Tap Out

by Michele Mannon

  She’d done it all—whatever whet the public’s appetite.

  At times, she wasn’t proud of herself. But being able to afford luxuries like the gorgeous Beamer reminded her just how far she’d come from her childhood home in Hawley, an old run-down coal town that was one step up from trailer park. No one made it out of Hawley without developing a thick skin, and without being a bit ruthless. Or least, appearing to be so—no matter how much it hurt on the inside. She shook her head, refusing to go there.

  Lauren interrupted her thoughts. “You have this weird expression on your face. You okay?”

  “Caden’s responsible for this.” She resisted the temptation to say more, not wanting to overexaggerate that troublemaker’s hand in her recent downward spiral, and wondered when Lauren’s eyes would roam upward and spot him. “You’ll see. Mark my words.”

  Her friend looked at her and laughed. “For the traffic? Or for those two guys gawking at you? A tornado could rip through here right now, and you’d think it was Caden’s divine doing.”

  “Hmph. The only thing he’s divine at doing is looking good. Cornered the market in that department.” Sophie couldn’t argue that point.

  The mixed martial arts fighter was the hottest ticket around. His reputation was notorious, both in and out of the Octagon ring. He’d become every girl’s oh-so-naughty fantasy date—or more. Every guy’s way to live vicariously through the life of a mixed martial arts fighter.

  Rumor had it Caden out-earned both David Beckham and Tom Brady as a model for Ultimate American Male underwear. And UAM had deep pockets, paying her network a ridiculous amount of money advertising their handsome athlete. He was a sure thing, after all. Viewers never seemed to get enough of the panty pimp’s package. Which is why when UAM pulled their advertising from her network and went with their competitor, Sophie’s career had come to a screeching halt.

  Sophie knew it was an excuse not to renew her three-year contract, which, after rather tense salary negotiations, was an executive signature away from being a done deal—or so she’d been led to believe. Not only did the network cancel Late Night with Sophie Morelle, but to add insult to injury, they came up with the brilliant idea of offering her two alternative shows, at one-fourth the pay. A reality baking show—to the woman whose box-mix muffins were a dental nightmare—and worse still, a godforsaken housekeeping tips show. Yep. One heck of a minor incident had resulted in one major excuse executives had hatched up. All to save themselves money.

  “I’ve lost everything because of Caden Kelly,” she said, the thought as familiar to her as steel stacks in Pittsburgh. “They’re hoping I’ll disappear and not make a stink about how one of the good ole boys has filled my late-night spot. Guess you get what you pay for.”

  Lauren snorted. “I still can’t believe they’d cancel one of the most highly watched shows. Talk about bad business.” She turned in her seat. “So, pitch another show to another network. You’re famous. People love you, and that smart-ass, ballsy mouth on you.”

  “I have one month remaining on my no-compete clause. After that, I’m a free agent. And once this documentary is completed, they’re going to regret driving me off and replacing me with some lackey at half the salary. The more I think about it, the higher the price of the rights to my documentary gets.”

  “Still, don’t you think it best to leave your Channel 27 days behind, and look for a network who will appreciate the talent they’ve hired?” Sophie could hear the censure in her friend’s voice, the same that had been there the last time a similar discussion had taken place. Heck, they’d been traveling for two days and this was a hot topic. “Why even dangle the option to purchase your documentary in front of those morons, given how they’ve treated you?”

  “You don’t understand. I’m not going to let them drive me off, shamefaced, be “taken down a peg or two,” as one executive named Walt practically spat at me. I was in a similar situation...years ago. Where every damn person in town sold me out, and you know what for?” Sophie swallowed hard. “Money. Boy, did I learn a valuable lesson. Money talks, alright. No way. I’m not going to let them win. They can cancel my show, not re-sign my contract and hope I’ll quietly go away. But brush me off as if I didn’t matter? I don’t think so. When all is said and done, they are going to respect me.”

  She felt her friend’s eyes on her. Probably surprised the heck out of her, considering how Sophie never talked about her troubled—to say the least—teenage years.

  “Jesus, and I’m partially responsible for this crazy plan,” Lauren stated, wisely choosing not to continue down the dark, dismal path their discussion had taken. Keeping it light, just like they always did for each other.

  “My sister in crime,” Sophie added softly.

  The old Chevy ahead rolled forward and gained speed. Even 5 mph seemed fast at this point.

  The guys at the network loved mixed martial arts. Had turned into fanatics, really. And they weren’t alone. MMA was hot right now, the fastest growing sport this year, with millions of viewers tuning in on pay-per-view for each bout. In a blink, the sport’s popularity had spread from man caves to kitchens around the country. The buzz was that every major station was out to land the mother of mega waves and buy the rights for broadcasting Tetnus, the largest Ultimate Fighting championship to date.

  Advertisers were prepping to spend beaucoup dollars. Obsessed fans were primed and ready for an in-depth look at their fighter heroes. Sophie’d have her pick of networks to sign over the rights to her documentary. But it’d be a cold day at a Vegas craps table before Channel 27 would get their penny-pinching hands on her hard-earned work.

  She grinned. They wouldn’t see her—or the carrot that she’d soon be dangling in front of them—coming.

  All Sophie needed to do was figure out the ungodly reason why MMA fighters held such appeal, and present it in a way even her grandmother would appreciate. A woman’s view on a sport that was so blatantly male, it reeked of sweat and blood.

  Yep, she was going to have them begging her for the privilege of airing her documentary. Kissing her feet, and showering them with money, so much money, it would be piled up to her knees. Prove that someone wealthy and decent could make it out of Hawley. Even if her late-night persona led people to believe otherwise.

  Once more, traffic slowed to a crawl.

  “Look. Isn’t that your fighter?”

  Though she knew it was coming—he was hard to miss—Sophie’s heart still accelerated faster than her V8 engine. Her gaze followed the upward angle of her best friend’s finger.

  “God, he’s gorgeous,” Lauren stated the obvious.

  “His looks are irrelevant. He’s the cause of this blasted traffic, I’m telling you.” Still, the sign was more erotic than...anything. “Indecent. The billboard and the man,” she muttered.

  “Ha, this coming from the ex-queen of late-night drama,” Lauren scoffed, shifting in the driver’s seat and drawing Sophie’s attention away from Caden’s ginormous crotch. “If America only knew what a prude you really are.”

  “Soon to be reigning queen,” Sophie murmured, her gaze instinctively shifting back to the billboard—and him, the catalyst of her disgraceful plummet from prime time.

  Caden smirked back at her with a cocky grin.

  The last time she’d seen him, he hadn’t been smiling.

  “I hope this delay won’t make us miss the bus again,” Lauren groaned, changing the subject. Her friend wasn’t exactly patient—though neither was Sophie. Plus, traffic brought out the worst in both of them.

  “Are you sure there’s an appearance scheduled for St. Louis tonight? After all, the last two towns were duds, nothing but pissed-off farmers in Dresden and obnoxious college kids in Oxford, and in both cases, everyone mad as hell that the Ultimate Fighters On Tour was a no show.” Lauren paused to snort. “The whole idea of mixed martia
l arts fighters touring around on a bus like rock stars is ludicrous, if you ask me.”

  “One of the managers, Sal, promised me they’d be in St. Louis this afternoon, well in advance of tonight’s appearance. As for the bus, ludicrous is too mild a word. I wouldn’t be caught dead traversing cross-country on one. A sleek European roadster, now that’s an entirely different beast.” She glanced at Lauren, hoping the allure of riding in the Beamer still sounded appealing.

  Perhaps not, given that Lauren raised an eyebrow at her.

  “I’ll interview them at each stop, film some footage of a bunch of gung-ho guys preparing for Tetnus, and in a few days, we’ll have some fun in Vegas while they slug it out. We’ll be driving back to Pittsburgh in under a month.”

  Sophie drummed her fingers on the soft leather doorframe, praying her words would ring true. “One shame-faced journalist, with one tiny camera, on a mission to interview a busload of bulked-up, testosterone laden fighters.”

  “A bunny in a wolves’ den.”

  “Exactly.” Sophie paused, looked at Lauren, and winked. “And because of this traffic, I’ve had time to figure out their appeal. Or at least the new angle I’m taking, one that will have American women trading in their football jerseys for MMA T-shirts.”

  “I think the bunny’s lost her carrots.”

  Lauren’s gaze lifted, and so did her lips, into very knowing female grin. Sophie’s gaze followed.

  From this vantage point, ultimate package appeal was hard to miss.

  Sophie’s eyes narrowed as she considered the billboard. “No telling what might happen after I get an exclusive on him...”

  “Hate to say it, but you tried that once before, and look how that turned out.”

  She ignored the comment. After all, the one fighter who’d make even a Sunday afternoon knitting group sit up and take notice was staring her in the face. “Do you think he’s a legitimate fighter? Hard to imagine someone so attractive, so dang sexy, getting his nose bashed in.”

  Lauren laughed, deep within her throat. “Hmm, his mad fighting skills might be the only truly legitimate thing we know about him. That and all his naughty extracurricular activities, like that scandal with the model. A nun would have found it impossible to ignore those weekly tabloid play-by-plays. Quite a lover and a fighter, our boy Caden is.”

  “Well, his package is legitimate. No question about that.”

  Legitimate was putting it mildly.

  A horn sounded. Traffic began to ease up, and suddenly Sophie was anxious to get to their destination, some ungodly venue called Hair of the Dog.

  Her inside contact, an old-school trainer named Sal, promised to help ease her way in with the fighters. “This handsome fella knows everything there is to know about fightin’ boys,” he’d informed her. Of course, he seemed “to know” a heck of a lot more after Sophie’d agreed to roll his name in the ending credits. Despite her natural skepticism, and her history with Caden, Sal assured her the fighters would be more than eager to be filmed. She’d have begun taping already, if they’d only stuck to their scheduled appearances. But that, too, was water under the bridge now. “Time to let bygones be bygones. Stop thinking how every time I set eyes on Caden Kelly, my luck turns bad.”

  “You can con the pants off any man, Sophie. And hey, Caden’s given you a head start,” Lauren mercifully interrupted, jerking her thumb upwards. “He’s one beautiful fighter, alright.”

  And once more, Sophie’s gaze unwillingly rose upward. Was it possible he’d grown even bigger? She was just about to comment on it, but caught sight of brake lights ahead of them.

  “Lauren, watch out!”

  The hoagie shot off her lap, rolled onto the floor, and wedged beneath her heel as she braced herself for impact. Something wet—Buffalo sauce?—leaked into her patent leather pump. Thankfully, Lauren hit the brakes in time to avoid rear-ending the old Chevy.

  Sophie said a silent prayer, thinking they’d come out on top, if the worst of it was a slimy ankle. Until she glanced into the rear view mirror and spotted the polished chrome pig.

  “Hold tight,” she shrieked out in warning.

  Part of the reason she’d bought the pricey BMW was its high crash-test ranking in Consumer Reports. The sense of safety had provided incentive, the kind of incentive that justified splurging on such a wallet-stretching purchase. Still, you never expected to put such rankings to the test.

  Even crazier—they were about to be rear ended by a Boar’s Head truck.

  Thwunk.

  The force of the truck traveling one? two? miles per hour propelled Sophie’s sedan forward as if it were a toy. Her foot squished through the sandwich, coming down hard onto the floor mat. She braced against the headrest. Her eyes rose to the heavens for help.

  And saw Caden Kelly smirking down at her like the devil incarnate.

  With one solid crunch, the BMW collided with the Chevy.

  “Holy shit,” Lauren gasped as the airbags ballooned out of the dashboard, sending a hail of white powder raining down and pinning both women into their seats.

  For a moment, Sophie sat there, paralyzed more by fear than any injury. She wiped the chalky powder off her arms, then shook out her blouse, trying to make sense of what had happened. The Beamer’s state-of-the-art airbag—that’s what happened. It felt like a cement ball had ejected out of the dash and into her. Bet Consumer Reports missed that little safety feature byproduct.

  Her arm smarted, as if in agreement, a sure sign of a nasty, forthcoming bruise. She blinked, and looked around. The interior looked like it’d been the victim of some Disney ride gone wild.

  “You okay, Lauren?” she whispered, struggling for breath.

  “Yes...that damned airbag hit me in the forehead. But no serious injuries over here. You?”

  Sophie tested her neck, arms, legs. Everything was in working order—everything except her car. Which meant...

  “I’m...fine.”

  “Liar.”

  Zip it, she silently replied, choosing instead to inhale a deep, calming breath. It wouldn’t help the situation by resorting to Mademoiselle Freak-Out mode, even if every fiber of her being screamed bloody murder. So what if her new car was totaled? So what if she’d never catch up with the fighters and film her documentary, her one chance at proving to the network that she wasn’t going to be overlooked? Passed by. Or traded in for a cheaper model.

  So what if Caden Kelly was to blame?

  This was another test to see if she’d manage to stay calm, cool, and collected.

  “Um, Sophie, I hate to be the bearer of more bad news—”

  “Hmph, can it get any worse?” Mind over matter, she thought, sitting up straighter in her seat in spite of the wariness grasping hold of her, stealing her breath.

  “—but is that the tour bus? The one with that shabby banner outside the window? There’s a bunch of men hanging out of the windows gawking at us.”

  “What?” Sophie screeched, swatting away the airbag and following Lauren’s finger, expecting to find a high-end, state-of-the-art vehicle large enough to transport several BMWs—the kind of wheels celebrities used while on tour. What she saw made her blink.

  It couldn’t be. The monstrosity four lanes over looked like a 1980s school bus, complete with chipped paint and exhaust billowing from its tailpipe.

  “I thought you said they were stopping for the night in St. Louis?”

  “They are stopping in St. Louis. Sal said they’d be pulling into town sometime today.” And the last time you checked your text messages was when?

  “Well, its right blinker is on and it’s about to take the exit toward Memphis.”

  As Sophie gazed at the Chevy ahead, her hand located her bag wedged between the door and her seat. Digging inside, she retrieved her cell. Her heart beat erratically against h
er chest.

  “From what I can see from around this airbag, that old tank we rear ended has barely a scratch on it,” Lauren murmured.

  Sophie had already drawn the same conclusion. No injuries. A measure of relief there.

  “You’re handling this incredibly well, which leads me to believe you’re about to lose it.” Lauren said. “We’ll need a tow truck, but at least we’re okay.”

  Sophie shifted the air bag to peer at Lauren more clearly. Her plans shifted as well. And Lauren was surely going to be to one to lose it. “Let’s get one thing clear. I am not okay, okay?”

  She squeezed her lips together, hating to snap at Lauren.

  Her phone vibrated. Holding her breath, she read:

  SAL: Bad news. Mutiny on bus. Now headed south to New Millennium Inn in Arnold. Hurry. Might be able to catch us cause bus is stuck in traffic.

  Some dummy wrecked his BMW right underneath Caden’s billboard.

  She shook off the dummy comment and dropped her cell into her purse. “Lauren, that’s it. My wrecked Beamer is in better shape than that monstrosity.” Breathe deep. You can do this. Just think how much more time you’ll have with them. Her future depended on this. Nothing—not even a Boar’s Head induced fender-bender—was going to get in her way.

  Sophie fought her way out of the clutches of the airbag, grabbed her purse, and heaved her door opened. “Slight change of plans, Lauren,” she hollered over the pitched roof.

  Lauren followed Sophie’s lead, clambering out on her side, and making her way toward the trunk. “What? Oh no you don’t. Don’t even think about—”