Faltering only slightly, the emcee announced the name of each athlete who'd been nominated. Other than Ronnie North, I recognized none of the names. But then again, I hadn't expected to.
Finally, the emcee reached into his jacket pocket. With a flourish, he whipped out a silver envelope, tore it open, and pulled out a small slip of paper. He looked down at the thing and froze. A slow, confused frown settled over his features. Near the back of the banquet hall, someone coughed.
Into the silence, Dorian bellowed out, "Go on, read it!" He gave a bark of laughter. "Food's gettin' cold, man!" Everyone at his table laughed. Other than a few nervous chuckles, they were the only ones.
On stage, the emcee cleared his throat and gave the paper another nervous glance.
At Dorian's table, Ronnie North pushed back his chair and leaned forward, obviously getting ready to head up on stage.
God, what a dumb-ass. Rigged or not, couldn't he at least pretend to be surprised?
The emcee took a deep breath and leaned closer to the microphone. "And the winner is…" He gave a stiff smile. "Becky Summers of Tri-State University."
Chapter 3
At the announcement of Becky's name, the place broke into wild applause.
Peering through the shadows, I looked over at Dorian's table. No one there was clapping. Dorian was glaring, thunderstruck, up at the emcee, who was looking more uncomfortable with each passing second. Across from Dorian, Ronnie looked too stunned to move while the rest of his companions shared nervous glances.
Near the back of the conference center, a petite brunette was making her way toward the stage.
She wound her way through the maze of tables and passed me within arm's reach. College student or not, she looked around twelve-years-old, with long brown hair and an eager, bouncing step.
When she smiled, I smiled. I didn't even know her, but I liked her. She was so darn cute, I wanted to adopt her, like a kitten.
When she bounded up the steps and reached the emcee, he handed her a giant silver trophy, and then stepped aside, giving her access to the podium. Becky moved forward and reached up to lower the microphone before saying, "Wow, I sure wasn't expecting this."
From the shadows, Dorian's voice rang out, "You ain't the only one!" His companions roared with laughter, oblivious to the angry murmurs of those around them. Near us, a table of football-player types looked distinctly annoyed.
Becky froze for a long moment before recovering her composure to say, "I want to thank my parents and my coach, and my big sister, who pushed me into my first somersault." With a small laugh, she lifted the award and added, "Even if you did roll me into Mom's gardenias."
The crowd laughed, and Becky smiled, looking more relaxed now. "And I want to thank my team for all their support." Her voice grew more earnest. "When it comes to team sports, I know that gymnastics isn't the first thing that people think of—"
"Got that right!" Dorian bellowed.
From the crowd, I heard louder murmurs of irritation. A deep male voice from somewhere in the back hollered out, "Hey, Dickweed! Shut up, and let her speak!"
The crowd responded with cheers and applause, leaving Dorian obviously stunned. He glared toward the voice and hollered back, "Who said that?"
There was a smattering of laughter, followed by silence until a friendly female voice called out toward the stage, "Go on, Becky! We're listening!"
Becky gave a shaky smile and continued. "But that doesn't mean teamwork isn't really important." Again, she lifted the trophy. "Because this award isn't just for me. It's for—" A loud crash made her stop in mid-sentence.
The crash had come from Dorian, who had leapt to his feet, sending his chair tumbling backward into a nearby waiter, who, in turn, had dropped his tray. I squinted through the shadows and saw breaded chicken, along with thick noodles, strewn in saucy piles across the fancy tile floor.
Yup, it was Chicken Florentine, alright.
My Chicken Florentine? Probably not. A good thing, too, because I sure as heck wasn't going to be slurping it off the slippery tile, even as hungry as I was.
Next to me, I heard Jake say under his breath, "What a pussy."
I looked up and saw what he saw. Dorian had thrown down his napkin and was heading in our direction, making his way toward the same side exit that Jake had pointed to earlier.
I had to agree. It was a pussy-move, storming out, just because things didn't go as planned. As for the rest of Dorian's table, they were staying put. Was that a good thing? Or a bad thing? I honestly had no idea.
Just above me, a small clattering noise broke my concentration. I looked up and saw a waiter with a huge serving tray looming over my shoulder. He smiled. "Chicken?"
Without waiting for my response, he set a covered plate in front of me and lifted its shiny silver lid. And there it was, Chicken Florentine, looking all saucy and delicious. The dish was steaming. The chicken was breaded. The noodles looked extra-buttery.
My mouth watered. Things were definitely looking up. And once Dorian was gone, the odds of trouble would go down considerably.
I gave Trey a quick glance, wondering if he'd be disappointed.
Apparently not. Grinning like a crazy person, he had his recorder trained on Dorian, who was still barreling toward us. Funny, he should've passed us by now, but for some weird reason, he kept running into obstacles – a waiter with a tray of food, a big guy in a suit who moved his chair at exactly the wrong moment, a bartender with a drink-cart.
With a string of profanity, Dorian shoved aside the cart and plowed forward.
I glanced toward the podium. Becky was still there, watching Dorian in obvious confusion. I could see why. The whole thing was beyond strange. What about the rest of his companions? Was Dorian just going to ditch them and run off?
And what about his brother?
I glanced over at Ronnie and froze. He was staring straight at our table. His face was red. His nostrils were flaring. I'm pretty sure he might've growled.
Or maybe that was just my stomach.
I leaned toward Jake and whispered, "What's up with Ronnie?"
Jake smiled like he knew something I didn't.
I felt my gaze narrow. Had Jake known that Ronnie wasn't going to win tonight? Was that why we were here? To capture the fallout?
It made sense in a Jake sort of way. If Ronnie, who already had a reputation for being a sore loser, threw a huge hissy-fit, Jake's fans would absolutely love it. And they'd love it even more if Jake messed with him along the way – throwing some Jake-flavored gasoline on the proverbial fire.
And then, there was the matter of Ronnie's action-star brother, who had just stopped in mid-stride. He looked toward the stage, and his eyes narrowed to slits. A slow, mean smile darkened his features.
Oh, crap.
What was Dorian planning to do, anyway? Rip the trophy out of Becky's hands? And then what? Award it to his little brother? From the look on Dorian's face, the idea wasn't so far-fetched.
Frantically, I glanced around. Where was security, anyway? Shouldn't they be jumping in to stop this? And then I remembered, most of the security belonged to Dorian.
So that left who, exactly?
Without thinking, I started to rise. My butt had barely left the chair when an iron grip yanked me back down. I turned to see Jake flash me a grin. "Don't even think about it." He leaned around me and told Trey, "You ready?"
Trey gave a happy nod.
I looked from Trey to Jake. "Ready for what?" I asked.
Jake flicked his head toward Dorian, who was once again heading toward us – or toward the stage, depending on what, exactly, he had in mind. I didn't really know, and from the look in Dorian's eyes, I probably didn't want to know.
My heart was hammering, and I gave Jake a quick, nervous glance. Looking easy and relaxed, he snagged a noodle off my plate and popped it into his mouth. He gave me a smile, the cocky one that made just a little bit nervous.
Again, I looked toward Dorian, who pa
ssed me in a sudden blur. And then, with a loud thud, he was gone. I mean, really gone. From somewhere near the floor, I heard a muffled groan, followed by the roar of laughter all around us.
I leaned around Jake's chair to look. And there Dorian was, lying on the tile floor amidst buttery noodles and bits of breaded chicken.
What the heck?
Across the room, someone yelled out, "Mother-fucker!"
I turned toward the sound and saw Ronnie North jump to his feet and glare more daggers in our direction.
I froze. The way it looked, he'd been hollering at Jake. But why? Before I could give it too much thought, Ronnie was barreling and weaving his way toward us – or, as a best-case scenario – toward his brother.
With growing panic, I looked to the floor, where Dorian was now struggling to rise. Halfway up, he lost his footing and, once again, hit the floor, hard, landing on his ass.
From somewhere near the back, a male voice called out, "Suck on that, Jones!"
The whole place exploded in laughter.
Dorian tried again, and this time, managed to struggle to his feet. He turned and glared toward the voice. Again, he bellowed, "Who said that?"
The only answer was more laughter, along with a smattering of applause.
From her spot behind the podium, Becky tentatively called out, "Mister North, are you okay?"
"Shut up!" Dorian hollered as he whirled toward the stage, giving me a clear view of his backside. On his ass, I saw soggy noodles stuck to the seat of his fancy dress pants.
At the sight of them, I felt my brow wrinkle. The noodles looked familiar. Too familiar. I looked to my plate. It was still there. But the chicken wasn't. And neither were the noodles.
I gave Jake a sideways glance. But this time, he wasn't watching me. He was watching Ronnie, who was still plowing toward us – until he was suddenly tackled by one of the football players who'd been glaring at him earlier.
Somewhere over my shoulder, an unfamiliar male voice said, "Time to go."
I looked up. "What?"
It was the stranger. He flicked his chin toward the nearby exit. "C'mon."
I whirled to my right, looking to catch Jake's eye. Instead, I almost caught a fist to the face as Dorian took a wild swing somewhere near Jake's head.
I heard another thud as Dorian lost his footing once more and slipped sideways onto the tile floor. "Son-of-a-bitch!" he hollered.
Jake stood and turned in my direction. "Go."
Sitting too stunned to move, I stared up at him. "What?"
Behind him, Dorian was struggling to his feet, looking even more unhinged. And yet, for some insane reason, I still wasn't moving.
Looking at Dorian, I couldn't help but think, he looked a lot nicer on the movie screen – friendly, in a jovial sort of way.
But he wasn't looking friendly now. With a guttural roar, he lunged forward, making me flinch backward in my seat.
Jake whirled toward him and caught a fist to the jaw. I heard myself say, "Oh, my God!"
Jake stepped toward him, sending his chair clattering to the tile floor. When Dorian swung again, Jake was ready. He ducked to the left, leaving Dorian stumbling forward. He lost his footing, tripped over Jake's chair, and landed in a messy heap on the floor just behind me.
I felt a hand on my elbow. The hand belonged to the stranger. "Come on," he urged.
I was having a hard time thinking. Around us, the place had erupted into pure pandemonium. The guys at Dorian's table, along with his security team, had waded into the mix, only to be tackled down by other audience members the moment they tried to cause more trouble.
A few table-lengths away, I spotted Ronnie, staggering sideways as a perky redhead with a gymnast's body clung to his back like she'd just jumped him from behind.
Well, that's something you don't see every day.
Jake's voice broke my concentration. "What the hell am I paying you for?" Through clenched teeth, he added, "Get her outta here. Now."
The guy's grip on my elbow tightened. "Come on. Please?"
Reluctantly, I stumbled to my feet and let the guy hustle me toward the side exit. Just before we ducked out the side door, I took one last look. Through the commotion, I zoomed in on Jake.
He was absolutely surrounded by flailing bodies and flying fists. Dorian was nowhere in sight, leaving me to wonder if he'd slipped again.
I spotted Trey, now standing on the table, recording the chaos as it raged around him.
He was grinning. And somehow, I knew that this time, a nipple-sighting wasn't the cause. It was the spectacle – and the millions of views it would generate before the night ended.
Jake was rich. Stuff like this was the reason why. But every once in a while, like now, I couldn't help but wonder, how long things could go on like this?
How long could he take such crazy chances? How long could he wreak havoc all around him, and walk away unscathed? How long before the insanity caught up with him, and took him down, whether physical, financially, or both?
And through all this, one other thought kept nagging at the back of my mind. How long before I lost him, one way or another?
Chapter 4
Jake gave me a cocky smile. "Hey, I wasn't arrested."
"Yeah," I said, "but I didn't know that, did I?"
Three hours – that's how long I'd been waiting at his penthouse. Three long hours, wondering if he was okay, wondering if he'd been dragged off to jail, wondering if this time, his luck had finally run out.
I'd spent most of those hours glued to my computer, where someone had been live-streaming the commotion outside the convention center. In my mind, I could still picture it – the red and blue flashing of police lights; the crowd, dazed and confused, pouring out of the building; random paramedics treating people on the scene for various cuts and bruises.
In front of me, Jake was saying, "I tried to call."
"Yeah, but I didn't have my phone."
That was another thing. In all the commotion, I'd forgotten my purse, which meant I was missing not only my cell phone, but my wallet and everything in it.
I considered all the things I'd lost – my driver's license, my one credit card, and even my paper punch-card thingy for my favorite coffee shop. Bad timing, too. I'd been just one punch away from a free latte.
I gave a little shake of my head. Who cared about the latte? I wasn't worried about some stupid drink. I was worried about Jake.
I looked over at him, standing just inside the door to his penthouse. He looked surprisingly fine, all things considered.
Into his silence, I tried to explain. "So if you did call, I had no way of answering."
His eyebrows lifted. "If I called you?"
"I'm not saying you lied or anything."
"You sure about that?"
"Of course I'm sure." I made a sound of frustration. "It's just that I forgot my purse."
Jake removed his jacket and tossed it onto a side chair. "I know."
"Really? How?" I paused as I noticed something new. "Wait a minute…" I gave Jake a good, long look. He was wearing different clothes. At the convention center, he'd been wearing dress slacks and one of his designer shirts. Now, he was wearing jeans and a plain T-shirt.
The shirt wasn't what surprised me. By now, I was used to that. Jake carried spares with him wherever he went, mostly because his shirts had a funny way of getting torn, bloodied, or otherwise destroyed as he fought his way from one crazy scene to another.
But normally, his pants stayed on. I looked down at his jeans. "You changed your pants."
"Yeah. So?"
"So why?" I asked. "What happened?"
He gave a casual shrug. "The usual."
Except it wasn't usual. That was my whole point. "Did they get dirty or something? And since when do you carry around spare pants?"
"I don't," he said. "I had some in the office."
His office was right here in this building, one floor down. "So you've been here? In the building? For how l
ong?"
Part of me realized that I was giving him the third-degree. But I really wanted to know. In fact, I deserved to know. I'd been going crazy with concern.
If he hadn't paid some stranger to drag me off, I could've seen for myself hours ago that Jake was perfectly okay. Who knows? Maybe in some small way, I could've helped.
Hey, it could happen.
When Jake said nothing, I pushed the issue. "Seriously, how long have you been back?"
"Not long."
"What does that mean?" I asked. "Minutes? Or hours?"
"Why?" He flashed me a sudden grin. "Were you worried?"
In spite of everything, I almost smiled back. "I might've been a little worried," I admitted.
I hadn't been terribly concerned during the first hour or so. But afterward, when I still hadn't heard from him, I'd been imagining all kinds of disturbing scenarios – everything from Jake getting dragged off to jail, to him getting seriously hurt in all that commotion.
In front of me, Jake said, "Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't think about it." He spread his arms and said, "Look. I'm fine."
He was fine, probably too fine for his own good, and definitely too fine for mine. But there was something he wasn't telling me. I just knew it. I don't know how I knew, but I did.
Trying to figure it out, I said, "Did you know that was going to happen? The riot, I mean?"
He gave a small laugh. "A riot, huh?"
"Well, it was."
Jake crossed his arms and leaned sideways against the entryway wall. For the briefest moment, I felt almost silly for worrying in the first place. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with muscle-bound arms and a chiseled chest. He oozed a maddening level of confidence, and from what I'd seen firsthand, none of that confidence was unjustified.
He was fast. He was tough. He never backed down, no matter how crazy things got. And by some weird miracle, he always came out mostly unscathed.
Either he was the luckiest guy on the planet, or he was living some sort of charmed life.
But that couldn't go on forever. Could it?
When he said nothing, I persisted. "So did you? Know that was going to happen, I mean?"
Jake Forever (Jaked Book 3) Page 2