Caden tossed the towel onto the bench, braced his elbow on his legs, and leaned forward, angry. “What exactly do you mean, credits? Like television credits?”
Sal opened, then closed his mouth. But the truth was written all over his face.
“Fuck! You sold me out, didn’t you? How much?”
“It’s not what you think.”
“Figures the one guy I trust in this whole operation pulls a classic Wall Street move by going all public and shit. Here, everyone thinks Jerry’s the shark when the manatee swimming beside him is much more lethal.” Caden shook his head in disgust, as Sal ran his hand over his belly, clearly missing the point.
“I know you said that you could give a fudge about being a celebrity. Hanging your hat up for good. No more interviews or...”
Caden glared, causing Sal to fidget on his stool.
“Exactly who drank enough liquor to fill a stadium? What were you thinking?”
“Can’t an old man get his five minutes of fame, like that Andy Holwar fella? Like...you?”
Caden laughed, a shallow sound. It was that or give voice to the stream of cusses he was barely holding back. Fifteen minutes of fame for any other reason than fighting was time wasted. Years wasted. “I wouldn’t sell someone out. Besides, how would you feel about having your crotch plastered on billboards nationwide?”
Sal scrunched up his face, considering the question.
Jesus. And Caden had been thinking Jaysin Bouvine coveted his celebrity the most. Little did they know what a load of bull it all was.
Caden considered the money he’d been dishing out to Jerry. “You could have given me a heads up. Not sell me out like that. What’s she up to, anyway? Filming fighters? Busting balls?”
“She asked me to help her out. Wants to follow you fellas around, get some interviews for a documentary. The lady’s dang persuasive. She had most of the Boys feeding from her hand, before Jaysin got fresh.”
“I knew she was up to no good. Poking her nose in our business. I’ll bet my ass that woman doesn’t know jack about MMA.”
“I’m gonna need more than my name in the credits now. Gotta pay for the damages caused by tonight’s brawl. Jerry put a number on it, in the thousands,” Sal muttered, his voice hoarse and pained. “Valeska is gonna kill me.”
He shot Sal a look, then said softly, “Didn’t I warn you that woman was trouble?”
The old timer’s fist shot out, a bitch move that would have hit a lesser fighter square in the face. He would have grazed Caden, had he not spotted it coming at the last second and dodged it. For an old feller, he packed a punch.
Both men jumped to their feet. No way did Caden want to take down Sal, but if he threw one more...
“You got a hard on for Sophie Morelle, old man?” he taunted.
Sal swayed on his feet, looking disoriented. Suddenly, all the air blew out of him in one long exhale, and he sat down. “Thought you were talking about Valeska.”
“Easy,” Caden said with a shake of his head, the rush of adrenaline he always felt before a fight vanishing as abruptly as it came. Sal had really pissed him off, breaking his trust like that. Something to take note of for the future, then move on. Caden wasn’t a hot head like some fighters. Preferred to keep his head on his shoulders and fight a well-planned, logical battle.
“Listen. It’s late and I need to be up early to train. Spit it out, man. Sophie showed up. A fight broke out. Some chairs got smashed.” He should have known better than to ask about her, but found himself doing so anyway. Damned curiosity.
Sal cleared his throat. “No panty lines.”
“What?” The image of the wet redheaded reporter came to mind. With her blouse clinging to her like a second skin and her pert nipples at full attention beneath the soggy, body-hugging material. Man, that woman had curves in all the right places. Her ass was tight but curvy, just the way he liked it.
He shrugged, and hardened his voice. “Let me guess. Sophie Morelle crashed the gig in some expensive, red spandex number, and in full commando mode.” His cock sprang to life within his worn sweats. “Must have been some sight. Shame I missed it.”
“Back in the day, a woman wouldn’t think to leave the house without painting her lips. Girls these days...” Sal paused, grinning like a cat who’d licked a shitload of cream.
Caden shook his head. “The brawl...?”
“Jaysin Bouvine seems to have taken a liking to Sophie. Or maybe he wants to be a super star, like yourself. He was all over her, a goddamned octopus, with his hands everywhere.”
“Let me guess. She liked it,” Caden bit out, his voice sounding harsher than expected. He flexed his fingers, unwinding them from the fist he’d made.
“Guess again. Who do you think started the brawl? Smacked Jaysin’s hand hard with the back of one of those killer shoes. Broke the heel clean off, too. The other Boys—hell, the entire bar—had to jump in and pull him off of her.”
Caden tensed. No matter how much he disliked Sophie, she didn’t deserve to be taken down by the likes of Bouvine. Caden was going to have to have a fist talk with the asshole. “Was she hurt?” he murmured, his tone sounding threatening even to his own ears.
“Nope. A bit mussed up but as cool as a cucumber. Even when Jaysin announced to the entire bar how she didn’t have any panties on. I was hoping she’d reach for that other killer heel. If I were a betting man, my money’d be on Sophie. Of course, Jerry had a fit. Blamed the entire event on me, cause I brought her aboard.”
“I’d say you got off cheap, given her history.” Caden stood up and stretched his legs. “Think I’ve heard enough about Sophie Morelle. Night, Sal.”
Caden tried to conjure up an image, any one of the numerous women he’d had, suddenly feeling horny as hell. The thickening swell in his pants was begging for release, something he planned on remedying as soon as he hit the hay. But as he made his way to his room, thoughts of a pantyless, spandex-clad Sophie lingered.
* * *
Her hotel room door clicked shut, and Sophie found herself in the impossible situation of being locked out in the hallway with a bottle of tequila tucked under an arm, a tray with a container of orange juice and an egg-white omelet clutched tightly in her grip, and a patent leather heel on one foot and a mismatched daisy flip flop on the other one.
And worse still, a cowboy in the next room crooning out melodies as if he were at the Grand Ole Opry.
How could anyone think straight with that racket going on?
Sophie grimaced. Bad enough earlier this evening she’d endured being tackled to the ground by a three-hundred-pound meathead with a hideous-looking scorpion tattooed on his scalp.
But come on already—country music?
Oblivious to the drama unfolding in the hallway, the cowboy sang on, this time about a prison dog. His rich baritone didn’t miss a note. Clearly, her beating on the connecting en suite door hadn’t fazed the crooner in the least. Heck, she’d even unlocked the darn thing and tried to rattle it, but it was locked on the other side.
Crapola.
Visions of tabloid headlines ran through her mind: Sophie Morelle Caught in Hotel Hallway, Tipsy, Wearing Wrinkled Blouse and Odd Shoe Combo. Not exactly a smooth transition to comeback queen.
She thought about the empty miniature vodka bottles lined up neatly on her nightstand. Going on a well-deserved bender had been a horrible idea. All Willie Nelson’s fault, too. Relax and regroup? Yeah, right, it’d been impossible to recover and quietly lick her wounds with that ruckus. She glared at his door.
Now what?
She could have sworn the tequila bottle did a little I-can-help-you wiggle beneath her armpit, similar to what the vodka bottles had done earlier.
The elevator far down the hallway sounded.
Sophie had no choice.
It took three solid raps for the music to be lowered and precious seconds to tick by before the door was opened. But when the crooner’s fingers found her elbow and tugged her inside the darkened entryway, she let out a small squeak of surprise.
“Damn persistent thing, aren’t you? Thought I told you we’re over?” a husky voice murmured, his warm breath on her ear. “One more night, sweetheart. That’s all I’m promising,” the sexy, familiar, voice added. Instantly, every mismatched emotion she’d ever felt for Caden Kelly surfaced—fear, discomfort, loathing, mortification...lust—which shot off the charts a second later as she took a gander at his broad naked chest.
Oh, my.
The expression “you could bounce a quarter off it” certainly applied to the broad, cut muscles on display before her.
“Quiet for a change, huh? Good. Nice way to end things. I’ll take that. Get over on the bed before I change my mind.”
She grabbed the tray tighter as he drew closer. Reaching over her head, he shoved the door closed.
“What’d you bring me, honey, breakfast in bed?”
She froze, breathlessly waiting for the other shoe to drop. For Caden to realize his mistake.
What was he doing in the room next to hers anyway—aside from singing? And apparently sex, lots of sex.
The receptionists. Ugh. They’d mixed up the keys. No wonder her room was more upscale than a standard. Would Sal even notice his less-than-stellar digs? She tried to step back, away from the caress of Caden’s fingers on her elbow. Her balanced faltered. The pitcher capsized and a small tsunami of orange juice splattered the fighter’s abdomen in a direct hit, sending a cascade of juice running down along his gorgeous six pack and lower, coating his crotch and legs in a sticky, orange mess.
“Jesus. What the hell...” Caden reached behind her and flicked on the foyer light.
Sophie balanced her weight on her one pump, trying to steady herself. Watching teardrop-sized pebbles of orange juice slide down his chest. Waiting, breathless, for the angry outburst sure to come.
She bit back her own irritation. Typical—this was entirely the panty-dealing, wannabe cowboy’s fault.
They both opened their mouths to speak, but an angry male voice from out in the hallway interrupted them. “Are you sure this is her room?”
“That’s what the old timer was grumbling about. Look, Jaysin, why don’t you let bygones be bygones? The hole in your hand’s healing up nicely. Don’t tell me a little hurting like that still has you pissed off?”
Sophie shuddered. Jaysin Bouvine was the last person she expected at her door. What the blazes did he want, another round with her one working heel?
“Lady’s got a potty mouth. Didn’t you catch her show? Thinking I’ll put those dirty lips to good use.”
She raised her chin and stared at the door. Clearly, the fighter hadn’t gotten her hands-off-meathead message. Annoying, and a tad disturbing, that he’d come knocking at this late hour.
Caden made a noise and, feeling his stare, her attention shifted to his face. He looked at her so hard her stomach did a cartwheel. For a moment, they stood like that. Eyes locked, him growing more furious by the second, so obviously so her breath hitched, mid-cartwheel. His jaw clenched, and for the first time, she caught a glimpse of the fighter within him. His hand found the knob, and he yanked it open.
Then, he was gone.
“Hey, what the shit! Where did you come—?”
Sophie jumped as something smashed against the outside wall. The pounding of fists connecting with flesh—a sound she was well acquainted with after her earlier encounter with Jaysin—lasted for a good minute.
A voice broke the silence. “Man, you’re done. Come on. I’ll help you walk.” The shuffle of footsteps on carpet followed.
Sophie moved over to the table by the window on the far side of the room, unsure of what had just transpired out in the hallway, and just as unsure about what was headed her way. Her stomach rolled and her hands shook, sloshing the remaining juice dangerously close to her blouse.
An Italian leather wallet had been casually tossed on the glass tabletop. Next to it was a set of keys with a Luxury Car Rentals Inc. tag on it. Dang it. Caden was smarter than she’d given him credit for. Clearly, he had no intentions of riding on the tour bus.
And clearly, she needed another drink.
Dropping the shaking tray onto the table, she grabbed the tequila, twisted off the cap, and filled a glass. Hey, opportunity knocked, right? And Sophie wasn’t one to pass on one, however unexpected it was. Tonight, she’d have to work her magic on Caden, just like she’d done with hundreds of other celebrities.
With her mind made up, she poured a second glass—a peace offering in the face of adversity.
She felt the warm burn of tequila on her throat as she swallowed deeply, listening to the soft tread of his bare feet on the carpet as the door closed and he approached.
His reddened fingers wrapped around the glass she offered, but he set it on the table without taking a sip. She noted the rise and fall of his breath, how normal it seemed. No physical signs that he’d just clobbered old bughead outside in the hallway.
No man had the right to be this beautiful, with light green eyes framed by long, dark eyelashes. High, chiseled cheekbones drew the eye downward to a set of full, sensuous lips. Heck, his billboard didn’t do him justice. Though the part of him most prominently featured on it was mercifully tucked away. And Sophie didn’t dare sneak a peek in that direction.
Caden licked his bottom lip and turned to stare at her. She wondered if he noticed the sudden flush in her cheeks. His eyes lingered on her face, then raked over her messy clothing.
Her cheeks were now ablaze with humiliation, and...no...holy crapola. Her belly felt warm. And a raging inferno had sparked in her happy place.
I’m never drinking tequila again.
He let out a low whistle. “Sweetheart, you’re just full of surprises, aren’t you? Here, I’d been imagining you in a little red number.”
His gaze lowered, and lowered further, coming to rest on her mismatched shoes.
Sophie wasn’t exactly sure what he meant, but she’d take sarcasm over anger any day. “You know what they say,” she murmured, hoping she sounded nonchalant, as if this situation wasn’t awkward in the least. “Variety is the spice of life.”
Dang-diggity. Talk about poor word choice. She was forgetting who was dealing with—his sex life was probably spicier than a slice of jalapeño pie. Sophie shifted, the thought throwing her off her game before she slammed it back into the recesses of her mind.
“You don’t say,” Caden murmured, sounding like he just woke up from a deep sleep after partaking in a sexual marathon. “Must explain why I’m considering adding a bit of paprika to my diet. Not every day a man is propositioned in his hotel room by a natural redhead.”
Her spine bristled but her traitorous heart executed another quick cartwheel. Was Caden hitting on her? No way. More likely, he was trying to intimidate her.
“So, what do you want?” His voice was smooth and buttery. Sexy. Loaded and full of meaning.
Sex. Wild, spicy sex. “A one-on-one, full-access interview.”
“You looking to use me good and hard, huh, sweetheart?”
“I wouldn’t say use...”
“What would you call it, then?”
“A mutually beneficial arrangement. We’re after the same thing, Caden. You want a comeback as much as I do. I’m in the position to make you the most celebrated MMA fighter around.”
“Tell you what. I’ll give you ten minutes of my time if you do something for me first.” Caden ignored his drink, sauntering off into the bathroom only to return with a damp washcloth. Settling down on the edge of the bed, he leaned back on an arm, stretched out his long legs, and nonchalantly began wor
king the cloth first over his chest and then down along his abs, following the trail of sticky orange juice.
Sophie stepped closer. Ten minutes was hardly enough time. With the way he was rubbing that dang cloth across his magnificent body—inch by inch by mouthwatering inch—she’d never get the question out. Because, just like every cell in her body had decided to turn traitor by doing a sizzling rendition of a naughty Irish jig, her throat had dried up as well.
She swallowed hard. If she could just pull herself together long enough to get back in the game, an awful lot could be revealed in ten minutes.
She decided to play along. “Shoot.”
He looked up, pinning her with an amused stare. Like he knew she’d breathing in his every wicked movement. “I’ll start. Flats or heels?”
She cocked her head. “What is this, your version of truth or dare?” This will be easy.
Caden smiled in response, and her body bounced back into high alert.
“Uh, hum. Time’s a ticking.”
“Heels. The higher the better. My turn. Why give up a modeling—”
“Color?”
“What? Bla...,” she began, but stopped, suddenly inspired. “Red,” she stated, squarely, keeping a neutral tone. “Bright, shiny red. Preferably Italian leather. Let’s discuss you’re disappearance from the MMA circuit and you resurfacing at the Tetnus qualifiers.”
“No.”
“Okay, fast forward to Tetnus. Do you think someone with your good looks, your notoriety can—”
“Forget it.”
Sophie stepped closer to the stubborn man and stood before him with her hands on her hips. If Caden Kelly thought he was going to bulldoze her, he had a surprise coming his way. Two could play at this game. “Boots or Nike flops?”
That brought a lady-killer smile to his lips. “Boots. Preferably American leather. Cowhide.”
She flipped her hair. A brazen tequila fog had settled over her, pushing any lingering caution aside and spurring her on. “Color?”
“Hmm.” He seemed to contemplate the entire rainbow, all the while running that darned cloth down across his drum-tight abdomen. “Man, you really pulled a number on me,” he grunted absently, his—and her—attention drawn downward over the sticky mess she’d caused. His thumb hooked into the waistline of his sweatpants, tugging them down so he could reach lower. Revealing that sweet spot on a man, that indentation slightly lower than his hip bone, that stirred up her libido like nobody’s business. Up close and personal like this, Caden had one mouthwatering sweet spot. Without warning, he looked back up.
Tap Out Page 6