The Fight (A Standalone Novel) (MMA Bad Boy Romance) Read online

Fenton Morris fans had converged at the entrance to the hotel. Women in tight, white t-shirts imprinted with his name bounced by. Large cardboard cutouts of his face covered in lipstick kisses bobbed above the crowd. Flashes went off like fireworks and multiple entertainment crews stood around with cameras and microphones ready. Word had spread that Fenton Morris was partying at the Tropicana and everyone wanted in on his no-holds barred fun.

  "I'll never get him through that unnoticed," I said. "Is there a back way?"

  "Stevie? This is Mike, yeah, I know it’s late, but I'm calling in a favor," the cab driver clutched his phone. "I got a high profile drop off and I need the loading dock at the Tropicana."

  He pulled back out into traffic one-handed and kept talking as he steered around the giant casino and pulled up to a blocked entrance. Within minutes, he was thanking his friend and a uniformed guard unlocked the gate.

  "I can let you in the back, no problem," the guard said.

  "Thanks, man. I gotta leave the cab and help her up. Okay?"

  The guard looked at me and nodded. "Service elevator goes all the way from the dock to the top floor. Opposite end, it's a long walk, but you'll miss the crowds."

  We slung Fenton between us and he came to enough to shuffle along to the service elevator. When the doors closed, I asked, "How did he know I needed to get to the top floor on the other end?"

  "You're staying in one of the big time suites. The entire hotel has seen your picture so they can cater to you. A little invasive if you ask me, but definitely a perk," Mike said.

  We made it to my suite, and I unlocked the door. Fenton came to as Mike lowered him to the couch. "No hospital, I'm fine," he said.

  "That's what I told her. Though if you don't start treating her right, I can assure you there'll be a tire iron in your future. Then, you'll need the hospital."

  "Nice guy," Fenton commented as Mike left.

  "Yeah, I'm lucky I got into his cab." I took off Fenton's hat and pushed him back down on the couch. "We're lucky. Now just relax for a while, recover."

  I went to get ice and a wet washcloth and when I came back, Fenton scowled up at me. "How do you know those men from the bar are trying to fix my next fight?"

  I sat down next to him and started swabbing away the dried blood. "I, um, may have followed them and watched them do it to another fighter. Some poor featherweight boxer over at the MGM Grand. They must have some pull because it was all out in the open and no one seemed to notice."

  "Except you. Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?" Fenton asked.

  "More dangerous than letting one of them buy me a drink?" My joking tone was lost on him.

  Fenton snatched the washcloth from me and sat up. "You have no idea, do you? You're just running around doing whatever you want, whatever you think will land you this deal, and you don't even care what danger you're stepping in."

  I slammed the ice into a small towel and folded it up. "I don't care? What about you? You just up and decide to join an underground fight for a little cash? What about your career? Like it or not, you have people that care about you and what you do. Why would you do something like that?"

  "For this," Fenton said. He pulled out the stack of cash and handed it to me.

  I dropped the ice to the floor. "That is an insane amount. For one fight?"

  "For one fight, just me. I needed it to pay for the private gym. You think I'd make Kev or my coach pay my way? I only switched gyms because the owner is in on the fix."

  "I know you think you didn't have a choice, but you did. I could have helped you. I would have." I scooped up the ice and handed it to him. "I will, if you'll let me."

  "And, I'm telling you I'm fine." Fenton took the ice, but stood up. "All your help comes with strings attached. You just want me to sign your endorsement deal, so you can go trotting back to Chicago, buy your little house, and live your comfortable life in your new office. I learned a long time ago not to lean on someone who has one foot out the door."

  I picked up the washcloth and twisted it in my hands. "I'm not going anywhere."

  "Yeah? Well I am," he said. He unzipped his sweatshirt to reveal his hard and bare chest. Then, he yanked a t-shirt out of his back pocket and pulled it over his head. He could not hide the grimace of pain as he raised his arms. There was a wicked bruise forming over his ribs.

  "You're hurt; you need to rest. I'll leave. I'll get out of your way. Just stay here and give yourself a break," I told him. "You can't go out there. A sea of paparazzi is waiting for you."

  Fenton tugged the black hat back on his head. "I'll be fine. And, I'm not about to let you leave. You'd probably end up in some back room betting on a cockfight."

  "Only if that's where you're going," I stood up and marched in front of him.

  He shook his head and the ghost of smile brushed past his mouth. "I'm just going to that expensive private gym of mine. I left all my stuff there." He pulled a card out of his pocket and checked the address.

  "You don't need any of it tonight." I moved to block his way.

  "I need my phone. I'm expecting a call," Fenton said.

  I dodged in front of him again. He put his wide hands on my waist and went to lift me out of the way. As soon as he flexed, he grimaced again. Fenton's hands dropped from my waist and one pressed over his ribs.

  "You're not going anywhere," I cried.

  "It's just a bruise." He swayed on his feet. "But maybe I should lie down for a few more minutes."

  He made it back to the couch and smiled when I came back with another cool washcloth, a blanket, and pitcher of juice. "Please tell me you’re going to mix some tequila in that for me. You know, for the pain," he said.

  "Oh, so now you'll admit you're in pain?" I asked. I slipped onto the couch next to him and laid the cool washcloth on his forehead. I retrieved the ice and placed it under his sweatshirt where his ribs hurt. Then, I poured him a glass of juice, tequila, and pulled a few aspirin from my pocket. "What was the last thing you ate?"

  "Please, no, I can't stand the angry chef slamming his pots around all jealous over you," he said.

  I laughed. "Then it’s a good thing we've got leftovers. I'll make you a steak sandwich."

  Fenton reached for the remote, dimmed the lights, and turned on the fireplace. "To help me recover," he said with a devilish glint in his eyes.

  I came back with the sandwich and sat down next to him again. "That's all I want, you know. I don't really care about the endorsement deal or whether or not you sign. I just want you to be okay."

  "Is that all?" He propped himself up on one arm and ran his other hand over my hair. "I'm not interested in doing business with you. I want more."

  His hand guided me closer and I met his lips willingly. The kiss was light and gentle. I did not want to hurt him, and he seemed to be testing something. Our lips brushed gently, and I felt a warm glow of tenderness wrap around me. This was more – not just attraction or passion, but something more precious. The kiss was fierce and delicate. I felt his pulse pounding in his neck, but it was nothing compared to the wash of longing that flowed between us.

  "I was jealous," I said. "I couldn't stand to see you with those other women, rival agents or not. I wanted to make you jealous, too."

  "I wanted to protect you, keep you safe. I need you safe. I need to know nothing bad will happen to you," he said. His soft kisses seared me more than our other passionate entanglements.

  "I am safe. We're both safe. Just stay here tonight, please," I said.

  Fenton leaned back onto the couch cushions again and pulled me alongside him. I happily tucked myself against his body, careful not to lay my arm over his sore ribs. I nestled my face into the crook of his neck and felt his body relax. We dozed in the flickering firelight, wrapped up together.

  I woke up a half an hour later to Fenton muttering in his sleep. I sat up, worried that I was hurting him, but his dream continued.

  "It's not like that, sis. I can do it. I can take care of us this time. Don't h
ang up, please don't hang up," he mumbled.

  "Fenton?" I laid a hand on his shoulder, but he did not wake up.

  "Don't hang up, sis," his hands fluttered in his sleep.

  I slipped off the couch and found the card he had looked at earlier. The address of the private gym was printed on the plain white card stock. No wonder he wanted to get his things; he was expecting a phone call from his sister. I remembered that was what I had overheard him discussing with the private investigator. He had tried to make contact with his sister.

  The address was not far away from the Tropicana. I could get there and back before he woke up. I looked at Fenton. He was more actions than words, and I had to find some way to show him he meant more to me than a business deal. It would be easy to bring him his phone and clean change of clothes.

  I sneaked out the suite door and headed out into the Vegas night with a smile on my face.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Kya

  I got to the cabstand, still feeling confident. Fenton was upstairs asleep, and I could get back before he woke up. I would not even have to tell him I was the one that left to get his things. I stopped for a moment and considered asking Kev Casey to do it for me, but the last thing I wanted was to owe that man a favor.

  "Is Mike here?" I asked.

  The uniformed man at the cabstand shook his head. "No, he's off-duty. But I suppose you could call him. He's a sucker for requests."

  "No, he deserves a little time off," I said. I got into the first cab in line and handed the driver the white card. "Can you take me to this address?"

  The driver nodded without a word and slipped into traffic. He drove fast, with no music on and none of the chatter I had come to expect from cab drivers. He only gave me one sullen glance in the rear view mirror and then concentrated on the road.

  In the silence, I had plenty of time to second-guess what I was doing. If Fenton woke up and found me gone, he would be angry. Not only was I off and, according to him, more likely to get myself in trouble, but I was still trying to impress him. I had to make sure he knew it was for him, not the business deal.

  The cab slammed to a stop before I could figure out how to convince Fenton I was not just another sneaky agent. The driver handed me back the little white card and tapped the digital meter.

  "How much if you wait for me?" I asked.

  The driver handed me a smudged business card with his cab company's number on it.

  "You can't wait a few minutes? Leave the meter running," I said. "Seriously, I'll be right back. I don't want to call another cab and wait."

  The driver shrugged and took my cash. As soon as I got out the car, he drove off. A nervous chill slipped down my back. I missed ol' Mike and could see him shaking his head at me. I had told myself this was a simple gesture, something nice to do for Fenton, but I was getting the feeling I was only going to make more trouble. I shivered on the street, feeling exposed, and looked around for the address on the card.

  The Wynn Casino and Hotel was lit up nearby, and as I looked around, I started to feel better. It was busy section of the strip. Lots of shops were still open, catering to the late-night shoppers of Las Vegas. There were blindingly bright neon signs leading partygoers to food and drink. And, there were knots of people heading this way and that, enjoying their Vegas vacations.

  You're fine, I told myself. Still, I had the uneasy feeling I was being watched.

  It’s a silly thought, I tried to convince myself. No one would be after me. I was a low-level agent, clearly not a high roller. Even if they knew me from the luxury suite at the Tropicana, they could see I had nothing on me.

  I turned quickly and rang the bell next to the street number that matched the card. The door was otherwise unmarked and I was relieved when a uniformed concierge opened the door. The logo on his crisp white shirt matched the card and I stepped forward, happy to get off the street.

  "I'm sorry, this is a private club," the concierge said.

  "I realize that," I said. "I'm just here to pick up something for a member. You can bring it out to me, but I'd really rather come inside." I stepped forward again, feeling a rising need to get off the street, even though I could not see anyone suspicious behind me.

  "We operate very exclusively. I cannot let you inside," the concierge said. "For the safety and privacy of our members."

  I glanced back at the street. A tour bus parked by the curb and let a steady stream of people out to swarm into the nearby souvenir shops. I was being silly – there was no one out there but tourists. I figured the paranoia was because I was tired. I just wanted to get Fenton's phone and get back to the suite as soon as possible.

  "I know, I mean, I'm sorry," I handed him the card. "I'm just here to pick up Fenton Morris' things. He is staying elsewhere tonight."

  The concierge's lips quirked up, but he nodded at the card and let me inside. I trotted into the all-white lobby, ridiculously glad to be inside.

  "What exactly are you picking up?"

  "Mr. Morris would like a clean change of clothes and most importantly, his phone," I said.

  The concierge disappeared through a white unmarked door. I jumped a foot into the air when a voice behind me said, "Mr. Morris?"

  I turned and came face to face with Mario Peretti, Fenton's MMA rival. Up close, he was just as fierce and intimidating as all his posters portrayed him – until he smiled.

  "I'm Mario, nice to meet you . . .?"

  "Allen. Kya Allen," I said.

  "Ah, the endorsement agent," Mario said. "Don't worry, I only listen to the good things. Guys like Fenton and I know all about how different reputations can be from the truth."

  I relaxed and reached out a hand to shake his. "It's nice to meet you, Mario. So, you don't think Fenton lives up to his reputation? You might be the only one in Vegas that feels that way right about now," I said.

  "I don't think I'm alone in that," Mario said and smiled at me again.

  I felt my cheeks warm and changed the subject. "I didn't think rival fighters would share a gym?"

  "I was the one that suggested this place," Mario said. "Fenton and I talk outside of fights, trash talk, and photo ops."

  "You do?"

  "Yeah. It makes sense. We have a lot in common," Mario said. "He's like me, setting everything else aside until he gets to the top. Though, I'm starting to see why he having trouble keeping everything separated."

  I drummed my hands on the white desk and wished the concierge would come back. "Why do you say that?"

  "I recognize you." Mario leaned against the tall desk. "From the fight. As I rule, I block out the crowd, most fighters do. I was just so surprised to see Fenton's look out there that I had to glance, too. He was looking at you."

  "That's impossible, there were tons of people in the crowd that night," I said. My cheeks flared warmer.

  "But I recognize you. Thanks for helping me land that punch," he said.

  "No, please don't say that. That's horrible," I cried.

  He chuckled. "Fenton may have lost the fight, but everyone loves a comeback story. Don't get me wrong, I'm going to stop him, but the next time, it'll be a fair fight."

  "I'm excited to see that, live on television from my hotel room," I said.

  Fenton's rival laughed again. "Nah, he'll want you there. Now that I've seen you up close, I can't really say that Fenton lost the fight. Seems like he might be on a lucky streak." Mario winked at me and sauntered away.

  The concierge returned and handed me Fenton's black duffel bag. "Will that be all, miss?"

  I nodded and headed out the door. My mind was reeling. Fenton had seen me – I was the reason he was knocked out. Out over a sea of faces, he saw me. The thought was thrilling at the same time as my guilt was confirmed. The door to the private club locked behind me and the sound shook me from my thoughts.

  "Oh, the cab," I muttered. I should have asked the concierge to call me a cab. Then, I could have waited inside.

  I hefted Fenton's duffel bag onto m
y shoulder and fumbled for my phone. I dialed the number to the cab company and tapped my foot. The dispatcher promised me it would only be a ten-minute wait.

  You're fine, everything's fine, I told myself.

  The street was still busy, and the tour bus was still waiting for its swarm to return with plastic knick-knacks. I forced myself to browse a postcard display. It was silly to feel like someone was watching me. Vegas was an anonymous town, and no one knew me. I was no one special. Still, the feeling persisted and I worried that someone was watching me in particular.

  "Ms. Allen, so nice to see you again," a voice said.

  I turned and drew back, almost knocking over the post card display with Fenton's black duffel bag. "How do you know my name?"

  The man in suit gave me a sharp smile and narrowed his eyes. "I checked up on you. I know all about you. Ms. Kya Allen, endorsement agent. Normally, you chase tennis players and golfers, but your boss thought you needed a challenge. You're here to sign Fenton Morris, but you haven't made it happen yet."

  "Who needs Fenton Morris?" I said. "I just met Mario Peretti and right now, he's the better bet."

  "Really?" The man eyed the white door. He had been watching me and seen me go both in and come out.

  "Yes," I said, glad he was distracted from Fenton. "Plus, he doesn't come with all the bad boy bullshit. Fenton's a walking circus right now, and I'm just not into that."

  "Liar," the man in the suit said. "You might be focusing your business elsewhere, but you certainly are not done with Mr. Morris."

  I realized I was still holding Fenton's duffel bag. "What business is it of yours?"

  "I saw the way he reacted to your little stunt with my friend," he said. "You hardly had time to do more than smile before he was up in my friend's face. That kind of jealousy just confirms a little theory I have about you two."

  I saw a yellow cab pull over in front of the private gym. I edged towards it, my heart pounding. Behind it a black town car parked and flashed its headlights. The man in the black pants and t-shirt got out of the town car and strode towards us.

  "See, I think you and Mr. Morris are not coming together on a business front because you are together elsewhere. Or at least, you want to be. You're not his normal shiny-dressed slut, so I'm thinking it’s more serious than that. Dare I say love?"