The Final Fight

by JB Salsbury

  Which reminds me . . . “Barbara, have you seen Mr. Kyle from the UFL? I wanted to introduce myself in person and thank him again for helping us out.”

  She looks as professional as always in a long simple green gown rather than her trademark pants suit. “I don’t see him.” She casually peruses the room. “If I see him, I’ll come grab you.”

  “Thanks. I’m going to see how things are going in the back. We should get dinner service started.”

  I head off in the direction of the kitchen, stopping briefly to say hello to the people I know. Andre must be around here somewhere, no doubt rubbing elbows with the most influential of those in attendance. I walk as briskly as I can in my Louboutins but not so quickly that I’ll disrupt the fall of my short cocktail dress and flash the crowd.

  The bar is packed, and the sound of laughter is like music to my ears. Not only have people come, but they’re enjoying themselves. I’m smiling as I follow the sound of women’s joint laughter. A group of ladies are huddled together and whoa . . . nice shoes. A woman with fiery red hair cascading down her back has on a gorgeous pair of strappy heels that come up to her calf. I’ll have to look for those the next time I’m at Saks. Another peel of laughter draws my gaze up as I pass by them. I mean to throw them a friendly smile, then push through the doors to the kitchen, when I catch the profile of a man standing in the center of them.

  It’s brief, as he seems to be slouched against the wall and none of the surrounding women are short, but the image I catch causes a severe ache in my chest. I’m so caught off by it that I slow until I’m stuck staring between the sea of beautifully sculpted shoulders, shiny hair, and perfectly feminine jawlines.

  A dark-haired girl shifts slightly, and I catch the view again. I gasp.

  Is it . . .?

  I move closer to get a better look, because it’s not possible, is it? That the man I’ve been consumed with for the last ten months could be the focus of this group of beautiful women.

  That’s when I see him.

  Leaning with all the casual confidence of a god as a half dozen drop-dead gorgeous women fawn all over him, is Braeden.

  It’s him.

  His hair is a little longer, just enough that he’s able to put hair product in it and mess it all up. I’ve felt that strong nose run up and down the side of my neck and between my breasts. And those lips had me collapsing into his arms more times than I can count.

  He’s here.

  He mumbles something, and though I can’t hear the words, I feel the rumble of his voice against my skin like ghostly fingers.

  A blonde reaches out and presses against his chest, and something about the touch zaps my muscles to retreat. I turn and scurry away, push through the kitchen doors, and slam my back against the wall. My breath is coming too fast. Tears burn my eyes. My throat feels like it’s on fire as I force myself to swallow the incoming deluge of emotions.

  Why is he here? Why now?

  It’s got to be because of his brother.

  I can’t stay here.

  I can’t see him after everything that has happened. Not tonight. Not now!

  And yet, how can I walk away?

  If I leave, I’ll never know why he moved on without me. Sure, he gave me permission to move on, but I never gave the same freedom to him. I wanted to keep him. I didn’t see a way, but I wanted it just the same.

  “Would you like us to announce dinner service, Adeline?”

  I blink up to find Marco, the head of catering, waiting for an answer. “Dinner?” Come on, Adeline, get your brain back in the game. I push up from the wall and straighten my dress. “Yeah, that’s good. If you could do it, I have a . . . I’ll be back.”

  My heels clip along the tile floor to the service entrance where I burst out into the hallway. As fast as my feet will move, I jog to the elevator and hit the button frantically. “Come on, come on, come on.”

  The heat of tears fills my eyes, and I pray I can make it inside before the damn bursts. The elevator pings, doors slide open, and I shove myself in before letting go and allowing my emotions to get the best of me.

  Hours of hair and makeup prep go to shit as I sob uncontrollably while the elevator hurls me up and away, a safe distance from the one man who has the power to destroy me without even trying.

  Twenty-two

  AJ

  By the time I return to the party, I’m feeling much better.

  I had a good cry, made myself a double martini, and pressed an ice pack to my face to bring down the swelling my breakdown caused. I reapplied my make up as best I could and was happy I wore my hair up in a bun so I couldn’t fuck that up.

  My legs feel loose, and my pulse is dull when I walk toward the table for dinner. I see Andre immediately and the glaringly empty seat next to him. The table of twelve all seem to be at ease, chatting amongst themselves, but I pick up on the slight tension in Andre’s shoulders and jaw.

  “I’m sorry I’m late.”

  He graciously pushes back from his chair to pull out mine. “I’m just happy you’re here.” He presses a kiss to my bare shoulder, and it takes everything in me not to cringe away from him. It’s not his fault, after all. I just can’t stomach his lips on me when I know Braeden is somewhere in the room.

  I take my seat, and the thin heel of my shoe snags on the carpet, making me stumble. My palm slams to the table, shaking the crystal and china. “Oops. Sorry.” I look over at the mayor, who is seated next to me, and smile at his wife. “New shoes.”

  She laughs and sips her wine as I finally manage to take my seat. Andre sits next to me, and whatever tension I noticed before is now multiplied tenfold.

  “Oh, wine. Thank God.” I grab the glass of red and open my mouth around the delicate edge, draining the thing completely.

  “Adeline.” Andre’s stern voice sounds at my shoulder.

  I flag down a passing waiter. “Can I get a vodka martini, please? Make it two. Or just one, but keep ’em coming.” I wink at him, earning a chuckle from the mayor’s wife.

  “What has gotten into you?” Andre hisses in my ear.

  I turn toward him, and the moment I do, he must see it in my eyes. As much as I tried to cover the evidence of my tears, my eyeballs are probably bloodshot to shit. That seems to be all the answer he needs as his expression softens and his hand finds my thigh under the table.

  His show of concern would usually melt away my anxieties, but not tonight. I feel like Braeden’s eyes are everywhere, and I don’t want to be caught being touched by another man.

  I pat Andre’s hand and then angle my body away from him. The waiter delivers my martini, and I greedily swig back half.

  “This was a great idea, Andre,” some kiss-ass says from across the table. “I’ll be interested to know how much you profit from the event.”

  I hold up a finger. “All proceeds go to charity. The hotel is shouldering tonight’s entire expense.”

  “Is that true?” The man’s asking Andre, as if I’m not sitting right there and fully capable of answering questions.

  “It’s—”

  “Of course it’s true.” I sense more than feel Andre’s frustration at my cutting him off, oh, but guess what? I don’t fucking care. “Do I look like I’d lie about that, Mr . . .?”

  “This is Harold Smith, the owner of Smith Trust and Loan,” Andre says.

  I huff into my drink. “Kinda stupid for a smart guy,” I mumble.

  A burst of laughter comes from Andre’s left. I’ve been avoiding that entire side of the table to keep from having to look at Andre, but I swing a glare to whomever it is who’s laughing at me.

  It’s a man, a big man, with a shaved head, and though I could swear the sound of the laughter came from him, he’s not smiling now. His date, however, is. She’s a petite blonde—oh shit . . . she’s one of the girls who was flirting with Braeden.

  My scalp prickles with awareness, and I start to sweat. This could be Blake Daniels, although he doesn’t look like Brae. I do a qui
ck scan of the table with my heart in my stomach, hoping to God the subject of my thoughts isn’t sitting right across from me, and thankfully he’s not.

  “I’m Adeline Pines.” I have no idea where the courage comes from, but the cold glass in my hand might have something to do with it.

  The big guy nods. “Cameron Kyle. We talked on the phone.” Ah-ha! So, he is just as intimidating in person. He turns toward the woman sipping and smiling into her wine glass. “This is my wife, Eve.”

  Wife. Eve Kyle.

  With this new knowledge, most of the tension in my shoulders melts away. “Thank you for doing this.” It’s not the most eloquent show of appreciation, but the way the man nods in response makes me think fancy words wouldn’t impress him anyway.

  “This is a great party,” Eve says so genuinely I feel guilty for wishing her and her perfect friends dead earlier tonight.

  “Thank you, it’s my first event, so I was nervous about the turn out.” Shut up, shut up, shut up.

  “You did this yourself?”

  “I did. Oh, well . . . with Barbara’s help.”

  She asks me a few questions that I can’t imagine she wants answers to. Eve strikes me as the kind of woman who makes other women feel comfortable, as if she’s confident enough not to feel threatened. And with a hulking stone-faced husband like Cameron Kyle, I’d guess she never feels threatened by anything. I swear the guy could incinerate someone with a look.

  “Eat.”

  The barking order comes from Andre, and I realize I haven’t touched my food. “I’m not hungry.” There’s no way I can eat. I’d be forcing food down my throat, and the way my stomach is feeling, that wouldn’t be smart.

  His glare cuts into me, and without words, I can hear his accusation.

  You’re drunk.

  I smile and bring my glass to his for a toast. “Cheers.”

  He shakes his head and leans away, obviously dismissing me. Whatever.

  As dessert is distributed and another martini is delivered, people begin moving around the room once again. I’m feeling the effects of the liquor and think it’s better for me to sit tight rather than attempt to walk or talk to anyone. I also stay put to keep from running into Braeden. As much as I want to see him, I’m terrified of what that would mean. I’d be forcing him to tell me he doesn’t want me, and as fragile as I am right now, I don’t think I’d survive it. If I’m lucky, maybe if I stay in one spot long enough, I’ll disappear.

  The conversation around our table gets louder.

  There’s a growling voice coming from Cameron’s section of the table, and I look up to see him talking to two other guys. Both are big, really big, but I can only see one of them clearly. He’s got shaggy blond hair and a boyish face, all of this betraying his size, and although I can’t see his muscles under his dark gray suit, I can tell the poor seams are straining to stay together.

  “How drunk?” I hear Cameron bark.

  The man I can’t see mumbles something deep I can’t make out. Eve’s still in her seat, and she looks up at them. “Leave him alone; he’ll be fine.”

  The guy I can’t see answers her and she rolls her eyes. “Whatever.” Yeah, I like this girl. She reminds me of myself.

  Cameron pulls out his seat to sit back down, and that’s when I catch a glimpse of the guy behind him. I jerk so hard vodka spills over the rim of my glass, waking me up. I grab my napkin and dab at my dress, but I can’t take my eyes off the man.

  It’s Braeden, only not.

  That has to be Blake.

  An older, slightly harder version of the man I know. The man I knew.

  He must sense me staring because his eyes come to mine. I gasp when the light catches those green orbs, and there is zero doubt in my mind this is Blake “The Snake” Daniels, UFL fighter, MMA god.

  An awkward few seconds pass between us when Cameron speaks up.

  “Adeline, this is Blake Daniels . . .”

  I knew it!

  “. . . and Mason Mahoney.”

  “Nice to meet you.” I can’t stop staring.

  Cam goes on to explain my organizing the event, and the longer I’m stuck on Blake, the more I sense his discomfort. I blink down at my lap, realizing he probably thinks my lingering stare is a form of flirting.

  But being so close to Braeden, knowing that his blood relative is two feet from me, I’m . . . oh God, I’m hyperventilating.

  “If you’ll excuse me.” I push back my chair, but in my haste, I knock it over behind me. Andre groans, but stands to help extract me from the table. “I’m sorry.”

  His hold on my elbow is firm, and I can’t look up at him or he’ll see the flurry of emotions stirring through me.

  “I’ll just be a minute.”

  He jerks my arm once. It’s so minute, but it gets my attention. He leans down as if to brush a kiss against my cheek, but his lips reach my ear. “Pull it the fuck together. Do not embarrass me.”

  I stand stock still, but, feeling eyes on me, catch the sight of Cameron, who is back on his feet, Mason, and Blake all glaring at Andre with the fire of hell behind their eyes. Even Eve is shaking her head with death in her gaze.

  Andre must feel it too, so he presses a kiss to my cheek and then releases me. “Take your time.”

  I turn away from him so quickly I almost lose my balance and have to grab the back of a chair to keep myself up. With my eyes to the floor to keep steady, I swerve through the tables to the back of the room where the stage is set up. I lean against it, facing the guitars, drums, and amplifiers and breathe through the shit stirring in my chest.

  The sound of heavy footfalls, dress shoes against the dance floor, grows louder as they approach. I sigh, knowing Andre is going to demand I leave and then later want answers.

  His steps are slow until I can feel his heat right behind me, feel wisps of his angry breath against the bare skin of my neck. I want to straighten my shoulders and turn to him with confidence, but I can’t. I’ve lost the strength to fight.

  His hand clasps my hip in an unforgiving hold. His breath is hot on my ear, and I close my eyes and wait for his reprimand.

  “How does it feel?”

  I jerk my head up, and my eyes fly open at the rough, gravelly voice I thought I’d never hear again.

  My heart gallops.

  My eyes fill with tears.

  “How does what feel?” I whisper.

  Soft lips brush the exposed skin of my shoulder. “To be the most beautiful woman in the room.”

  My breath shudders as his words send a quake down my spine.

  “Braeden . . .”

  And just like that, he’s gone. His touch, his heat, it’s as if I imagined him completely.

  I turn around just in time to catch his back disappearing into a crowd of people.

  ~*~

  Braeden

  Fuck me.

  Fuck me!

  I touched her. I had to. It was a draw there was no way I could deny.

  One minute I’m sitting at my table while some dumb fuck asks me about my service, and the next I’m hunting down my brother only to see her.

  My eyes were drawn like magnets only to get a visual slap in the face when I saw her in the arms of Daddy Warbucks.

  So that’s what happened to my sweet little AJ.

  She got swept off her feet by Mr. Moneybags.

  I was going to walk away. I told my fucking feet to move in the opposite direction, but damn if those assholes listened. I just had to know. After trying to hunt her down and practically convincing myself she was a ghost, I had to see for myself that she was real, that she wasn’t some hallucination.

  I touched her. Breathed her in. Felt her pulse like hummingbird wings against my lips.

  She was real. Right there and real as fuck.

  And she didn’t run. It was as if her body remembered me even if her heart had moved on.

  I’m shoving my way through people, not giving a flying shit where I’m going just as long as it’s away, when
I spot an exit. I throw open the door and find myself in an unfamiliar hallway. I head down it, turn a corner, and have no idea where I am, but don’t care, as long as it’s away from her, away from people I’ll be—

  “Braeden!”

  My feet become lead bricks soldered to the floor.

  I stuff my fucked-up hand into my pocket and turn toward her, making sure to keep my bad side hidden.

  She races at me, and my chest clenches as she’s never looked more beautiful.

  Her hair is pulled up and off her oval face, and her short dress is made of flowing fabric that billows behind her when she moves, making her look like an apparition. Her legs seem to go on for miles in a pair of sexy heels, and I mourn the loss of the view when she closes in on me.

  I expect her to cuss me out.

  Slap me.

  Kick me in the balls.

  What I don’t expect is for her to hurl herself into me so hard I’m knocked off balance. Thankfully, I’m not far from the wall, and it catches the brunt of our weight. Her arms slide around my waist, bypassing my bad arm, which is securely settled in my pocket. “You’re back!” A sob rips from her throat, and fucking hell, I feel that shit. “Why . . . why . . .?”

  I don’t know if she’s asking why I left or why I’m back, so I stand there pulling at every last bit of my strength to keep from crying too.

  Her body shakes against mine, and I keep my head slightly turned as the moisture from her tears starts to seep through my shirt, marking me right over my heart. Right where I’ve kept her.

  I want to hold her. I want to put my arms around her and squeeze her until she can’t catch a deep enough breath to produce tears. I want to pull her so close she becomes a part of me, meld our bodies together forever so that I’ll never have to live another day in the reality of life without her.

  Unable to deny my urge, I use my good arm to hold her loosely. Loosely because she isn’t mine to keep. She shudders at my touch then melts deeper into me.