Got A Hold On You (Ringside Romance)

by Pat White

  “Oh, you’ll impress them with your bottom all right. Skirt’s done.” She held up the “skirt,” a wisp of sheer black lace trimmed in feathers.

  She swallowed hard. “I’m going to be sick.”

  “Nerves. Got something for that too.” Maxine dumped out her silver-studded bag. A dozen kinds of lipstick tumbled onto the table, along with a cylinder of breath spray, two backup sets of false eyelashes and a chartreuse feather boa.

  “Here ya’ go, hon.” She handed Frankie a dull tin flask.

  “What is it?”

  “Homemade brew. Never failed me yet. Swallow down and pick out your shoes.”

  “Uh, thanks, Max, but I don’t really drink.”

  “How’s your tummy feel?”

  “Like I’m about to do a triple somersault off a high dive.”

  “Then drink up. A healthy swig should do it.”

  If anyone knew how to cure nerves it was a seasoned showgirl like Max. Frankie closed her eyes, pinched her nose, and took a ladylike nip that turned into a generous gulp thanks to Max tipping the flask. The concoction scorched her throat. She coughed, hiccupped, and gagged, struggling to breathe.

  Max slapped her back. “That a girl. All better.”

  Sure, if Frankie could get her eyes to stop watering.

  “Wouldn’t hurt to smell a little sexy, get you in the mood to perform.” Maxine aimed a small, red bottle in Frankie’s direction and squirted.

  Frankie coughed again and waved her hand. “What is it?”

  “Pandora’s Passion.” She shoved the perfume, along with her other treasures, back into her purse and started picking through the box of shoes. “What size?”

  “Seven.”

  “Got an eight. Close enough.” She tossed a pair of gold, three-inch spiked heels at Frankie.

  “Take ’em for a spin while I whip up the mask.”

  Frankie slipped on the shoes and admired her feet, not used to wearing anything other than half-inch business pumps at work, or tennis shoes on her days off. With great effort she stood, wobbled, and tumbled her way a few steps into the concrete wall.

  “Hips, hon! Hips! Swing ’em when you walk!” Maxine coached.

  She couldn’t remember the last time she’d swung her hips, if ever. Pushing away from the wall, she fought for balance, shuffled a hoppity-skip across the room and collapsed on the worktable face down in a pile of flaming pink feathers. “Max?”

  “Yeah, hon?”

  “I’m not nervous anymore.”

  “Good girl.”

  “I also can’t focus.”

  ***

  “I don’t need a damn gimmick,” Jack said, securing the knee brace with a quick tug of the strap. He figured the joint was good for another year, then he’d have to go under the knife.

  “Part of the show, Jack. Just wait till you see what we’ve got planned,” Billings said.

  “The last time you said that I ended up strapped to the front of a Zamboni.” He pulled the skin-tight black leggings over his brace and reached for his socks and boots.

  “This is better, even better.” Billings’s eyes gleamed.

  That meant trouble. “Don’t tell me, another stripper match?”

  “Nope,” Billings’s smile broadened.

  “Dancing bears?” Hell that would be tamer than some of the stuff he heard they were planning to boost ratings.

  “Not even close. We found you the perfect Tatianna.”

  Jack shoved his foot into the black boot and glared at the former wrestler. “Dammit, Bill, I’m not going out there with some flaky bimbo on my arm just to appease the old man.”

  “It’s about the fans, Jack. Never forget that.”

  How could he? The same fans that had once paid to see a good old-fashioned rasslin’ match now expected to see sex and blood for their $30 ticket. At least that was Sullivan’s line.

  But it would all be over soon. Jack was nearing the end of his contract, and the light at the end of the tunnel burned brighter than ever. The last five years had been hell. Thank God he would finally be free of the insanity and live a normal life.

  “We’re trying her out tonight to test the new angle,” Bill said, walking toward the locker-room door. “She’ll be waiting in the Monkey Tunnel.”

  “Great. Wonderful. Fantastic.” He jerked the laces of his boot with deadly force, wondering when it all started to go south and why he hadn’t seen it coming long before now. The traditional wrestlers were slowly being pushed out by the exhibitionists, the superstars of sports entertainment, who didn’t know the difference between a pile driver and a screwdriver.

  It was time to get out. No doubt about it. His body was cashed and his mind was wandering. Not good when you’re waving a three-hundred-pound opponent over your head. It had taken nearly twenty years, but Jack was finally ready to hang up his boots. More than ready.

  “Hudson, you want to try something different tonight?”

  Jack glanced at Neurosis, his opponent in the main event. The kid’s orange hair was pulled into six short ponytails that looked like bursts of flame escaping his scalp.

  “Different as in you win?” Jack said. At least Sullivan hadn’t taken the belt away from him. His reign would make WHAK history tonight—champion for fifteen weeks straight, taking on any and all challengers. It felt good to be champion.

  “Very funny, old man.” Neurosis drew the word “panic” across his chest in red marker. “Let’s try some new stuff. I learned a move from the cruiserweights. I do a back swan dive over you from the turnbuckle, land on your shoulders, dive down between your legs, flip you over into a Carter Crush...”

  Flipping, flying, twirling. Jack’s head started to spin. This wasn’t wrestling. Not the wrestling he knew. Not the wrestling Butch taught him some twenty-five years ago when he pulled him off the streets and threw him down on a wrestling mat.

  “Keep it simple, kid. I’m still healing.” Jack ran an open palm across his rib cage.

  “Don’t heal as quick as you used to, eh?” the punk taunted.

  “Watch it, kid, or you’ll end up on the receiving end of a Black Jack Banger that’ll scramble your brains.”

  “Don’t get your undies in a bunch, old man. So, is the match supposed to end in a pin, submission, or disqualification?”

  “It’s a no DQ match. How about a count out?”

  “I’ll fly over the top rope onto the announcer’s table. I can take out that jerk announcer Prince Priceless while I’m at it.”

  “Not bad.” Jack smiled, remembering Prince’s snide remarks on last week’s show about Jack needing to be admitted to a nursing home. “Once we’re back in the ring I’ll start with an Irish whip to the corner followed by a few kicks to your ribs. I’ll pull you to your feet and do a suplex from the second rope. I’ll cover you for the pin and pass you the next set of moves. Let’s end it with me shouldering you out of the ring.” Jack adjusted his elbow pads and grabbed his drover-style leather jacket.

  “And the girls?” Neurosis asked.

  “I don’t care what they do as long as they stay out of the ring.” He snatched the black Stetson off the overhead rack and fingered the picture of his dream cabin tucked inside the brim, his good luck charm. Soon. He’d be free soon.

  Neurosis slipped a torn, black shirt over his marked up chest. “Edible Eve isn’t going to be happy if she can’t be part of the action.”

  Jack glared at the kid.

  “Okay, okay. I’ll tell her to stay out of the ring.”

  “Although...” Jack ambled toward the door and hesitated. “What happens outside the ring is fair game.”

  “All right! The cats go at it for the crowd. Who’s playing Tatianna?”

  “Never met her.” He slipped the cowboy hat onto his head. “But I hear she’s a hot one.”

  “So, Eve can let loose on her?”

  “I don’t see why not.” Hell, these actresses got paid pretty well for their twenty minutes of fame.

  Neurosis
rubbed his hands together. “This is going to be one hell of a match.”

  “You can say that again.”

  And with any luck, it would be one of Jack’s last.

  Chapter Two

  He was huge. Overpowering. Intimidating as hell. And she wanted her mommy.

  Frankie stared into Black Jack Hudson’s dark green eyes and tried to swallow. Her mouth was as dry as the Sahara.

  “You getting this, lady?” He took a step closer.

  She backed up against the cold cement wall, breathing in the scent of leather and sweat. He was talking to her, but she didn’t hear a word he said.

  “Stay out of the ring, got it? I don’t care what you and Edible Eve do on the sidelines, but if you step your pretty little ass into the squared circle, I swear I’ll toss you over the top rope myself.”

  All she could do was stare at the enormous creature cloaked in black from his cowboy hat to his boots. A few day’s growth stubbled his jaw and chin, and long, wet curls of rich black hair trailed past his shoulders.

  Wild was a tame word to describe Black Jack Hudson.

  She finally swallowed the dry ball in her throat. Nothing to be afraid of, she told herself. He was just a dumb jock.

  Contrary to the belief of the seventeen thousand screaming fans around the corner, she knew that wrestling was four parts vaudeville to one part athleticism, if that.

  “Does this one even speak English?” Black Jack asked the Bomber.

  “She’s a little nervous, aren’t ya’ Tatianna? Here, Mr. Sullivan wanted me to give you this.” The Bomber presented her with a black whip.

  She stared at the strap of leather. What was she supposed to do with it? Defend herself against Mr. Black Jack?

  “You’re giving this idiot a weapon? Great thinking, Bill.” Black Jack glanced down the tunnel toward the ring.

  “Here, like this.” The Bomber snapped the whip, and she nearly jumped out of her spiked heels.

  “Your turn.”

  She took the whip and snapped away. It fell limp to the floor.

  “Think mean, kid, angry. Ferocious, like a tigress.” The Bomber growled and bared his teeth. “You try.”

  She scrunched up her nose, snapped her teeth and growled.

  “Sounds like my truck running on three cylinders,” Black Jack said.

  “You’ll get better with practice,” the Bomber encouraged.

  She was pathetic and she knew it. Okay, so maybe she couldn’t master the guttural sound of a wild animal, but she could sure as hell learn to use this snappy piece of leather. She wound up for another crack.

  “So what’s the story?” Black Jack asked the Bomber.

  “She’s your sex slave.”

  “What!” Black Jack spun around.

  She jerked the whip in shock and it connected with the Bomber’s thigh.

  “Sonofabitch! Watch it with that thing,” he protested.

  “I’m his what?” Frankie said.

  “His sex slave.” He rubbed at his leg. “Jack caught you in an African desert and dragged you back to civilization. Turns out you were abandoned twenty-five years ago by your parents while on safari. You roamed the desert for five days before a family of tigers found you and—”

  “Enough!” Black Jack put up his hand to silence the Bomber. “I’m glad Butch isn’t here to see this,” he muttered.

  “Who’s Butch?” Frankie asked.

  Black Jack clenched his jaw and stared down the tunnel.

  “It’s a great story line,” the Bomber continued. “We’ve got lots of places to go with it especially at the next pay-per-view when Tiger Man comes back from the desert to claim his woman. In the meantime, you take her into the ring and parade her around. The announcer will give a quick spiel about her being a wild animal, then you tame her with a kiss.”

  She jumped back and automatically jerked the whip. It stung her toes. A kiss? Uncle Joe didn’t say anything about having to kiss this beast.

  “That’s it, we’re on.” Black Jack motioned to her.

  She stuck out the whip in defense.

  “That’s my music, cupcake. It’s time for us to go entertain the masses.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Come again?”

  “I just can’t.”

  “Nerves. It’ll pass the minute we step out into the arena.” He took a step closer.

  “Stay back.” She wound up with the whip and bared her teeth.

  “I don’t have time for this. That’s my music. My fans expect me to come strutting out there any second now.”

  “Go without me.”

  “Sorry, sweet cheeks. No can do.”

  He lunged and she snapped, but somehow she ended up over his shoulder like a sack of grain.

  “Put me down!” she cried, swinging her feet.

  “Knock it off before you stab me with those things.”

  She kicked harder. He smacked her behind.

  “Hey!” she cried at the sting. She pummeled his shoulder blades. He squeezed her bottom tighter.

  “You ever been spanked on national television? Because if that’s an experience you don’t want, I suggest you calm your ass down.”

  She stilled and glanced at The Bomber. “Help,” she squeaked as Black Jack marched through the tunnel toward the arena.

  “You’ll be fine,” he called after her. “The fans are hot for you tonight, Hudson!”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Jack gripped Tiger Lady’s thighs in an arm lock. What would they think of next?

  Stepping through the nitrogen-generated fog, he strode down the ramp. Luckily the bimbo had given up on the fight, probably petrified that Jack would make good on his threat to give her a good spanking in front of thousands of fans. Good thing she didn’t know him very well.

  He marched toward the ring and waved at the crowd spotting a little boy in the front row with his hands plastered over his ears, a group of screaming females, and a pack of grown men raising their beers in salute to their favorite star. He’d normally reach out and slap high fives, but tonight he didn’t dare get too close with Tiger Lady over his shoulder. The crazy broad might poke somebody’s eye out with those spiked heels. She wasn’t the most coordinated actress he’d ever worked with.

  A throng of young boys caught his eye as they flagged him down with a homemade sign that read “Black Jack Attack” in thick black letters on bright blue poster board. His heart swelled with pride at being a hero for these kids. He took his role seriously, stressing hard work and faith in one’s self. Of course he did. He’d been there once, searching, lost and alone. Thank God for Butch. If Jack could offer these kids one ounce of what Butch had given him, Jack’s sorry life would be worth something.

  He smiled at the kids and tipped his hat. They screamed even louder. He cringed inside at the thought of tonight’s story line: Black Jack snags a wild woman to be his sex slave.

  He suddenly wanted to drop Tiger Lady on her ass.

  But a show was a show. Besides, who was he to say what would boost ratings? He wasn’t a promoter or a businessman. Hell, he’d never made it through college. No, he was the talent, plain and simple. According to Sullivan Jack’s job was to trust the promoter’s vision, follow orders, and fight. Nothing more. Only, over the past few years he couldn’t help but wonder what he was fighting for.

  The roar grew to a fevered pitch as he approached the ring. Billings wasn’t kidding. The fans were salivating for a good fight. He hoped his knee didn’t give out on him before the twenty-minute mark. He also hoped the punk stepping into the ring didn’t go crazy and bust into one of his whirling dervish routines. Jack simply didn’t have the patience for that crap tonight.

  With a firm grip of her soft behind, he swung Tiger Lady down off his shoulder onto the edge of the ring.

  “Get up there and hold the ropes open for me.”

  Even through that ridiculous black mask he could see her cornflower-blue eyes widen to the size of silver dollars as she scanned the crowd. She blinked,
but didn’t move.

  “Where’d they find you, anyway?” Not waiting for an answer, he hoisted himself up and stepped through the ropes. He reached over the top rope, gripped her under her arms and pulled her into the ring beside him. Sully had fallen down on the job this time. A tigress should be tall, lanky and seductive. This one reminded him of Allison Waters from the eighth grade, on the short side with curves everywhere. She had about as much coordination as Allison, who broke her nose walking into the flagpole at school.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, please welcome Wrestling Heroes and Kings champion, Black Jack Hudson and his special guest, Taaaaaaa-tiannaaaahhh!”

  Jack led Tiger Lady to the center of the squared circle and she stumbled, her scantily-clad body slamming into his chest. Well, no time like the present. Bill’s exact words were “tame her with a kiss.”

  With his hand at the small of her back, he pulled her against his chest and covered her mouth with a claiming kiss. She tasted better than he expected, kinda like those peppermint candies Aunt Vera used to put out at Christmas. Nah, don’t go there.

  The crowd went wild, the cheers buzzing in his head. He broke the kiss and glanced into the captured cat lady’s eyes. They were glazed over and she’d gone limp in his arms.

  “Snap out of it. I’m here to fight, not hold you up.”

  Without warning Tiger Lady slapped him hard across the cheek, the sting resonating in his brain. She was a lot tougher than she looked.

  “Looks like she’s not so tame after all, Black Jack,” Prince Priceless called over the sound system.

  She stepped away and he grabbed her wrist. He knew what Sully would have him do next to beef up the drama. Jack also knew what he really was, somewhere, deep down inside.

  Yanking on her arm, she glared in defiance, digging those ridiculous heels into the mat. The lunacy of the entire scene struck a chord of melancholy in his gut. Nothing was the way it should be.

  He let go and she stumbled back, swinging her arms to regain her balance. Instead she landed flat on her butt. With any luck she’d be PO’d about the kiss and hightail it outta here. Worked for him. He didn’t need a sidekick, especially not in the ring.