Fighting for Love

by Mel Curtis

  Fighting for Love

  Mel Curtis

  Copyright © 2015 by:

  Mel Curtis

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  This book was built at IndieWrites.com. Visit us on Facebook.

  160520.022242

  Acknowledgments

  To my family, who love and support me in all I do.

  To my team, who keep me sane.

  And to readers of my Hollywood Rule series, who keep asking for more.

  Praise and Awards

  USA Today Bestselling Author

  RT Top Pick

  Kindle Top 100 Bestselling Author

  "Ms. Curtis has got it all right with this story. The characters are so well written and the story line is such that you will need tissues for the happy and the sad parts."

  ~ Harlequin Junkie Blog

  “Wonderfully entertaining...”

  ~Jayne Ann Krentz of The Hollywood Rules series

  “Season of Change has found a place on my keeper shelf.”

  ~Brenda Novak

  Chapter 1

  There was darkness and quiet, and a sense of deep peace.

  Until a scream cut through the cold mountain air.

  All the girls in Cabin Two at sixth grade camp startled awake, squealing with false fearfulness.

  Becky, their high school counselor, stood and shushed them. “It’s probably a firecracker or something stupid the boys did.” She turned on the light and walked toward the front door of the cabin, wearing only her boyfriend’s white football jersey, boy shorts and naiveté.

  Emerald Jones slid off the top bunk and sat on her twin sister Diamond’s bunk. They exchanged glances. Their policeman father had been killed four years earlier in a gang bust gone bad. Dad had taught them judo and self defense. And he’d taught them to assess a situation before stepping into something they didn’t completely understand. He’d also taught their mother, who was in a cabin with the other adult chaperones down the hill.

  Without a word, Diamond began putting on her shoes and jacket. As usual, Emerald followed her lead. The two girls moved to the back of the cabin, signaling for their friends to do the same.

  And then the gunshots came in rapid fire, and screams filled the air. Diamond shouted at the other girls to run.

  A door opened and fluorescent light spilled around a broad shouldered silhouette. “E.R., you ready?”

  Emerald Jones sat up, heart pounding, disoriented. She wasn’t twelve. She wasn’t in a cabin. A gunman wasn’t stalking her.

  She was twenty six. She sat on industrial carpet in an empty office in a Los Angeles high rise. She wasn’t Emerald Jones anymore. Emerald Jones had died fourteen years ago, or rather she and her twin had taken on new identities after the killings at sixth grade camp. Emerald only existed in E.R. Jones pre-fight prep. And E.R. Jones only existed in the underground fighting world Esme Hoyt competed in.

  “E.R.?” The fight staffer’s annoyance didn’t faze her. He was no one.

  Esme checked her cell phone. She hadn’t relived the last part of the attack. She hadn’t replayed the image of her mother’s bullet-ridden body crumpling to the ground. She hadn’t felt the subsequent anger pulse through her veins, demanding retribution from the world, demanding she regain control of her life now, in this moment, with her feet and her fists and her wits.

  “I’ll be out in five minutes. Don’t interrupt me again.” Esme lay back down and waited until the staffer closed the door, waited until the pulsing beat of dance music several stories beneath her matched the pounding beat of her heart, waited until the darkness outside reflected the darkness within.

  She was no longer that helpless girl who ran from a classmate wielding a gun. She was no longer the innocent pre-teen who thought the world was full of hearts and rainbows. She was the woman who’d survived, who would survive again.

  She was ready to step into the ring.

  ~*~

  “What are we doing at the Harper Complex?” Graham Richmond stared out the back window of his driver’s BMW at the four office buildings in Los Angeles that flanked the Harper Hotel. It was a clear night and the dark buildings were illuminated by blue lights. “I thought we were staying at the Wilshire in Beverly Hills.” Graham turned to scowl at his vice president of acquisitions, Steve Carson.

  “We’ve been invited to a party here hosted by Kyle Harper.” Steve spoke in the crisp voice of a confident man, the kind who made decisions without bothering his superior.

  Graham felt bothered in the jet-lagged jittery way that led to bad decisions and people getting fired. Steve had been overstepping his authority too much of late.

  “I’m not going to a party here.” Not at the property Graham’s father had lost in a poker game ten years ago, the complex his grandfather built. It’d taken Graham a decade to reverse the damage his drunken, womanizing, gambling father had done to the family business, to rebuild oil fields and oil rigs, to reassemble their large real estate portfolio through acquisitions and new construction. He’d flown from Dallas to negotiate this deal with the Harpers in person. But it was nearly eleven o’clock at night. Graham wasn’t in a polite mood. Not to mention, “I don’t do deals at parties.”

  “We’re not talking business,” Steve said, clearly liking the fact that he knew more about the situation than Graham. “Forget about all those rules of yours.”

  Graham’s rules had gotten Richmond Industries back on its feet. Nothing in excess – not food, not drink, not women. No gambling. No circumventing the law. In short, no repeat performance of his dead father.

  “Consider this a goodwill visit,” Steve added.

  "My goodwill doesn’t extend to the Harpers." At the moment, it wasn’t extending to Steve.

  But Graham had to admit he was curious. They weren’t the only ones pulling into the Harper Complex this late at night. Whatever was going down, it wasn’t an intimate party. He probably wouldn’t have to see Kyle Harper beyond a polite meet and greet.

  Steve read a code from his cell phone to a security guard and they were let in. Their driver was told to use Building B’s parking garage. Another security guard pointed them toward an underground passageway that led to Building C's parking garage. Several people were getting out of cars and joining them in the tunnel. Hollywood types. Women who looked like they hadn’t eaten a decent meal in weeks, wearing hooker heels and skirts that barely covered their asses. Men who wore pink shirts, suede loafers and platinum watches the cost of which would feed a small, starving nation for a week.

  “What is this, Steve?” This was looking less and less like a meet and greet, and more like an event, someplace donations were made, not deals. Graham’s steps slowed.

  “This is insight into Kyle Harper. Insight we need.”

  Deep insight had made Graham successful, knowing not just the price and operating costs of a property, but what would motivate sellers to sell and workers to peak performance.

  They reached Building C, level 10. Dance music pulsed around them. Strobe lights cut through the crowd. Steve gave his card to one of the attendants, a buxom brunette in a black evening gown. Others were shelling over large bills. Their attendant escorted them down two parking levels along a walkway lined with velvet rope.

  It was a crisp, cool spring night outside. Here, it was hot and oppressive.

  They dodged women in black cocktail dresses carrying trays of martinis and bottles of beer. They passed guys in their twenties wearing suits and taking money as attendees placed bets. Folding chairs were set up in rows down one level of the garage and up another, all facing a far corner where an octagon fight cag
e had been set up. There must have been at least a thousand people in attendance. The closer they got to the ring, the bigger the diamonds and the breast implants on the women.

  The brunette escorted them to the front row. Graham was seated next to Kyle Harper, a wiry man in his thirties wearing an expensive gray suit and a pink shirt. His eyes were sharp, unlike the wispy blonde on his arm, who looked as if she’d seen more white lines tonight than the ones painted on the concrete floor.

  “Glad you could make it,” Kyle shouted, with a grin that said he thought he was The Shit. Back home in Texas, he'd have to have the cajones to back that grin up. “I wanted you to see the equity we’ve built into the place. This is why we have the lowest vacancy rate in the city.”

  By this, Graham presumed Kyle referred to illegal fights. If this was how the Harpers did business, they were tainting the place. The need to reclaim the complex of buildings his grandfather had built pressed on Graham, until he thought his fist might pop away from his body and into Kyle’s face.

  The music faded, and a young man in black slacks and a white dress shirt with rolled up sleeves stepped into the ring. He carried a microphone. “Are you ready to party?”

  The audience's response shook the walls.

  “Let’s honor our host and remember the rules.” The emcee nodded to Kyle. “Fighting only goes on in the ring. You throw a punch, we’ll throw you in the octagon.” The crowd laughed as if this was a frequently told joke. “There’s no cell service down here, so don’t whine about it. Because we don’t give a shit.”

  The crowd's jubilance was deafening.

  Graham was tempted to leave almost as much as he was tempted to punch Kyle. He and Kyle were about the same age, but Kyle either had no idea or didn’t care what a huge potential liability this was. One injury, one sue-happy guest…It would cost.

  “For our first feature fight of the evening…please welcome to the ring…the best of Long Beach…Nasty Nettie Lewis!”

  The crowd noise swelled along with the volume of dance music as a woman worked her way up the velvet rope from the lower level. Nettie pranced as if she was working a fashion runway. She entered the cage, and dropped her robe revealing a female version of Arnold Schwarzenegger – tan, ripped, bulky. To the audience’s delight, Nettie threw a couple of punches and kicks.

  “And now…”

  The lights dimmed and the music kicked back up. Only this time it was a heavy metal song Graham’s dad used to blare in the oil fields when he was sober: Back in Black.

  “The un-de-feated phenomenon…She’s sent many an opponent to the emergency room…” At the roar of approval, the emcee nodded. “That’s right. E.R. Jo-Jo-Jones!”

  As one, the audience leapt to their feet, turned and craned their necks to see the fighter coming down the velvet rope walkway. Curious, Graham stood. At six-six, he was taller than most of the attendees and could watch the fighter’s no-nonsense approach.

  The woman wore a black satin robe with the hood shadowing her features. Only her eyes stood out – heavily lined, bright blue eyes. She stared straight ahead, ignoring the rabid fans she passed. The closer she came, the more intrigued Graham was by the expression in her eyes. There was a steely determination there, but something else, something he couldn’t quite name, something that called to a dark place within him.

  E.R. walked into the ring and held up one hand briefly in acknowledgement of the audience. She removed her flip-flops, handed her robe to someone at the cage gate and then shook out her limbs, which weren’t nearly as bulky as Nasty Nettie’s. Her hair was dyed royal blue and braided tightly against her head in a zig-zag design ending in a fringe at her neck. She glared at Nettie as if she wanted to kill her.

  Despite her opponent’s bigger bulk and Amazon stature, Graham had no doubt who the winner of the match would be – E.R. Jones.

  “Let’s go, Nettie.” Kyle crowed and then faced Graham. “I’ve got five thousand riding on the challenger making it to the second round. E.R.’s never been in a fight that lasted more than one round.” He signaled one of his suited bookies. “Wanna bet, Graham?”

  “No.” Graham scowled, first at Kyle, then at Steve, and then at the approaching bookie, who got the message and spun away.

  “Sometimes you’ve got to put it all on the line.” Kyle slapped Graham on the back the way middle school boys taunted one another.

  Graham clenched his fists, but did nothing. He wasn’t in Dallas, the land of taking a punch and walking away. This was L.A., the land of the lawsuit, not to mention the warning about being tossed in the cage if he took a swing at Kyle.

  In the ring, there was hand shaking and rule explanations, although not much of either one. The fighters retreated to opposite corners of the cage, waiting for the bell. No one in the audience sat down. Everyone was on their feet.

  And then the bell rang.

  The women didn’t approach each other slowly, like boxers would have. They charged forward like two speeding freight trains on the same track.

  Nettie threw a punch, which E.R. dodged and countered with a jab to the sternum and a right hook to the face. Nettie hesitated, perhaps robbed of breath or her senses.

  E.R. didn’t hesitate. She tackled Nettie, taking them both to the ground and securing an arm bar around her opponent’s thick neck. Twenty seconds later, it was over. Nettie, the best Long Beach had to offer, tapped out.

  The crowd loved it.

  Only when the referee raised E.R.’s arm and proclaimed her the winner did E.R.’s eyes cool. Only then did something flicker across her features as her gaze slid to Nettie, who lay on her back on the mat.

  Graham thought the look in her eyes might be regret.

  Chapter 2

  Most days, Esme could take or leave the lure of sex.

  Really, men were too much trouble for twenty minutes and the promise of heaven. Promises weren’t always kept and Esme didn’t have much patience for the fragile male ego.

  That was good for me (a lie). You have skills, big man (a double lie). Yes, I’ll call you so we can do it again (the biggest lie of all).

  But after a fight, Esme could use a man to take off the adrenaline-spurred edge.

  Too bad she could use money more, which was the only reason she came to Kyle Harper’s after-party in the penthouse suite of Building C.

  Kyle insisted all fighters make an appearance at his party to get paid. Novice fighters showed up first thing, lining up to get their cash and then working the room for various reasons – other underground fights, free drinks, hook-ups. Headphones in, Esme had relaxed in the empty office for the other fights to finish, listening to music and stretching her back. Then she’d waited forty-five minutes longer for the line that was sure to lead to Kyle to dissipate before showing up.

  She wore a long sleeve, black mini dress, killer ebony heels, and round mirrored sunglasses. She left her workout bag with the doorman and entered the room the way people expected a kick-ass fighter to – like she owned the place and would tear the head off anyone who begged to differ.

  She never worked the room. She came, she collected her purse, and she left without speaking to anyone. She’d created a mystique with her loud appearance, first round victories, and aloof presence at Kyle’s parties. And mystique was worth something in fighter fees.

  But despite fighting every few weeks for an ever-increasing fee, Esme wasn’t near enough to her goal. And time was running out.

  She headed directly toward Kyle, ignoring her twinging back. Women edged out of her way, but they still smiled, no doubt comparing her size eight curves to their size two bodies and thinking better about themselves.

  Kyle was holding court on the farthest side of the room. She’d seen his short blond hair and pink button down from the foyer. Kyle was a snake who liked to squeeze people just because he could. He’d love to see Esme fall in the ring – but only in a fight he put on and only if he bet against her. He always bet against her, hoping to profit from her mistakes.

&nbs
p; Esme couldn’t afford mistakes.

  Tonight, Kyle was surrounded by women, and flanked by two guys in suits. The shorter one smiled like Kyle’s clone. The tall man had jet black hair and eyes as dark as the devil. She only noticed the tall man because there was a pod of women behind him sipping martinis and checking out his ass. That, and he’d been staring at her since she came in. He hadn’t even tried to pretend he wasn’t. His intensity sharpened the edge of her need for sex, until Lady Land gave a hopeful clench and an anticipatory tremble.

  “E.R. Jo-Jo-Jones,” Kyle said when she reached him, sending the women in his circle laughing with that controlled, fake titter the in-crowd loved so much.

  The man with the devil eyes didn’t laugh. His gaze didn’t stroke Esme’s body. And yet…

  He cranked up the tension on Esme’s need-o-meter. Hope between her legs turned in a more urgent request for sex.

  Kyle reached behind him for a red designer clutch, which he handed to Esme. “We’ll have another fight for you in two weeks.” He gave her cleavage an appreciative glance (yeah, he wasn’t getting any of that), and then turned to the tall man. “This is Graham Richmond. One of your newest fans.”

  The name was vaguely familiar. The feel of his palm against hers was not.

  Trouble, her brain cautioned, sounding an awful lot like her responsible twin, Daisy.

  Worth it, her libido chimed in from an entirely different place, one that beat its own drum, and was beating out the tempo of a fast march toward this man's bed.

  “Would you like a drink?” Graham asked in a big voice with a Texas twang that reached through the air between them and laid a proprietary hand on her edgy parts.

  Trouble.

  Worth it.

  It was already late. And there was always the fear of being recognized, despite the hair color, the heavy eyeliner, and the sunglasses. She still had to go home, wash the blue from her hair and soak the fight from her muscles. She had work in the morning and a trip to the bank to make. Plus, she wasn’t a trained seal. The paid entertainment portion of the evening was over.