Authors: Michele Mannon
“So that’s why you’re chasing these assholes across the country.”
“Your turn to answer a question.” She stiffened, hoping he’d take the hint that this line of discussion was over. Her reasons were complicated, and not up for his analysis.
“Deflecto-mundo,” Caden commented, the bright sunshine of his smirk returning. “Okay. A few questions. Keep them current and relevant. Then, we’ll...drop you off at the Hilton. Deal?”
She paused for a split second. “Do you think you can win Tetnus?”
“Yep.” He closed his mouth. Some unidentifiable emotion flickered across his face, then was gone. He shook his head before adding, “It’s all I’ve wanted for a long time.” His tone was so low, she strained to hear him.
He seemed
vulnerable
.
She fought herself to keep from reaching out and touching him. Whenever a door opened, Sophie’d kick it wider, getting to the heart of the matter, finding her story. What made Caden Kelly tick? That was the million-dollar question and the answer would sell her documentary.
But, truth be told, it wasn’t the documentary that motivated her now. It was something more. Something personal. And, despite her reporter’s instinct, she couldn’t do it. Couldn’t kick down the walls of Caden Kelly and get inside of him. Not now, anyway.
“You’re not cut from the same animalistic cloth as the other fighters—like Jaysin Bouvine, for example. Do you really think you can outfight them?” she said, giving voice to her fresh impression of him.
He moved forward and placed the empty Chinese container and paper plate on the nightstand. The old bedsprings rang out as he settled back. She realized how close their bodies were, his legs a hair’s breadth away from her own. So close, but still, she wondered if he’d heard her.
She continued, emphasizing her point. “You’re refined, not like the Boys with their tattooed bodies, out-of-proportion muscles, and bad manners. You’re like a golf pro, with your calm attitude.” He made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort, which made her glance at him.
His lazy smirk was gone, though it didn’t detract from his perfect features. Why would anyone who looked like that want his face smashed in? “You’re a model. Soft while these fighters are hard. Mild while they’re wild, dangerous. Jeez, the only thing dangerous about you is your naughty reputation. Hardly something that will strike fear in your opponents.”
His expression changed, reflecting a myriad of emotions that caught her off guard. Before she could put her finger on one, wonder at what he was thinking, the moment passed. His gaze lowered to her throat, watching her swallow back the lump wedged inside. He offered her a naughty smile.That was her only warning.
He rose up onto his knees, placed his hands on either side of her legs, and leaned in. The mattress shifted beneath him and she rolled forward. His head tilted, mere inches from her own. She inhaled sharply, the scent of ginger and soy sauce and clean soap filling her senses.
“You’ve got me pegged all wrong, chili cheeks,” he murmured, “except for my naughty reputation. You’re gonna get a firsthand account of that.”
In the second it took him to pause and lick the smudge of Sichuan sauce off his bottom lip, Sophie knew exactly how bad he was going to be.
She blinked.
He swooped in and kissed her.
Hard. Aggressive. Oh so wild. And with such force, she found herself falling backward, with him on top.
His tongue tangled with hers, rolling and licking. An assault on her senses. Hot and sweet and relentless.
She answered by mimicking his actions, and he groaned into her mouth. He pulled back to lick and bite her lower lip. Taking it between his lips, he sucked briefly before slipping his tongue back into her mouth.
His lower half pressed into her, his erection hot against her thigh.
She shuddered. Nervous. Beyond excited. She’d never felt anything like this. Like him.
He deepened the kiss, so wild, so intense, then pulled back. “Sweet, so sweet. Why is that?” His mouth reclaimed hers before she could reply.
The room began to shake. At first, Sophie thought it was desire messing with her head—Caden rocking her world and all. Until the alarm clock vibrated off the nightstand, ringing out as it hit the bed frame and crashed to the floor. An obnoxious beeping noise, like that of a truck backing up, echoed loudly around the room.
Sophie yanked her head away, peered around the room, then back at Caden. “What the heck is going on out there? Do you feel,
hear
, that?”
“Hell.”
Caden slid off the bed and yanked open the faded brown curtains. Where before there had been an awning and some police tape, now there was a tall, metal fence being secured in place. From Sophie’s spot beside the bed, she could see more steel and metal pieces being hammered together.
“Fuckin’ great,” Caden ground out. He didn’t look too happy about the commotion outside. “Too late to take the Aston out now,” he added, more softly.
“What’s all this?” She marched over to the window.
“Do yourself a favor. Stay in your room tonight until I come back, okay? There’s going to be a lot of seedy characters roaming around with hard-ons for violence. Stay put. I’ll let you know when I’m in my room and you can knock on the wall if you need me.”
She snorted. “Surprise. Surprise. You didn’t answer my question.”
“Damn. What a fucking headache,” he softly stated, tugging his sneakers back on. “Should have headed over to the Hilton. What was I thinking?”
His tone made her bristle. Jeez, she’d left herself wide-open. Vulnerable. His words tugged at her heart. “That’s not what you were thinking a few minutes ago,” she snapped.
He finished tying his shoelace, stood, then looked at her. “You don’t want know what I was thinking. Don’t have time right now. Later...maybe.”
Stalking over to the nightstand, he grabbed the trash, scooped her empty plate off the floor, and tossed them into the waste bin by the bathroom door. Further proof he wasn’t a Neanderthal like the other fighters. Still, his comment was the reality check she needed. If he thought for a second that they were going to continue what they’d started, she’s show him a side of her that he wasn’t expecting. This was business. Nothing more.
“Stay inside. Bang on the wall if you need me. I’ll knock when I leave and return. Got it?”
“Got it. And just so I’m clear, you are now my go-between with the other fighters. It’s the least you can do, given how you keep derailing our interview with your charming personality and clever remarks. So we locked lips. No big deal. But I intend to make you stick to your promise. You’re going to personally reintroduce me to the Boys. You’re taking me to tonight’s venue.”
He shot her a look, like she’d grown two heads.
His attitude really pissed her off. “You’re my in with the Boys, and I fully intend get the job done, no matter what happens.”
Caden arched an eyebrow. Then he was gone.
* * *
Sal arrived on her doorstep, sporting her camera bag and a bloody nose.
“Are you okay? What’s going on out there?”
Stepping into the room, the old timer slammed the door shut. “Animals coming out of the cornfields for a chance of fighting the Boys. Might have gotten mistaken for one when some big guy made a grab for your stuff. Luckily, I know how to handle myself.”
Sophie frowned in confusion. Plucking a few tissues from her purse, she handed them to him. Luck likely had a lot to do with Sal surviving the altercation, but she didn’t give voice to her thoughts. Chilling that someone would even think to target the older man.
“My apologies, honey. Maybe when things quiet down out there, I’ll get your bigger bag from the undercarriage. As for as your ugly gym bag, stuffed to the gills with golly-knows-what bursting from the seams—something pricked me, darn-gone-it...mascary maybe? Hurt like the dickens. Hope you found it in—”
A loud banging noise outside caused them both to jump.
“Don’t worry about my suitcase right now, Sal. What exactly is going on out there? Caden’s been gone for a few hours. I’ve been banging on his wall for the past hour. Did you see him outside anywhere?”
“Jerry’s gonna be pissed if he broke their agreement.”
“When isn’t Jerry pissed? Wherever Caden ran off to, I’m tired of being cooped up in my room. And the clanging of metal and shouting has my nerves on edge. I’m starting to believe that the circus act being constructed outside
is
the next venue. I wouldn’t put it past that tightwad Jerry to set up shop in a motel parking lot. Praying I’m wrong.”
“Nope. You’re right on target.”
“But why the makeshift cage if the Boys are just signing autographs and taking pictures? Or...not.”
Darn it all.
“Jerry?”
“Yep, he pulled a fast one. He’s trying to reach out to the wannabes. The parking lot is full of them, mostly street gangers and hoodlums, along with a few boxer types, looking to be the next new flavor on the MMA scene and beat one of the Boys. Old school, bare-knuckle, underground fighting. The dark roots of MMA. No good can come from tonight’s shenanigans.”
“The Boys are fighting random locals?”
“For their lives. See, the rules in these types of fights are discombobulated. Not like the official MMA regulations. Weight, skill level, experience, forget about it. A last-man-standing kind of fight. A betting man’s fight.”
Sophie shuffled through her purse for her notepad. “I read that MMA began in the streets as unsanctioned street fights. No-holds-barred kinds of fights, where there were no rules.”
“You could say that.”
“Height, weight, skill—or lack of it—doesn’t matter, right? I am hoping to quote you as a source, Sal.”
That perked the old rascal up. “But believe me, most guys don’t wake up one day and say, ‘Hey, I’m going to kick some booty.’ No, they’ve trained for it. See the difference is that it’s a no-holds-barred fight, like you mentioned. No rules except destroy your opponent as fast as possible. Not what our highly trained, technically skilled Boys are used to.”
She’d scribbled Sal’s comments verbatim in her notebook, replacing the word
booty
with
ass
. “Fists and kicks, right?” She tried to picture the Boys fighting, punching heads, kicking bodies, and wrestling around on the mat.
“Fists and kicks. Plus nails, elbows, teeth, you name it.”
Sophie paused. “Biting? The sounds rather immature, like little kids fighting.”
Sal shrugged. “It’s what happens when there aren’t any rules.”
A horn blared and they both jumped. Paused. And looked at each other, knowing full well what was going down mere feet away from her motel room.
Sophie reached for her camera equipment bag, still strapped on Sal’s back.
The old-timer stepped out of reach. “Are you nuts?”
“I’m a journalist, remember? This is what I do. Jerry has unknowingly handed me the opening to a documentary everyone is going to be talking about. No-holds-barred fighting at its finest. I’ll show America what this sport is all about, from its old-school roots to its rise in popularity into mainstream culture, beloved by sports fans and non-sports fans alike, to its prestigious world-renowned championship fight, Tetnus. Listen, I’ve been in bad situations before and I’ve survived. I
need
this story. Hand over the bag, Sal.”
“You don’t understand—”
“Yes I do.” She gritted her teeth and stuck out her hand. “Give it up.”
“Valeska is gonna be pissed if she finds out I let a little lady like you go out there.”
“I’ll send her some flowers. Come on, the fights have already started.”
“Stick to the back. And here, put this on.” He tugged a worn Pittsburgh Pirates baseball cap out of his thin jacket. Sophie took it, with no other intention but to calm him down enough to get her camera equipment. No way was she wearing someone else’s cap.
It worked. “Wish me luck,” she told him, her tone excited and determined. Caden hadn’t exactly come through with an exclusive but in a way, this was far, far better. Because, let’s face it, her chances of seeing—
videotaping
—a real, down-and-out street fight were limited. She’d be a fool not to take advantage of filming the one that showed up on her doorstep. Literally.
“Text me if you get into trouble. Remember, keep your head down and hover around back where I can see you from your room window. In case I need to have another go at one of those hoodlums.”
“Got it. Thanks for everything, Sal.”
Sal grimaced. “You won’t be thanking me, honey, once you step outside that door.”
Chapter Eight
REAR NAKED CHOKE: What happens when you wrap your legs around a fighter’s neck while facing the wrong way
“I want my room back, you bitch!”
Jaysin’s murderous bellow was the first sign of trouble. Sophie fixed her attention on holding the camcorder steady and kept filming. What was Jaysin going to do, anyway? Roll off the stretcher that carried him away from the Octagon ring and make a grab for her? He was bleeding like a stuck pig from his arms, chest, even his chin. A horrible sight.
Her viewers were going to eat this up.
Jaysin’s fifteen minutes of fame had lasted no more than sixty seconds, too quick for her to make it to the cage in time to film the bout. No way was she going to miss capturing the agonizing aftermath, or his bughead being hauled out on a stretcher. Aside from disliking the brute, this was great footage—or would be once she’d edited out a few choice words. The bitch persona of hers had to go.
A bullhorn blared loudly, signaling another bout. The sound of pounding fists played tenor to the alto of curses that followed. The latter came from pumped-up bodies with attitudes to match. Bloodthirsty and scary as hell. Yikes, her viewfinder did not lie—the parking lot looked like a Wichita State Prison field trip.
Sophie quieted her panic and focused single-mindedly on her objective.
The rawness of the event was palpable. A seething anger rumbling toward the surface, ready to explode. Oh, Sophie understood that kind of rawness. Squared off against coal mining folk whose loyalties lay with the almighty dollar rather than an innocent girl, she’d felt that the kind of rage that made you want to strike out, hard. She wasn’t sure if her viewers were ready for that kind of raw pain. Heck, was anyone? By filming the Boys in action, fighting in some underground parking lot fight, her documentary would take on an unplanned edginess. A tension—a brutality—that’d be difficult to recreate, not without this flock of jailbirds. Doubtful they’d make it past midnight without being arrested.
Besides, she could always cut the footage if it didn’t pan out, right?
She elbowed her way closer to the cage, raised her Canon XA10 HD camcorder high, and adjusted the zoom lens. A clear shot was impossible with the metal winding its way around all eight sides like an oddly shaped prison cell. She’d have to make do. Plus, the metal framing her footage would be a subtle reminder to viewers how hardcore MMA’s origins were.
Sweat and body odor, thick and dank, mixed with the acrid smell of blood. She held her breath to keep from gagging, only to let it out in one rushed exhale when she recognized one of the Boys. One who’d tossed her in the pool, and who was now getting the living heck beat out of him.
A man that outweighed him by nearly two hundred pounds—those rolls around his middle didn’t lie—held the Boy in place by the throat with one hand while pounding on his stomach with the other. The gleam of something wrapped around the brute’s knuckles reflected off the metal cage.
Sophie frowned. Brass knuckles?
Doubtful she’d missed it in her research. Organized MMA bouts did not include brass knuckles. Official bouts were won based on skill and technique, not on the type of weapon wielded. Was this what Sal had meant by bare-knuckle fighting? The Boy didn’t stand a chance.
Not that the crowd minded. Nor did the referee, standing off to the side, screaming and jumping around along with the rest of the spectators.
She couldn’t watch. Instead, she scanned the crowd, looking for someone to film next. The baseball cap Sal had given her hung from her slack’s belt loop. Bringing it along now seemed like a good idea. Suddenly, she wanted something to hide beneath, protection from these thugs. She tugged the cap free and was just about to secure it on her head when her gaze fell on Jerry.
He’d set up shop at the far side of the cage. He wasn’t even paying attention to his fighter being butchered a few feet away. Instead, he was focused on the long line of men winding their way toward him. Interesting. What was the tight-fisted terrier up to? She turned the camcorder on him and zoomed in.
One by one, the men handed Jerry a wad of greenbacks. In turn, Jerry recorded something on a pack of papers. Each time, he’d pause, count, and either nod or shake his head and beckon with his fingers to pay up. She was on to something, she just knew it.
Dang-diggity
. Her documentary was becoming more interesting by the second; something more than entertainment was going on here.
What she needed was a close up of his face.
Shuffling along the front row while keeping her camera fixed on the fighters proved to be difficult and tedious. Progress through the mass of bodies was slow. Spectators who weren’t flashing her a stiff middle finger for blocking their view were patting and pinching her backside. She ground her teeth, trying to maintain her camera angle while warding off the offensive hands.
The further alongside the cage she moved, the more she realized her mistake. Talk about being in the thick of things—huge, towering, and a few even toothless things, out for blood or whatever sport they could get.
With Sal’s cap, she swatted first at the unwelcome touches, then at the massive bodies blocking her pathway, trying to draw enough attention that they’d step back so she could squeeze through. Which in effect, did nothing. So, she resorted to the one thing that always seemed to work with thickheaded guests.
She lied. Hell, wasn’t her whole persona the greatest lie of all?
“KAN News,” she hollered, hoping these barbarians had basic television service and watched the news. Shouting out “Late Night with Sophie Morelle” at this point would just be asking for trouble. “Let me pass.”
At first, no one heard her over the raucous shouts. She raised her voice, and hollered even louder.
A few guys in muscle shirts caught on. “KAN. KAN. KAN” echoed softly. One by one, the spectators seemed to stand up straighter, preening at the chance of being filmed for a newscast.
Now that was progress.
Until one big-bodied brute who was attempting to flip his hair moved too aggressively and slammed into her. She struggled to hold onto her camera.
“Hey.”
“Sorry,” the enormous guy, six feet five or more, apologized. Surprising from someone sporting a worn leather jacket and a matching leather bracelet with metal spikes protruding from it.
Turning, she cocked her head and pretended to consider his camera-worthiness. “Ever been on television?” she demanded, knowing full well the answer. No one wanted to flip on the television and be scared silly by this guy.
The man looked surprised. “No. What gives?”
“An interview. A die-hard fan’s take on tonight’s bouts. With you, after this is all over, when I’m not screaming to be heard. In return, a favor?”
He grinned.
Bingo.
Lauren would be so proud of her resourcefulness. By bribing this beast with a fake interview in exchange for his protection, those Amanpour genes were kicking in all right.
“Will I be on the nightly news? Gotta call my girl and let her know to TiVo my shit.”
“I really need to get this footage and am having a heck of a time recording the fight with this crowd. If you’ll be my bodyguard for the next few hours, I’ll guarantee an interview later on.”
His elbow shot out and hit the man next to her. The one guy in the entire parking lot who’d been minding his own business and focused on guzzling his beer had been laid out flat.
Her bodyguard grinned manically at her, looking for approval.
Crapola.
She’d better think of a smooth way out of this. No predicting what this brute might do if he figured out she was full of it.
Yet, his actions were confirmation enough of his helpfulness. She offered him a weak smile, and feeling slightly more at ease with the situation, shifted her attention back to the ring.
Piles of crimson colored towels littered the mat, soaking up the blood from the latest battle. Brutal evidence of what had gone down seconds ago, all that she’d mercifully missed. She grimaced. Better develop a thicker skin or she’d never make it through the night. As if to prove her point, she focused in on the bloody mess.
This wasn’t normal, right? Jeez, no way had Caden’s handsome face seen this kind of brutality, men carried off by stretchers, broken and in serious pain. His type of fighting was probably just like him. Edgy yet slightly sweet, like lemon ice. Wholesome.
Don’t forget naughty
. Her cheeks warmed at the memory of their kiss. Yep, he’d probably smirk his opponent into submission. Well, his female opponents, anyway. Was he out here and watching this bloodbath unfold? She scanned the crowd with her camcorder, trying to get a visual on him.
“What the fucking hell do
you
think you’re doing?” Jerry’s ugly mug filled the lens from inside the cage. Great. The last thing she wanted was for him to suspect she’d caught him counting his blood money red-handed.
Keeping her camera rolling so it picked up their conversation, she shot off a question to him. “Don’t you care that your Boys’ chances at Tetnus might be ruined because of all this? Why would you organize such a bloodbath?”
Because you’re charging locals money for a chance to fight an MMA superstar?
She pressed her lips together, and waited for him to sink his own ship.
His face flushed deep red.
Bingo.
“Jaysin Bouvine is a fan favorite. Will he recover in time to fight in Tetnus? Or have you ruined his chances?” She prayed the smugness in her voice didn’t translate in the video’s audio. Jaysin was a jerk who well deserved the beating he’d gotten.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about. So, a few guys had an off fight. Not my fault. I’m warning you, better get outta here or you’re gonna get hurt.” Jerry raised the bullhorn and pressed the red button.
The giant next to her spoke. “You wanna see a wicked fighter? The dirtiest street thug around? Thrives on putting a hurting on his enemies. Paralyzed one kid. Knifed another to death. He just got out of the penitentiary.” He paused dramatically, pointing at a huge thug who’d appeared by the side of the cage. Sophie couldn’t tell if her bodyguard was stating the truth or exaggerating, until he added, “You got that on tape?”
“Sure did.”
Still, a shiver ran up her spine.
The thug now prowling around the outside of the cage was bigger than the giant next to her, in all senses of the word: his belly massively round, his arms like tree stumps, his neck equally thick.
Badass
was written all over him.
Jerry sounded the horn once more.
Instinct told her to head back to her room. Watching this giant kick butt was going to give her nightmares, and it wasn’t like she needed any more of them. The ramshackle cage screeched in protest as the brute climbed the stairs, entered the cage, and stalked around the interior, kicking away the bloody towels that obstructed his path. He didn’t seem to mind that the mat was a breeding ground for blood-borne pathogens or that the worst of Wichita had drawn in closer, blocking his exit.
Sophie could feel rivulets of sweat running down her neck and the humid air reeked with body odor. Her bodyguard was the only thing in between her and the masses of men whose every breath was spiked with violence.
Once more, she shook off the instinct to flee. Instead, she raised her camera and angled it toward the inside of the cage. This introduction into the evolution of MMA from the streets to a professionally organized championship was the real deal. She’d missed two bouts and despite her fears, she was determined to film this one from start to finish. She just hoped no one got too hurt. Or died.
Sure, the networks would love the drama of it all, but she needed to reposition herself over by the steps, where there was a gap in the chain link. Fans at home had short attention spans, and would predictably grow tired of watching a fight obscured by a metal cage. Easy viewing pleasure—that was the name of the game.
She waved the giant on. “Need to get over there.”
“Better lights for the interview?”
What part about
later
did this guy miss? Even if Sophie’s later was non-existent. “Yep. Bigger spotlight.”
The giant plowed through the crowd. Sophie tucked herself safely in behind him and followed. The crowd parted angrily. Ready to fight for their position by the cage, until they realized the magnitude of the man pushing his way through.
“Things are about to get ugly,” her bodyguard remarked. As if the entire spectacle unfolding out here in the motel parking lot wasn’t ugly enough.
Sophie moved up onto the steps and angled her camera toward the massive bald fighter stalking around the Octagon cage.
He prowled toward the stairs, his mug filling the frame.
Sophie held position, swallowing hard. Breathless. Waiting for him to tell her he was going to kill someone and eat their liver with fava beans and red wine. Meanness personified.
Jerry paced around the outside of the cage, looking like he wanted to kill someone as well. His earlier greedy gaze was gone. Every bit of his tall, lanky body was stiff and furious.
Jerking the horn over his head, he kept his finger on the red button. The blasted horn blared endlessly, further upsetting the crowd. Not that Jerry cared. To him, the hyped-up spectators were like rowdy students, and he, the unpopular professor from hell, was demanding their attention.
Great footage. Her camera captured it all.
“Freakin’ shit on a brick.”
Sophie jumped at the snarl, so close she felt the heat of his breath on her ear. A memory. Nothing more. He wasn’t close enough for that. Caden...
Caden?
What was he doing here?
“What the fuck are you doing? Do you have some sort of death wish?” She felt his warm hand on her elbow. Briefly.
Then, it was gone.
The sound of flesh connecting with flesh, followed by a long groan, made her jump and turn.
Her bodyguard was on the ground, cupping his side.
She focused on Caden, standing at the foot of the steps, now eye level with her. His body language was relaxed, like he’d just crawled out of bed and was limbering up. Except his fist was clenched. Did he just knock her bodyguard on his back with one punch?