Back in Black

by Lori Foster

  “What’s this?”

  “I’ve been in contact with the director of this local group. They work with troubled teenage boys. Many of them have horrid home lives. They need something to aspire to.”

  Huh. Not a heinous task at all. Drew could see the merit in giving at-risk kids some guidance. Some of the fighters had joined the sport to harness their anger over an abusive background. Some had gotten into it to escape the trappings of poverty. The SBC was a family that supported, encouraged, and rewarded.

  “Good idea.”

  She looked nonplussed for only a moment. “The director has agreed to let you do a presentation. It’s imperative that you get across the more positive aspects of your sporting organization.”

  “Want me to hunt around for something good to say, is that it?”

  “I didn’t mean it like that.” Shifting in her seat, she presented him with an earnest expression. “Do you think maybe you’re a little sensitive about the subject, given the effort you’ve put into making the sport a success?”

  More like he was sensitive around her, given her attitude toward him, namely that he needed to change to meet standards. But that wasn’t her fault, really. She was just doing a job. He’d have to remember that.

  Drew leaned on the wall. “What do you consider the most positive features of the SBC?”

  Dead serious, as if she’d been championing the SBC from its inception, she recited a list to him. “For starters, I’d talk about the dedication and hard work that it takes to learn the various disciplines. This isn’t just one sport, it’s a combination of many sports meshed together for the greatest effect.”

  “True.” He liked it that she understood the complexities of mixed martial arts. Alongside the guys who’d joined to escape the streets, he had Olympic contenders and All-American wrestlers. He had the best of the best. “What else?”

  “The boys could use some encouragement toward caring for their health by avoiding drugs, cigarettes, and alcohol. You could remind them about the benefits of keeping up with a good diet and routine exercise. And they should understand the motivation necessary to stick with something until you’re successful.”

  “Not every fighter is successful.” Like any sport, only the very best got title shots or gained any real fame.

  “Of course not. So you could talk about how they learn from their experiences and move on as wiser, better men. But also cover the tolerance to accept the learning curve inherent in any sport. I watched some DVDs, and a lot of those guys get the crap beat out of them, but they stand up and shake hands and later, in interviews, they say they already know what they did wrong and how they will correct it for the next fight.”

  Drew realized that he enjoyed talking to her. That was rare for him. Sure, he enjoyed chatting with the women he dated, but this was different. Gillian was different. He spoke with her as he might . . . a fighter. Only this was better, because she looked a whole hell of a lot better than any dude.

  Grinning at his own observation, Drew said, “Every good fighter learns as much from a loss as he does from a win.”

  “There, you see? You’ll be perfect for this if you present it that way. I think you’ll be a wonderful speaker to teach them about respecting others, especially those who try to guide you and train you so that you can improve yourself.”

  “Huh. I’m impressed, Gillian.” He pushed off the wall and walked over to her. “You do seem to have a handle on the finer points of mixed martial arts.”

  The praise must have pleased her, given her smile. “Barely, but I’m trying to learn.”

  And doing a good job of it. Drew stopped before her. “When did you want me to speak to the group?”

  “When is the soonest you’ll be free?”

  Together they went over his schedule and, assuming it would work with the director of the club, decided on Monday. Then, while she had her paperwork out, he looked over the other media appearances she had planned for him.

  One particular group, WAVS, made him scowl. Women Against Violent Sports was composed of a bunch of uppity biddies who protested everything they didn’t understand. The group, and especially the ringleader, Audrey Porter, had become a thorn in his side. Not that long ago, he’d lost his cool in an online interview video, calling Audrey’s second in command a few choice words for misquoting him. He didn’t remember the woman’s name, only that she’d tried to malign him and the sport in the worst possible way.

  Unfortunately, the video had flown around the Internet at the speed of light. Damn near everyone had seen it . . . but apparently not Gillian or she would have been on his ass about it. No doubt the unkind things he’d said to that woman would make Gillian’s hair stand on end.

  Drew wasn’t particularly proud of what he’d done, but he also figured anyone who dished it could damn well take it, and the uptight broads at WAVS liked to dish it with great regularity.

  He decided to say nothing to Gillian for now. When she got around to lining up a date with the annoying group, then he’d clue her in on the past history so she’d understand just how badly that meeting might go.

  After giving him a copy of the schedule, filled with a dozen appearances over the next few weeks, Gillian filed away her own copy. He’d have to do a lot of shuffling within his personal agenda, but what the hell? He thrived on chaos.

  When she finished up and closed away her laptop and briefcase, he drew her around to him. “Now.”

  She blinked twice fast. “Now . . . what?”

  “My turn.” As Drew touched her neck and brushed her soft hair over her shoulder, his voice went husky in anticipation. “You ready?”

  “Really, Drew.” She tried to scoff, but her lashes kept fluttering and her lips trembled. “No preparation is needed. It’s only a kiss, and only on my neck.”

  We’ll see, he thought. “Okay then.” He leaned in and breathed against her skin. “When I kiss you, you can count to three for me. When the time is up, let me know.”

  “Got it.”

  So soft and husky—she could deny it all she wanted, but her voice gave her away; she anticipated this as much as he did.

  Dragging out the suspense, Drew got close enough to breathe in her scent but didn’t yet touch her. He kept his hands at his sides, but he was so much bigger than her that he still surrounded her by his size and strength.

  He liked that.

  Gillian wasn’t a frail woman; she had curves galore, but she was small boned and delicate compared to him.

  He brushed his lips over her and felt her involuntary gasp. Opening his mouth, he took a soft love bite, soothed with his tongue, and then sucked against her skin.

  Holding perfectly still, even her breath held, Gillian didn’t protest.

  She didn’t count either. But then, hell, Drew got so drawn into tasting her, enjoying her, that he forgot that this was meant to tease, to keep her from getting the upper hand.

  With a soft moan, she tipped her head more and her hands came up to clutch at his shirt. Drew slipped his arms around her and drew her in close.

  Yeah, that felt right.

  She pressed against him, trembling, and Drew realized that things had gotten out of hand. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, finish this tonight, so there was no point in further teasing her, or himself.

  As he lifted his head, he pressed hers to his shoulder and whispered, “Three.”

  She stiffened, but he was quick to run a hand up and down her back. “Don’t get prickly, because I sure as hell forgot what I was doing, too.”

  She tucked in her chin so that her forehead was against his pecs. “I . . . I don’t know what to say.” But then she pushed back from him. “I’m sorry.”

  His eyes widened. “Are you kidding me? For what?”

  “For letting that get out of hand.” She smoothed her clothes with shaking hands and tried to infuse a hoity-toity tone to her next jibe. “We all know that your behavior sinks to unreasonable depths on a regular basis, but I’m supposed to—”


  “Be better than that?” He crossed his arms. “Better than me?”

  “I was going to say more professional.”

  “Yeah, I just bet you were.” So pissed that he could barely contain himself, Drew glared at her. That she would cop this attitude now, when only moments before he could have . . .

  Inspired, he dropped his arms and indulged in an evil smile.

  “What?” Alarmed, Gillian took a step back. “What are you thinking?”

  “You want me, Gillian Noode. Wallow in denial all you want, but it’s still true. And know what? You’re going to have me.”

  “What? No, I most certainly am not.”

  “Oh, yeah, you are. Probably sooner than you think.” When she looked ready to run, he held up a hand. “Even you have to know I don’t force women.”

  “I never said you did.”

  But still she looked at him as if he might sprout horns. Drew shook his head. “We’ll continue playing these games for now, because I don’t mind waiting. But mark my words, lady, your time will come.”

  Gillian put her shoulders back in a display of affront. “I’ve had enough of your bullying.”

  “Yeah, well, if you’re not going to eat dinner with me, then it’s time for you to go anyway.”

  Her mouth fell open. “Would you honestly expect me to sit through dinner now?”

  Shrugging, he said, “Why not?” He looked her over. “Afraid you won’t be able to resist me that long?”

  Jerking around, she grabbed up her belongings, all the while muttering to herself. Drew appreciated the picture she made; even all fired up, she still moved with feminine grace.

  Holding her laptop and briefcase like a shield, she faced him. “I’ll call the director of the boys’ group tonight. Given his enthusiasm the last time we spoke, I’m sure Monday will work, but either way, I’ll be in touch.”

  “ ’Course you will.” He couldn’t resist teasing her again. “And you know, you don’t have to pretend that it’s all for the job, either.”

  She actually growled, then she stormed around him for the door. Right before she reached it, Drew said softly, “Gillian?”

  Maybe expecting an apology or some such nonsense, she paused with her hand on the doorknob. Over her shoulder, she looked at him. “What?”

  “I just thought you should know something.”

  One brow lifted.

  “I marked you.”

  Brows beetling in puzzlement, she said, “Excuse me?”

  “You have a killer hickey on your neck.” He winked. “Next time we play that game, maybe we should pick a body part that’s not so visible.”

  In less than the three seconds he’d originally planned for the kiss, she was out the door and had slammed it behind her.

  Drew laughed. Damn, he liked her.

  Worse, he wanted her.

  Now what?

  GILLIAN stood in the back of the auditorium as the excited director of the boys’ home introduced Drew as a “very special surprise” to the audience of squirming, defensive, disgruntled youths. As she’d half expected, the director had jumped at the opportunity to have the infamous Drew Black as a guest, even on short notice, and he’d quickly rearranged the schedule for the day.

  Drew took it all as his due, and now he looked perfectly at ease on the stage. He’d worn an SBC T-shirt and jeans, and it was the perfect choice to fit in with the youths.

  While Gillian listened to the director revering Drew in his drawn-out introduction, she fingered the colorful scarf wrapped around her neck.

  For as long as she could remember, she’d bruised easily. With the sensual way he’d devoured her neck . . . well, as Drew had stated, he’d most definitely marked her. Not since her college days had she had a hickey. Though no one could see the mark, thanks to the scarf, she still felt conspicuous and . . . wickedly risqué.

  Ridiculous.

  But every time she remembered the touch of his mouth there, his hot breath, the way he clutched her to him . . . she got chills followed by flashes of heat and the unmistakable churning of desire.

  She wanted Drew Black, more than she’d wanted any man in a very long time. He seemed to know her, really know her—as a woman, and as a sexual being.

  Not that she’d been sexual lately.

  For far too long, she’d been too particular to get sexually involved. She’d had casual dates that didn’t even rate a kiss, much less intercourse. The interest necessary for that level of intimacy just hadn’t existed for her.

  But now, it was impossible not to imagine how someone like Drew, so free of social inhibition, might be in bed.

  From the stage, his gaze met hers, and even with so much distance between them and thirty rowdy young men waiting impatiently to be entertained, she felt ensnared by his provocative intent. It was all Gillian could do not to bite her lip. Shifting her feet, she squeezed her thighs together. A deep breath had her breasts straining the front of her blouse.

  And looking at Drew, at the quirk to his mouth and the glimmer in his eyes, she saw that he knew how he affected her.

  Luckily, the director joined her, giving her the excuse to look away from Drew to indulge a quiet whisper.

  “Thank you again, Ms. Noode, for bringing us such a terrific speaker.”

  Was that an assumption? “You’ve heard him before, Mr. Darwich?”

  “On televised interviews and online. He can be . . . colorful. But he’s also a brilliant, motivated businessman.”

  “Such accolades,” she teased.

  Mr. Darwich grinned. “I admit I’m a fan, both of Mr. Black and the SBC.”

  After that, they quieted to listen to Drew. He had a presence about him that demanded attention. He spoke with experienced authority, in a way that kept the young men listening.

  About twenty minutes into his explanation of how the SBC worked, and about the rules that applied, one of the boys spoke out.

  He asked, “How much do fighters make?”

  “As with most things in life, that depends on how hard they work and how good they are. But that sort of goes hand in hand in most cases—the harder you work, the better you get.”

  “That ain’t no answer.”

  Drew shrugged. “I can give you a range.” He named two figures that were worlds apart, setting more boys to grumbling. “A new guy barely makes anything, especially if he’s fighting in a nontelevised bout. If he has to cover his own expenses and doesn’t have any sponsors . . . yeah, it’d be tough to make ends meet. The stars, the guys who have earned the right to title shots—”

  “Like Havoc, or Sublime.”

  Drew nodded. “Yeah, like them. Those guys make top dollar. On top of that, sponsors are paying them more than most people make in a year, just to have a photo of them wearing their boxers or using their razor.”

  That launched a few jokes, and Drew grinned with the boys.

  “Yeah, it’s freaking nuts, isn’t it? But that’s what dedication can get you. And let me tell you, fighters like Havoc, Sublime, and Handleman, they’re smart and they’re not afraid of staying up late, getting up early, working harder than the other guys work to get what they want. Usually within a few training sessions, I can see who has the heart and talent it takes, and who doesn’t.”

  A wiry young man stood. “Dude, I could be a fighter right now.” He flexed a scrawny arm, very impressed with himself. “Why don’t you give me a shot?”

  Unfazed, Drew smiled. “For one thing, you’re not eighteen yet.”

  “So?”

  “So you can train, but you can’t yet compete in the SBC. If you really have what it takes, you could get involved with a gym, get some experience. I know fighters who’ve been training since they could walk. But as to how good you are right now, let me tell you, dude, no way in hell am I taking your word for it.”

  The group laughed, making risqué jokes at their friend, heckling him good-naturedly.

  They quieted when Drew again spoke. “You don’t know how many guys think
they can cut it, but then they get into training and a coach works them over for hours. Most are ready to quit. This shit is not easy. I know the really good guys might make it look like it is. That’s why they’re the really good guys.”

  The boy copped an attitude. “Man, I’ve been busting heads on the streets since I was ten. I tell ya, I can fight. Ask anyone.”

  Drew shook his head. “You think street fighting impresses me? It’s stupid. Beyond stupid.”

  The kid subsided, but Drew didn’t cut him any slack.

  “You guys are young, and you think you’re invincible or you just don’t care. I don’t know which it is. But unsupervised mixed martial arts means that someone could get seriously hurt. You—or a friend of yours.”

  His impact astounded Gillian. The boys all looked enrapt as Drew continued.

  “You know how many serious injuries or deaths we’ve had in the SBC?” He put his index finger and thumb together to make a zero and held it up. “None. I want to keep it that way. That’s why the fighters are well trained, why we have rules, and why we have special equipment.”

  “Wasn’t always that way.”

  “Hell no, it wasn’t. When I took over, the sport had been banned in damn near every state. Getting a pay-per-view was impossible. But I turned it around, and now we’re the fastest-growing sport there is. I took it from a failing business venture to a multimillion-dollar organization. You know how I did that?”

  He didn’t wait for a reply.

  “By being smart. Anyone can be tough and dumb, and that pays jack-shit. But be tough and smart, and it’s worth big bucks. So don’t confuse what we do with barroom fighting. Our sport is not spontaneous and it’s not dirty. You have to be trained, in shape, smart, and fast and you have to have heart.” He searched the crowd. “You guys know what heart is?”

  When they mumbled in uncertainty, Drew left the mic and walked to the edge of the stage. “Heart is getting back in there when you’ve just puked your guts up or taken a fist to the face or, worse, to the gut. It’s twelve-hour days of cardio, boxing, wrestling, jujitsu.” He scanned the crowd of faces. “It’s not drinking, not smoking, no Big Macs or ice cream.”