Got A Hold On You (Ringside Romance)

by Pat White

  “I can take care of myself. Have been for over thirty years.”

  “I know.” She brushed a strand of hair off his cheek. Her fingers stilled, and he wondered whether she felt it too, if her body burned in secret, private places like his did right now.

  “Everyone needs a little help sometimes,” she said. “Even the invincible Black Jack Hudson. It’s okay to need someone, Jack.”

  Not like I need you, babe.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  He cleared his throat. “Fine.”

  “You don’t look fine.”

  Her iridescent eyes caught his heart.

  “I’ll be fine, doc, promise.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t worry about me. Marco’s stopping by later,” he lied.

  “I should probably stay until he gets here,” she offered.

  “No need. I’m okay. Just tired.”

  “I know the feeling.”

  Of course she did. She’d been up all night, holding him, soothing him. And what did she get for her trouble? Attitude from a horny bastard. She deserved more than that. Much more.

  “Listen, I appreciate the dinner, but I’m fine.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “No, you’re not. Something’s up. I can tell. I’ll stay until Marco gets here.”

  If she did, they’d both regret it. He couldn’t spend another minute in her presence and expect to keep his hands to himself.

  “Go on. Stop babying me. You’ve got a date, don’t you?”

  She glanced at her watch. “Oh my gosh! I didn’t realize it was so late. I have to be at a restaurant on the north side in half an hour.”

  “Well, you’d better get going.”

  “But I wanted to serve you dinner, clean up the dishes, pick up a little,” she said, scanning the room.

  “That’s why I’ve got a dishwasher. The maid service comes day after tomorrow.”

  “But—”

  “You’re driving me crazy, woman. Go on, get outta here.”

  She stood, took a deep breath, and ran flattened palms across her hair.

  “Do I look okay?”

  “Yep.” Good enough to eat.

  “No lipstick on my teeth?” She shot him a full grin.

  “You’re clean.”

  “I don’t know why I’m so nervous. I guess because I haven’t seen him in weeks and I want everything to go well. How about my hair?”

  “You look great. Any man would be nuts not to fall for you.”

  Like I have.

  She took a deep breath and stared him down. Hell, he’d been caught.

  “Are you sure you’ll be okay?”

  “Get out of here!” he ordered.

  “Okay, okay.” She snatched her purse off the breakfast bar and paced to the door. “The shells should ring in thirty-five minutes. If you want the bread hot, pop it in the oven for about ten minutes. The salad’s tossed and in the fridge.”

  “Got it.”

  “I’m sorry I have to abandon you like this.”

  “You’re not abandoning me. Go have a good time.”

  She pulled open the door, hesitated, and marched back to the couch.

  He’d always remember her like this, hands planted on her hips, copper-streaked tendrils dancing across her cheeks where her hair had slipped free from its braid.

  “You’re sure Marco’s coming?”

  “Stop worrying about me. I’m not your problem.”

  Even thought he’d like to be.

  “Wish me luck?” she said.

  Agonizing pain sliced through the center of his chest.

  He forced a smile. “Luck.”

  She leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. His heart lurched.

  “You’re a nice guy,” she whispered against his skin. “Don’t let anyone tell you different.”

  She rushed out of his condo and closed the door, taking a piece of his heart with her. He’d lose it all if he weren’t careful, ending up with an empty spot the size of the Atlantic Ocean in his chest. He had to stop this craziness and redirect his focus on getting out of wrestling…on living again.

  Only, could he live without Frankie?

  ***

  Frankie paced the lobby of Leo’s Fish House waiting for Bradley to show. She couldn’t believe she’d actually beaten him here. But then she’d broken a few traffic laws to make sure she wouldn’t have to explain being late.

  “It’s not like I was doing anything wrong,” she muttered.

  Although she’d been making dinner for another man, icing his injury, and tending to his needs. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d tended to Bradley. They had such a mature and independent relationship. They worked ten-hour days, met twice a week for a planned outing, and shared a bed on Saturday nights. It was a stable, sensible partnership. Nothing like her relationship with Jack.

  She nibbled at her lower lip. She and Jack didn’t have a “relationship” not in the technical sense. It was simply a business partnership.

  She pulled out her compact and checked her reflection, wanting tonight to be perfect. Her eyes lit with panic. How could she expect perfection when she had to confess her sins, bare all about her exploits with WHAK?

  Maybe she wouldn’t have to tell him everything, not tonight anyway. She’d ease him into it. Yes, that’s what she’d do. Besides, it’s not like he read the wrestling gossip magazines or surfed pro wrestling websites. Heck, he probably didn’t even know professional wrestling existed.

  “Peek-a-boo.” Bradley’s hazel eyes stared back at her through the compact.

  “Bradley!” She turned and wrapped her arms around his neck, giving him a hearty squeeze.

  “Easy there.”

  “Oh, right. Sorry.” He never was one for public displays of affection.

  “Is our table ready?” He extended his arm to lead them into the restaurant.

  “I didn’t ask yet. I was waiting for you.” She squeezed his arm and grinned. This felt right, normal.

  Real.

  “You’re awfully amorous this evening. Too bad I have a plane to catch first thing tomorrow or I’d ask you up to my hotel room.” He winked.

  They strolled through the crowded bar toward the restaurant. Televisions blared, as men drank and laughed. They were having a good time. Bradley turned up his nose in disapproval.

  The hostess greeted them at the entrance to the Garden Room.

  “Reservation for Dunsmore.”

  “Actually, McGee,” Frankie corrected.

  Bradley glanced at her.

  “Sorry,” she said. She’d forgotten how he liked being in charge, one of the many things she admired about her future fiancé. In control at all times, Bradley never left anything to chance.

  Unlike Jack.

  Why was she thinking about Jack? Because she felt responsible and shouldn’t have left him to fend for himself. The man could barely walk, much less balance on his own two legs. How was he going to pull dinner out of the oven?

  It wasn’t her responsibility. He was a big boy and, as he’d pointed out over and over again, he’d been taking care of himself for years. Still, the thought of a ten-year-old boy going to the hospital alone made her stomach burn.

  The hostess led Frankie and Bradley to a private booth in the corner, trimmed in decorative ivy. Frankie took the seat facing the entrance to the bar knowing that the sight of it would ruin Bradley’s evening.

  “What can I get you to drink tonight?” a blond young waitress asked.

  “I’ll have a glass of Chablis and she will have—”

  “Brandy, please,” Frankie interrupted.

  “Francine? That’s an after dinner drink,” Bradley admonished.

  “I know, but I’ve got a taste for it.” And she needed something stronger than wine.

  “All right then.” Bradley nodded at the waitress. “We’ll start with the spinach salad with Italian dressing.”

  “Actually, I’d like a house salad with blue cheese,” Frankie
said.

  Bradley folded his menu and eyed her carefully. “Blue cheese it is. For both of us.”

  The waitress nodded and left the table.

  “Francine? Is everything okay?”

  “Sure. Why?”

  “You seem...different.”

  “It’s been a long two weeks.”

  “Speaking of which, don’t you have some confessing to do?”

  She bit her lower lip. He knew! He was a closet wrestling fanatic and knew all about her leopard bikini performance. But the show wouldn’t air until Tuesday night. There was no way he could—

  “Chablis.” The waitress placed a wine glass in front of him. “And brandy.”

  Frankie curled her fingers around the glass and took a healthy sip. More like a chug.

  “It can’t be that bad,” he said.

  She glanced at him, noting his dark brown hair combed back in a perfect wave, and hazel eyes that changed color depending on the clothes he wore. Tonight they were brown to match his suit.

  “Bradley, there are things you don’t know about me. About my family.”

  That’s it. Blame everything on Uncle Joe.

  “Your family? You mean your mom? But I love your mom, and I think she likes me. She always makes those lemon tea cakes whenever we visit.”

  “It’s not about Mom. It’s about my uncle.”

  “You mentioned him over the phone. The criminal?”

  “He’s not a criminal, but his business is, well, kind of unusual.”

  An ear-piercing roar echoed from the bar.

  “Honestly.” He snapped his fingers and the waitress rushed to their table.

  “Is there any way you can close the doors to the bar?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What is it? Basketball playoffs? I wonder if I should have set the DVR,” he muttered.

  “No, sir, it’s Sunday night wrestling,” she answered.

  Frankie choked on her brandy, spraying fine drops of brown liquid across the white tablecloth.

  “Wrestling,” Bradley said in a condemning tone. “Shut the door. Lock it if you can.”

  “Yes, sir. Your salads will be out shortly.” She scurried away to shut the door.

  “Can you believe that?” Bradley said. “A bunch of grown men getting paid to jump around like idiots.” He snapped open his napkin and placed it in his lap.

  “You…don’t like wrestling?” Frankie asked.

  He made a face, the same face he made when little kids ran into him in the grocery store, or when Frankie suggested they go miniature golfing.

  “Professional wrestling is violent, phony, and geared for the lower class. No, I don’t like wrestling.”

  She took a generous swallow of her drink.

  “It’s all pretend, you know,” he said. “They don’t really fight. No one really gets hurt.”

  Images of a bedridden Jack Hudson crying out in his sleep invaded her thoughts. He might act the tough guy, but his temporary paralysis had created new emotional scars to rival those from his childhood.

  “I read an article about it in Financiers Magazine last month. It’s a big money maker. I don’t understand it.” He tore off a piece of bread. “It’s all scripted, you know.”

  “Yes, but the athleticism is real.”

  “What athleticism? One man jumps and the other catches him. One man throws a punch, the other pretends to be hit.”

  One man dumps another man on his head and paralyzes him.

  “They’re actors, nothing more,” he said with such conviction.

  Actors who sacrifice their bodies.

  “Your salads.” The waitress slid their plates in front of them.

  He opened his menu. “Let’s try something different tonight, Francine. We’ll have two orders of the fried catfish.”

  She’d noticed the special price on the menu. Good old Bradley, always looking for a deal.

  “Is that okay with you, Sweetums?”

  “Sure.” She needed to be agreeable considering the bomb she was about to drop.

  “Back to wrestling,” she said.

  He pursed his lips and focused on his salad.

  “Sure it’s scripted and violent, but what’s the difference between wrestling and that movie you took me to see last month, remember? Death Before Danger?”

  “There’s a big difference. One is art. The other is cartoon.”

  “Some people consider wrestling an art form.”

  Bradley snorted. She didn’t think him capable of snorting.

  “Okay, so wrestlers are performers,” she said. “But they really do sustain physical punishment.”

  “No, they don’t. That’s my point. They’ve got you fooled, little girl.” He pointed his fork at her.

  She gritted her teeth and controlled the urge to bat it away with her knife.

  “Everything’s padded to prevent injury,” he said, sounding like an expert. “The ring, the mat outside the ring, those pole things that hold up the ropes.”

  “Turnbuckles,” she corrected.

  “The floor is like a giant trampoline. There aren’t any hard surfaces, so they can’t really get hurt.”

  Unless they’re dropped head first on a steel door, tossed out of the ring onto a wooden table, or fall from the top of a fifteen-foot cage.

  “Bradley, I don’t think you’re seeing the whole picture.”

  “I know what I know.”

  That was that, his signal that the conversation was over.

  What did it matter? In another month or two she’d be out of the wrestling business and back to her real life. Why make an issue out of it? He’d never change his mind and it wasn’t worth ruining her future engagement.

  “Tell me about this uncle of yours.” He chewed his lettuce with precision and focus.

  “He’s a businessman who’s having some financial trouble with his company.”

  “What kind of company?”

  She hesitated, gripping her fork so tightly she thought it might snap in two. How much should she tell?

  “Entertainment,” she said.

  “Really? Like making movies?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Maybe you can get me a part as an extra.”

  She stifled a giggle at the thought of Bradley dressed in orange tights flexing his kiwi-sized biceps.

  He froze in mid-stab of his salad. “It’s not porn, is it?” Was that horror or hope in his voice?

  “Nope, not porn.”

  Although, according to his diatribe about wrestling it might as well be.

  “How long will you be helping him out?”

  “About another month or so. It depends on how things progress.”

  “Why haven’t you mentioned him before?”

  “He’s a bit of a character. He’s been involved in many businesses, some less respectable than others. It’s not something Mom and I are proud of.”

  “Then why do you associate with him at all?”

  “He’s my uncle. I love him.”

  “Well, we can’t pick our relatives, that’s true.”

  Something rankled her.

  Reaching over, he patted her hand. “You’re a good girl, sweets. It’s very generous of you to help your uncle.”

  “You think so?”

  “Absolutely. It shows great strength of character, loyalty and devotion.”

  If he only knew. She couldn’t tell him, not now. She wanted to enjoy this evening. It had been an insane week and she needed a nice, quiet dinner with her future fiancé, her stability, her rock.

  “A quarter for your thoughts,” he said with a reserved smile.

  “I was thinking about how long it’s been since we’ve enjoyed a relaxing dinner like this.”

  Roars emanated from the bar. He clenched his jaw. So much for relaxation.

  “I’m not going to let anyone or anything ruin this evening.” He took a deep breath, reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a black velvet box.


  The black velvet box.

  Her heart raced triple time. “Bradley?”

  “We got word on Friday. Come July first, I’ll be the youngest partner at Lundstrom, Marks and Beetle. It’s official.”

  She stared at the box, a million thoughts racing through her mind. This was it. The moment she’d been waiting for since she was seven. Her handsome prince was offering Frankie her dream: a perfect life.

  “Bradley, I—”

  The bar doors burst open, and a roar blew into the restaurant.

  “That’s it. We’re leaving, and we’re not paying for dinner.”

  He shoved the box back into his pocket and took her hand. As he dragged her through the Garden Room, her thoughts spun and her heart pounded with excitement, nervous energy and panic.

  Panic?

  He marched up to the hostess. “This is a special night and your atmosphere has completely ruined things. I’m not paying for dinner, and I won’t be back.”

  “I’m sorry sir, isn’t there anything we can do?”

  He waved her off dismissively and glanced over his shoulder at Frankie. “Let’s go. We’ll find another establishment that has the proper atmosphere.”

  Pushing through the bar doors, he marched toward the exit. Men laughed and screamed as they watched something on television. She couldn’t rip her gaze from the back of Bradley’s head. Her husband, man and wife, her very own happily-ever-after.

  He stopped suddenly and Frankie bumped into his back.

  “Bradley?” She searched his face.

  He gaped at the television above the bar and turned to Frankie, his eyes wide, and his face pale. “Francine, what are you doing on television? And why are you dressed like that?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “So, I guess this means the engagement’s off?” she said, leaning against her rental car.

  “I don’t know, Francine. I don’t know what to say or what to think. I’m perplexed.”

  It had taken a good half hour to get Bradley to breathe normally and when he finally did, he looked completely defeated.

  “I thought I knew everything about you,” he said. “You like the generic brand of catsup, you never eat red meat for dinner because it will disrupt your sleep, and you spend Sunday evenings reading those fluff romance novels.”

  “Fluff?” She crossed her arms over her chest.