Tap Out

by Michele Mannon

  He went on to describe how learning to kick properly was the foundation for a fighter’s being effective in the Octagon, and how a well-balanced fighter needed to be trained in multiple disciplines, and have a wide variety of maneuvers perfected if they wanted to fight professionally. Lost himself for a good five minutes as he shared his passion for mixed martial arts, until Sophie let out a thunderous sneeze and brought his attention back to her.

  Guess I’m not being an attentive enough bed partner, he thought wickedly. Lifting his hand, he studied the smooth strands of hair curled around his fingers. He smirked into the camera before lowering it to reveal his chest, then...her.

  Man, she was gorgeous, her cheeks still flushed pink with pleasure and her hair spread out across the pillow like dark, rich sunbeams.

  The thought caused him to frown. What time was it? The morning sun had begun to break through the dingy curtains. A signal—time to bolt, and with a clearer conscience.

  He’d finish their exclusive in Vegas, after he’d time to get his head back on straight.

  For now, he’d settle for putting some mileage on the Aston.

  Though the company he’d be keeping wasn’t as sweet. Call it goodwill or whatnot, he’d granted her another favor by agreeing to take Jerry along for the ride. She could have free rein over the Boys on the newly repaired bus without the sleazeball’s interference.

  Besides, time with Jerry meant time to figure out what he knew about the steroids. While filming, it had dawned on him that he could record the loudmouth using an iPhone app and get solid proof that the man was dealing drugs. Then turn both the duffel bag and the audio over to Bracken when they hit Vegas.

  Better the media focus on the hardcore bouts and martial arts skills that set MMA fighters apart from other athletes, than substance abuse. A scandal would ruin Tetnus, threaten his comeback, put him back to work as a cock jockey quicker than you could say “chili bean.” Caden hadn’t come this far to have some asshole ruin it all.

  Running his hand through his hair, he raked his gaze over her. Liking how her creamy pale skin seemed even more flushed than it had earlier. Naughty minx. Was she dreaming about him? Man, how he liked the idea that he’d rocked her world. His lips twitched as his eyes fell on the pale pink rose petal plastered to her cheek.

  She sneezed once more, his signal it was time to split. On his way out, he turned the a/c unit off.

  Hell, he didn’t want to like her.

  * * *

  “Gosh darn it,” Sophie exclaimed, struggling to find her equilibrium on the hard, vinyl bus seat. Grabbing hold of the seatback in front of her, she braced herself for another pothole. The day had gone from bad to worse, and was headed toward horrific. It was all playboy extraordinaire Caden Kiss-n-Dash Kelly’s fault.

  She hoped someone put a ding in the Aston Martin and his insurance premium skyrocketed.

  “Bobby Tom, ya think you can take those pits in the roadway a bit slower? My teeth are about to fall outta my gums,” Sal hollered at the bus driver from his seat next to her. “Hate to say it, but Jerry did a helluva better job in the driver’s seat. Of course, the gas pedal could’ve nipped him in the ole ankle and he’d still refuse to press down on it.” Sal attempted to murmur under his breath, but his kind of quiet was loud enough the entire population of Vegas probably heard him.

  The bus driver pumped the pedal and slammed into another pothole. It seemed like Sophie wasn’t the only one looking for retaliation of some sort.

  “One more pothole, and I’m taking over the wheel,” the old-timer grumbled, settling back into their seat and closing his eyes.

  She grimaced.

  The action caused an immediate burn on her face, but she tucked her hands beneath her legs and refused to give into the itch. Scowling was a surefire way of aggravating the rash covering her left cheek and a large expanse of her upper chest.

  No one deserved to wake up as she had, feeling as if an invisible pillow was smothering her, suffocating her. What she initially thought were pink candy wrappers sprinkled over the pillows and sheets had turned out to be rose petals. Harmless pink candy wrappers? Wrong-o-mundo.

  Lethal, allergen-laden pink roses?

  Exact-o-mundo.

  Sophie frowned, and ignored the resulting itch. What had Caden been thinking? Leaving flowers for a woman after sex was tacky as hell. But when the woman was highly allergic to flowers, it was plain ole hellish, like he’d littered the bed with African snapping beetles, or worse.

  Bad enough it felt as if massive cotton balls had been shoved inside her nostrils. But her cheek and chest swelled up too, irritated beyond belief and itching like holy bejeezus.

  Was he trying to kill her?

  Not that Caden would have stuck around for her funeral, or anything. Heck, he could have at least have woken her up after...

  She frowned. What had she expected from the king of players, anyway?

  Not toxic roses, that’s for sure.

  Bet Mr. Houdini himself couldn’t have pulled off such a well-executed vanishing act. His missing bag had been all the proof she needed that he hadn’t simply stepped outside. Nope. Caden had made a run for it, disappeared, and was probably long gone. She hadn’t seen it coming—not after what had transpired last night.

  No words. Nada. Except for the stinking rose petals.

  Fortunately, he’d taken Jerry with him. Left her with semi-helpful Sal, albeit on this lame excuse of a bus that stank of bad aftershave and that was warmer than a sauna in the Sonoran Desert.

  She rubbed her cheek and instantly regretted it. The Benadryl hadn’t yet kicked in. Mercifully, Sal had made the bus take a pit stop at Target, where she’d purchased some supplies. It took some stealth avoiding the Boys, by being the first person off the bus and the last one back on it, though most had had their butts kicked in last night’s street fights and were sleeping away their defeats or hanging their heads.

  Anger rose up inside of her, thinking about the money she’d used to make the purchase.

  A single bill from the substantial roll of Franklins had covered everything. Caden had left a thick wad of hundreds on the nightstand on her side of the bed. Payment for her services, which was ironic in itself, considering last night had been all about her pleasure.

  She’d reimburse him, hundred by bleeding hundred, when her documentary took off. Or—and boy, did this strike a nerve—was this some form of compensation for a broken promise? Payment for dodging his exclusive once again?

  Houdini Jr. had better believe that she meant to hold him to his promises.

  She stood and grabbed her camera case from the overhead bin, reminded how there were much more important things to think about than him.

  Sal snored gently in the seat next to her. So much for him smoothing things over with the Boys. Yep, the old-timer had been as helpful as a rock. Sophie was reminded once more that she had no one to depend upon but own resourceful self.

  Carefully, she headed toward the back of the bus. Heck, maybe her rash would make the Boys take pity on her, empathize with her, considering their own battered faces and coagulated cuts.

  Misery loved company, right?

  “How the hell did she get back on the bus?” someone snorted. Sophie tottered forward in search of a friendly face.

  “She’s got that camera out again.”

  “Bad luck, a woman traveling on our bus. Look what happened to us last night.”

  A superstitious crew? Or just ignorant of the fact that Jerry was the person actually responsible for their battered bodies?

  Midway down the aisle, the bus rolled. Sophie caught herself before she tumbled face-first into the laps of two of the Boys to her left. Before she could fully collect her footing, a flash of green landed at her feet.

  She caught Anthony—sitting solo in the seat to her r
ight—honing in on the thick wad. His eyes lit up with interest.

  Sophie seized the moment.

  Scooping up the bills, she waved them in front of his face. “Look, I know I got off to a rocky start with you guys—”

  He grunted loudly, cutting her off. “Jaysin better not wake up and find you on this bus or things are gonna get ugly.”

  It was Sophie’s turn to freeze. Jaysin? “He was released from the hospital?” she whispered. No way would she have gotten on the bus if she’d known he was on it.”Jumped outta the ambulance before they could haul him away. Ripped the IV right out of his arm. Took out two of the medics when they tried to stop him.”

  Nervously, she glanced back down the aisle and contemplated returning to her seat up front. Play it safe and hide out until they stopped. As much as she wanted this documentary, Jaysin was too unpredictable. Too unstable. Too dangerous. She’d sneak off the bus with Jaysin none the wiser.

  If she made it to the next pit stop alive.

  Or she’d befriend another bodyguard. Her gaze fell back on Anthony, who was still eyeballing the money. Before he could guess her intent, she climbed over his lap, squirming her way between his body and the seat back. Nudging him over and away from the window, she smoothed out her slacks and put her camera bag on her lap.

  His massive bulk would be a buffer between her and Jaysin, if he spotted her. Anthony opened his mouth but closed it at the sight of the bills she waved in his face. She hit him with her best Sophie Morelle smile.

  He stiffened beside her. Okay, wrong approach.

  One slick-talking exclusive had snuck out on her this morning and she was about to miss another opportunity with Anthony. Somehow, she had to connect with him. She searched her mind for the right words to butter him up. In a low voice, she began. “You could be the next big thing in MMA.”

  “Like Caden?”

  She clenched her teeth before answering, “Bigger than Caden.”

  His head tilted slightly to the side, seemingly interested. Good boy.

  “I’d like to show America what a day in the life of an average fighter is like. You’d be one of only a few fighters featured in my film.”

  “I’m not an average fighter,” he growled. “Find someone else.” He squirmed away from her, like a child upset by his mother’s reprimand.

  Dang it.

  She let a few minutes slide by and focused her attention on removing the camcorder from its case. Oh, she was getting this interview, alright. “Don’t you want the recognition you deserve after all the physical training you’ve done for Tetnus?”

  Anthony ignored her.

  “This documentary is going to be the first of its kind. Think fame. Think endorsements.”

  He moved a fraction of an inch closer.

  Good, she had his attention.

  “I’m willing to pay you for your time.” With Caden’s pimp money. Oh, she’d fork over a piece of her profits to Houdini Jr., along with a piece of her mind.

  That caught his attention. “How much?”

  Bingo. “How does a couple hundred sound? But first, you need to sign a waiver giving me permission to use the footage.” She shuffled through her camera bag and retrieved the authorization packet and a pen. “Here. Read through this, and initial on the lines by each clause. Then, sign on the bottom line on page three. By the time you’re done, my camera will be ready to roll.”

  “How do I know I can trust you?”

  “Ask me anything you want and I’ll give you a direct answer.”

  “What happened to your face?” He looked horrified. Was it really that bad? A sudden flash of vulnerability bubbled up inside of her, as if the rash on her cheek left her open and weak. Sophie did not like the feeling. Not. One. Bit.

  “Some asswipe pumped me and dumped me. He thought roses would make me feel better. Moron—I’m allergic.” Alrighty. She sounded like good ole Sophie Morelle at her finest.

  Anthony jerked back as if she’d tossed a scorpion onto the seatback in front of them. She’d shocked him for sure.

  “Go on. Fill out the paperwork. I’ll be ready in a second.” Unfolding the viewfinder, she went through her meticulous routine of checking the battery life and monitoring the GB usage on her SD card. The percentage shown caused her to shake her head. She hadn’t filmed much of anything yet, except last night’s fiasco. Maybe her camera had been on during her KAN interviews after all?

  She hit Rewind and waited a few seconds. Her eyes shifted to Anthony, who was initialing the agreement like a good boy. Remembering the footage shot of shady Jerry, she positioned the camcorder comfortably on her thigh, angled it so Anthony couldn’t see the screen, and pressed the mute button. Then, she hit Play.

  Caden’s smug face filled the viewfinder.

  She fell back in her seat as if he’d reached out and sucker punched her.

  “Careful or you’ll make me smudge my initials,” Anthony warned.

  When had Caden gotten a hold of her camera? Her eyes narrowed as the answer became obvious. There he was, bare from the chest up, with a sheet tugged over his lap and the yellowed headboard from the motel behind him. Smug as could be, lying beside her. He must have filmed this after they’d...

  The camera tottered precariously on her leg as her heart jumped in surprise. He was talking, his expression first thoughtful, then animated. She thought about moving back to the front seat and listening to exactly what Caden Kiss-n-Dash Kelly had to say for himself. It couldn’t be good.

  With her attention fixed on the screen, she watched as Caden rambled on and on, wondering what he was up to and wishing she could raise the volume—but she didn’t dare. If he was giving a recount of last night...?

  Anthony asked her a question. She answered yes, not really hearing him. How long was this footage?

  Her breath hitched when Caden stopped speaking and shot the camera one of his infamous grins. His eyes danced. She realized deep down inside, she hoped he’d been reliving their evening, hoped that smile might be for her.

  He panned the camera lower.

  Her mouth went dry, and drier still, as it shifted across his torso, followed the thin line of hair leading downward over his abdomen. The sheet barely covered him. Most viewers would think he was as naked as sin.

  The camera jostled, up at the ceiling and then down onto...Oh. Holy. Crapola.

  There she was, grinning in her sleep. Looking like she’d gone to heaven. His finger was in the shot, a lock of her red hair twined around it.

  “Here you go. So, what do you want to know about me?” Anthony was shoving his release forms toward her.

  She fumbled with the camera and hit fast-forward. “One second, okay?” Relief filled her senses at being found out. But it was mingled with disappointment. What the heck was that video all about—with him curling her hair? Some weird form of sex tape, taken after the fact?

  Caden had snuck out on his exclusive...and on her, she reminded herself. This giddy nonsense had to stop. Must. Focus. On. Documentary.

  She sat up straighter on the hard seat. “Ready. The first few questions will be background stuff, okay?”

  Anthony grabbed a small black comb from his pocket and ran it through his hair. Once satisfied with the results, he tucked it away, and faced her. Lifting the camera, she pressed play. “Rolling. Tell us a bit about yourself, Anthony. Where you’re from and what you liked to do as a child,” she directed.

  “My name is Anthony Mastrantonio. I’m an Italian-American.” He looked at her for approval.

  Sophie nodded. “Such a grand name, Mastrantonio. I’m guessing you’re from a family of fighters, all built like brick houses, right? Muscular and in prime shape. Brothers whose butts you kicked all over Chicago—or wherever you were raised? Practicing and honing your immense talent?”

  Antho
ny shook his head. “I’m an only child, from New Haven, Connecticut. Mom and Dad are both doctors. They wanted me to go to medical school but I couldn’t pull the grades. Guess I didn’t inherit the smart gene. Plus, I didn’t care for school much. Rather be outside, running around. I have focus issues which didn’t help. Do you know what ADHD is?”

  “Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder. A common disorder that a lot of successful people just like yourself have. Come to think of it, I bet you’d make a terrific spokesperson for an ADHD organization, being someone who’s overcome challenges and achieved their goals, like fighting in the Tetnus championship.”

  “My parents might disagree with you on that one. I wanted to be a quarterback or first baseman. Took a long time to convince them that I wasn’t doctor material. They caved, and let me go to a public school to play.” He grunted. “They didn’t know about the underground fight clubs. I found out awfully quick I was good at something. I fucking love this sport.”

  Sophie frowned, thoughtfully. “You went to a private school before that?”

  “Yep, Shady Brook Prep.”

  “You know, I’m glad you agreed to do this interview,” she commented, honestly. “The general impression of MMA fighters—the Boys, which is what one of the old time trainers has coined this group of athletes,” she clarified for the camera, “is that you’re kind of like the WrestleMania guys. You know, with every move pre-choreographed.”

  Anthony’s eyes hardened.

  His reaction was clear enough for viewers to pick up on. “Or,” Sophie hastened to redirect their discussion, thinking back on Caden, and how the mere memory of wrestling around on the mattress with him caused a curl of lust to fire up inside of her, “another misperception is that MMA fighters are a bunch of rough-around-the-edges, beefed-up brawlers, with no rhyme or reason behind their fighting. Street punks and no-holds-barred fighters. Not private school kids.”