by D. C. Ruins
"I'm Drew Car –" she started to say, until Lana leaned over abruptly and wrapped a hand around Drew's wrist, tugging it out of the man's hand gently.
"She's with us," Lana said curtly.
The reporter lifted his eyebrows at the feisty blonde and looked amused. "Okay, then. Well, mystery lady. It was nice to meet you. Connor, Lana. You guys have a good one." He gave Drew a long look before he finally turned and walked away.
Drew was creeped out. "What's his deal?" she asked Lana.
Lana shook her head in annoyance. "That's Marty Brown. Don't talk to him. He's a vulture. He was the one who was responsible for leaking out Heath's real identity to the press and also his location, leading the JAG over here to take him into custody after Ultimate Warrior. He just goes after whatever he can and doesn't give a shit about any of the lives he touches."
Drew nodded, looking thoughtfully after him. She supposed she needed to watch out for him in the future.
***
The tournament was several fights in, and Drew was exhilarated. She had no idea she'd come to enjoy watching MMA fights as much as she was right now. She was working on her third pint of the cheap arena beer; she suspected that might have something to do with it. She wasn't sure when Heath was supposed to be fighting, but there had been five fights so far. She had realized shortly before the start of the tournament that the press box where the two commentators had set up shop. As a result, she could hear everything they were saying and she had to roll her eyes occasionally. All they did was argue amongst themselves about their opinions on the fighters and shout and ooh and ah when the fights were taking place.
Suddenly the lights dimmed again and some heavy metal song started playing as the announcer began to call forth one of the next fighters. Drew listened hard but she couldn't make out his name. A punk-looking solid young man began dancing down the aisles. He had a mohawk and his arms were each covered in a sleeve of tattoos. He seemed to be incredibly amped up as he slapped hands with fans on his trek toward the cage.
The lights dimmed a little again and this time, Drew was able to hear the name that was being called because there was no music playing. Her stomach clenched in excitement as she heard, "Heath One-Hitter-Quitter Riley!"
He is not going to like that, Drew couldn't help thinking as she strained to catch sight of him. She finally saw him, wearing a black sweatshirt, the deep hood pulled low over his head as he made his way to the ring. Fans, male and female, screamed, and sudden movements caught her eye as signs bearing his name, some with hearts, rose into the air.
But he acknowledged none of it, solely focused on getting into the ring and "going to work", as he liked to say. He was close enough to see clearly now, perhaps twenty feet away from their seats, and he quickly stripped off his sweatshirt and handed it to John, who trailed behind him. Drew held her breath as he entered the ring, and allowed herself a moment to admire his smooth skin and his taut muscles. He shoved his mouth guard in and focused intently on his opponent.
When the match began, he held back, waiting to see what his opponent would do. The young man flew at him with a series of lightning fast kicks and punches. Heath deflected and side-stepped his blows, not concerned, not worried, just focused in that intent manner. This continued on for a few more moments; Drew knew he was studying the young man, getting a feel for his style, before he ended it quickly.
The young man launched another kick, toward Heath's head. Heath lashed out with an arm, winding it around the man's leg and pulling it in tight to his side. He blocked a flailing, startled punch from the other man before sending his fist directly into the middle of the man's face. His opponent's head flew back and he crumpled to the mat, sliding out of Heath's grasp.
"That's how it's done!" Connor shouted jovially, pumping his fists in the air. "That's right!"
Drew cheered loudly, drawing the attention of one of the commentators seated in the box in front of her. It wasn't the first time they'd studied her. They always smiled, always waved or gave her some polite acknowledgment.
As Heath made his way across the ring, she heard them.
"Seated directly behind us, Bryan, is the family of Heath Riley," one of the men was saying. "We've got his father John helping him out, but his brother Connor, who he famously fought and lost to at Ultimate Warrior late last year, is in attendance today with his wife Lana, and a very lovely young lady who up until now has been a bit of a mystery."
Drew's head snapped up, and even Heath paused near the door of the cage, fixing the two unaware commentators with a stare.
"We have rumors that the young woman is Heath Riley's girlfriend who had a run-in with some fans and security earlier today; we're told she was struck with a bottle of iced water in the back before Heath came to her rescue. And just a little bit ago we received confirmation that her name is Drew Carnevale from Pittsburgh. Originally from New York, we now have confirmation that she was the victim involved in one of the most heinous rapes and attempted murders of the past year; she was the victim of Jackson James and we have reports that she will be testifying at his trial this coming week, as she remains his only living victim."
Drew felt the blood drain from her face as a strange, lightheaded sensation came over her. Her heart stuttered and jerked oddly as she felt seemingly every pair of eyes turn in her direction. The logical part of her brain knew that wasn't true; however, people had turned to look at her, including Lana and Connor. They both looked equally horrified.
Drew's eyes dully sought Heath's, and she noted dimly that she had never seen such a look of rage on his face before. She'd thought this morning was the maddest she'd ever seen him; he'd seemed almost happy then, by comparison now.
Everything unfolded in what seemed like slow motion. Heath burst out of the cage and rushed toward the booth. John leapt forward and caught his arm just as Connor vaulted over the chairs in front of them to restrain his younger brother from the front. Lana was screaming out, and Drew suddenly couldn't handle anyone else looking at her, pointing, whispering. She was torn, wanting to go to Heath who was being restrained by his father, his brother, and three security guards from getting any closer to the booth, where the two commentators had jumped to their feet and backed up. One of them turned to look at Drew, and the look on his face enraged her.
He didn't look apologetic; he looked amused.
The half-full cup of beer fell from her hand as she whirled. She found herself staring into the eyes of a tall man and his friend behind him. Both were smirking at her. Their mouths were opened; they were talking at her.
Jeering at her; making fun of her pain.
She tried to shove between them, get away from them, get out of the arena before anxiety overwhelmed her. One of the men, stinking with alcohol, grabbed her arm and tried to hold her back, press her between them. Tremendous fury rose up in her and before she knew what she was doing, her fists moved of their own accord.
She punched the one who touched her in his nose, feeling the bone crunch underneath her small knuckles as the force of her blow made his head snap back and he went toppling backward, knocking over chairs and people. She heard cries of dismay, but she swung on the other man, whose hand had risen to claim her other arm. She shoved her knee hard into his crotch, burying her kneecap deep in his groin and as the air audibly whooshed out of him, she flung an elbow into his face to send him sprawling back in the other direction.
She became aware of her name being screamed by someone, but she raced out of the arena into the hallways. She pulled off her troublesome heels and ran, fast, swift, light, down the concrete corridors until she instinctively reached the back entrance she'd arrived at. There was no one there now, so she exited and just kept running.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Later that night, Heath stuck his head into the bedroom where John was sprawled out, watching the news. He looked up when he saw Heath, noting his extremely casual dress of sweatpants, a tank top, a sweatshirt, and socks.
"Hey son," he sai
d. "What's up?"
"I'm goin' down the hall," Heath replied. "See Drew. She kind of had a rough one earlier but she won't admit it."
John nodded. "Good idea. So did you." He looked back toward the television and cleared his throat. He tried to sound casual. "You, uh...you comin back tonight?"
Heath gritted his teeth. It was a knee-jerk reaction, one he knew he had to work past, but he couldn't help the faintest stirrings of his old irritation when his father asked personal questions like that.
"I don't know," he replied honestly.
"Just remember we gotta be there by three tomorrow," John said. "If you don't come back." He couldn't be sure, but it seemed as though the old man was trying not to smile.
Heath gave one nod and backed out of the room. He needed to give John a little credit, though. After Heath had completely lost his temper and tried to attack the two commentators for being incredible assholes and broadcasting Drew's identity and her story to the MMA world, he should have been ejected from the tournament. But it had been John's quick talking and pleading with the event organizers and even Smith himself that had kept Heath in the fight.
Now, his concern was Drew. She'd managed to run back, barefoot, to the hotel by herself and had locked herself in her room until they'd returned. She apologized to Connor, Lana and John for her behavior—knocking two tall guys out all by herself in her desperation to leave—and had quietly asked Heath for a little time to herself. He'd been concerned but wanted to give her the space she needed, so she'd agreed. She'd eaten by herself and several hours had gone by before she finally texted him and asked him to come to her room.
Now, he headed down the hall in just his socks since Drew's room was literally three doors away. He stopped when he reached it and knocked.
He heard the light padding of feet and then a pause and he knew she was peering through the peephole. He heard a loud click and then the door opened. His eyes moved over her quickly and he swallowed hard.
She was dressed in a bright pink, boxy cropped T-shirt that showed her smooth abdomen for the second time that day, flat from years of dance but not overly muscular, still on the soft side which he loved. The shirt hung off one shoulder, exposing a turquoise bra strap covered in tiny white polka dots. She wore a pair of short white boxer shorts with pink stripes and her long dark hair hung over one shoulder in a loose, messy braid.
"Hi," she said quietly. She stepped back to let him in, then shut and locked the door behind him. "Thanks for coming down. I just wanted some company. Your company."
"Wouldn't want to be anywhere else," Heath replied honestly. She took his hand and led him over to her bed. It wasn't in any sort of suggestive manner; it was easygoing, as though it was the most logical place they could lounge at almost eleven o'clock at night. She leapt lightly onto the bed and he flopped down beside her. He let out a contented sigh; it was the first time all day he'd had any time to relax. He propped himself up slightly to shove a pillow under the small of his back and leaned back so his shoulder blades were against the headboard and stretched his legs out in front of him. Drew sat next to him with her back flush against the headboard and her knees pulled in to her chest.
"Are you pretty tired?" she asked, flipping idly through the TV channels at warp speed like she always did. He instantly picked up that she did not want to discuss the events of the day. He'd let her have her way for now, but sooner or later, he needed to talk to her about it.
"A little," Heath said. "Not too worried about it, though. I've got plenty of time to sleep. We don't have to be back to the arena until three tomorrow afternoon."
"That's good," Drew replied.
He glanced over at her. "You sure you want to come tomorrow?" He asked. "You don't have to, you know."
She looked at him. "Yes, of course I'll be there," she said, her slightly exasperated tone making him smile. "How could I not? I wouldn't miss it."
"Okay, okay," he said, lifting his hands to pay the air. "Calm down. Didn't mean to wake the beast."
She snorted and shoved at his shoulder lightly. He was glad to see her mood seemed to improve. She found some movie he hadn't seen before and set the remote down. It was some sort of crappy horror movie with a lot of gore, tits and ass, as well as a few choice sex scenes. He was starting to get interested in the plot when it appeared that all of the "protagonists" in the film would be killed off when Drew startled him by suddenly pushing herself forward and flopping on her knees beside him. She placed her palms by her knees and leaned toward him. He looked at her in mild alarm.
"You okay?" he asked. He tilted his head at her curiously. "What is it?"
She opened her mouth to answer but nothing came out. She looked like she was reaching for something to tell him.
"Drew," he said, smirking at her. "What?"
She bit her lip and her mouth opened to speak again, and again nothing came out. She just looked at him.
Finally she slowly reached a hand out toward him, and took hold of the zipper on his navy blue sweatshirt. His eyebrows shot up and he looked down, watching as her hand slowly pulled the zipper down along its track, until she reached the bottom. With a little tug and flick of her wrist, the zipper opened and the jacket fell around either side of his waist.
He looked up at her again and she was staring. His brow creased slightly.
"Drew," he said quietly. "What are you doin'?" Based on her actions from their first night, and the trauma she'd experienced earlier, he didn't want her feeling like she needed to prove anything to him again.
In reply she slowly reached out again, this time with both hands and leaned across his chest to pull one side of his jacket down his arm and then the other. He caught her hand and tugged her closer.
"What are you doing?" he asked again softly. "You don't –"
"Shush," she said finally.
He blinked. "Shush?"
She suddenly leaned in, her face centimeters from his, her warm breath brushing his lips.
"I said, shh," she whispered. "Okay?"
He scanned her face, suddenly finding it hard to look away from her lips, and slowly nodded.
She leaned back and began pulling his arms out of the sleeves of his sweatshirt. When his arms were free, she pulled the sweatshirt from underneath him and tossed it onto the floor before she turned to look at him again.
He had no idea what she was doing or where she was going with this but he was intrigued and definitely getting aroused. He jumped slightly when her hands next moved to the bottom hem of his white, snug ribbed tank top and pulled it upward. He let her pull it up over his abdomen and helped her to pull it over his head. Her eyes raked down him for a long time while she sat motionless. He had just started to grow slightly uncomfortable under her scrutiny when she whispered, "You're beautiful."
He wasn't sure how to respond to it but whatever lame words he'd pulled forth from the recesses of his brain died in his mouth when her hands reached out slowly again and rested lightly on his pecs. His skin jumped at her touch as warmth flooded his body and blood surged to the sensitive area at the apex of his groin. Her small, soft hands pressed into his chest and then ran down the length of his abdomen, the tips of her fingers digging in ever so slightly. Her fingers traced the ridges of his heavily muscled stomach, following every curve of muscle, every outlined rib. Her fingers then moved higher to his chest and arms and she traced his tattoos. Her fingers skimmed his skin lightly and it was so relaxing he could have closed his eyes and gone to sleep.
He grew alert again when her hands dropped away and she met his eyes.
"Heath," she whispered. She faltered and bit her lip.
"What?" he whispered back.
"Do you want…to see me?" Her fingers played at the hem of her cropped T-shirt.
Heath swallowed hard. "Drew," he said again. "You don't have to –"
"Do you want to see me?"
He searched her eyes for some semblance of her not knowing what she was doing and saw only want and calm in them. So
he nodded slowly.
She took the hem of her shirt between her delicate fingertips and pulled it slowly upward over her head and tossed it aside. She lowered her arms and watched his eyes move helplessly all over her. She pushed backward slowly until she moved off the bed and brought her hands to the waistband of her little boxer shorts on her hips. Heath's eyes widened slightly as she leaned forward and began to inch them off her hips until they slid down her legs. The overprotective part of his brain made him feel like he should tell her to stop, to put her clothes back on, but he couldn't seem to find the words. She was beautiful.
Her breasts were perky and round, generous for her frame but not too big, just perfectly proportioned. Her waist narrowed before bowing out into the slender, beautiful curves of her hips. Her thighs, both slender and thick at the same time, defined with muscle, called out for his hands and his mouth. In addition to her pretty, bright blue bra she wore a matching mesh thong and as she leaned forward to crawl onto the bed he almost lost it when he saw the way the lingerie disappeared between the rounded, high mounds of soft flesh of her backside.
He sucked in his breath when she crawled over him and swung a leg over his hips until she straddled him. He balled his fists into the comforter as she tilted her head and undid her braid, letting her long thick mane flow free. She met his eyes.
"What do you think?" she whispered.
His eyes raked down her involuntarily. "I think you're gorgeous," he replied.
"Do you want to see more?" she asked almost shyly, her voice hushed.
The urge to protest hit his tongue again, borne only out of worry for her, that she didn't know what she was doing, but died on his tongue at the look in her eyes. He nodded again.
She slid a hand to her shoulder and slowly pulled one bra strap down and she used her other hand to hold the cup of the bra to her breast as she maneuvered her arm out of the strap. She moved to the other arm and repeated the action. She covered her breasts with a forearm and slowly pulled the garment off herself.