by Claire Adams
"Guess I'd be surly, too, working here," Kev said. "That's why I've got you, right, Fenton? Fight our way to the top."
A quick jab to his throat and he'd be gasping for air and flopping like a fish on the casino floor. I curled my hand around my beer instead. Kev was worth the irritation, because he got things done. Somehow, he disgusted everyone, but still lined up the best fights, the top suites, and the sweetest deals.
"Speaking of my bank account," Kev said. "How about you sign off on a few endorsement deals while we're here?"
"Why are we always talking about your bank account?" I asked.
"‘Cause my happy bank account means your career is healthy." Kev took his gimlet and sipped from it with a loud lip smack.
"I don't fight better with someone else's name on my shorts," I said.
"Not better, but smarter. You gotta work this thing for all it’s worth right now," Kev said.
He was right – his most irritating habit. I would make a hell of a lot more money fighting with sponsors and slapping my name on any product line that came along. The two heavyweights of my thoughts slogged around the ring again – make a lot of money versus do it all alone and keep my name for myself.
I was glad when the woman at the front desk rolled her suitcase over a Chihuahua's foot. The yapping pet was snapped up into the arms of a platinum blonde, reality show star. As beautiful as she was, with curves that barely stayed within her stretched lace dress, it was the other woman I looked at again. She gave the dog a prim look and then apologized to it, ignoring its owner.
"I'm sorry. I was not expecting a dog in a casino, especially not under the wheels of my suitcase," she said. "You poor thing."
Before the B-list star could react, the woman turned back to her place in the check-in line. She smoothed down the collar of her white blouse. Her pursed lips did not hide her full mouth. I liked the way her curves pressed against the cotton of her shirt. Her black pencil skirt was as stiff as her posture, but the rounded silhouette made my mouth water.
"Yeah, I'll give you – she's a looker," Kev said.
"The reality show gal?" I asked.
"No, the Ice Queen there. You know, half the guys in the industry have a bet running on who beds her first."
"You know her?" I kept my eyes on her as she folded her hands on her suitcase handle and waited her turn.
"I wish, if you know what I mean." Kev made an orgasmic face that soured my stomach. "She gets all the white-collar athletes, you know, tennis and golf, even bowling. Guess she comes from ivy league stock and has been making a killing for some vitamin supplement company."
"What do you mean she gets all the white-collared athletes?" I asked.
"They're happy to sign with her, like I said, because of the bet. Kya Allen is a career good girl. Not your type at all," Kev said.
"Really. You know my type?" I asked. "What if my type of woman is 5'5", copper blonde hair, curves, and sensible cotton?"
"Nah," Kev slid off his barstool and slapped a few bills next to his empty glass. "I'll introduce you to your type. She's waiting for us over near the craps tables. Wants to blow on your dice."
He gave me no choice but to follow. Kev set me up at the head of a craps table and would not take “I don't gamble” as an excuse. Within minutes, I lost $100 and then won $75.
When my luck changed for the better, I met Talia. She pressed an impressive display of cleavage against my arm and blew on my dice, as Kev predicted. Her silky black hair tickled me a lot lower than my shoulder.
"Any chance you know the way to the bathroom?" I asked. "I don't want to end up in line for the buffet."
"This way," Talia said.
I followed her swaying hips all the way into the men's bathroom and into the large stall at the end of the row. Her teeth nipped my neck before I got the door shut. I slipped the latch into place and she had my belt unbuckled.
"Mixed Martial Arts gets me all hot," she said.
Her breasts bounced free of her strapless sheath dress and I cupped them with both hands. I teased her dark nipples to hard nubs and then had to taste them. A few licks, and she shimmied her dress to her waist. There was nothing in my way above or below the crumpled band of fabric. I trailed a hand up her smooth thigh to find her ready and wet.
It was too late. I had been all charged up before she wriggled up to me and let me grip the generous curve of her ass. Now, as much as I wanted to be better than horny in a bathroom stall, Talia had me hard and pulsing in her hand. I tore open the condom wrapper with my teeth and let her expert hands take care of the rest. Whatever had got me going, I needed this release.
I slipped a finger inside her, and she moaned. Her lips tasted like cinnamon gum. Removing my probing finger, I hitched her up against the stall door. Her legs wrapped around my waist and pulled me hard inside. I concentrated on her bouncing breasts as we heaved together, up and down. Her hair was black, not copper blonde, but this was easy.
"Oh, God, you are so strong," Talia moaned.
A urinal flushed and a faucet started running. I paused, the pressure building as I pressed deep into her. I needed the release – I needed to clear my head.
"Oh, don't tease me, Fenton, just do me."
I heard the bathroom door open. As soon as it closed, I resumed my rhythm, speeding up until we both panted. Talia came with a shuddering giggle. I squeezed my eyes tight and let my body push itself hard over the edge.
Talia gave me a long, cinnamon-spiced kiss before she unwrapped her legs. She teetered on her high heels, but giggled again and slipped her dress back into place. Before she slipped out of the bathroom stall, she plucked my phone out of my pocket and entered her number.
"Call me, you bad boy," she said.
I waited until the clicking of her stilettos disappeared. I buckled my belt, washed my hands, and finally looked in the mirror. My head was clear, but it did no good. I knew I wanted more than a bathroom romp, but I couldn't have it. Not yet.
Chapter Two
Kya
I clutched my silver purse, instead of hiking up the straps of my dress again. The doorman eyed my cleavage before he searched the list again for my name.
"Kya Allen. Go on inside. Have some fun for me," he said.
I felt his eyes roving up the backs of my legs to the brief skirt of my black dress. It was almost a relief when a gaggle of ultra-blonde girls bounced up to the front of the line and the doorman turned his lascivious eyes on them. I felt like a ragdoll next to their plastic perfection.
The Vegas nightclub was full of bright and sparkling women, all teetering high on impossible stilettos. My red snakeskin heels were sexy, but at least an inch too short. Between my short shoes and my black dress, I stood out against the tall, sequined, platinum crowd like a sedan at the racetrack.
Ridiculous, I thought. As if I wanted to blend in with the mindless crowd gyrating to the never-evolving club beat. I was only there to find a client and get a new endorsement deal signed. The location just solidified the fact that my new client was not my kind of guy, but this was business and I could take care of business anywhere.
I strode up to the bar and was surprised how fast I was served. "If you order a real drink, it’s on the house," the bartender said.
"How about a whiskey and soda," I said.
"Thank God. I was hoping you weren't a cosmo or umbrella drink." He grabbed a bottle from a high shelf and smiled as he poured it. A spritz of soda and he slid the drink across to me, holding it so our hands touched. "These big fight promotion gigs are not really my scene. I just needed the extra shift. How about you?"
"Not at all," I said. "I'm here for work, too."
"Then, you come back and find me when you want to take a break." The bartender smiled, and I saw a dimple flash in his cheek.
Feeling warmer from his smile than the whiskey, I turned to take a lap around the pulsating club. It really was not my scene, either, but my boss had insisted I branch out into a new sport. All I knew about Mixed Martial
Arts was what my boss told me in one of his lightning fast meetings.
"It’s a sport full of meteors, not like your satellite golfers," my boss James Cort said.
"Don't we want satellites? They orbit regularly, make us steady money," I had told him.
"No, yes! I'm telling you you've got those. Now what you need is one fresh star about to explode. You sign him cheap and then we make bank all the way to the top of his career. Fast and big returns." My boss jumped up from his desk and spun his computer monitor towards me. "Fenton Morris. About to dominate MMA fighting. Go to Vegas and get him before he gets the title."
I stood up, too, long ago accustomed to the frenetic management style of James Cort. "Mixed Martial Arts? I'm better suited for country club sports – you said it yourself. If you want me to branch into extreme sports, I could maybe tackle downhill skiing or ski-jumping."
"Yeah, I bet all those trust fund boys love you at the chalet," my boss said. "Don't take that the wrong way, that's why I hired you. No, screw that. I hired you because you're a great salesperson, and I'm sick of seeing you take the low-hanging fruit. Give yourself a challenge and get me Fenton Morris."
It was not so much the challenge as the obscenely big bonus James offered me. Peddling vitamin supplements was not the career path I dreamt of. But he was right, I was good at my job. If I landed the MMA fighter, not only did I get a wad of cash that could cover the closing costs on a new house, I got a shot at a brand name account. No more traveling, no more hunting down clients. A brand name account meant an office and a team of my own.
I scanned the undulating dance floor and looked for my new client. How hard could it be to sign a MMA fighter? Fenton Morris got hit in the head for a living, surely I could get him to sign a piece of paper and be on my way back to Chicago. My house closing was days away and I was not a fan of Las Vegas.
Then, I spotted the man I had been sent to sign. He stood at the railing just above the dance floor. His light blue shirt was unbuttoned low, and dark curly chest hair showed through. A matching shadow of stubble darkened his throat and jawline. Compared to the slick and tan crowd of Vegas guys, Fenton Morris was a man. He wore black pants instead of carefully faded jeans, and his crisp blue shirt was unmarked by graffiti labels or prowling tigers.
A wave of heat blasted over me and I felt my cheeks get warm. I blamed my empty whiskey and soda, but decided I better get another one before I talked to the black-haired man at the railing. He surveyed the crowd with a bored scowl that prickled my skin with nerves and excitement. I definitely needed another drink.
I walked around to the side bar behind where Fenton Morris stood. Tearing my eyes from his hard, wide shoulders, I flagged down the female bartender. She scowled at me.
"And whatever she wants, too," the man next to me told the bartender. She smiled at him, but rolled her eyes when I ordered another whiskey and soda.
"Thanks," I said. The man looked as if he just stepped out of a catalog spread. I imagined him with a sweater tied around his shoulders and he how would laugh as a golden retriever brought him a tennis ball. Wait, no, not tennis. He looked familiar, but under the laser lights of the nightclub, it was impossible to place him.
"Put her drink on my tab," a rough voice said.
I turned around and stepped back, my spine hard up against the bar. Fenton Morris' blue eyes blazed down at me and despite the comparative modesty of my black dress, I felt stripped naked. The slow smile on his lips was hypnotizing as I stared.
"You've been looking for me," Fenton said.
My nostrils flared. "Arrogant."
"Is he bothering you?" my all-American neighbor asked.
"I might be arrogant, but I'm not wrong," Fenton said. His eyes stayed on me. "Tell him."
"Mr. Morris, just because my company might be interested in signing you to an endorsement deal does not mean I came to this party looking for you," I said.
"Liar." He stepped closer to me and the other man stood up.
"Look, buddy, we've all seen your posters, your billboards, but that doesn't give you leave to harass the lady," the clean-cut man said.
Fenton's eyes flickered toward the other man and his whole body turned as hard as marble. His eyes went flat, and I knew I had to do something.
"Alright, fine. I want you. Happy?" I asked.
The man who bought me a drink frowned. "I'll be around if you need me." He shoved past Fenton, like pushing a Roman column, and strode off down the bar.
"I want you right here," Fenton said. He pointed to his arm.
I took it, my fingers flexing to test the chiseled rock of his bicep. He grinned and his blue eyes flashed with a devilish light. He whirled me into the crowd, people automatically giving him space. It was impossible not to appreciate his confident gait, and I clung to his arm as tame as a kitten. He made me want to purr, and I was horrified at the undeniable thought.
He stopped here and there to sign autographs, my arm still clamped against his body as he scribbled. More than one flirtatious hopeful frowned at me, and I smiled back serenely. They all wanted to be where I was, and I enjoyed my sudden security. The Vegas nightclub was his to command and he had chosen me.
"I am loving that dress," he said. He pulled me closer and dropped a quick look down my cleavage.
"Yeah, well, my silver sequins are at the dry cleaners," I said.
"Makes you stand out," he said. "Black's my favorite color."
"Ugh. Next you’re going to tell me you ride a motorcycle." I swept a look up and down him, the same as he'd done to me. "Anything you think makes you look like a bad boy, right?"
"Last time I checked, I earned my reputation," Fenton said.
"Please, I know your manager. If anyone could buy you a conviction for assaulting a police officer, it would be Kevin Casey."
Fenton laughed, a hearty burst that kicked my heart into high gear. "Actually, that's how I met Kev. He was in the drunk tank that night."
"So, you're a bad boy that likes the color black. What's with the blue shirt?" I asked.
"It sets off my eyes," he said.
I swallowed hard. He was right, and it was hard to avoid his bright blue glances. Every time I felt one sweep over me, my body tingled.
"And, I drive a Maserati, not a motorcycle." He pulled me up the steps to the V.I.P. Lounge. "Now, I'm liking you on my arm, but I have a booth reserved, if you want to sit with me."
My mind flashed over what his wide hands could do to me under the discreet cover of a table. The thought melted my insides. "How about another drink?"
Fenton steered me toward the bar, where he unhooked my arm only to slip his hand around my waist. The heat of his flat palm against my stomach was enough to send fissures of pleasure through the rest of my body. I decided two drinks were enough, but I had been so distracted by the sensations he caused that Fenton ordered me another whiskey and soda.
"Thanks," I took a long sip. "So, how did you know I was here to sign you?"
"I saw you earlier. Kev told me about you," he said. Fenton kept his arm wrapped around me as he drank a tall beer. "Too bad I don't do endorsement deals."
"You might if I ask," I said.
His lips curled into another sinful smile. "And here I heard you were all prim and proper. Miss Country Club Princess."
"You can't hold my upbringing against me," I said.
Fenton's smile softened and my heart flopped. "I know what that's like, so you're right. I won't hold your upbringing against you." He pulled me closer. "But maybe other things, if you ask."
I spun out of his hold. It was too easy to flirt with him and forget all about work. "Sorry, I have to respond to this."
My boss had sent eleven messages with inappropriate suggestions for how to get Fenton's attention and expletive-filled demands for updates. James Cort had no fear of a sexual harassment suit, as he knew how much I wanted to take my career to the next level.
"First contact now. More soon," I typed.
"Dirty minx. Don't d
o anything I wouldn't."
I shook my head at my boss' response and tossed my phone back in my purse. I built my career on a sterling reputation and I was not about to throw it away on one Vegas prizefighter. As I turned back to Fenton Morris, my resolve weakened. He leaned against the bar, his blue shirt open wider, and my fingers itched to tangle in his chest hair.
He caught my look and smiled. "I've decided you can try convincing me. After we dance."
Chapter Three
Kya
I could still hear the club music. It thumped in my ears, but not as hard as the hangover. I knew it was bright on the other side of my eyelids, but I could not force them open. Flashes of the night before burst out of the fog, and I cringed in my hotel bed.
Fenton had dragged me to the dance floor, the crush of the crowd pushing me tight up against him. It seemed like the perfect excuse to let go, just for a moment. One song turned into a hypnotic loop and we kept going. I remembered my palms flat on the hard rock of his chest. The surge of desire I felt helped fight off the waves of aching hangover.
At one point, a stunning spotlight of memory, we were back in the V.I.P. Lounge, close together in the booth. He ordered champagne, and we toasted to our private corner in the packed club.
Fenton's blue eyes intense on mine, his voice soft as he had told me, "I don't know how, but you're different. I just wish we hadn't met so soon."
I had giggled, confused by the sincerity on his stubbly face. Of course now, in the painfully bright light of morning I understood. He would not sign the endorsement deal until after he won the title fight. That way, he would get more money.
I groaned and pried my eyes open. I could not laze around in bed waiting to feel better. I had to find Fenton and convince him to sign with me right away. The white sheets tangled around me were softer than any I had ever slept on. I savored one more stretch over their softness before my body went rigid with terror.
These were not the same sheets on my hotel bed. I was in someone else's room.