Tap Out (11 page)

Then, he’d up and quit.

Some speculated he’d been afraid. Others suspected he knew he wasn’t tough enough, not with that pretty face. His reappearance in the spotlight as a model validated their suspicions. But only one person knew the truth and he was sitting right across from her. Fiddling with his fork and with tight lips and narrow eyes, granted. But right there.

And she was going to get him to talk. Better hit him while he was being all warm and cozy. “You traded in your gym shorts for designer underwear and a million dollar endorsement. Why throw it all away by returning to fighting?” she asked, hoping her change in tactic would illicit some nugget of useful information.

He twirled the fork in his fingers.

Sophie had the impression the question had pissed him off. It was hard to tell by the blank expression on his face, but his playfulness disappeared.
Too late now.
She stiffened on her cushion, anticipating his response.

A few more twirls, then he tossed the fork on the table. It clanged loudly on the Formica. “Sex.”

The word was said casually, like he’d said the word
pencil
or
paper.
Emotionless. Monotone. And Sophie realized he could have said any word, in any manner, and her woman’s place would moisten in response. Dang. She’d never get her story if her hormones overruled her instincts.

“Come on, Caden. You’re not exactly hard on the eyes, so don’t tell me you did it to lay babes. Heck, Miss Attentive over there was serving up more than steak and salad.”

Double darn.

“Miss Attentive, huh?” He glanced at the waitress’s station. A second later, his gaze was back on Sophie, raking over her like she was his next ice-cream sundae and he knew exactly where to place his cherry.

He blinked and shook his head. “I seem to keep forgetting exactly who is keeping me company,” he muttered, almost to himself but loud enough that she caught the bite in his words. Abruptly, his entire demeanor hardened.

The sweet fantasy of the sundae clung stubbornly in her head. She realized, too late, it had soured beyond saving.

“Kind of thought that sex was the whole premise of your show, sweetheart. Celebrity confessions, and all that bullshit. It’s what you’re all about. And you want me to trust you? Confide my secrets and hope you don’t twist me into being something I’m not? For fuck’s sake, I’m out to prove something here—and it’s not how fast or how quick I can get you off, honey.”

Darn it.
Sophie bit her lip. Sure, she’d used sex to boost ratings. All journalists did it on some level,
except
maybe Christiane Amanpour. It didn’t mean she liked doing it. Truth be told, it rubbed her nerves raw every single time some celebrity got out of control. Like she’d led them down a slippery slope leading into the darkness, where all their skeletons lurked.

She thought she’d come to terms with herself, and what she’d done for fame. But something about the way Caden was looking at her—like she was a bottom dweller of the worst kind, searching for her next victim to exploit and over-sensationalize—felt like a dagger piercing her skin. She saw herself through his eyes, a foul-mouthed, former talk-show star who he’d toyed with and tolerated, and was now tempted to bid farewell to.

It...hurt.

Her cheeks felt moist. She blinked then stiffened. Egad, tears? With the realization came her instinctual response of drawing upon that iron core of pride she’d built brick by bloody brick, pride that she’d developed as a teenager, when life couldn’t get any darker. She’d survived, and had seen to it that awful man had been locked up for good.

Don’t forget the slap in the face the good citizens of Hawley gave you when they chose to support that child predator.
Chose greed over respect for an innocent kid.

Since then, her skin was thicker. More prepared for the curveballs hurled her way. And, in the years that followed as her career took off, there’d been more than at a World Series. Seemed the world was bent on pulling another Hawley, in one form or another.

Like the hunk sitting across from her in the booth.

Sophie Morelle did not cry. Not for anyone. Not anymore.

Respect. How was one little word so massively hard to attain?

This was unfathomable. He was another good-looking jock who’d had the world handed to him on a silver platter. Who’d given up an MMA title for a money-shot of his crotch plastered on billboards across the country. Just another man who thought that because of his position of wealth and power, he could get away with anything.

“I’ve got the check,” she said, her voice sounding raw and several octaves deeper. Pressing her lips tightly together, she did her best to mask her emotions as she slid her card into the cheap plastic bill folder, stood, and without looking at him, hurried off toward the rest room.

She blinked back her tears, forcing them away.
Sophie Morelle does not cry.
Ever
. She should go back out there and thank Caden for giving her a much-needed reality check. She didn’t need anyone digging up memories best left dead and buried.

Keeping people at arm’s length was a skill she’d mastered long ago. She should have known better than to relax her guard, and let Caden’s pretty face—and her own dang lust—lull her into a false sense of security. Better get her exclusive, edit her documentary, and get on with her life.

When she returned to the table, every hair was smoothed back into place.

She reached for the bill folder to sign her receipt.

“Your card has been
declined
,” Miss Attentive said snidely from behind her.

Declined. Stuck in the middle of Kansas with a panty-peddling jock and zip, nada, nil to her name. She bit down on her lip, hard, noticing how her hands shook while she grasped the table like it held her last meal. In a way, it did.

Someone—her?—made a pained noise.

Caden stood and pried the plastic folder from her death grip. “Got it,” he said, his tone nonchalant, as if he didn’t notice the absolute mortifying flush on her cheeks. “Look, I’m—”

She held out her hand. Shook her head and stopped him. It was too much. The loss of the card was horrible enough. But he’d hit a nerve. He’d seen past her walls alright, caught a glimpse of the real woman behind the polished exterior. What a shocker for him, too, having expected Ms. Cool-and-Confident and finding Ms. Far-Too-Damaged lurking there instead. Fragile, insecure, and with a soul beyond repair.

It was too much to bear. From now on, she’d be better prepared.

Her voice was steady as steel and just as cold. “You promised me an exclusive and I’m holding you to it. Say goodbye to Miss Attentive. I’ll meet you in the car.”

Tossing her hair as if she hadn’t a care in the world, Sophie headed out ahead of him.

“Don’t hold your breath,” she heard him murmur. It was the final bit of icing on the cake she needed to put things back into perspective. Going forward, Sophie meant business.

Chapter Seven

PERUVIAN NECKTIED: When a hot fighter shows up in nothing but the fancy silk tie he picked up in South America

Caden slowed the Aston, the GPS instructions telling them they’d arrived at their destination. He scowled, taking in first the worn neon welcome sign a few feet off the road, cocked at an odd angle and missing an
e
, then the motel behind it. The place sure gave the bus a run for its money in the “shitty abode” category, looking like a cross between a shady beachfront motel and a 1990s strip mall. Its brown awning and matching aluminum siding were chipped and dirty. The rooms were going to be a nightmare.

“Slepy Time Motel? Oh, no. This is not where we’re staying tonight. Is it?” The horror in her tone matched his own dark thoughts. And God knew he’d lived in a few hellholes, some that actually made this motel look like a palace.

Yet, the accommodations worked to his advantage. No way was he planning on keeping her around. She’d served her purpose—he’d realized she knew jack shit about the drugs or who might have stashed them in the trunk. And he needed to keep it that way.

Damn, if she wasn’t looking at him right now, expectantly. Or was it hopefully?

He shrugged, the gesture relaxing the tension coiled inside. “Hate to tell you, chili bean, but the sign likely sums up the place. Sle-
e
-ping isn’t gonna be part of your overnight experience.”

His words caused her cheeks to flush a pretty shade of pink.

Man, he liked how easy it was to rile her up. A welcome distraction, one long overdue.

Since the diner, their ride through Kansas had been all business, with Sophie prodding him about his life and with him tactfully questioning her about the duffel bag. Neither had gotten anywhere, except frustrated. And man-oh-man, add in the raging hard-on...damn, if his cock didn’t want to show her an overnight experience, an evening she’d remember for a long time.

All the more reason to get rid of her. Fast.

“Not with the volume of traffic passing by,” he added as an afterthought. Less playful. Less full of vinegar and more salty. Not wanting to be the type of guy who’d tease a woman without following through.

“Guess it’ll have to do,” she said, her tone taking on a harshness that caught him off guard.

The kind of reaction you’d expect from Sophie Morelle
, he reminded himself. The woman was determined.

He’d learned a lot about her during the ride. How she deftly angled her approach to questioning, baited her hook and waited for a bite. She was good. Clever and smart. Almost had him too, with her surprising knowledge of MMA. He’d caught himself a few times, falling into a deep discussion about Peruvian Neckties, the lethal tap-out maneuver, as she’d accurately dubbed it.

Time to part ways. Who knew what she’d have him blabbing about next? He couldn’t afford to mess up.

Caden parked and turned off the ignition. He ignored the impulse to cruise on away from here. Instead, he climbed out of the Aston. Two appearances—that’s what he’d committed to, with Wichita being the first and Phoenix the second. Being that there was no Wichita Fight Club, God only knew what surprise venue that sleazeball Jerry’d pull out of his sleeve.

Except for an enormous awning that had obviously been recently erected in the graveled parking lot that ran along the side of the motel, everything was as expected. A once-white plastic railing separated the concrete walkway from the long expanse of parking lot out front. Doors to each of the front rooms faced the roadway, their paint chipped and worn from neglect.

He spotted the office tucked away in the corner of the L-shaped motel. The dirty window facing the front had a “No Vacancy” sign blinking with a slow pulse.
Perfect.

“Mind waiting with the car? I’ll check us in.” He caught her nod as he grabbed his bags from the back seat.

Five minutes later, his bags were piled on a chair in his room. He was feeling more relaxed. The hotel manager had offered up his personal parking space in a garage around back, so the Aston would be secure and out of sight. His room was out front but if he cranked up the a/c unit, it would drown out the traffic noise. Now, if only making arrangements for his unwanted travel companion would go as smoothly. Judging by the soft click of her heels on the worn linoleum floor announcing her arrival, he doubted it.

“Looks like the Sleepy Time Motel is booked solid,” he informed her over his shoulder. He grabbed the phone on the table by the bed. “I’ll call around and see what else is available.” He’d memorized the Hilton’s 800 number. Chances were, they had rooms. If not, he’d call Harold and give his business manager something to do other than pester him about that damn contract.

“Last time I was in this neck of the woods, I had a massage at the Hilton. Great spa there.”

Her silence surprised him. No way in hell was she buying that load of crap. He turned, ready to add a line about happy endings just to provoke her, and dropped the receiver back into place. Sophie was no longer in the doorway.

Hell.

Striding down the walkway, he entered the manager’s office and scowled. A set of keys dangled from her fingers.

He heard her laugh just as she caught sight of him. “I’m recommending this motel to all my friends. Terrific service. Ralph has been so accommodating.”

“Guess the sign was wrong then?” He glared at Ralph, who was leering at Sophie like he’d won a date with a porn star.

Sophie answered for him. “I explained how Jaysin developed a summer flu bug and wouldn’t be needing a room. Shame to let his room go empty, with all that hard-earned money Jerry had spent on a non-refundable reservation. Better retrieve my luggage before our interview. See you later.”

Double hell.

She sashayed on by him, her lips lifted knowingly.

It served him right, underestimating her. A clear reminder he’d better not let his guard down with her, or his mug might end up plastered on the front pages underneath the headline ‘Roid
King.

Still, he was amused. Her luggage consisted of the contents of her enormous purse and the bulge in her pocket. That was it, besides the little number he had stashed away. He shook his head, wondering why he didn’t just hand over the thong. It wasn’t like he was ever going to see her in it.

His stomach rumbled but food would have to wait. He needed to be ready for whatever Jerry had planned for tonight’s exhibition. Plus, a workout was long overdue. No pain, no gain. No winning Tetnus. Meanwhile, he’d give Harold the task of ordering Chinese takeout to be delivered to his room, the kind with whole grain rice and non-MSG-laced chicken. Hey, if his manager found the Aston in the middle of nowhere, finding an organic Chinese takeout restaurant should be simple.

“What room did you put her in?” he asked, surprised to hear himself inquiring.
Damn.
His head wasn’t on straight, and tonight someone was gonna knock it off his shoulders if he wasn’t careful.

Bad enough the scorpion on Jaysin’s head was gonna come unglued when he found out that Sophie was in his room and he was sleeping on the bus. She probably thought the hurting she’d put on his hand with her heel last night had done the trick, and had put the asshat in his place. But Caden knew differently.
Which is why I need her sleeping close by
, he rationalized.
That’s why I’m asking
,
no other reason.

“Room 33,” the clerk interrupted his thoughts, surprise evident in his tone.

“I’ll take 34. Or 32. Move whoever you need to into my room.” He tossed the keys back onto the countertop.

The man looked at the keys like Caden had tossed a rattler onto the counter. “Uh...room seven is nicer. Much nicer. And it’ll be quieter than the rooms down the other end by the cage.”

The cage.
The awning had been a red flag waving in the wind. Shame he’d been too focused on Sophie to see the set up in the parking lot for what it was, or Caden would have kept on driving.
Damn Jerry
.

A cage, as in of the low class, cheaply constructed, pseudo-Octagon kind. Leave it to that asshole promoter to bring spectators out to the freakin’ hotel parking lot for a backstreet fight. Wichita Fight Club, a true no-frills venue, except for the shoddy awning—in case it fucking rained on Jerry’s parade. Not that the hardcore crew who frequented these types of fights cared about a little drizzle.

Gamblers, amateur fighters, street punks, you name it, this was their preferred entertainment. Better than video games. Spectators who appreciated blood spill over skill set.

As for the bouts, they were the bare-knuckle type, organized for the purpose of lining promoters’ pockets with illegal betting. Cockfights, but of the human kind. With fixed winners and with losers so beaten they often needed medical attention. Or worse. Anything could happen. Dangerous fights. Even deadly.

Brutal, hardcore fights that sucked the breath outta a man and turned him into an animal. Fuck, Caden should know.

He’d been weaned on them.

* * *

Sophie expertly maneuvered a slice of gingered chicken between her chopsticks and discreetly studied the man sitting in front of her. His legs were flexible despite thick muscles, given the way he was sitting, Indian style, with his plate perched on one thigh. She’d mimicked his position, realizing too late how difficult it was to use chopsticks while holding a paper plate. So far, she’d managed to not splatter Sichuan sauce all over her bed.

He’d told her he was going to feed her then take her to a better hotel.

She’d told him she wasn’t going anywhere without getting her exclusive.

So here they were, with him fresh from showering, and her licking her lips, mentally devouring every inch of him like he was the naughty fortune inside her cookie. She hadn’t gotten a straight answer out of him yet.

His crotch, she noticed, was framed snuggly by grey Adidas sweatpants that outlined the long length of him against his thigh.
Billboards do not lie.

“Do you want more?”

Sophie’s eyes shot to his face. His hair was a shade darker, still wet from his shower, and the clean, soapy scent of him filled her senses. What did he say?
Well
,
duh...yes
,
more
. “No, I’m full. Your plate is empty again, go for it. While you’re eating, can I ask another question?” She switched up her strategy, aiming to get some answers out of him while his guard was down.

He grunted. But a grin formed on his lips for the first time since he’d come knocking on her door, bearing large bags of Chinese takeout and an even larger scowl. “You asking permission now? After bombarding me with hundreds of questions and working all your angles?”

“What can I say, I’m inquisitive.”

“Good trait for your line of work. How about this, I ask you a question and you get to ask one in return?”

She shot him her best scowl. “Haven’t we been down that road a few times already? And look where it has taken us. Nowhere.”

He paused, his full chopsticks frozen in midair above the now empty container. Since he’d entered her room and situated his big body on her bed, he’d been so serious. Now, amusement with a hint of mischievousness roughened his voice. “I’d say our lockin’ lips had gotten us somewhere. Hell, I’m in your bed right now. Bet I could be inside your panties in a heartbeat. Now, that would really be somewhere.”

“Not going to happen. Know why?” she asked calmly. Well, on the surface, anyway. So much for setting perimeters. “I’m not wearing any.”

A naughty smile curled his lips. Thankfully, she’d worn a light pair of linen slacks instead of a skirt.

She did her best to ignore him. “Why is it that every time I try to get a straight answer out of you, you change the subject? You’re good at it. I’ll give you that, Caden. A deflecto-mundo king. But here’s the thing. I need this interview. So, no matter what you throw my way, it’s not going to affect me.”

“Me neither.”

She released a long rush of breath. Back to business as usual. “You don’t understand how important this is—”

“—I meant underneath these sweats. Nothing. Nada.”

Focus on his face.
Do not look down.

Caden winked.

Now why did he have to throw dry twigs on an already raging fire? She shifted and her empty plate slid off her pants and onto the floor.

“Guess you figured that one out on your own, huh?” he added.

To her utter humiliation, her cheeks heated.
Dang-diggity
. For the first time in a very long time, she felt like she was in over her head.

“For someone so unaffected, your cheeks sure do flush a lot, chili bean.”

She wished the mattress would open up and swallow her whole. No one got over on her, not even as an amateur reporter. She’d learned early on how to manage people, from powerful politicians to over-the-top celebrities to beautiful, model-type guests. All this hunk had to do was mention panties and she was fanning herself. Get. A. Grip. Looking up, she caught his knowing smirk.

A few choice responses came to mind. She kept quiet, though, fascinated by the transformation in him. A somber Caden was easy on the eyes. A laughing Caden had her mind racing and her libido on high hot-stud alert. That easygoing grin tugged at her heartstrings, reached right into her and yanked out all the fragile, long-denied desires.

To her mortification, he seemed look right into her, know her thoughts. As if he’d seen right past the walls she’d so carefully constructed. Right to the genuine core of the real Sophie Morelle. Again.

“What happened? The network give you the boot?” His tone was mild, curious.

“You happened.”

His eyebrows furrowed.

“I’m sorry, you know. For ruining your comeback. Someone tripped me. That’s why I fell into the cameraman.” She paused, regretting the direction of their conversation as the sparkle left his eyes. “The network is a tough place for anyone to survive for any length of time. Especially a woman. Our incident, the loss of UAM advertising—the restraining order, too—was their excuse to replace me, and save themselves more money. They’ll soon see how wrong they were.”