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Tap Out

Page 15

by Michele Mannon


  Had he hurt her? He rubbed his temples, hard. It didn’t help the drumming in his head.

  Fuck. What she’d witnessed in the cage earlier more than justified her fear.

  Sal stood shifting on his loafers, just outside the doorway.

  Freakin’ great—the old-timer too?

  Sal moved about nervously on the cement walkway. “Wow, that was a close call. Thought I was going to have to take that guy down. Unfortunately, you beat me to it. The least I can do for you, Caden, is go and get something for the swelling. Motel manager has got to have ice or something.”

  Caden frowned, and then winced in pain. People fussing over him left a foul taste in his mouth, as if he couldn’t take care of himself. But he nodded in agreement anyway. Less noise with Sal gone.

  “You got it. And, Caden...um...she’s not all that bad. You might wanna cut her some slack. Even though it looked like she was handling herself okay—”

  He slammed the door before Sal finished. Stalking into the bathroom, unwound his bandage, grabbed a towel, wet it, and pressed it against the oozing cut on his arm.

  The soft tread on the carpet as she paced around in the room told him she hadn’t fled. Horrible instincts for a reporter. She was uncharacteristically quiet. Knew enough to leave him alone to regroup. Or was she afraid of him now?

  He grunted. If that was the case, her instincts were spot on. Guess that wholesome illusion of him had been shot to pieces. Tonight, she’d discovered the truth. How his looks, humor, sharp tongue were a ruse. He was damaged. No good. A rough kid, inside and out.

  He’d thought this side of him had been smothered and contained. A single amateur fight with a bald street punk had forced years of disciplined training down the drain. He knew it and Sophie had seen it, which was why she was so skittish. It pissed him off to no end.

  It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters.

  He was sick to death of living a lie. The bottle, women, money and fame...none of it had helped. Fighting brought him closer to the truth. Made his blood pump and mind clear. The training and commitment were nearly satisfying enough. Winning would give him the satisfaction of knowing he could overcome all kinds of odds—physically demanding challenges and the mental demons nipping at his heels. Fighting professionally was the catharsis he prized the most. Hell, it offered the level of physical action he needed and could control.

  When he didn’t fucking lose it, like tonight. How reminiscent of his dad. A real chip off the ole block.

  Stalking back into the room, he grabbed a water bottle off the nightstand, opened the bottle of aspirin next to it, and tossed down a few with one long chug. He caught a glimpse of the bruise on his cheek reflected in the mirror. A reflection of his mood, as well. Black and darkening still.

  “Okay, then. I’m headed back to my room,” Sophie murmured, interrupting his thoughts. “Too much excitement for one night.”

  He’d been thinking the same thing. Bid adios to Miss Meddlesome. Say hello to a bottle of Jack. To hell with training. But now that she said it, so quietly and without a trace of the gumption he’d grown accustomed to, he realized being alone was the last thing he wanted.

  Getting lost in drink probably wasn’t going to be enough to satisfy him tonight. Why the hell not? He’d send her packing just like all the others, afterwards.

  She stepped toward the door.

  He didn’t stop her. The bottle of Jack would be better company. No personal questions or unreasonable demands. Simple relief from the tension in his head.

  Granted, the tension in his body usually called for something more physical. And lately his thoughts were full of one woman in particular—one who was ready to hightail it out of his room if he didn’t do something foolish and stop her.

  No can do, his voice of reason returned. He ran his fingers through his hair. Lifting the bottle of water, he took another long drink. Rolling around in the sheets with the reporter was a horrible idea. Irrational. Illogical. Downright idiotic. The punch to his head had fucked up his thinking, for sure.

  Nah, tonight he’d settled for getting loaded instead of laid.

  A knock sounded on the door. Sophie jumped, and hastened back a few paces.

  Moving past her, he yanked it open.

  Sal pushed a frozen sirloin steak into his chest. “This is the best I could drum up before Jerry found me. Man, he’s livid. Someone slashed all the tires on the bus.”

  Caden snorted. Poor judgment, leaving that hunk of junk parked out front. What did the sleazeball expect after inviting every lowlife in Wichita over for some bloodletting? Lining the motel manager’s pockets for his garage space was proving to be a smart move.

  His gaze shifted to Sophie. Those full red lips of hers lifted, stirring something deep within the pit of his stomach. And lower. Damn. What was it about her that had him thinking about tossing her onto the bed and burying himself deep inside, despite his assembly of aches and pains?

  “Wanna hear the best part of it, what’s got him madder than a python?”

  “I’m game, Sal. Though I can’t picture what a pissed-off python looks like,” Sophie laughed, clearly relishing Jerry’s dilemma.

  Who could blame her? The man was a pure, unadulterated a-hole. At least she seemed more relaxed. More like herself. The thought calmed him as well, his humor returning despite the pain in his cheek.

  “Not python. A rattler—they’re venomous, like Jerry.” He heard Sophie snort in acknowledgment, and realized that his headache was gone. “Sal, you coming in, buddy?”

  “Can’t. Never hear the end of it if I don’t go help Jerry get these tires fixed, and fast. He’s been screaming about being late for our next appearance. Said it was really important that we stop there,” Sal said, looking worried. He turned, and took a step away.

  Caden felt Sophie’s stare. Silent communication that she was searching for answers. Information he wasn’t about to share, not until he figured out the extent of Jerry’s racket, and how deeply involved he was in pimping performance-enhancing drugs. Not to mention the illegal betting and death matches set up in shady venues from Wichita to Vegas. At the same time, there’d been plenty of opportunities tonight to distribute to a target market—wannabe fighters. And Caden hadn’t seen Jerry hand off a single pill. Pushing aside his suspicions, he shrugged his shoulders and caught her scowl.

  He gave her a smug grin. Any remnants of tension vanished as he took in the sight of her, so cute in that baseball cap, with her blouse unbuttoned and wrinkled beyond belief. Naturally pretty, with her pink cheeks and lips a shade darker.

  “Come on, Sal,” he prompted him, his mind at ease, and back on their discussion. “Don’t leave us hanging.”

  Sal stopped, and chuckled. “Eh...forgot. Right. Someone got to the sign, too. Jerry said it cost him ‘a shitload’ of money.”

  “What sign?” Sophie demanded. “That dirty banner from the side of the bus?”

  “Wichita’s got a sense of humor. They crossed out a few letters. Now it reads ‘Tits on tour.’” Sal emphasized every word, relishing every syllable, oblivious to the grimace on Sophie’s face.

  Ironic how the queen of late night was so easily offended.

  There was an awkward pause, before Sal caught on. “Sorry, Sophie. The Boys are gonna be ornery when they see what those hoodlum have done.” He rolled his eyes at her, meant to be an apologetic gesture, or so Caden thought.

  Once more, Caden found himself unexpectedly drawn to her. Curious why she, of all people, was bothered by the harsh language.

  “Hmph,” she grunted, breaking the silence. “That took some imagination. Who would have thought it with the boneheads roaming around outside? Don’t tell Jerry, but if you blacken out the first t and a few other letters, the sign will read: It Tour. Hey, it’s better than nothing, right?”

  Caden smiled.
Man, that brain of hers was always in fifth gear, never at a full stop. Yet he bet Jerry’d prefer tit over it, any day.

  Sal nodded emphatically. A sure sign he was going to tell Jerry, just to calm the drama king down.

  He looked past Sal and out into the empty parking lot. Hundreds of beer cans littered the space, flickering in the moonlight like warped Morse code. Maybe an EMT worker would think someone needed help, and come check out his addled brain. Hell, was he—a champion welterweight, a street-bred fighter—really playing Scrabble with douchebag Jerry’s sign?

  The empty lot was a welcome sight. No one would be bothering Sophie. “Thanks for the steak.” He waved the useless frozen sirloin at the old timer and shot a pointed look at Sophie. “Knock on the wall if you need me.”

  Sal headed off around the corner of the building.

  Sophie didn’t budge.

  “Time to call it a night. Go ahead, no one’s gonna mess with you.”

  Instead of leaving, she moved further into his room and out of reach. “Where did you learn to fight like that?” Her voice was soft and raspy. Like her words came from the back of her throat, all innocent and naïve. Gone was the confident, demanding tone, the rapid-fire questioning. Her tone held a raw quality to it, like she was saying a final goodbye. As if his answer mattered. As if he mattered.

  Her awareness of the brutal, no-holds-barred side of him made him clench, then unclench his free fist. An attempt to keep the calmness that he’d found only moments before intact.

  “Listen, it’s late. Save your questions for tomorrow.” He narrowed his eyes at her, trying for uninviting.

  Her shoulders relaxed. Fucking terrific. Miss Meddlesome had gotten her second wind.

  He might as well flush gentlemanly behavior down the drain. Tonight, being a bastard seemed like a better approach.

  “Fine. We’ll pick up where we left off tomorrow.” She moved slowly toward him, her camera bag and notepad in one hand and a tissue she’d pulled from her pocket in another. “Here,” she offered, “your arm is bleeding.”

  When he didn’t move to take it, she reached out. Patted his arm with the rolled up tissue, gently. Her features softened. Gone was the hellbent reporter. In her place was someone softer, someone who seemed to...care. Fuck.

  Caden tugged his arm away. The bruise on his cheek throbbed. His temper he held precariously in check. He didn’t want someone mothering him. Hell, that feeling was as alien—as upsetting—as the emotional aftermath of the beating he’d dished out.

  “Go,” he growled.

  “No,” she calmly replied. “I can’t. You don’t look well.”

  Well? If how he looked matched the fresh wave of pain churning around inside his head, that was the understatement of the century. Especially with the damned steak clutched against his chest and with her patting his arm like an obedient dog.

  On top of it all was a wave of lust that stirred his cock to half-mast.

  “What the fuck more do you expect from me?” The warning in his tone should have sent her running.

  Her eyebrows drew together stubbornly. “Expect? You’re standing inches away from me with a deep gaping wound, a cheek the color of a bruised peach, and a puffy eye, growling like a wounded animal in need of attention. You don’t remotely resemble the laid-back guy I hitched a ride here with.”

  “Exactly. Sorry to disappoint you.” He folded his arms across his chest, unsure whether the action was intended to protect himself or intimidate her. He chose the latter. “I’m warning you, what you see is what you’ll get.”

  Her brows drew together. “What I’ll get is peace of mind knowing you’re okay. Let me help you. Return the favor for saving me from those criminals.”

  Jesus. Couldn’t she tell that he was ten times more dangerous at this very moment than any of the amateurs stalking around the parking lot? All he had to do was maneuver her near the bed...If she didn’t catch on to his change of heart—didn’t get that he was gonna bury himself so deeply inside her she’d forget what he was, forget what she’d seen, forget everything but the feel of him pounding into her—she didn’t stand a chance in hell of walking out of here.

  She stepped closer, so close he could smell the delicate floral scent of her auburn hair. Without hesitation, she ran the back of her fingers whisper soft across his stiffening jaw. So warm and tender.

  He shifted, pulling away.

  She followed, her back to the bed.

  That was it. “You wanna help me, huh?”

  “Of course. It’s the least I could—”

  He stepped forward into her space, his heavy, burning erection straining against his sweatpants.

  She retreated two small steps. The back of her knees connected with the bed. With one well-placed nudge on the shoulder, she gasped and tumbled onto the mattress.

  Too late to stop now.

  Reaching out, he plucked the baseball cap off her head and tossed it aside.

  Her auburn locks tumbled loose, framing her face. Man alive, she was gorgeous.

  “Couldn’t leave me alone like I wanted.” He ran his finger across his jaw following the same path her fingers had taken seconds earlier, conscious of the way his body reacted to her. Conscious of how this was such a bad idea, and not giving a flying fuck.

  “You’re going to get more than peace of mind, chili buns. That’s all I’m promising.”

  Chapter Ten

  NO-HOLDS-BARRED FIGHT: A type of bar fight instigated by someone whose hands are as loose as his lips

  This wasn’t the kind of help she’d had in mind. But at the moment, she didn’t care.

  Caden’s moods shifted like shadows in the moonlight. Swift, dark, and fleeting. There’d been hurt in his eyes, something he’d tried to hide. She’d bet her bottom dollar the cause wasn’t his battered body. Not with the way he mercilessly pressed the tissue to the nasty gash on his arm. He didn’t wince once. When she’d gently touched his jaw, something in the way he pulled back made her think it was more of an emotional than physical reaction. A sign that he was suffering.

  Heck, she was an expert on burying pain, like a squirrel preparing for the long haul of winter, digging deep to stow its nuts. Except squirrels were absentminded, they forgot where they hid things. No matter how many years passed, she couldn’t seem to forget what the good citizens of Hawley had done. No matter how hard she tried to shake it off. And, with every fiber of her being, she knew that Caden had his own Hawley to contend with.

  What hidden wound caused him pain? And if her trash-talking persona was her coat of armor, what was his? Was it possible all his sexcapades, his entire in-her-face-and-then-in-her-panties approach was just a masterful front? Because let’s face it, once you headed down that tantalizing pathway, no way in heck were you looking back.

  She inhaled sharply, catching the clean, soapy smell of him. His hair was wild, like he hadn’t combed it after his shower. Reaching up, she smoothed an errant curl off his forehead, wanting...needing...to comfort him.

  He smirked, naughtily. Knowingly. Masterfully.

  Then, he was on her, pressing the full length of his big body over her like an oh-so-hot blanket. And presto, wouldn’t you know it, she wasn’t just headed down that pathway, she was sprinting down it, with no further thought than the feel of him. On her.

  He rubbed up against her.

  Her breath hitched, her body in tune with his own.

  His grin widened, and presto, his beautiful features transformed back into the man she’d thought she’d known. Dang-diggity. His sex appeal could melt steel. Melt all rational thought. Melt even her jaded heart, if she wasn’t careful.

  “Couldn’t leave well enough alone, huh? I knew you’d be trouble,” he breathed into her ear. Pulling back to watch her expression, he shifted and ground his thick erection over her
moistened core.

  She parted her legs wider.

  “Jesus,” he groaned, low and deep and appreciatively. Leaning in, he captured her lips with his. Hard, aggressive, and oh-so-sweet. His tongue twirled wantonly. She answered in kind, allowing all the pent up passion out in a kiss to end all kisses.

  “Let’s get one thing straight.” His lips moved against her own, before he pulled off her, taking his weight onto his forearms. His eyes seemed lighter, pale green framed by jet black lashes.

  She tugged his head down and kissed him hard. After few seconds, she ended it, and instead ran gentle kisses along his jawline, starting near his mouth and working her way to his ear.

  “I’m going to make that sweet body of yours sing.” As if to prove his point, he took her hand and placed it on his rock hard erection. “You’re gonna get an exclusive, alright. And if you keep looking at me that way, it’ll be multiples. My specialty.”

  Oh holy hell. A shiver of excitement coursed through her.

  “Bring them on, killer,” she heard herself whisper, not knowing what else to say as her mind had already fast-forwarded to the idea of his so-called biggest asset expertly moving inside of her.

  Which is why she swallowed back a groan when he stiffened and abruptly broke contact, as if she’d said the L word or something equally outrageous.

  “Killer is right. I’m not sure how many celebrities you’ve interviewed—or freakin’ slept with. Who’s sprinkled rose petals on your pillow and whispered sweet nothings in your ear. If you want flowers and chocolate, I’m not that guy. Not tonight. Not ever.” He paused to readjust himself. Then he leaned closer, so close she could feel the warmth of his breath on her skin. “I’ll make it worth your while, darling. Take it or leave it. But make your mind up fast.”

  “How’s this for fast?” Sophie balled up her fist and smashed it against his uninjured cheek. “Get off of me, you jerk.”

  Immediately, he rolled off her and onto his back. “Hell,” he muttered, massaging his cheek. Sophie sat up and straightened her blouse, trying to calm her temper.

 

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