Fighting For Love - A Standalone Novel (A Bad Boy Sports Romance Love Story) (Burbank Brothers, Book #5)

by Naomi Niles

  “Huh. Nope. The kind of thing ya want is downtown and your sister doesn’t live in the high rent district. Sorry,” he finished.

  I must have looked a bit crestfallen, because he tried again.

  “I’ll tell ya what I’d do,” he began and I prepared myself for a come on. Men were always suggestive to me, and over my lifetime, I’d gotten used to it. I knew I was attractive, but wasn’t about to fall to that depth to make money. He was saying something and I tried to catch up. “You’re new around here. What I’d do is get out and get some pictures and write a few stories and then try to sell them. Kind of like a portfolio, ‘cept ya write about things people around here like. Not that Yankee stuff.”

  Yankee stuff? I knew I would have to get used to that expression. “What sort of thing has a market here?” I asked him. There was no one else to talk to and there was a slight chance he might actually have a valid idea. It wouldn’t cost me a penny to find out.

  “Tourist stuff. Ya know, the landmarks, ranches, the skyline, restaurants, guys with boots and Stetsons, horses, steer, oil …”

  I could hear him going on and on, but I’d tuned him out so I could think. I nodded, just to be polite. Maybe he’s got a point. After all, if this was New York City, that’s exactly the kind of thing I’d be doing anyway. Broadway openings, the Statue of Liberty, Macy’s windows at Christmas, skating at Central Park, Times Square. “Where can I buy a car? I mean a cheap, really cheap car?” I asked him.

  He was looking me over in his rear view again. “Ya any good with that camera?” he asked me.

  “The best; why?” I asked and steeled myself for an invite to do a porn film.

  “I got a daughter, ya see? She’s gettin’ married next weekend and well, them photographers ain’t cheap, ya know?”

  I had no vanity. “What’s it pay?” Haggling: now I was on familiar ground.

  “Well, what would you say to having a tour guide and a chauffeur?”

  I cocked my head and frowned. “What does that mean?”

  He understood my hesitation and rushed on. “Oh, no, no … nothin’ like that. This here …” he slammed his hand down on the taxi dashboard, “it’s about all I got to my name, but it’s paid for and it’s mine. I was thinkin’ that I could sort of take you around to some of those places one day and you could take your pictures and get whatever you need for the writin’. Sort of swap your time for mine.”

  He was studying my reaction in the mirror. I leaned forward and asked, “What’s your name?” I knew it, it was right on the license in full display.

  “I’m Bob. Well, Robert, as it’s wrote in the family Bible, but nobody calls me that ‘cept the preacher on Sundays.”

  “Well, then Bob, Robert on Sundays, you’ve got yourself a deal. I’ll take the pictures and give you a disk, but the prints are on you.”

  He grinned broadly as he pulled up to a curb and stopped. “Ya got a deal. Ride’s on me.”

  Surprised, I looked out and saw we had stopped before a very seedy apartment building. There wasn’t a blade of grass to be seen and the dirt was littered with broken bicycles, empty wine bottles, and a few piles of something brown upon which I didn’t want to speculate. “This is it?” I asked, feeling depressed suddenly.

  “Yep. Want some help with the luggage?” he offered.

  “No, I can handle it.” I put my hand on the door handle and hesitated.

  “What’s the matter? Not look like the right place?” he asked, a frown of concern on his face.

  “I’ve never been here. Don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this. Well, Bob, it appears we’re to be in a one-day business together. When and where is the wedding?”

  He nodded and seemed satisfied. “It’s on Saturday and I’ll stop by at noon to get ya. Don’t worry ‘bout dressin’ up; we’re havin’ it real casual like. Oh, and what’s your name?” he asked, realizing he had no idea.

  “I’m Meli; that’s short for Melissa Christian,” I said over my shoulder as I proceeded to get out.

  “Well, Meli, nice name. I’ll see ya on Saturday at noon.”

  “See you, Bob,” I agreed and stood on the sidewalk with dismay as his cab pulled away.

  Chapter 2

  Blake

  “Blake Andrew Temple,” the man in the cheap suit called my name and I got to my feet and walked toward him.

  “Raise your right hand. Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?” he uttered for probably the ten-thousandth time in his life.

  “Yup.” I wondered what had happened to the left hand on the Bible part.

  “Step up toward the judge,” he ordered in a humdrum voice.

  The judge behind the raised desk looked meaner than usual today. I wondered if he’d gotten any lately; the sour look he gave me as he peered over his reading glasses just about confirmed he hadn’t.

  “How do you plead?” the judge asked.

  “Not guilty,” I said in a clear, adamant voice.

  “You sure on that?” the judge asked.

  I was puzzled; I didn’t know the judge was supposed to argue with you. He could read it on my face.

  “Mr. Temple,” the judge began, laying his spectacles down on his desk in frustration. “You’re a regular customer in here. Now, you and I both know that it was a rodeo night and you won again and that always leads to a few beers and a few more fights. We’ve talked about this before. You can plead not guilty and waste my time and your money, or you can plead guilty, I’ll slap you with another two hundred and fifty dollar fine, and you can get on out of here and back to the ranch,” he said, making his case.

  I hadn’t brought a lawyer this time. “Guilty, your honor,” I re-stated in a somewhat less adamant voice.

  “Very well,” he responded. “That’ll be two hundred and fifty dollars,” he slammed down the gavel. “Pay the clerk on your way out.”

  I could hear a few gasps from the others in the courtroom. They were looking at far more serious punishments for even lesser crimes, but I knew what they didn’t: the judge and I played poker on the third Saturday of every month.

  Turning, my boots scraped the wood flooring and I walked in an exaggerated style down the aisle, like a man on his way to the gallows. I knew from the titters that I had some appreciative fans and I turned my head to wink at one of the prettier ones. She was Lolly, and her blonde hair was piled high on her head. I remembered taking out those pins a couple of weeks earlier and how that hair had just sort of flopped over. I hated hairspray. Lolly was good, though; I had to give her that.

  I paid my fine and busted through the door of the courthouse. The light hit and my hangover bloomed like a cactus rose. I groaned and headed for the bar on the corner, my eyes intent upon my goal. Once inside, I sighed with relief. The air was cool and smelled of cigarettes and old bourbon. They ought to bottle that smell as cologne, I thought to myself and made my way toward the bar.

  “Howdy, Blake,” roared Henry from behind the bar and his greeting was echoed in various voices from around the room. Immediately a dozen voices ordered Henry to give me a drink on them. Worked every time.

  “Fellas,” I nodded in general and settled onto a stool. I was instantly the center of a crowd who wanted talk about Cain, the 1800-lb. Brahma who had become my nemesis. He was coal black and had the spirit of a demon in him. More than once I’d eaten dirt just seconds out of the chute.

  The men speculated while I kept silent and kept a sort of half grin as I listened. I knew that the sport was as much about the fans’ speculation as the reality of the outcome. In fact, it didn’t matter as much whether I won as it did whether they felt the outcome made sense. They all had excuses and blind eyes when needed.

  I had two of the beers offered and tipped my hat to the group as I left. I figured even if the judge was in my pocket, there was no point tweaking his nose with it, especially in his own neighborhood.

  I found the pickup where I thought I’d left it and hea
ded out of town. I owned a ranch south of the city limits, and while I wouldn’t consider myself a rancher, I did like my privacy. I did own a few horses and rode my ranch regularly for exercise and solitude.

  This last was especially important to me. I had three brothers and that made for a very competitive childhood. My parents couldn’t afford four of everything, so the hand-me-down plan was utilized. The problem was that although I was the eldest, I wasn’t always ready to hand it down yet.

  I left home when I was fifteen and began hanging around with the cowboys who rode the circuit. I kept my nose clean, listened to what they taught me, and practiced every chance I got. I took care of the horses for those who roped and even did a stint or two as the rodeo clown and sold popcorn. It got into my blood as nothing has before, or since. It became my home.

  As I grew into my man’s body, I discovered that the techniques that had been a struggle for a boy, fit a man quite well. Through the constant practice, I developed the muscles that allowed me to stick to a bull like gum to tennis shoes. It took a lot to get me off. When I was old enough, I began to compete. The rest of the guys looked out for me and I knew they were pushing the easier rides my way. This pissed me off; I wanted to compete and to win from my own merits—not from a gimme.

  Then came the day that one of the guys got slammed while he was still in the chute. The impact broke his thighbone and he had to be taken out in a litter and loaded into the ambulance. I saw my chance and plucked his number from his shirt and pinned it to my own. I climbed into the chute just as they were getting ready to release the bull and when it went out, I was aboard. I stuck to that monster for twelve seconds before I leapt off with the grace of a circus performer and let the clowns take him over; this was four seconds longer than the eight required to make the ride count.

  I was in sheer heaven. The adulation from the crowd thundered in my ears as I dusted off my chaps and removed my gloves. The crowd loved the drama of the injured cowboy being replaced by a young boy, still wet behind the ears. And damn! I stuck it, too! Even the guys went a little nuts, and four of them picked me up and stuck me head first in the horse trough.

  That night the guys bought me a beer. I wasn’t even old enough to drink, but that didn’t faze Henry one bit. I downed it quickly and let out a huge belch, much to the delight and cheers of the crowd around me.

  So began my career riding. I continued to ride, and to win. It wasn’t long before long-legged blondes began to hang around, hoping to gain a little of the starlight that was Blake Temple. When they started wearing t-shirts with my face on them, I knew I was missing out on the big money and found myself an agent. Mick did right by me, putting a stop to the piracy and getting a sport clothing line to endorse me. The puny, little t-shirts became multi-colored and were accompanied by Stetsons, chaps, beer coolers, and every other god-awful thing you could imagine—and all with my face on them and a chunk of coin that went into my account. Damn, did the money flowed in.

  The press couldn’t seem to get enough of me. They followed the blondes like fleas on a dirty cow and pictures of me with someone’s arms wrapped around my neck began to appear on covers everywhere in the South. It seemed like everything I touched turned to gold.

  One night we did an outdoor event and the heat was suffocating. I kept wetting a kerchief and wrapping it around my neck. As they were bringing up the bull, my head began to spin and I felt a pain in my chest. I grabbed the fence and stood there, but it didn’t go away. I fought through it and climbed the fence to take my seat on the Brahma. The world swirled around me and the tightening in my chest worsened. They had to help me get my seat and as I wrapped the rope around my hand, it felt as though I was truly hanging on for dear life.

  It came as no surprise that I didn’t make even four seconds before I was lying in the dirt and the hooves where flying around my head. The clowns were surprised; they always could count on a full ride from Blake Temple—but not that night. That night, the great Blake Temple didn’t have the strength of a high school cheerleader. They had to help me to my feet and literally dragged me from the ring.

  Somebody helped me over to the medic that was always on standby. They checked me over and sent me on to the ER for a better exam. Their specialty was cuts and broken bones; they could do little for dizzy and weak.

  The ER doc pronounced me fit but said I’d had a panic attack. He handed me a vial with some pills and told me to follow up with the regular doc. I made him swear no one would find out as I fear the setting of the Blake Temple sun was about to begin. I’d barely gotten started.

  I got home that night and fell into the bed and slept two days straight. When I woke up, I was still worn out. Mick was worried and finally came knocking at the door when I wasn’t in my usual haunts.

  “What the hell happened?” he asked me.

  I didn’t want to let on because I figured he’d dump me faster than I could look sideways.

  “Nothing,” I was short.

  “Bullshit!” he cursed and turned his head a bit to indicate he wasn’t buying my story.

  “No, bull rider, Mick. It’s who I am and what I do. Just had a bug. I’m fine.”

  He still didn’t seem convinced but apparently decided to leave me alone because he never said another word about it.

  I had an event that upcoming weekend. Before I headed there, I stopped at Henry’s, but this time I had him pour me two fingers of whiskey. It went down hard and burned, but that seemed to be just what I needed to calm down my stomach. I got to the event and turned in a performance that Blake Temple was known for.

  That began the routine. Each event saw me stop by Henry’s on my way, and eventually I skipped his place and just bought my own bottle. Pretty soon two fingers didn’t cut it and I added a little more. Whiskey didn’t sit well with my temperament and more than once after I’d climb off the bull, somebody would say something and I’d have to jump them. It happened more and more and a new Blake Temple was making a name for himself—not on the circuit but in the circuit court.

  I’d take a swipe at someone and they’d run screaming to their attorney who was only too happy to relieve me of some of my hard-earned money or face jail time. The judge and I, being poker pals, sort of worked out a deal where he’d fine me two hundred and fifty dollars, and I’d let him win at poker. It was mutually agreeable and we kept it just between us.

  After I left the arena, I’d go out to the ranch and ride my horses hard. It would be dark and I let them have their head. It was just the horse, the moon, God, and me.

  Chapter 3

  Meli

  She opened the door as I trekked up the third flight of stairs and my sister hugged me, reeking of pot and beer.

  “Meli!” she cried a little, happy to see me.

  “Hey, Jill,” I hugged her back and looked over her shoulder to see utter chaos in the tiny apartment. Empty food packages, dirty clothes, and any number of empty whiskey bottles seemed to be her preferred decorating scheme.”

  “What happened in here?” I asked with the mockery she knew I could do so well.

  “Whaddaya mean?” she slurped and I realized she was very, very drunk.

  “Jill! Really? Pull yourself together and let’s get this place cleaned up!”

  “Well, you just go right ahead,” she shot back and, grabbing a half-empty bottle, went into a room I assumed held her bed and slammed the door behind herself.

  I stood there, my mouth hanging open at my reception and finally set my bags next to the door and sat down to decide what to do. There was nowhere else for me to go. I couldn’t afford a room more than a night or two and really needed to save that money for food. I walked over and peeked into Jill’s fridge and almost threw up at the sight of it.

  Resigned, I pulled out my grunge t-shirt and shorts and set about cleaning up the space. I needed garbage bags more than anything else. Bottle after bottle fought for space in the bags. I filled two bags with dirty laundry, realizing I was headed for a laundromat when I lo
oked around for a washer or dryer.

  I opened the fridge and literally scraped the entire contents into another garbage bag and dragged these out to the dumpster at the side of the building. Next came hot water and luckily I found a small bottle of bleach beneath the kitchen sink. I added dish soap and set about scrubbing everything in sight.

  The sofa, aka my bed, was nasty. I began by turning the cushions and then found some sheets in a linen closet and add those to the wash. I found Jill’s purse and dug out enough money to launder her things and a bit extra for something to cook for dinner.

  Two hours later, the sofa was made up for me to sleep on, the fridge sparkled, and the floors were swept. Jill’s clothes were neatly folded and sitting on the floor next to her bedroom door. The garbage was gone and there was a pot of chili happily simmering on the stove.

  Her door opened and Jill staggered out, wiping the dried spittle from the corner of her mouth. Her hair should have been shampooed a week before and I wanted to pick her up and shove her into a washing machine, whole.

  “Something smells good,” she muttered.

  “Chili.”

  “Oh, god!” she uttered and ran for the bathroom. I heard her get sick and knew she would be eventually hungry, but in the meantime, I would help myself.

  I had washed the dishes and found my way to the sofa and the remote for the 13” television sitting on a stack of books nearby. I turned it on and found about six channels total. This was fine. I had no time to be watching television. I had to find work—and fast. Once again I cursed Jeremy and his wandering penis.