Billionaire's Second Chance

by Claire Adams

  Chapter Seventeen

  Kya

  "Have you heard of the Ling Pho Lounge?" I asked the driver, as I jumped in to the waiting yellow taxi.

  "I've heard enough to tell you I'm not taking you there, young lady," the driver said.

  "Hey, I recognize you," I said. "You took me to the strip club the other night."

  "And I'd rather take you back there than to the Ling Pho Lounge," he said. He pulled the cab out into traffic and drifted along, not committing to going in the direction I requested.

  "A girl can't have a late night craving for Chinese food?" I clutched my purse with both hands and tried to sit still in the back of the cab.

  "If that's the case, then I'll take you to my favorite place. Well-lit, crowded, full of locals, but the nice kind," he said. "It's just up the street, be there in five minutes."

  "Thanks for the recommendation, but I would like you to take me to the Ling Pho Lounge."

  "I gotta say it, I know it's not my place but I gotta say it." The cab driver gripped the steering wheel harder. "I don't like the company you're keeping. I saw you with that fighter the other day, the mixed martial one. He's got a bad reputation. You should hear the things I hear about him in this cab. What's a lady like you doing chasing around after him?"

  I slumped back in the seat. "It's for work. I'm an endorsement agent and clients of ours want him for their next campaign."

  "Plenty of other sports guys around town. There's a golf tournament going on next weekend. Lots of nice gentlemen, no tattoos."

  I slumped even further. What was it about me that needed to be surrounded by nice men? I was not tough enough, independent enough, to stand up to the challenges Fenton threw at me. Everyone thought I was just a pretty face better off ensconced in a safe corner of the world.

  Neon lights, crowds, and thousands of chances rushed by the window. This was Las Vegas. Every kind of person from ultra-rich playboy to the openmouthed tourist to the calculating card shark was here – and so was I. I’d had enough of well-to-do families from decent backgrounds and athletes that had talent, but no real fire.

  Fenton was different. He had the talent, but it was fueled by an explosive need to succeed on his own. His background was rough, lonely, and hounding him at every turn. It was no wonder he had built up the reputation he did. It was one-half truth and one-half protection. No one looked too much farther than his wins and his wild behavior.

  "Miss, I'm serious. This isn't the place you want to be. Just grab some Kung Pao to-go. I'll wait," the cab driver said.

  I got out and paid him through the window. "Thanks, but I might be a while."

  Inside, the Ling Pho Lounge looked just as I had worried it would. The lighting was dim, not by design, but by neglect. Red walls and black, lacquered screens divided the round empty tables. The sounds of horseracing blared from a television in the kitchen and I could hear two people yelling at it in Mandarin. A half empty, neglected buffet glowed under heat lamps in the corner.

  I pretended to peruse the menu on the wall and check my watch as if I was meeting someone. No one came to seat me. A pair of men came in and went down the back staircase without even looking around. I glanced back at the door. No, Fenton was being threatened and he did not need to face it alone. His whole career was at stake.

  A wide man and a rail thin woman in a white fur coat came in next. They also headed down the back staircase, so I followed them. The man muttered something to the two big bouncers and they let the couple push through the heavy red vinyl doors. I stopped on the stairs, but it was too late, the bouncers had already seen me.

  "Password?" the one on the left asked.

  "You're kidding, my, ah, friend was supposed to meet me upstairs and he didn't say anything about a password," I said. I walked down the rest of the stairs and gave the imposing bouncers my best smile.

  They both returned to staring halfway up the stairs, over my head. Muffled cheers broke out behind the heavy doors. What was Fenton into now? If the bouncers were ignoring me, then I would just wait for the next person to come by and listen for the password. I had to get to Fenton and tell him how to deal with the fight fixers. We could not go to the police, but I had a plan.

  The next footsteps on the stairs turned out to be an ugly, pockmarked man in an expensive suit surrounded by a harem of women. I watched his eyes slither down my legs and back up to the neckline of my dress.

  I threw myself against his chest, smiled brightly, and ran a hand around the back of his collar. "There you are. I've been waiting for you."

  The pockmarks deepened as the man laughed. "Sure, honey, whatever you say. She's with us. Stratosphere."

  The bouncers shrugged, accepted the password, and let us all inside. The harem of women quickly spun me to the side and the ugly man continued without me. The basement room was cleared out except for a raised boxing ring, a long metallic bar, and a few rows of folding chairs. Most people were standing, hands up in fists, as they watched the fight.

  I was glad I did not see the two men who had threatened him. I moved around the room, but did not see Fenton. Had he come down here to meet someone?

  "Get him, knock another tooth out!" a fan yelled.

  I pushed my way into the crowd to get a better view of the boxing ring. Fenton was inside, barefoot and bare-knuckled, with a smear of red down the side of his naked chest where he had wiped off the other man's blood. His opponent stood at Fenton's eye level, bald as a cue ball, but wider and barrel-chested. He was slow, but his punches had a heavy sound that made my heart clutch.

  In order to get near him, Fenton had to take a few hits. The two lunged together and dull thuds buffeted my shocked senses. They broke away bloody, sweat standing out on their skin. Fenton smiled as they circled. He taunted the man, opening his fists to beckon the bald man closer. He laughed when his opponent charged like a bull and they stumbled back, locked in another brutal exchange of punches.

  Where Fenton normally would have raised a knee to the man's side, he stopped himself. This was a boxing match and though it looked like a free-for-all, there were rules. I could hardly watch as they slumped against the ropes, the larger man pummeling Fenton a few inches from the screaming crowd.

  The basement room was foggy with sweat and cigar smoke. The crowd churned and exchanged money. In the center, Fenton grimaced then smiled. He finished the bald man with a quick one-two to the head. Another tooth slipped out as the man fell to the mat. The crowd erupted.

  "Fight again! Fight again! Fight again!" the crowd chanted.

  A large man with his blue shirtsleeves rolled up jumped into the ring to talk with Fenton. He pointed to another challenger, already stripping to just his shorts. Fenton raised both hands and strutted around the ring, a busted lip swelling underneath his still cocky smile. I felt sick, but stepped forward with the crowd, hoping he would see me.

  Fenton turned the corner of the ring, coming toward me. Underneath his raised arms, I saw a man with pure white hair. Darius Johnson was hard to miss, even in the wild crowd. The fight promoter was almost as notorious as Fenton, except he kept a strict handle on the fights he set up. If he recognized Fenton, the next fight and his next step toward the title would be canceled.

  I shoved my way around the ring and looked up as I passed Fenton. His laser blue eyes widened as he saw me, and he stopped his victory lap. I blew him a kiss, but inclined my head in the direction of Darius Johnson. Fenton glanced over and turned away. I kept going until I bounced in front of the white haired man.

  "You are just the man I need," I told him.

  Darius Johnson gave me a slow smile and twisted one of his oversized rings around his pinky finger. "And, I could always use a pretty thing like you around."

  "I work for James Cort. I think you know him. He sent me out here to sign some young boxer, but how about I sign you, instead?"

  "Cort? You work for Cort? That can't be right. You look too fine to be working with that swine," Darius said.

  I slippe
d my arm through the older man's and led him toward the bar. Behind us, I saw Fenton hesitate, his eyes on me. The crowd was still chanting for him to fight the next challenger. He was tucking a large stack of money into the waistband of his shorts and sizing up the next guy.

  "Boxing is not really my sport," I told Darius. "But maybe you could teach me to like it."

  "Sounds like a date. Here's my card. You call me. Now, excuse me, I need to see what kind of raw talent is cracking heads around here." The fight promoter handed me his card and turned back to the ring.

  I held my breath, but Fenton was gone. He was no longer in the ring, I could not see him in the corner where the fighters got ready, and his black hair was nowhere in the crowd. I moved through the people as they placed bets on the next fight and slammed strong drinks from the bar. It was a rough room, and I was starting to think my cab driver was right – I needed to get out.

  A hard hand grabbed my elbow and I could not wrench myself free. I was trapped at an underground, bare-knuckled fight, and absolutely no one would know where to look for me. This was exactly how people disappeared.

  "Kya, calm down. It's just me," the man in black hat said. Fenton's blue eyes blazed from under the rim. "You shouldn't be here. Are you crazy?"

  "Am I crazy? I'm not the one that almost compromised his whole career to make a few bucks. You could have broken your hand! If Darius Johnson had seen you the fight would have been off. You know the rules," I said.

  "Rules? Give me a break. No one else plays by the rules, so I'm not going to waste my time."

  "Is this about those men? The ones that are trying to fix your next fight?" I asked. We were deep in the shadows in the back of the basement. I should have been scared at the angry flash in Fenton's eyes, but I was not. My bright sparks of worry only igniting the fire between us. I lifted one hand to his bruised jaw. "It's not business, it's you. I want you to know you're not alone."

  Fenton leaned his forehead against mine. "Stay away from my problems, Kya. I can't let you get hurt."

  "I won't," I said. "In fact, I just met the man that will put an end to the fight-fixing. If you'll stop trying to kill yourself for a little cash, we might just make it."

  "We?" he asked. He stumbled forward into my arms.

  His head lolled. Fenton was hurt and I had to get him out of the Ling Pho Lounge before anyone else noticed.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Kya

  I got up the stairs and onto the sidewalk before Fenton passed out. I held on as he slumped onto his knees on the sidewalk. There was no way I could hold him up.

  "Bet the pit bosses are clocking you because you are one lucky gal," the cab driver said. He rushed over and helped me haul Fenton into the backseat. "I almost left, but decided to give you just a few minutes more."

  "You've been waiting here this whole time?" I asked.

  "Like I said, with your luck, you're going to win big one of these days and then you'll remember ol' Mike," he said.

  "Thank you, Mike, I will. But I don't know why you think I'm lucky. Everything I get near is turning into a mess." I climbed into the seat next to Fenton and cradled his head in my lap.

  "Honey, you climbed out of the basement of Ling Pho Lounge without a scratch on you. That's lucky." Mike jumped into the driver's seat. "I've heard they take women from the crowd and toss them into cat fights. You don't even have a hair out of place."

  "I wish I could say the same for him," I said.

  "Just banged up," the cab driver eyed Fenton through the rearview mirror. "Probably drank a lot, fought like an animal, and then crashed when the adrenaline ebbed."

  Despite his optimistic prognosis, the cab driver flew through the Vegas traffic until he reached the driveway of the Tropicana. There, he slowed and pulled over on the street. "Looks like he's got other problems," the driver said.

  Fenton Morris fans had converged at the entrance to the hotel. Women in tight, white t-shirts imprinted with his name bounced by. Large cardboard cutouts of his face covered in lipstick kisses bobbed above the crowd. Flashes went off like fireworks and multiple entertainment crews stood around with cameras and microphones ready. Word had spread that Fenton Morris was partying at the Tropicana and everyone wanted in on his no-holds barred fun.

  "I'll never get him through that unnoticed," I said. "Is there a back way?"

  "Stevie? This is Mike, yeah, I know it’s late, but I'm calling in a favor," the cab driver clutched his phone. "I got a high profile drop off and I need the loading dock at the Tropicana."

  He pulled back out into traffic one-handed and kept talking as he steered around the giant casino and pulled up to a blocked entrance. Within minutes, he was thanking his friend and a uniformed guard unlocked the gate.

  "I can let you in the back, no problem," the guard said.

  "Thanks, man. I gotta leave the cab and help her up. Okay?"

  The guard looked at me and nodded. "Service elevator goes all the way from the dock to the top floor. Opposite end, it's a long walk, but you'll miss the crowds."

  We slung Fenton between us and he came to enough to shuffle along to the service elevator. When the doors closed, I asked, "How did he know I needed to get to the top floor on the other end?"

  "You're staying in one of the big time suites. The entire hotel has seen your picture so they can cater to you. A little invasive if you ask me, but definitely a perk," Mike said.

  We made it to my suite, and I unlocked the door. Fenton came to as Mike lowered him to the couch. "No hospital, I'm fine," he said.

  "That's what I told her. Though if you don't start treating her right, I can assure you there'll be a tire iron in your future. Then, you'll need the hospital."

  "Nice guy," Fenton commented as Mike left.

  "Yeah, I'm lucky I got into his cab." I took off Fenton's hat and pushed him back down on the couch. "We're lucky. Now just relax for a while, recover."

  I went to get ice and a wet washcloth and when I came back, Fenton scowled up at me. "How do you know those men from the bar are trying to fix my next fight?"

  I sat down next to him and started swabbing away the dried blood. "I, um, may have followed them and watched them do it to another fighter. Some poor featherweight boxer over at the MGM Grand. They must have some pull because it was all out in the open and no one seemed to notice."

  "Except you. Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?" Fenton asked.

  "More dangerous than letting one of them buy me a drink?" My joking tone was lost on him.

  Fenton snatched the washcloth from me and sat up. "You have no idea, do you? You're just running around doing whatever you want, whatever you think will land you this deal, and you don't even care what danger you're stepping in."

  I slammed the ice into a small towel and folded it up. "I don't care? What about you? You just up and decide to join an underground fight for a little cash? What about your career? Like it or not, you have people that care about you and what you do. Why would you do something like that?"

  "For this," Fenton said. He pulled out the stack of cash and handed it to me.

  I dropped the ice to the floor. "That is an insane amount. For one fight?"

  "For one fight, just me. I needed it to pay for the private gym. You think I'd make Kev or my coach pay my way? I only switched gyms because the owner is in on the fix."

  "I know you think you didn't have a choice, but you did. I could have helped you. I would have." I scooped up the ice and handed it to him. "I will, if you'll let me."

  "And, I'm telling you I'm fine." Fenton took the ice, but stood up. "All your help comes with strings attached. You just want me to sign your endorsement deal, so you can go trotting back to Chicago, buy your little house, and live your comfortable life in your new office. I learned a long time ago not to lean on someone who has one foot out the door."

  I picked up the washcloth and twisted it in my hands. "I'm not going anywhere."

  "Yeah? Well I am," he said. He unzipped his sweatshirt t
o reveal his hard and bare chest. Then, he yanked a t-shirt out of his back pocket and pulled it over his head. He could not hide the grimace of pain as he raised his arms. There was a wicked bruise forming over his ribs.

  "You're hurt; you need to rest. I'll leave. I'll get out of your way. Just stay here and give yourself a break," I told him. "You can't go out there. A sea of paparazzi is waiting for you."

  Fenton tugged the black hat back on his head. "I'll be fine. And, I'm not about to let you leave. You'd probably end up in some back room betting on a cockfight."

  "Only if that's where you're going," I stood up and marched in front of him.

  He shook his head and the ghost of smile brushed past his mouth. "I'm just going to that expensive private gym of mine. I left all my stuff there." He pulled a card out of his pocket and checked the address.

  "You don't need any of it tonight." I moved to block his way.

  "I need my phone. I'm expecting a call," Fenton said.

  I dodged in front of him again. He put his wide hands on my waist and went to lift me out of the way. As soon as he flexed, he grimaced again. Fenton's hands dropped from my waist and one pressed over his ribs.

  "You're not going anywhere," I cried.

  "It's just a bruise." He swayed on his feet. "But maybe I should lie down for a few more minutes."

  He made it back to the couch and smiled when I came back with another cool washcloth, a blanket, and pitcher of juice. "Please tell me you’re going to mix some tequila in that for me. You know, for the pain," he said.

  "Oh, so now you'll admit you're in pain?" I asked. I slipped onto the couch next to him and laid the cool washcloth on his forehead. I retrieved the ice and placed it under his sweatshirt where his ribs hurt. Then, I poured him a glass of juice, tequila, and pulled a few aspirin from my pocket. "What was the last thing you ate?"

  "Please, no, I can't stand the angry chef slamming his pots around all jealous over you," he said.

  I laughed. "Then it’s a good thing we've got leftovers. I'll make you a steak sandwich."