Tap Out

by Michele Mannon

  Hank. Hell. Hawley. They all began with h’s. All three ugly stand-ins for her loss of innocence, how the world wasn’t the perfect place she’d thought it to be.

  She was back in Hawley all over again. Alone in her hole of a house, her father out with some buddies. A knock on the door had interrupted her homework. She remembered being shocked that Hank Cawfield had come calling. He was the wealthiest guy in Hawley, had financed the construction of a new town library, soccer field, playground and soon-to-be built municipal building. He was running for mayor, going house to house to shake hands with potential voters. Sophie hadn’t even yet turned sixteen, too young to vote. As it turned out, a handshake wasn’t what he wanted from her.

  She glanced up at the sky and spotted the bird spiraling overhead, still searching for prey. A natural predator, looking for his next innocent victim. Which was exactly what Hank had done years ago.

  Grabbing the largest rock she could find, she hurled it up at the vulture. “Bastard,” she screamed.

  Physically, he hadn’t hurt her, aside from the bruises around her neck and chest. No, it was the emotional anguish from the aftermath—what the good citizens of Hawley had done—that hurt the most.

  How long had she been standing in the hot, barren roadway, desperately trying to catch her breath? Long enough for sweat to coat the inside of her blouse. Long enough to feel a relentless stream of moisture trickle down her cheeks.

  Damn. Oh damn. It still hurt.

  She heard the crunch of stone at Caden’s approach. She sucked in a breath, waiting for the sick chill of nausea to finish its onslaught within her belly.

  He came up behind her, grasped her hand, and pressed something warm into her palm. With the back of her free hand, she swiped at the moisture on her cheek, blinked the stray tears from her lashes, then glanced at the object in her palm.

  A rock.

  Surprised, she turned his way.

  His gaze was skyward, fixed on the circling bird, but...far away, deep in thought. He didn’t say anything—didn’t need to. She’d been bleeding on the inside, and he seemed to know it. The silence gave her time to put a mega-sized Band-Aid on it, but not before one last throw.

  Winding her arm behind her head, she chucked the stone high.

  This time, it worked. The vulture cried out in displeasure, then flew off into the horizon. Immediately, she felt better. That’s exactly what she’d done to Hank years ago.

  Sent. Him. Away.

  Bastard.

  “Thanks,” she muttered, her throat dry.

  “Ready?”

  She nodded. More than ready to put Hawley behind her for good.

  Once in the car, he handed her a bottle of water and silently took over the wheel.

  It wasn’t until he offered her a napkin did she realize they’d reached the outside of the city limits. Pulling a compact out of her bag, she shuddered at the sight of herself. Tiny mascara marks framed her eyes, smudges of grime coated her skin in random places, and her clothing was a soiled, wrinkled jumble. Well, if she were to look on the bright side of things, her rash had faded.

  “Guess I’m the new definition of one hot mess, huh?” Her lame joke felt forced, even to her own ears.

  “You’re talking to a fighter, chili bean. I like my woman sweaty and hot.” But he added softly, “A little bit of dirt’s got nothing on you, gorgeous.”

  She wondered briefly what he was really thinking but she was too drained to hold onto a coherent thought.

  They fell back into a more comfortable silence, heading into Phoenix where the city skyscrapers swallowed them up.

  Her spirits lifted when Caden pulled the Aston into the valet of the Arizona Saguaro Resort and Spa. Without a word, he climbed out and pulled her dirty battered suitcase, along with his own, out of the back seat.

  “Listen, I’ll check us into a suite...”

  She managed a stupid grin, suddenly feeling much better.

  “...but, I’m not going to be around much. I’ve got to hit the gym hard. You’re on your own for dinner, too.”

  “Perfect.” A long, cool bath. A nap. Clean clothes, now that she had her suitcase back. Contact Pittsburgh Trust and figure out the fastest way to get a replacement card—maybe Lauren could fax a copy of her birth certificate, which Sophie kept in her nightstand back in Pittsburgh, along with some other form of identification? Heck, and just maybe she’d treat herself to a manicure and pedicure at the spa. After today—after this week—she deserved it.

  “How about we meet later, in the hot tub?”

  Her heart pulled a cartwheel. She nodded weakly, afraid to look at him. Her inner Marvin Gaye crooned softly: Hot tub, baby. Bed, baby. Wherever, honey, let’s get it on. Why not?

  “Bring that recorder of yours and whatever questions you want to ask me. We can finish with a videotape. Maybe that sweet smile will be even bigger by the time we’re done.”

  She laughed, the genuine, carefree kind, one that sounded foreign to her ears, having been stifled inside her for far too long. Figured Caden would be the one to bring it out of her. With good ole Marvin urging her on, she replied, “I won’t be the only one grinning, baby.”

  His eyebrows lifted, then he reached over and ran his thumb across her bottom lip. “That’s what I like about you, Sophie—always a challenge. One I aim to win.”

  If the valet attendant wasn’t headed over, she’d have wrapped herself around the naughty hunk, climbed up his body, and made him forget all about the Jacuzzi.

  Instead, she gave him something to think about. “The contents of my lingerie case are all over a Kansas highway.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “Bathing suits included. Nothing except a few freckles and a lot of bare skin.”

  His eyes glimmered with promise. “Perfect.”

  * * *

  Caden lounged in the doorway of Sophie’s bedroom, studying the gorgeous woman spread out on the king-size bed. Sound asleep—she’d been that way for ten hours straight. So much for tracing an imaginary C on the pale skin of her abdomen, like he’d planned on doing, first with his fingers then with his mouth.

  He’d come in from his early morning run well before the desert sun rose and had stopped to check in on her. She’d kicked off the covers, offering him a cock-jerking view of the slip of material she had on. Thank the Lord he’d snagged it from midair or it’d be another bit of wasted underwear. It looked much prettier on Sophie than littering an interstate highway. Rich purple silk with black lace along the edges rose up on her thighs and contrasted with her cream-colored skin. The lace V between the swell of her breasts rising and falling with her breath. Her position on the bed hadn’t changed. He might do something about that, alright.

  Rubbing the stubble on his chin, he wondered what it was about Sophie that had his head so twisted. She’d worked her way into his thoughts, and with her typical gumption, wouldn’t budge. She’d preoccupied his mind during last night’s grueling workout. Images of her in the hot tub...Jesus. Man, he needed to scratch this itch, and fast, before it turned into something deeper and without a doubt, more painful.

  She shifted on the mattress, then quieted.

  He’d gotten seven restful hours of sleep, but was still envious. What he wouldn’t give for a few more hours, next to her...inside her.

  The next two weeks leading up to Tetnus promised to be grueling. Training was as much mental as physical. He needed to get into the zone, where nothing else mattered but his physical and mental preparedness. Which meant he had to resolve this steroid issue fast. Then, he’d figure out what to do about getting Sophie out of his head. Give her what she wanted. A fuck. An interview. A rocking documentary. A drama-free ticket for a nonstop flight back to Pittsburgh.

  He paused, frowning. One more thing—after Tetnus was over, he’d find Hank
Cawfield and beat the living fuck out of him. It had to be bad, whatever that asshole had done to her.

  First things first. He wandered back into the living area, plucked his iPhone off the table and hit Bracken’s number. Ruling out Jerry as the drug dealer was progress, but Bracken did this bullshit for a living. Kind of ironic, because to the outside word, he was the last guy anyone would trust. Hell, what did you expect from a street thug turned undercover narcotics detective?

  Bracken looked like the leader of a motorcycle gang and his manner was abrasive and coarse. The muscled size of him scared the shit out of most men. He should be fighting in Tetnus—there wasn’t a fighter alive, including Caden, who could beat him. Chances were high that Bracken was going to knock some heads in when he found out about the duffel bag. Still, time was ticking and he needed to get his big brother involved.

  Except, Caden got his voicemail. Damn.

  He left a brief message about tomorrow’s arrival in Vegas and hit end. Feeling like he had to do something to tidy up these loose ends, he found himself back in Sophie’s bedroom.

  She hadn’t budged. He wanted to give her a wake-up present but thought better of it.

  If her kind of distraction kept up, no way in hell would he win Tetnus.

  He grabbed her camera bag from where she’d left it by her bed. Heading into the privacy of the living room, he positioned the camcorder on the table, and unfolded the viewfinder. He clicked it on and set a chair up in front of it. Without giving himself time to back out, he hit record.

  “Hey, this is Caden Kelly speaking once again with reporter Sophie Morelle. You probably know who I am but there’s a hell of a lot you don’t know about me. And, being as Sophie Morelle is one of the best investigative reporters out there, she’s conned me into spilling all the juicy details. So, here you go...”

  * * *

  “The bus ride to Phoenix wasn’t the same without you, Sophie,” Sal said by way of a greeting. Sophie noted the tall, half-emptied glass of vodka in his hand. Before she could predict how many refills the old-timer had guzzled, he added, “Just joking.”

  Someone had found his sense of humor on that rustmobile.

  Good humor seemed to be the prevailing theme at tonight’s venue. The refurbished nightclub was decent. Clean and spacious, with a sunken dance floor filling the center of the room, three bars lining the walls, and several well-endowed waitresses carting around trays of appetizers. The place was packed, sold-out, with fans buzzing with excitement. The kind of effervescent delight some people felt after getting up close and personal with a celebrity. Sophie had had a similar sense of giddiness when she’d started on Late Night—a few days on the job and she’d gotten over it.

  Jerry appeared amiable, working the sold-out crowd and pretty much ignoring Sophie’s presence. She couldn’t have asked for a better arrangement. Except for the hats, boots, and mechanical bull off to one side of the dance floor.

  “Where’s your hat, darling?” Anthony came up beside her, his faux Southern drawl thick and heavy with Texas flavor. She wanted to roll her eyes at the prep school fighter from Connecticut, but he’d been more than cooperative tonight. She’d spent a good hour interviewing him off in the corner. He was handsome and photogenic, pleasant and well-mannered. Someone the audience was going to love. After she filmed him greeting his fans, she’d begin part three of their interview. She’d scoped out a small room down the hallway past the restrooms, which offered the most promise for a quiet, interrupted exchange.

  “I can’t see my viewfinder clearly with a ten gallon hat in my eyes,” she replied. God knows where someone had procured the pink cowboy hat adorned with blue sequined trim and a brightly blinking tiara. The dang thing had flickered out in protest as she’d jammed it into her empty camera bag. No room for bling—Sophie meant business. She gave a thumbs-up to the group of fighters she’d assembled. “Okay. Ready. The camera’s rolling. Three. Two. One. Action.”

  The first image that appeared was Sal with a shit-eating grin. Clearly, he loved the attention, and Sophie found herself smiling. “Okay, we talked about your aspirations to win Tetnus,” she addressed the group. “We discussed what the million dollar purse would mean to you guys and your careers. Now, I have a few more personal questions.”

  Within the small entourage of Boys—six to be exact—five of them exchanged glances. Rightly so. Perhaps they sensed she was about to grill them on Jerry’s shady dealings. She plunged ahead.

  “Tonight, there are no scheduled exhibitions or fights. Why is that? Isn’t your promoter, Jerry, interested in showcasing your fighting skills? You’ve been kind enough to explain—”

  A few voices responded at the same time, all with various versions of the same. “No more exhibitions, not after the bullshit Jerry pulled in Wichita.” Bingo.

  “So no illegal betting tonight, either?”

  The group laughed.

  She glanced around the room and spotted Jerry. The sleazeball was decked out in a brown polyester suit and thin, red tie. He seemed in good humor tonight—a result of the appearance being sold-out—and was talking animatedly with a group of men. No greenbacks being exchanged.

  “Am I missing something?”

  Anthony gestured for her to follow him. Holding her camera tightly, she panned the crowd socializing and chatting with their heroes as they headed out of the main room and down the hallway to the bathrooms. The Boys and Sal stopped outside the men’s room door.

  “I don’t think this is such a hot idea, Anthony. If Jerry finds out we let her film this...” Sal trailed off.

  Anthony looked at her. “Put your cowboy hat on so you don’t draw attention.”

  Hmph. Well, it was better than nothing. Tugging the abomination from her bag, she plopped it on her head. “Don’t tell me there’s illegal betting going on in the men’s room?”

  Anthony tapped out a sequence of knocks on the door opposite the men’s room, the one she’d tried earlier and found locked. Interesting.

  The door opened. A small man in a fancy black suit and black cowboy hat ushered them inside. Sophie stopped short and looked around in amazement.

  Six tables were lined up in three wide rows. Men in 1970s suits similar in color and material to Jerry’s outdated duds sat behind each of them, talking to small groups of MMA fans clustered around. Sophie kept her camcorder running steady as she wandered down an aisle, taking in the computers, credit card machines, stacks of money, and what looked to be piles of paper with brackets on them—the kind basketball fans fill out for March Madness to select their favorite teams. She scooped one up and held it in front of the camera. The brackets on the outside section of the sheet contained each of the fighters headed for Tetnus, grouped by their weight class. Sure enough, she noted Caden’s handsome mug—the first she’d seen of him all day—grinning up at her from the welterweight page. The faces of the other welterweight Boys were there, as well. Jeez, quite a bit of preparation had gone into this.

  The Boys wandered off, probably hoping to find out where they’d place in the bets. Sal remained by her side, silent for once.

  A man in a mud-colored suit glanced at her then back at his computer screen. All business—well, so was she. “That thing on?” he asked, not really seeming to care if it was.

  She shook her head no and shot him a bright smile, just in case.

  It worked. “Pretty lady, you looking to place a bet? We take cash, credit cards, and Paypal. Of course, the charge will show up on your statement as Lots of Luck. Tax purposes, mind you. Minimum bet is a grand.”

  “A grand as in one thousand dollars?”

  “You got it.” The man’s gaze fell from her hat to her camcorder. “Do you have permission to bring that thing in here? And why is the light on if it’s not running?”

  “She’s good, pal. I heard Jerry tell her so,” Sal chimed in.

/>   She hastily added, “Jerry’s outside, eagerly issuing personal invitations to fellas about coming in and placing bets. He’s too busy to witness how well managed things are in here. May be”—though she intentionally she said it as maybe—”Jerry’s planning on keeping this agency open on a more permanent basis?” She let the idea of that dangle in the air like a Southern drawl. “May be that’s why he asked me to record how efficiently things are running back here.”

  Sal tugged at her elbow. “Time to skedaddle.”

  “Hang on. Jerry wanted me to find out one more thing.” Ah, she’d just have to edit her little lies out of the footage. “How much have we raked in so far?”

  The man scowled. Darn it. He’d caught on to her game. “Tell Jerry,” he ground out through his teeth, “that we’ll count the cash later, as agreed.” He pulled something up on his computer. “Credit card receipts total seven hundred.”

  “I thought you said the minimum bet was one thousand?”

  He glowered. Luckily, his annoyance with Jerry—who must be up their butts asking for minute-by-minute totals—overshadowed any suspicion. “Seven. Hundred. Thousand.” He emphasized each word. “So far. Cash count will probably double that.”

  Score one for Sophie. It didn’t get any juicier than this.

  “I’m going make sure Jerry knows he’s not paying you enough. See ya.”

  With Sal in tow, she headed for the door. Anthony and two other Boys followed. The remaining three were likely pushing to increase their odds by betting on themselves.

  Sal wisely waited until they were in the hallway to say, “Sophie, I didn’t know how much of a setup Jerry had going. Thought it was a simple operation, like betting on the horses.”

  “Do all the Boys know?” Does Caden know?

  Anthony nodded. “You kind of expect it with Jerry running the show.”

  “Aw, don’t pull such a sour look, honey. I know you’re disappointed in us,” Sal stammered. “It’s the way things are around here. Other sports do it, too.” The old-timer was a bit twisted but his conscience was like pure spun silk.