The Brawler

by Piper Westbrook

  Angry fire flickered in Veronica’s eyes. “There will be if you don’t leave this venue.”

  “Veronica,” Aly interfered, easing between the exes. “He’s not part of the ‘public.’ He and his group are, uh, they’re invited guests. With a VIP booth.”

  “Why? Who did this?”

  “I issued the invite. It was business.”

  Veronica stared, dumbstruck, then shook her head and hurried off in the direction of the teeming pavilion.

  Arranging for Chance and his guests to be well handled during the celebration, Aly introduced him to a member of the event concierge team who’d personally attend to his needs. Glad she wouldn’t have to deal with him further tonight—unless it was after too many vodka shots and she was yelling in great insulting detail her opinion on what he’d done to her sister—Aly wandered the spectacular grounds.

  Briefly she found a safe haven beside the DJ who was getting everyone hyped for the opening band. Then, when the opening performance started, she roamed until she claimed a seat at the pavilion bar. Seeing her sister so pissed off had made her dizzy.

  “Crowded enough for you?” asked Gideon, who remained standing when she gestured for him to park it next to her.

  “Too crowded. I got a little woozy.”

  “Or that boa constrictor’s squeezing too tight.”

  Aly smoothed a hand down her dress, laughing gently. The wooziness lingered to a degree.

  “Are you going to dance?”

  “Probs. It’s early yet. I was in too much of a rush to get a decent amount of food down,” she decided, though the delectable Bellagio spread at brunch with her parents and tonight’s scrumptious celeb-chef catered offerings in the nightclub lacked appeal.

  “Dance with me later, Aly?”

  Surprised, Aly sat straighter and retorted, “Chelle’s not keeping you on your toes?”

  “She and I stayed behind in the limo.”

  Oh, no. Chelle and Gideon went that far before they’d even stepped out of the Hummer?

  Chelle was at a crossroads. Gideon wanted sex.

  “WTF face,” he said. “Nice.”

  “Sorry.”

  “We talked, nothing more.”

  Aly twisted her mouth. “You two didn’t screw in the limo? Chelle’s going to tell me eventually.”

  “She’ll say it’s not happening, the two of us.” Finally, he sat beside her. “She’s gay. She told me because, according to her, I’m the type to look at a woman and fall in love.”

  Now that was something Aly had never detected, and she prided herself on being very in tune with friends and family.

  “Are you the type to look at a woman and fall in love, Gideon?”

  “Might be,” he said thoughtfully. “She is.”

  Aly scrunched her brows. “What makes you say that?”

  “The way she’s been eye-fucking your friend Odette since we got in the limo. The gang’s doing shots in the club. I brought refreshments.”

  Refreshments, as in weed.

  “Want me to have something ready for you?”

  “Wow, look who’s attentive.” Aly laughed again, but he continued to watch her earnestly. “Guy, what’s this?”

  “Look, Aly. You think we could go back to Nantucket?”

  Go back to Nantucket, as in recreate the pot-smoking, rough-fucking weekend they’d spent together? So much had changed since then. She’d changed. They were strictly platonic friends now, and she was in love with someone else.

  “Sweetie,” she said, folding Gideon’s hands in hers, “don’t look at me and fall in love. Loving somebody who can’t love you back? It’s hell. Please, please, trust me on that.”

  Gideon’s face contorted as he registered what she’d confided. “Um, who the fuck is this guy?”

  “I’m not going to tell you. Not now.”

  “Does he know he’s giving you hell?”

  Shaking her head, Aly said, “Uh-uh, no.”

  “Don’t you think he should?”

  “It’s just how things are, Gideon.”

  It was how things needed to be, if Jackson was going back to his life in Miami, and she was going to one day find a man who’d give her a neat, uncomplicated storybook romance.

  It wasn’t ideal—it was what she’d tried like mad to avoid—but at least she had someone to love who loved her. Rabbit, her Christmas bunny, was a tiny miracle she hadn’t known she needed.

  “Go,” she told her friend, slapping his hand good-naturedly. “Party.”

  She left the bar, mingling with the press and team personnel as the opening band wrapped up their set onstage. Joan managed to flag her down on her way into the nightclub.

  “Veronica and I spoke,” her mother said, steering her to a clearing.

  Good news? Joan and Veronica were speaking again. Bad news? They’d likely bonded because both were upset with Aly’s decision to invite Chance Kershaw to a team function.

  “Mom, I didn’t want to hurt Veronica. But DZ Haze wouldn’t be here tonight if not for Chance’s influence. Inviting him to the event…I thought it was a necessary business move.”

  What lay behind Joan’s regal, critical stare, Aly didn’t know. “I respect that you found yourself faced with a difficult situation and took action.”

  “Was it the right action?”

  “That’s usually determined by the outcome, isn’t it?” An enigmatic answer, but it lent much to consider. “You sound unsure of yourself. Confidence is vital in publicity, Aly.”

  Publicity. Of course. Because you still don’t recognize that I’m invested in this team beyond being the Greer daughter with a spot in S-Dubs.

  “A publicist’s image is vital, too. You’ve been flying under the radar lately, which is appreciated. The franchise doesn’t need more inconveniences.” A muscle tic between Joan’s eyebrows revealed controlled anger, which was expected, since Luca Tarantino’s latest attack had become a part of the feds’ and NFL’s investigations and had hit the media.

  “Glad I could meet the publicity department’s standards.”

  “It’s progress.”

  Oh. So, no, she hadn’t met standards. She’d made “progress.”

  “I should get back to schmoozing,” she said, receding into the swell of guests and event staff as heart-grinding bass exploded and the massive LED screen lit with electric color.

  Aly sampled appetizers, then let the intensity of DZ Haze’s extreme rap seduce her to dance—first with some men from the team’s defensive line, then with her sister Waverly, then alone in a simple sway.

  A gravelly whisper on her neck stopped her completely. “No stripper moves?”

  “Aren’t they meant for bedrooms and poles?” Instant arousal had her skin heating with hyperawareness and her thighs aching to be touched.

  “For me,” Jackson groaned onto her ear. “Your moves are meant for me.”

  Aly’s head tipped back to rest against him and her eyes closed. Spicy cologne teased her; the hardness of him felt both safe and dirty.

  You’re too close. She should say the words, remember where they were and what was at risk. But the desperate, gotta-have-you lust rendered her silent.

  She wanted him to strip off her snakeskin, own her with his body, his hands and tongue and teeth. Compete for her, instead of conceding to her fairy-tale fantasies.

  Scraping the diamonds circling her biceps, he said, “There’s an after-party, right? I can be there—”

  “My place,” she interrupted. “You can help me take down the Christmas decorations. Then you can help me take down my hair. Then—”

  “Aly…fuck.”

  She giggled at the pleading groan, turned around, and almost jumped him. With her back against him before, she hadn’t known he was wearing a silver-gray shirt, dark jeans, and sunglasses.

  If he grinned, if that dimple appeared, she might ride him in the middle of the crowd.

  “Your purse
is vibrating.”

  Aly lifted her handbag and dug out her phone. Unfamiliar number. Engulfed in music, she couldn’t hear a word the caller said and shouted “Sorry!” into the phone before disconnecting the call.

  “Couldn’t hear. I’ll let them call back and leave a message.” But the phone buzzed softly once, then stopped.

  “Oh, a text.”

  “Take care of that,” he said, turning to leave her with her phone.

  She opened the text. There. Again. Heart-stopping fear. “Oh, my God. Jackson, wait!”

  He pivoted and was there when she almost collapsed. “Give me the phone.”

  Wordlessly, she showed him the text.

  It’s Maddie. Help me. I’m sorry about the shoes.

  “Maddie? That kid you’re tutoring?”

  “Was. I was tutoring her. She’s pissed at me. But she’s in trouble.” Aly squared her shoulders, bolstering herself, battling the returning wooziness. Should she allow him access to this aspect of her life? “You don’t have to be involved—”

  Jackson’s arm banded around her, and she could lean on him if she needed to. “We’re going to get her.”

  * * *

  Lagoon Rock Road. The place was from Jackson’s past, and pushing his SUV beyond its limits with his foot heavy on the accelerator and his grip tight on the steering wheel, he saw memories of neglected houses, barren yards, malnourished dogs, stripped automobiles, and the flash of police cruiser strobe lights.

  Mixed up with a group that had accepted him as a scrawny kid with the stones to do just about anything, he’d followed an order to hot-wire a car on Lagoon Rock and had ended up locked in juvie.

  Over the next few years he was picked up in other neighborhoods for a variety of stupid shit from truancy to street gambling.

  Crime had been rampant back when he was beating those streets. The thought of a scared kid sticking to the shadows, trying to find her way to safety, triggered his instinct to protect. And somehow, the realization of how important she was to Aly made her important to him, too.

  At the pavilion Aly had tried to give him an out that he hadn’t taken. Wresting control of other people’s business was one of his unpopular fortes, and usually he didn’t care. But Aly needed someone beside her, not leading her.

  Tonight she needed safety and support. In the driver’s seat, with one of his security specialists available at his command, he provided that.

  When Aly had found out the kid was far from home and tiptoeing around on Lagoon Rock, she demanded his word that he wouldn’t undermine how she wanted to play this. No police or family services ambushes. The girl—Maddie Hawkins—didn’t trust freely.

  “Maddie hopped a fence. She’s in someone’s backyard.” Clutching her phone, Aly twisted toward him in the passenger seat. “It’s a wood fence with graffiti.”

  “Okay.” Wouldn’t narrow things down by much, but he could work with that. “Maddie still on the line?”

  She shook her head, swearing on a shaky sigh. “Phone battery’s low.”

  “Text her. Ask her to stay where she is, if she can. Get low, watch, and listen. Don’t draw attention. She’ll look like a target.” Aware of the take-charge force in his voice, aware that she might figure he was being an alpha asshole about it, he kept talking. He knew Lagoon Rock and streets similar to it. The next minutes could take the kid’s situation from critical to tragic if she got careless and ended up on the wrong bastard’s radar. “We’ll get through to her when we get close.”

  Text sent, she waited motionless until a soft buzz sounded. “She texted ‘okay,’” she said. “Spelled it out. O-K-A-Y. Most kids go for textspeak. Shortening words, sticking in numbers that sound like letters. Emojis. Maddie, she doesn’t shortcut.”

  As she spoke, she started to relax, resting against the seat and loosening her grip on the phone. If he could keep her talking, it might hold the panic at bay. “What do you mean, she doesn’t shortcut?”

  “Maddie commits. From-scratch recipes. Cleaning up the mess from one project before she digs into another. Solving algebraic equations using a paper and a pencil, instead of a calculator.” Aly slanted toward him, calmer now. “She’s had to adapt to so much. She’s only thirteen. Somebody should’ve told her how smart and awesome and tough she is. I should’ve.”

  “You can. Get her home—”

  “Maddie ran from home. Last month she hid in a park to avoid going home.”

  Jackson frowned, easing the SUV onto Civic Center Drive. “What’s making her run?”

  “It’s not what. It’s who.”

  “Yeah?” Still carrying some scars from the hard knocks he’d taken before he learned to defend himself, he had a special brand of loathing for people who terrorized kids. “Maybe somebody should introduce the fucker to fear.”

  “Maybe someone will, but it won’t be you. Maddie needs care and consideration, not violence.”

  “She needs to be protected.”

  “Not through violence.” Aly’s hand curved firmly over his shoulder. “And you’re good for more than that.”

  Was he? Fighting was the central purpose of his life. It was what he’d been trained and conditioned for. As his uncle had told him, he had no reason to stop fighting.

  Jackson didn’t try to cut down her words or shrug off her grip. He loved her voice in his ears, how her touch radiated comfort completely through him.

  He loved?

  “Let’s start looking for wood fences,” he said, trying to catch the thought before it sank too deep. “And get her on the phone.”

  The ghost town atmosphere that welcomed them as they approached Lagoon Rock Road was familiar—as though he belonged to these streets. In a way he did. They were part of his past, something he’d survived.

  Bringing down the speed, he navigated Lagoon Rock while Aly spoke in the phone. Suddenly she said to him, “I see her—about three houses ahead.”

  A skinny figure was sliding down a fence and met the ground with a wobble.

  Bare legs. Stained skin. Shirt ripped to pieces.

  Son of a fucking bitch…

  “Oh, God. No. No!” In a flash Aly disengaged the locks. He’d barely hit the brake when she shoved open her door. She jetted down the beaten sidewalk.

  Jackson got out, but stayed back, watching the kid outstretch her arms and stumble to Aly, bawling.

  And something bright and weightless cut into him, the way the headlights’ beams carved into the dark street. A feeling that he was seeing a version of Aly Greer he’d never met.

  That version of her stayed the night, shielding and encouraging Maddie at the hospital.

  As no more than a friend of the kid’s tutor, he was pushed to the fringes, overhearing bits of conversations as the hours drifted.

  “Fainted during the assault.” “She fell off a fire escape.” “Her wrist is sprained—no broken bones.” “Rape kit.” “Counseling.”

  Through the night a social worker, a pair of cops, and Aly’s sister Veronica showed up.

  “Maddie’s being released,” Veronica told him, meeting him at a cooler that offered lukewarm water.

  “Back to her foster mom?” The woman’s son deserved to have his nuts ripped off, charred, and fed to him. “Back to the place where she was raped? This shouldn’t have fucking happened and now she’s being sent back.”

  “She’s not going back there. Ever. According to Maddie’s statement, her foster mom’s son has been intimidating her for months.”

  “Piece of shit. Say the word and I’ll kill the fucker myself.”

  “Detectives are getting acquainted with him,” she said, giving his biceps a squeeze. “Thanks for being here for Aly through all this. I’ll get them home.”

  “What?”

  “Your shift’s over.”

  “What do you mean, ‘them home’?”

  “There was a crapload of red tape, but they got their way. Maddie’s being released t
o Aly.”

  * * *

  “Eliáš Brazda’s going to beat you.”

  Jackson, who’d been hitting the speed bag in a steady, accelerated rhythm, suddenly gripped it in his wrapped hands.

  Adjusting his skullcap, he tracked Pax as he did a perimeter walk around the ring, then finally meandered to him.

  “Brazda’s not going to outclass you,” Pax clarified, revealing a newspaper tucked under an arm. “He’s going to beat you, hit you where it hurts. Because his camp knows you can be hurt. Here’s your weakness, right here on the Sun’s front fucking page.”

  Jackson snatched the newspaper, making a concentrated effort to remain impassive, knowing his uncle was watching for a reaction. It wasn’t easy, when his eyes narrowed on the headline Boxing King and Drama Queen Make a Royal Rescue.

  Damn it. The press had been the least of his considerations when he’d escorted Aly and that scared, victimized kid to the hospital the other night. When he’d finally left, it had been only because he’d known they were safe with Veronica.

  Skimming the article, he saw more details about the Las Vegas Villains’ post-season celebration and his upcoming pay-per-view fight than his and Aly’s “inspiring act of heroism.” He figured it was because the hospital hadn’t disclosed the kid’s name, and the Greer family and his publicists had declined to comment. Good looking out.

  “Uncle Pax, what’s wrong with you? Relax, man.” He passed back the paper and turned to the speed bag. “Shouldn’t you be used to seeing my name in the papers?”

  “Not hugged up with words like heroic and compassionate.” Pax spat the last word, reaching up to block the speed bag with jittery hands. “Jackson ‘The Brawler’ Batiste isn’t a hero. He’s a goddamn champion because he’ll go through any man to win.”

  Adrenaline and anger moved through his system like liquid lead. He couldn’t break momentum, couldn’t slow down. Adapting, he swerved, targeting a heavy bag.

  The unit he’d destroyed still hadn’t been replaced. Which was odd, considering the pride Pax had always taken in this place and that he’d demanded cash to replace the damaged bag. “When’re you going to get a new bag?” he grunted.

  “One’s on back order.”

  “Got companies in a pissing match to stock this place with equipment,” he said, mopping sweat off his forehead. “Why wait on a back order with that kind of money? Give me the name of the company. I can get a replacement installed—”