by Penny Wylder
Cupping her hip, the girl turns to face me. She's about to speak when there's a loud bang on the door. We both stand quiet as voices start to explode from the other side of the door and another giant bang rattles the wall.
“What's going on?” she asks, taking a long step back.
“I haven't got a clue.”
Another bang, then another, they're coming in succession, and growing in intensity. The yelling is getting louder, and then out of nowhere, the door breaks open, sending bits of shattered wood in our direction. Two men tumble inside, both of them punching each other.
The bouncers from the club are circling the two men like it's an actual boxing match and they're the refs, trying to break it up. Fists are flying, arms and legs are moving and tangling. Then I see one of the faces, and it's not just a stranger, it's Stone.
“Whoa! Whoa!” I yell, attempting to stick my arms into the tangled mess of flesh and bone. Catching a fist to the chin, I stop and rock my jaw side to side to make sure it isn't broken. “That's it, mother fucker, now you're going to get it.”
Jumping into the pile, I'm striking some asshole I don't know in the face. I can feel weight on my shoulders as I'm jumped from behind. Next thing I know, it's not just a simple fight between men, it's turned into a mass brawl.
My temper is flared, taking over my brain. I’m a man of extremes, I like to go all in no matter what it is I'm doing. And this is no exception.
Stone is on one guy, I'm on another, the bouncers are trying to get between us, but if anyone gets in my way, they get a fist to the face. Sweat is pouring down my temples, and I lose sight of the mystery woman I just fucked.
I shake her out of my head, focusing on what's happening in front of me. All I can do is help my friend.
It all happens so fast, all of it. From the drinks, to the girl, to the fight; next thing I know my face is being slammed onto the dirty bathroom floor and my arms are being yanked behind my back.
Cold steel binds my wrists as I'm cuffed, and two cops slip their hands under my arms and lift me off the floor.
“Fuck! Let me go! I'm cool, I'm cool!”
“Yeah, you'll be cool, when you sleep it off in the drunk tank.”
“You can't do that! Do you know who I am?”
I'm in shock that these cops would even think about throwing my ass in jail for the night.
“Obviously, you don't know who we are. Because we're the law,” the cop points at his badge and tips his head. “We don't give a shit who you are, you break the law, you go to prison. The rules don't change because your mom raised you to think you're special.”
It was complete chaos around me. People, cops, bouncers, flashes from cameras and the music still blaring in every direction, I couldn't focus on one specific thing.
My head is whipping around over my shoulder, trying to find my muse, the girl I went after, not the girl who threw herself at me.
But she's gone.
The steel bars of the door clank loudly as the cop pulls it shut, locking me inside. Laying on the bench, my head is already pounding, giving me a preview of the hangover I can expect tomorrow morning.
Resting my hands up over my head, the only thing on my mind is that girl. She had gotten away before I learned anything about her.
Her name, her number, what she does for work, how old she is. Everything about her is a mystery.
Closing my eyes, images of her, of her body, her smile, the way she felt on my cock are the only thing in my mind.
A fallen angel has disappeared, but I know it isn't going to end with her as a memory.
I have a girl to find.
And just like everything else in my life, determination is all I'll need.
2
Sylvia
Three Days earlier
“Look at this shit.” Tossing the newspaper onto his desk, Daniel sinks his face into his hands and groans. “This kid is going to fucking ruin me. I'm going to be the laughingstock of the entire industry.”
Picking up the paper, I'm staring at the face of Phade Manson. . . but not the great fighter my step-father raves about, I'm staring at Phade Manson with wild, crazy eyes, his mouth hanging ajar with a ridiculous smile, and a drink in both hands.
He's a drunken mess, and the tabloids are eating it up. They've been eating it up for some time now, too. Phade's making a name for himself alright, and it isn't the one Daniel wants to see.
The headline on today's paper reads, 'One Punch King Or Drunken Jester?'.
Phade Manson is supposed to be the golden glove of the ultimate fighting world. Everyone wanted him, all the hands were in the pot, trying to get a piece of this young blood. But only one got his signature, Daniel Cross. I think it's safe to say that not everyone sees it as a loss to Cross. Last Saturday night, Phade traded his gloves for the sweet Devil's Brew, much like his recent weekends in New York City, L.A., and Boston. . .
I don't need to read anymore of the article, I know how it ends; with Phade becoming part of some joke and Daniel becoming the loser in it all. Dropping the paper back on his desk, I lean back in my chair. “This isn't good.” I look up at my step-dad, pure disbelief on my face.
“No shit, Sherlock. I'm glad you pointed that out to me.” Rolling his eyes, his nostrils flare wide. “We can't have this, Syl, this—” Slamming his finger down on Phade's forehead, he glares at me. “This can't happen anymore. It's the fifth time in less than two months his face has been on the front page. I can't take it; it has to stop. This is my name—our name,” he says, pointing a finger between us. “He's ruining your reputation, too.”
My reputation?
None of this is mine, not one piece of this place belongs to me. This entire organization is all my step-father. Having built it from the ground up, Daniel Cross knows how to manage, conquer, and destroy. I'm lucky to even have one foot in the door.
But I want more, I've always wanted a chance to prove myself, to show him I'm good enough.
“Well, what are you going to do? How can you stop him?” Flipping the paper over, I set it so his face is down, and slide it back. “You can't really keep tabs on the guy, can you?”
Daniel's mouth folds into a thick grimace as he pulls his hair back tight against his scalp. “He's going to destroy everything if he keeps going out and getting fucking trashed. No one's going to take me seriously. I can't keep cleaning up his messes and pulling strings to keep this kid out of jail.”
Thinning my lips, I rest my chin on the back of my knuckles. “What if you amend his contract to include no alcohol? You can make him sign it or tell him he's done.”
“No, that won't work. He'll just walk and sign with someone else. I don't want to lose him, I just want him to straighten up his act. We need something to clean up his image, make him more of the guy kids want to look up to, instead of the guy parents use to teach their kids about drugs and alcohol.”
Taking the paper back off the desk, I read more of the article on Phade. Turns out the sexy, beefy newcomer had gotten so annihilated that night, he poured a drink on the bartender, turned over three tables, and broke four of seven bathroom mirrors.
Paparazzi got pictures of most of the destruction, and a few lucky shots, including one of him passed out on the floor. He's losing his edge, the one thing that draws everyone in, and he's becoming a complete joke.
Snapping his fingers in my direction, Daniel grins. “I've got it!” he belts out, sending his chair back a foot. “And you're going to help.” He veers his stare, instantly making my stomach clench.
I don't like the look on his face. I'm not sure I even want to hear his idea.
“Me?”
“You.”
“Me?” I ask again, pointing to myself, and sitting slightly stunned.
What could I possibly do to help fix this? Phade will never listen to me, shit, I don't even think he knows I exist, never mind take directions from me.
Stroking his jaw, his smirk is wide like the Joker. He looks so excited, like he ju
st won the lottery, and isn't going to have to work another day in his life.
“I've got the perfect idea to fix this entire situation.” Leaning back in his chair, he smiles with a lazy grin and steeples his fingers together. “You ready for this?” he asks, but he doesn't wait for a reply. Pointing at me, he bounces his finger lightly. “You're going to become his fiancée.”
“What?” I choke out, coughing slightly.
Did I hear him right?
Fiancée?
“Yes, it's perfect. We'll make you his fiancée. You can reel him in, calm him down, make people see him as the good guy, and not this.” Throwing his hand out towards the paper, he sighs. “I can't believe I didn't think of this sooner.”
No. No. No.
This isn't the answer!
I want to grab his collar and yell in his face. I don't actually do it, I can't. I owe him so much for everything he's done for me. I can't just protest his idea or he'll fire me on the spot.
But I can try to counter his idea, maybe give him something else to think about that isn't me with a ring on my finger and engaged to man I only know through the paper.
He is hot. I'd have the sexiest fiancé in the city if I do this.
Pushing the superficial rationalization away, I purse my lips and lean forward, fiddling with my nails on the desk.
“I don't know if this is the best way to approach this. . .” Pausing, I force a smile. “I can help, absolutely, I don't mind that. We can sit him down, talk to him about his behavior, how it's not acceptable. Really make him see that his image is a huge part of this, not just how he fights. I'd be more than happy to set him up with some special appearances, maybe he can do volunteer work. You know, stuff to boost his hometown good guy persona, not this bad boy one he's making for himself.”
Daniel thins his lips, letting out another sigh. Reaching across the desk, he grabs my hand and squeezes it. “Sylvia, I know you want to be the face of our PR department, I do. It's what you said to me when I first hired you, and trust me, I want that for you too. This will show me just how ready you really are. You need to be willing to go that extra mile, do whatever needs to get done to make things better. It won't be real, it'll just be for show, get the press saying positive things about Phade instead of this garbage. Then we'll do some amicable separation or something, and end it with a clean break. We won't give the tabloids anything but sweet and kind.”
Slipping my hand free, I fold my hands in my lap, and look him straight in the eye. “I don't know, Daniel, it seems like a wild idea. I'm not sure how I feel about it, it doesn't sit right with me.”
His expression goes slack as he takes in a slow breath. “This isn't about you—this is about this company.”
“Yeah, but we—”
Cutting me off, he pushes the paper back in my direction. “Do you see this?” My eyes drop to Phade's face and I nod. “It's your job as PR to fix his public image no matter what, am I right?”
“Well, yeah, but—”
“No matter what,” he says, jabbing his finger into Phade's eye. “This man is in desperate need of your help.” Brushing his hand in the air, he waves it like he's casting a magical spell. “Besides, it won't be real, Sylvia. It's strictly to get him back on the good side of the paparazzi and the public. We want to stop all this crap, generate good headlines, not this garbage. It's not too late to turn it all around, and you will be the one to do it.” Tapping the edge of his fingers against his lips, his smile is paper thin. “You'll save this company, Syl. Doesn't that sound amazing? To single handedly be the one to fix it?”
There's a flood of emotions that hit me all at once. Of course I want to make sure this company thrives, that it maintains the same level of success and intimidation that it always has. But to act like I'm engaged to a man I barely know, I'm not sure how that shows my dedication.
Not to mention, Daniel still has to run this by Phade. He can't just make this decision without him. Can he?
How's Phade going to feel about this? What if he doesn't want to go along with it?
Phade might be perfectly happy doing what he's doing right now. He might decide to tell Daniel to go screw himself. A contract holds you accountable for a lot of things, but not for wild ideas from your manager. And it certainly can't make you take a fake fiancée.
“Say I agree to this,” I say, glancing down at the desk and picking at the edge of the newspaper. “What about Phade? How do you know he'll even go along with it? What if he doesn't want to? What will you do then?”
“Don't worry about him, I'll take care of that. He'll do it, he won't have a choice.” Relaxing back, he has a satisfied grin on his face. He won the battle. Point, set, match. “This is perfect, you're going to do great. A pretty girl like you, Phade won't say no to that.”
He isn't even trying to convince me anymore; his tone says he's decided for me.
I'm going to be Phade's pretend fiancée, the deal is done before the ink is dry.
Closing the door to his office, I start down the hall. I'm holding the paper all rolled up in my hand, watching my feet as I walk. I'm not even sure what to think at this point. I'm about to be engaged to a man I know absolutely nothing about, someone I've never met in person, or had a conversation with.
How the hell am I going to pull this off?
It's impossible.
“Hey, Sylvia.”
Claudia's voice startles me and I jump slightly. “Oh, hey, Claude. How are you?”
“I'm good.” She gives me a light smile, then looks down at my hand. “What's that?”
“It's this morning's paper.” Fiddling with it, I unroll it as I talk. “Daniel isn't too happy about it either. Phade—”
“Phade,” she says, softly closing her eyes and swooning. “God, that guy is so damn hot. Mm, the things I'd do to him if I had the chance.” Giggling, she brushes her hair away from her face and fans herself. “What did he do this time?” Her smile thickens as her eyes twinkle with a starry look.
“You could say that I guess.” Laughing, I re-roll the paper and tuck it under my arm. “It's nothing though, Daniel has an idea to fix it.”
“Oh good, because I'd hate to see him go. There's something about him, something that just gives me those damn little butterflies in my stomach.” Holding her belly, she closes her eyes and smiles to herself. “I wish I could get an hour alone with him, just the two of us.”
I want to tell her so badly about what Daniel is asking me to do. About how I've been given the job of being Phade's fiancée. It sounds insane when I think it, I can't imagine how it'll sound if I say it out loud.
Instead, I say nothing. I'm afraid to tell her and hurt her feelings. She looks like she has such a huge crush on him, I just can't get the words out.
Why me?
Daniel could have asked anyone else in the office, but he asked me. I couldn't tell him no. I want to run the PR department, it's what I want more than anything. This is going to show him just how serious I am about it.
And I'm not going to say anything that's going to crush her. Claudia is more than just my co-worker, she's my friend.
The last thing I would ever want to do is hurt her, but I need this.
My dream is right here, arm’s length away; nothing is going to stop me.
Not even a friend.
I'll tell her everything eventually. . . Just not yet.
3
Phade
“Get up,” the cop barks, tapping his billy club against the bars. “Your bond's been posted.”
Rubbing my eyes, I sit up in the cot and yawn. Taking a second to catch my bearings, the cop leans against the steel door. He looks older, in his forties, maybe early fifties, with mostly silver hair, buzzed into a military fade.
He reminds me of my grandfather, with his stern expression and crinkled forehead. There are no laugh lines by his mouth. I'm pretty sure he's spent most of his life with a frown.
His uniform is wrinkle free, pressed perfectly and scotch guarded ag
ainst stains. The blue fabric is new and crisp, his boots so shiny I can probably use them like a mirror. Even his badge is gleaming, catching every beam of light from the long bulbs in the ceiling.
“It's about damn time.” Standing, I stretch my arms high above my head and groan as I bend my knees and reach higher. “I made that call hours ago.”
My back is slightly sore between my shoulder blades from the rigid, metal frame, and the paper thin mattress. These cots really are fucking terrible. There's no meat to them, only bone. And the creaking, oh fuck that creaking is burned into my brain like a sore.
Reaching around my ribs, I try to massage the crick out of the muscle. “You guys really should invest in better beds.” Swinging my arms front to back, I lengthen them by grabbing my elbows, and pulling them across my chest.
He looks at me like I'm a privileged rich kid. “Yeah, the problem with that is you're a criminal. This is jail, not the Ritz.”
Scrunching my brows, I tilt my head. “I thought everyone was innocent until proven guilty?”
“Did the officers pull you off another guy as you pummeled his face into corned beef hash?” I hold his stare, but I don't answer. “That's the silence of truth,” he says, pointing his finger out, and jabbing it in my direction. “You coming or not? I mean you can stay, I don't really care, I get paid whether you're here or not.”
“No thanks, I'll pass. Where's my shit?”
“Front desk, same place you left it.” Sliding the door open, he turns stiffly on his heels and waits for me to step out in front of him.
His eyes are beady, watching me like I'm some low life criminal. I'm not. I don't steal, rape, or kill people; I'm just a guy who enjoys his vices a little too much. And last night it got me in trouble.
There are three things I love; drinking, fighting, and fucking.
Last night I got to taste all three. It was a beautiful thing. Nothing's going to stop me from doing what I love, even a night behind bars.