by Claire Adams
I smacked the thought away, hitting the door harder than I intended. It did not matter. I could not have Kya. I could not have anyone yet. If I could not provide for my family one hundred times over and never have to worry, then I could not have one at all. Kya would understand, but I would never tell her. Instead, I would lose her and keep on going alone.
I punched the elevator button and paced until the doors opened on the main casino. I stepped out only to narrowly miss an amateur kick to my chin.
"Did you get it? That's going to be an awesome picture," the young man said. His friends all agreed then backed up.
I bristled and stepped up behind him. "You almost kicked me in the face for a candid shot?"
"Yeah, man, it’s no big thing. I'm a fan," he said.
"No big thing? Here, how about I almost kick you in the face and then we'll see how you feel," I said.
The young man scowled. "What a buzzkill. Can't you just be cool?"
"Cool? I'm not the one assaulting people just for a funny picture." I stepped close enough to smell the alcohol on his breath.
"Back off, man."
"Or what?"
The kid had no choice but to try and shove me. I thought of how Kya was half his weight, but twice as effective. It was like kerosene on the spark. I bumped my chest against his hands and he bounced back. While the young man was off balance, I stepped forward and swept a leg under to trip him. He fell, a limp swing at my face missing by six inches. I answered with a punch that slammed the carpet next to his head hard enough the repercussion made his skull bounce.
The young man started yelling and flailing his arms more like an overgrown toddler than a man defending himself. I twisted his arms together and pressed them to his chest. With an openhanded knock across the top of his head, I punctuated my point.
"Don't mess with things you can't handle."
A second later, three large men from casino security lifted me off the so-called fan and hauled me outside. I was not allowed back inside.
"Not even if I win the title fight?" I asked.
"Come back then and we'll talk," the largest security officer said. "But if that little display back there was any indication, I'd say you have a ways to go."
I let fly a swarm of obscenities until I could think of something else to do. It would be too easy to go find Talia and even the thought of the wrong woman made me more frustrated. What the hell had Kya Allen done to me?
I dug in my pockets for my phone, but I had left it in my suite before meeting Kya. I did not want Kev interrupting or Aldous scolding me for being out past his arbitrary curfew. All I found was the address Matt Smith had given me.
The private investigator had assured me my sister was in Las Vegas. It could have been a scam; I had been scammed by people helping me locate her before. Only Matt Smith was fully vetted and the man took his job seriously. If he said he had seen her in Vegas, then he had.
"Call a cab for this address?" I asked the uniformed man at the cabstand.
"Sorry, Mr. Morris, I saw you get kicked out. I'm not supposed to help people who get kicked out," he said.
"I'm not asking you to sneak me back in. I'm asking for a cab out past Fremont Street. Come on, don't you think your bosses want me as far from the Tropicana as possible right now? Well, you can make that happen," I said.
He looked doubtful, but flagged down the next cab in line. He gave the cabbie the directions then knocked on the car roof to send us on our way. It took longer than I thought to traverse the tight Vegas traffic. It gave me too much time to think about Kya. Though as the neon signs changed to strip clubs and peep shows, my mind started to shut down completely.
I cringed away from the thought of my sister working there.
The cab driver let me out at the door, but I could not bring myself to go in. I paced up and down the street. Every time I came within twenty feet of the door, some guy handed me promotional cards for the girls inside. When I looked down and saw Dana Maria's face, a red haze filled in the rest of my sight.
"You realize these are people's sisters, mothers, right?" I asked the guy.
"So what? They're getting paid. And, most of them like it," he said.
"Like getting eye-groped from mouth-breathers like you? I don't think so," I objected. I stepped into the guy's face.
He did not want to back down. It was late, but there was still a crowd of people on the street and they slowed down at the hint of a fight. I imagined Kev already on the phone with the Tropicana and decided to step around the guy and go inside.
It took a while for my eyes to adjust to the dim entryway after the blinding lights of Fremont Street. I blinked as a woman came up to me. She stopped with one fist on her hip.
"Honey, you are in the wrong place," she said.
"Dana Maria?" I asked.
"Fenton, you need to go someplace else," my sister said.
It was her. Her black hair fell in thick waves just like mother's, except for streaks of silver glitter. Her bright blue eyes were faded, but still stunning in a face full of dark, edgy makeup. I kept my gaze on her eyes, even though their weary dimness made me sad.
"Then, come with me," I said. "Any place else. You don't have to stay here. I've got a suite at the MGM Grand. A room all to yourself."
"Since when do I need a room all to myself?" my sister asked. She smiled vaguely at the memory of our shared childhood room.
"Come on, Dana. Let's go," I said.
"Fenton, I don't want your help. I don't need you to save me. Just let it go. Mom's gone. It's all gone. No more family for us. Don't worry about me," she said.
I hated the slope of her shoulders. Dana Maria had been beaten down by life. Worse than that – she accepted it. She accepted it just like Mother had finally accepted she could not afford to get better. She faded away, her shoulders getting narrow and small.
"Don't be silly. Let me help you," I said.
"I've always taken care of myself, haven't I? Wish I was better at taking care of you, too, but you've done alright," Dana said. "Just watch out. Bet you'll see the old man one of these days. Looking for a loan and playing the family card. Don't believe him. I didn't."
"You saw him?" I asked. "Did he ask you about Mother?"
"No, just about you and your career."
CHAPTER NINE
Kya
I stood in the bathroom and considered a cold shower. It was hard to tell what had made me hotter, Fenton's kiss or my angry flare-up after he stopped. I made him stop. My body burned with the possibilities – his lips on my neck, the tingly warmth of his breath. I could still taste our kisses and I considered raiding the mini bar for another whiskey. That would kill the traces of him.
I started the shower instead. The whiskey would only exacerbate my anger. I had been a complete idiot. Every girl has the childish fantasy that she'll reform the bad boy. All his rough edges will smooth down like butter under her warm caress. They were silly teenage daydreams, and I almost fell for them.
All the time I thought I was wining and dining Fenton, earning his trust, and establishing a base for our future business, he was just softening me up for a seduction. I wondered how much his horrible manager had bet against him having sex with me. I hoped that slime ball Kevin Casey collected a fat wad of cash from Fenton.
Before I could bring myself to peel off my purple dress and get in the shower, I slumped against the bathroom counter. I was frustrated, I was angry, and that all made sense. What I did not understand was how I let myself get hurt.
I knew Fenton Morris by reputation, I saw it in him when we first met, and still I had let myself think there was more between us.
When my phone rang I saw that it was James Cort, but I picked up anyway. It seemed a fitting punishment for being so stupid.
"How did it go? How much did you sign him for? Come on, don't hold me in suspense. Tell me all the dirty details and percents," my boss said.
"It didn't happen," I said. "Somehow, the whole evening turned into
him trying to seduce me."
"Trying to? He didn't manage it? Well, that kind of blows my estimation of the guy," James said.
"I'm serious. He was only interested in getting me into bed. I never had a chance to show him a contract." I let a small sob escape.
"Oh, Jesus Christ on a cracker, baby doll. You're not crying, are you? I know it hurts. Getting used and then dropped by a potential client is just one of those things that happens," my boss said. "I thought you had thicker skin than that. Come on, Kya, you're better than this."
I blinked into the mirror and swiped away my running mascara. "Thanks, that was surprisingly sympathetic. As if you've ever had a young, sexy athlete try to get into your pants."
"And, she's back. Thank God. I thought I'd lost you," he said. "Now, let me get this straight. You've got feeling for our big time bad boy. So, you stopped the whole seduction thing because you want more and because you want to hang on to some supposed thread of professional dignity."
"Yes, what's wrong with that?" I asked.
"Well, you're dead wrong about the professional dignity thing. It doesn't exist. As for having feelings for the man, who wouldn't? Give me a few days alone with him and I might swoon. The only thing you did wrong was not letting it all happen."
I scowled at the phone. "You're not a pimp, and I don't work for you that way, Mr. Cort."
"All I'm saying, in a purely modern, girl power kind of a way, is that the only way to find out how you both really feel is to do the deed. Am I right? Or are you a Victorian revivalist set on being courted?"
I hated to admit there was some sense to what my boss said, so I stayed silent.
"Yeah, I'm right. I know," he said. "So, let's weigh it out. On one hand, you have the fictional idea of professional dignity and maybe the rainbow unicorn of integrity. And on the other hand, you have a bonus, an office, and a tight little mortgage on that new house you picked out. Plus, one unforgettable night of sexy sex with a sexy man."
"Please never say 'sexy sex' ever again." I turned the shower off. For as much as James Cort touted my good girl reputation, he treated me just like one of the boys, and I loved him for it. "Alright, boss, good pep talk. Now, I've got to chase down our next big client."
"Hey, at least his billboards are up everywhere. You can just stop people on the Strip and ask which way he went," James said.
I laughed and hung up. He was right. I had chased off Fenton too soon and for all the wrong reasons. If I found him and told him that, there was still a chance I could get him to sign off on the vitamin supplements endorsement. Anything else that happened could be separate, just between two unattached, consenting adults.
#
I fidgeted all the way down in the elevator. I tried to tame my curly hair. I used the mirrored walls to fix the smudges of makeup under my eyes. I checked my phone and laughed over the encouraging and raunchy messages my boss left. I also tried to brainstorm ways to track Fenton's movements, but every time I thought about him, I got distracted.
The strong grip of his hands did not change the soft, electric way he caressed my bare shoulders. His hard forearms locked tight around me, but never squeezed. His strength flowed against me as if our bodies fit perfectly.
The elevator doors opened and I stepped out into a chaotic scene. A small knot of young men was complaining to three security guards. Apparently, their buddy had snapped a candid picture with one of the MMA guys only to be assaulted. As one guy waved a digital camera around, I caught a glimpse of the photograph in question. Fenton's black hair and sharp blue eyes were cut off by a dirty high-top sneaker.
"You pretended to kick Fenton Morris in the face?" I asked. "Ever hear the phrase 'don't poke the bear?' Go look it up and try to learn something, but first tell me which way he went."
They all turned to look at me, mouths open.
"You heard the lady, the conversation is over," the bald security guard said. "Your man got kicked out, but I think he grabbed a cab from the lineup."
"Thank you," I said.
I strode up to the cabstand guy. "The security guard in there said you would help me." I waved at the guard and he looked confused, but waved back. "Where did that guy go?"
The uniformed man looked up at Fenton's billboard and then handed me a crumpled piece of paper. "It’s no place you want to go, Miss."
"It’s not the place I'm after, but the person," I said.
He opened the cab door and helped me inside. Two quick taps on the roof and we were off. I felt light and optimistic, despite the cab driver's concerned looks. "You know this address is a strip club, right?"
I nodded. In my head I imagined Fenton sulking in a dark corner of some seedy strip club where he would not even look at the women. He would see me, and his blue eyes would brighten. He could not hide the way he liked seeing me. I would tell him the truth.
"I've decided I can mix business and pleasure if you can," I practiced in my head.
"Miss, I don't feel right leaving you here," the cab driver said. "You go ahead and look for your guy. I'll be out here if you need me."
"Thanks, but I'll be fine," I said. I paid him in full plus tip and opened the cab door.
I took a deep breath and plunged into the dim tunnel of the strip club entrance. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust and when they did, I wished the bright lights of Fremont Street had blinded me.
Fenton was surrounded by fawning strippers, flashing a fan of cash in one hand as he knocked back shots of tequila from the bottle with the other. There was a bruise on the left edge of his jaw and a cut above his eyebrow. In the short time since he left me, Fenton Morris had lived up to every detail of his reputation.
I watched as a bouncer tried to kick him out. "Come on, I bet I can take you in eight seconds," Fenton told the mountainous man. Then, he turned and saw me. His smile disappeared, but not as fast as I did. I was out the door with the whole scene scarred into my memory.
CHAPTER TEN
Fenton
Dana Maria walked away from me, but I could not leave. I marched up to the mountain-sized bouncer and asked to see the manager. When the white-suited manager came out to see me, I paid him to send my sister home. The least I could give her was the night off. There was a commotion back stage between numbers, and I could hear her yelling. But when the manager emerged, he assured me Dana Maria had left for the evening.
The only thing to do then was to get blind drunk. I went to the bar and ordered tequila shots. When the bartender put down the bottle and turned to get a shot glass, I grabbed the bottle and swigged straight from it. I left enough money on the bar to cover it.
My father had never even bothered to ask about my mother. Did he even know she was dead? We had no address to reach him when it came to send out the funeral arrangements. Not that there were actually arrangements. It was just a quick goodbye in the hospital chapel before she was wheeled downstairs to the morgue.
Dana Maria had disappeared after that. She made sure I went to school, her network of friends from the neighborhood telling on me every chance they got. It wasn't until I was in college that I realized she skipped school to work two jobs.
"There's no reason for you to drink alone," a sultry voice interrupted my thoughts. A stripper in a gold outfit that consisted of three small triangles took the barstool next to me. She ran a gold platform heel up my leg. "How about we find a table? You've got a bottle and I've got friends that want to meet you," she said.
"Why me?" I asked. Did they know Dana Maria was my sister?
"Your billboards, silly. Fenton Morris can't walk in here without getting some lovin'. More handsome in person than two stories up in the air," the golden stripper said.
She led me to a table and as soon as I sat down, the girls surrounded me. Across the room, a drunken patron complained that I was hogging all the women.
"You got a problem?" I asked. "Come over here and tell me about it toe to toe."
"Now, honey, there's no need for that. He's just jealous of
you, but there's nothing to worry about. Enough ladies here to satisfy everyone," a red-haired stripper said. She adjusted her heavy breasts in their black leather bra and blew the man a kiss.
I remembered my mother soothing my father in the same easy way. A hand on his forearm, soft words, and a smile that told everyone it was all okay – except it had not been then, and it was not now. I wanted to smash the man's face in. I knew I could do it with one punch. Was I becoming my father?
I continued to drink, but the tequila did not block out my biggest fear. I worried I was just like my father, deep down in my core. When things did not go my way, when all my hard-earned money disappeared and I was too old to hold on to my talent, I would become mean and spiteful like him. I would turn and walk away from the people that depended on me, because I was too tired to care.
My father slumped in his chair, the one good, steady chair in our tiny apartment. His drink of choice was cheap vodka, almost rubbing alcohol it was so sharp and harsh. From there, if he moved at all, it was to reach out and slip a hand up my mother's leg. She slapped him away, too busy doing laundry or getting dinner or helping her children. He would scowl and drink again.
"Oooh, your muscles are just as cut as your billboard. They don't look real up there, but, wow, they don't look real now and I'm touching them," a platinum blonde stripper dressed all in hot pink squealed with delight.
"Everyone in town says you're going to win," the golden stripper said.
I finally took a deep breath. That was the only difference between my father and me. I had talent. My God-given talent had earned me free lessons when I was an angry young boy. Then, I was given a scholarship in high school. I was recruited for college and all but failed while my MMA career skyrocketed. I had not needed my father for any of those things. My talent and hard work got me what I wanted.
I pulled out the wad of cash Kev had given me for gambling. Instead of throwing it away on Blackjack or craps, I had stashed it. Now, I fanned it out and told the ladies I was ready to have some fun. They all giggled, clapped, and bounced. I told myself this was what I wanted. I had the money and I was going to flaunt it.