Killian: A West Bend Saints Romance (47 page)

I
scrolled
through text messages on my cell phone, maintaining a blank, disinterested expression as Coker introduced me to his prize fighter.

Coker thought he was setting up a deal. But
he
was the one being set up.

Coker was the mark.

"This is Rush," he said, gesturing toward the large man, clad only in shorts, a towel draped over his shoulders. Rush stood and walked toward us.

I looked the fighter up and down, only barely taking my eyes off my phone as I nodded curtly. "I see."

"He’s got dominating ground and pound skills,” Coker said. “A beast.”

I had no idea what the hell he meant. I turned to leave, displaying how unimpressed I was with Coker's fighter, and Coker followed.

Like a puppy dog,
I thought.

"He's certainly good-looking," I acknowledged. "That never hurts with the female demographic."

"I've got a whole stable of fighters. Ten more just like him, all prime product," Coker said. I could hear the twinge of desperation in his voice. Coker was like an awkward teenager, trying desperately to get into the cool crowd.

For a second, I almost felt badly about what we were going to do to him. Only for a second, though. That feeling passed when I remembered
exactly
why we were doing this.

"Settle down, cowboy," I said, holding up my hand. "I never said anything about needing more than one fighter. You've not even begun to impress me with the one you have. Let's not put the cart before the horse, here, okay?"

Coker smiled. "Rush is going to impress you," he said. "That's for damn sure. And when he does, I'm ready to talk about a deal."

I laughed, but not for the reason he thought.

Sometimes, a con was just too easy. People think that conning someone requires a huge amount of deception or sleight of hand, but in reality, most of the time it requires very little actual trickery. You just have to pick the right mark - the greedy kind, the kind who's more than happy to break the rules. That kind of mark is all too ready to believe that you'll give him an exponential return on his investment, a once in a lifetime deal.

And the greater the return, the more willing the mark is to believe that it’s possible.

People are surprisingly willing to deceive themselves.

Everyone wants to believe in happy endings. The problem is that in the real world, they're manufactured by people like me, people who are trying to sell you something that doesn't exist.

"Deal, Mr. Coker?" I asked. "You don't even understand the project."

Coker gestured to the seats reserved for us in a cordoned-off area ring-side, and I sat, crossing my legs and smoothing my skirt. I was out of place here, in my black skirt and designer stilettos, my expensive handbag and earrings.

The outfit wasn't entirely conservative - I was playing an international television producer, so I'd streaked a bit of purple through my hair and gone heavy-handed on the makeup, black eyeliner and red lips. More
rocker chick
than
boardroom executive
. It was eye-catching in a place like this, and that's exactly the effect I was going for.

It was a
fuck-you-I-do-what-I-want
vibe that I was putting off. At least, that was my intent.

Coker sat beside me, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. With his balding head and his paunch and his drawl, his entire presence screamed
oil tycoon
, not
fight promoter
. "I wouldn't have requested to meet with you if I didn't have an idea of what you were here for," he said. "Carl over at Burning Sands MMA told me what you're doing, that you’re not just scouting one fighter here. He said you’re starting a new fight channel – bringing fights to an international audience. That guy can't keep his fucking mouth shut. He thinks we're friends instead of rivals. He doesn't understand how business works. Not the way you and I do."

Coker laughed, and I smiled, the corners of my mouth drawn tight.

"He told you why I was here, did he?" I asked. "He assured me he would be discreet. Well then, I'm afraid I'll no longer be interested in his talent." The truth was, my crew had been setting this up, spreading word that I was scouting for local talent within Roy Coker’s circuit. Coker needed to know what I was doing here in Vegas, but he couldn't know it from me.

The mark should always think the con is his idea.

"Well," Coker said. "It’s his loss. And my gain."

"I do hope you understand that discretion is extremely important to me, and to the people I work for," I said. "Lack of discretion is simply...unacceptable."

Roy Coker made a fake zipping motion with his fat hand on his fat lips. "Mum's the word," he said. "I am as discrete as it gets. But I want you to know that I'm ready to do whatever it takes to get in on the deal."

I wrinkled my nose in an expression of disdain. "I’m here to see your fighter. Anything more than that would require greater capital than you could possibly have."

I was deliberately evasive, since I was counting on the fact that our cover story had gotten to Coker. Our cover story was that we were scouting talent for an international fight channel with a huge Middle Eastern and East Asian audience. One of the members of my crew, Emir - hacker and tech expert extraordinaire - had already uploaded videos, supposedly taken from our international fight channel, and posted them online, backdated through the past six months.

The key was that we'd hinted that there was a potential opportunity for a promoter who might want to invest in one of the shows. And that was the message we’d been spreading through whispers and rumors in the fight circuit. That was the message we wanted to get back to Coker.

"Try me," he said. "What kind of capital are you talking about?"

I waited a moment, listening to the sounds of the people gathering around, all of them waiting for the fight to begin. "Half a million dollars," I said, leaning toward him. "I'm here to see your fighter, because I'm curious, and I'm staying because I enjoy seeing an attractive man pummel another man. But I'm afraid investing like this is something better left to the big boys, Mr. Coker."

I kept my eyes straight ahead, but from the corner of my eye, I could see him shift uncomfortably in his chair. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead.

The truth is, my team knew what he could afford. Half a million dollars wasn't a number I'd just pulled out of my ass.

He was silent for a moment.

This was my favorite part of a con - the part where we got to see if what we'd predicted about the mark's behavior was true.

Would he take the bait?

The truth was, they almost always took the bait. Greedy men couldn't resist an opportunity to act on their greed.

To me, a long con didn't get any more exciting than this moment right now.

I could feel the goose bumps on my arms. My pulse raced, the blood pumping loudly in my ears, adrenaline coursing through my veins.

This part of a con was like a high. I’d never been addicted to anything, like booze or drugs, thanks to my parents, who instilled in me the importance of situational awareness. But the high of running a con beat anything else in life I could imagine.

It was like an extended version of that moment right before the dice land on the table - the ultimate gamble, fate hanging in the balance.

The promoter cleared his throat. "I'd have to call my guy," he said. "Move some things around. But I could manage that kind of capital. That is, if you’re providing the kind of return I’ve heard you’re getting for investors."

I turned my head slowly, and nodded. "Perhaps I underestimated you, Mr. Coker."

That was another lie. We were right on base with our estimation of him.

I leaned back and crossed my arms as the announcer brought out the fighters, satisfied with the fact that this was a done deal.

I was feeling smug.

Coker was ours. Hook, line, and sinker. His fighter just needed to lay a good beat down on the other guy, so I could be impressed with him. Then it was just a matter of trying to convince Coker he should
not
give us his money.

The funny thing was that the more you suggested someone
not
do something, the more intrigued they were by the prospect of doing exactly that.

"And in the blue trunks," the announcer's voice blared, "is Silas Saint."

As soon as he said the name, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I hadn't heard that name uttered in years.

Not since I was seventeen.

Silas strode across the ring. Even before he reached me, I knew it. The way he moved, his build...

But it wasn't just his rippling muscles or the chiseled cut of his jawline that told me it was the same Silas from my past.

It was something intangible, the way he triggered some kind of sense memory. It was like every cell in my body knew it was him in that ring, a shock of electricity running through me in response to his mere presence.

Even if I hadn’t heard his name, I would have known. I knew it was him the moment I saw him.

My heart caught in my throat, and I held my breath as he turned, walking towards my side of the cage.

And then he looked at me, directly into my eyes.

Those damn baby blues, I'd know them anywhere. They haunted me.
He
haunted me, the memories of him, of the way he used to look up at me, his face buried between my thighs.

I was his first love.

He was the only man I'd ever loved. The one I'd left behind, without saying goodbye.

And he was standing here, so close I could have stood up and reached for him. As he walked along the edge, his eyes never left mine. He turned his head to look back at me even after he passed me.

Silas Saint.

I felt the familiar rush of attraction, something primal, an old feeling from years ago. It was the same thing I'd felt for him when we were kids.

His expression was hard. Angry. I recognized the look- it was the same expression he’d have after his father’s drunken outbursts, when he’d step in to save his mother.

I was so caught up in the fact that Silas had materialized from somewhere deep in my subconscious and was now standing right in front of me again that it took me a minute to even realize the implication of his being here.

Coker wasn't on the up and up. It's why we'd chosen him as a mark. He had a history of rigging fights.

Coker would want to impress me. He'd want to win by any means necessary.

And
that
was a problem.

Because either Silas was about to get beat down - and really hurt - or Silas was about to kick the shit out of Coker's guy. In which case my con would be done. Over.

Either way, my cover was about to be blown.

Beside me, Coker stood. "Son of a bitch," he said, his hands clenched into fists.

"Is something wrong?" I asked.

"Nothing I can't deal with," he said. "Excuse me."

I watched him head toward one of his cronies on the far side of the ring, and my heart sank as I watched Silas on the other side, his head bent, talking to the guy in his corner.

I hoped Silas knew what the hell he was doing. And what he was in for.

I slid my finger over the screen on my phone and sent a simple text.

We have a problem.

I
thought
I was fucking hallucinating, seeing her standing there.

Tempest Wilde.

There was no way on God's green earth I ever thought I would see her again after she had up and left West Bend without a word.

We were seventeen.

Tempest had blown out of town, without even giving me the courtesy of saying goodbye. She'd cleaned out my little stash of savings, too, the money I'd been hoarding to get away from my crap family. And my wrestling medal from the state championship, the one that meant everything to me.

Back then, her leaving was the end of the damn world to me.

I recognized her as soon as I saw her. She was a few years older, sure, and her hair was darker, not the honey blonde it used to be, but hell, I would have known her anywhere.

And there she was, on the arm of Roy Coker.

The asshole who'd almost gotten me killed.

Trigg was in the corner, saying something to me. He spoke, but I didn't hear him. All I could think about was her.

I hated her back then, after she’d left.

I could feel the anger pumping through my veins. I was already ramped up after what Coker had done to Abel, but seeing her standing there with Coker was the damn icing on the cake.

I couldn’t stop staring at her. Seven years ago, she had been my good luck charm at the state championship wrestling tournament that had gotten me on the radar of the coach at Oklahoma State, the match that wound up getting me the full ride. Until I got kicked out of college.

"Saint," Trigg said, slapping my face. "Come on. Get your shit in the game."

"I'm fucking ready," I said. Hearing my name called out, I stepped away from Trigg and acknowledged the referee. When my eyes met Coker’s, I couldn’t help but grin; he’d have been expecting some second-rate substitute fighter, not me. Even in the haze of adrenaline and the chaos of the moment, I could tell he was livid.

When the bell rang, Rush charged forward, coming at me with a barrage of strikes that I dodged, focused only on wearing him out. Someone should have taught him about not gassing yourself in the first thirty seconds of a fight. I stepped in, delivering a series of low kicks that landed on the inside of his thigh, then as he staggered forward, to the side and back of one of his legs. One of them landed just above his knee, and he shouted as he fell backwards onto the mat.

“End it, Silas,” I heard Trigg scream from the corner.

So I did. The rest of the fight was a blur as I finished Rush. I was dazed, my vision clouded, blurred by adrenaline and the haze of rage. I’m not sure I would have stopped if someone hadn’t pulled me off him after the fight had been called.

When I stood, I made eye contact with Coker again.

Fuck him.
I knew he had to have bet on his guy; he would have figured some two-bit fighter would have come in to replace Abel tonight.

I hoped he had lost big.

I hoped more than that happened to him. He
deserved
to have more than that happen to him.

The referee held my fist up in a victory pose, and I stood there, still, watching Tempest.

She remembered me - I could see it in her eyes. I didn't know whether to be pleased or pissed off about that.

Beside her, Coker yelled something and stormed off, his face scarlet. And then Tempest started to walk away.

She paused for a moment, looking over her shoulder, and gave me the briefest of smiles.

Damn it.

I went after her. Shrugging off the people who surrounded me, trying to congratulate me on my victory, I pushed through the crowd, looking for her, but she was already gone.

When I turned around, Trigg was there, his hand on my shoulder, clapping me hard. I was still scanning, looking for Tempest in the crowd, half-convinced she was just a figment of my imagination or some remnant of the head injury I'd incurred months ago.

"Where are you going?” Trigg asked. “Shit, man. That was an awesome fight. You did it. You beat Rush's ass. And Coker looks fucking pissed off, too."

"Yeah," I said, distracted. "Did you see that girl?”

“What girl?” Trigg asked. “Hell, this fight is it, Saint. It’s your comeback. Take a look around. All of these girls are going to be throwing themselves at you. You’re going to be flooded with so much pussy you won’t be able to see straight.”

“The woman with Coker,” I said, still looking behind him. “Did you see her?”

"I have no idea who she was, if that’s what you’re asking," he said. "One of his new girls, maybe? She was hot shit, though. I wouldn’t kick her out of bed. Why? You have the hots for her? You want me to ask around?”

One of his new girls.
Why the hell did the thought of that make me want to beat the ever living shit out of something?

“Yeah,” I said. “Ask around. Find out who she is.”

“You got it.”

“Have you heard anything from Abel?" I asked.

"I got a text from his wife during the fight," he said. "It's all good, man. Well, as good as can be expected after what happened. She said his insurance from the plant will cover them. He's got a couple of broken ribs, and the doctor says it looks promising for his leg."

I breathed a sigh of relief. "Shit. That's good."

"It's fucking great, I'd say. You got that purse, too. And against Coker’s guy."

"Yeah." I looked around, scanning the crowd for Coker. "You know that's going to be trouble."

Trigg grinned. "Well, you're not the only person in this town he's pissed off."

"What do you mean?" I asked. "Is something going down?"

"I don't mean anything," Trigg said. "Just that karma has a way of coming back on someone. You do that shit, playing dirty like that, it'll find you eventually."

"Yeah," I said. "Of course, it never hurts to give karma a little push, either."

Trigg looked at me. "What do you have planned?"

Before I could answer, I heard Coker’s voice behind me, and I spun around.

“You cost me good money, you piece of shit,” he snarled, rushing toward me.

I lunged at him, getting in one good swing that connected with his face, sending him skidding to the floor, but a couple of his guys stepped in and threatened to drag me outside. When Trigg blocked them, the owner of the gym got between us.

“Not here, Saint,” Trigg said, standing between me and Coker. “There are too many witnesses.”

Coker wiped his mouth, blood on the corner of his lip. “You’re dead, Saint.”

“You tried to kill me once, if I recall correctly, Coker,” I said. “You did a shit job of it.”

He grinned, his front teeth stained with blood, giving him a crazed look. “Next time I’ll do better.”

“Good luck,” I said. Trigg pushed me through the small crowd that had gathered around us, guiding me to the back room.

“Watch yourself, Saint,” Trigg said. “That guy, he has a lot of reach. We both know that.”

“Coker is a piece of shit.” I spit at the ground. “Trigg, do me a favor. Find out why that girl was with him.”

Trigg shook his head and smiled. “Only you’d be thinking about pussy right now.”

“I’m not,” I said. That was only partly true. “I just want to know what the hell Coker is up to.”

"All right," Trigg said. "I'll ask around. One of the guys will know. If I leave you alone, will you calm your shit down in here? Don't break anything."

"Fuck you," I said. "Look at this shithole room. There's nothing in here to break." I sat down in a chair.

Trigg was right. I needed to calm the hell down. I sat down, breathing and willing my heart rate back to normal. But when I closed my eyes, all I could see was Tempest.

* * *

T
empest tucked
her hair behind her ear, and looked up at me, her eyes wide. She pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapped her arms around her legs, and curled up in a little ball, sitting on the flat rock that bordered the clearing in the woods.

I thought my heart was going to explode, looking at her. She was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.

"There are supposed to be scouts at the tournament tomorrow," I said.

"You're going to do amazing," she said. "I know you will."

"Shit." Beside her, I picked at a piece of the rock. "I have to get a scholarship, Tempest. I need to get out of here. We need to get out of here. We can make something of ourselves outside of here…”

She nodded, biting the middle of her lower lip. "You're going to, Silas. I know you will. You're that good."

I turned toward her, pulled her onto my lap, her long legs straddling me, and she wrapped them around my waist. Her hair spilled down over me, the honey blonde strands falling around my face as she pressed her forehead against mine, closing her eyes. "Wherever I go, you're coming with me," I said. "You could stay in one place, for once."

She looked at me, her eyes bright. "When I turn eighteen," she said. "I'll be able to finally stop moving."

Tempest leaned in close and kissed me, her lips soft. A small moan escaped her lips, and her tongue found mine. I pulled her tight against me.

For the next three days, at the state championship tournament, she was right there, cheering me on from the side. My parents weren't present, and neither were hers, but she and Elias were there, and that's what mattered to me. I was seventeen, and Tempest and Elias were the closest people in my world.

When I won, Tempest ran for me, jumping into my arms and clinging to my neck as she wrapped her legs around my waist. She buried her head in the side of my neck and kissed me. "I knew you would win."

"It's because of you," I told her. "You're my lucky charm. Now you have to come to all of my matches."

"I'll be at every one of them," she promised.

* * *

T
wo weeks later
, Tempest was gone. It was only after she left that I found out what her parents had done. They were con artists who'd run a Ponzi scheme on a couple of the wealthy families in town. It was all rumor, of course - none of the families were admitting to having been conned. I guess it didn't look that great when you were a business person who was involved in some kind of dubious get-rich-quick scheme and lost your money.

But people talked. I didn't know what the hell the term Ponzi scheme even meant at the time. It wasn't until a few years ago, when I heard mention of that kind of thing in the news, that I realized the magnitude of what happened in West Bend. That Tempest's parents were actual, real life con artists. And Tempest was a part of it.

Tempest had gone without leaving so much as a note. Her grandmother, supposedly the reason for Tempest and her parents' visit to West Bend, had a black mark on her reputation, the kind my family had on ours when I was growing up. From what I’d heard, she moved outside of town, and I wasn't sure what happened to her, or if she even lived there anymore.

Hell, I wasn't even sure that she was Tempest's grandmother to begin with. She could have been part of the scam. But she just faded away.

The same way Tempest had done.

Except that Tempest hadn’t really faded away, not from my memory at least. I couldn't quite erase her from my past, no matter how hard I tried. I spent every spare minute of my senior year in high school wrestling, angry at her. Angry at the damn world. And the time I didn't spend wrestling, I was at my coach's place. He knew my father was working as a janitor at our high school, drunk off his ass most of the time. So my coach took me under his wing.

He was the one who got me started doing wood-working stuff in his garage. He spent his spare time building furniture and carving stuff out of aspen. He showed me how to use the lathe, and how to judge a good piece of wood. When the arthritis in his hands started making it too painful for him to continue, he'd told me the space was mine.

Tempest had blown into West Bend, and stirred up everything. She had breathed life into me. And then breezed out of town, taking everything that was good in my life with her. I was convinced that she was my good luck charm, and that she'd taken that away with her when she left.