sleepless eyes had drifted to the clock it had read one fifteen. Somehow between then and now, he’d finally managed to fall asleep.

  And now he was wide awake again.