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Authors: Sidney Halston

Full Contact (Worth the Fight #2) (26 page)

BOOK: Full Contact (Worth the Fight #2)

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His eyes narrowed on her as his chest rose and fell with his shallow breaths. The silence was deafening for about thirty seconds as he seemed to contemplate what she’d said. “Fuck you!” he grunted before storming out of the gym.

—

As soon as Tony escaped outdoors and the warm air hit his face, he winced. Everything hurt, but he stubbornly climbed in his pride and joy—a 1969 Camaro—and took off. Anger pulsed through his body.

The woman should’ve consoled him. Coddled him. He was, after all, her goddamn client! Instead, she accused him of not having trained hard enough. He’d been after her for months, honestly because she was hot. It had been purely physical—the thought of having her toned, lean body naked against his had been a challenge he couldn’t let go. Her constant rejection just further fueled his need to have her. But now, seeing this cold, heartless Francesca, he was left wondering what the hell he’d been thinking.

Oh, yeah, that she was stunning and her feistiness made his blood boil and his dick hard. Damn dick!

Maybe he just needed to get laid. It had been way too long and his dick was obviously confused.

—

Tony sat at a bar in a dark nightclub. He knew his face looked like hell, but he didn’t care. At least he’d gone to the hotel that he’d been calling home for the last five months to change before coming here. He needed a drink and a warm, able body for the night, and he didn’t want to be around anyone he knew, so he picked this particular club located a few miles outside Tarpon Springs. The thumping music was deafening, and Club Zee was packed full of sweaty, dancing bodies, reminding him of the clubs he loved to frequent in Miami. Normally women swarmed to him, but tonight his fuck-off vibe was keeping everyone away.

He had his drink in his hand when a group of drunk women squished between him and the stranger next to him in order to get the bartender’s attention. His drink almost spilled, which pissed him off. Lately everything pissed him off. A few months ago, he would’ve been dancing with some woman he’d take home for the night after a few rounds on the floor. Instead, he sat at the bar, unable to enjoy the beats or the beautiful ladies.

His move to Tarpon Springs—and WtF—had come after a series of tabloid mishaps, or, as he liked to call them, overreactions. The bar fight that had almost gotten him arrested wasn’t his fault—it was the smug bartender’s fault. Tony had heard the bartender making a lewd comment to some woman and had intervened—but, of course, the media didn’t care about that part of the story. All they reported was that he’d been in yet another bar fight after one too many drinks. He probably could’ve handled the entire situation differently, he could’ve called security or management and reported the bartender instead of breaking the kid’s nose, but containing his temper had never been his strong suit. After that, his agent had threatened to quit, and there were rumors that some of his endorsements wanted to pull out. His career was on the line. He needed to get his shit together, as his agent, his PR person, and his lawyer had all warned him.

Now that he was thirty-four years old, the younger fighters were beginning to pose a serious threat to his career. It was getting hard to ignore how sore his body felt after a full sparring match during training, or how his knees creaked in the morning. Hell, if he were being completely truthful, he’d admit that everything creaked and cracked in the morning. He used to knock his opponents out in the first round. Now he sat in a dark bar licking his wounds, having almost been knocked out after three strenuously difficult rounds.

Tony swirled the thin red-and-white cocktail straw around in his empty glass. The heat from all the bodies pressed together was getting to him. “Hey, I know you. You’re that guy.” Tony’s focus went from his drink to the red fingernails wrapped around his forearm. He didn’t even bother to look up at her face because he was pretty sure he knew exactly what he’d find: a ready, willing, and probably very able female who undoubtedly wanted him to buy her (and her friends) drinks before going back to her house for a night of no-strings sex. When you had as much money and fame as he did, you didn’t have to try. Dating, flirting—it was not something he did. His m.o. was satisfying, emotionless sex. Something he’d never pass up. Something he’d never complained about before. So what the hell was wrong with him tonight?

“Lindsey,” the woman shrieked. “Look, it’s that guy.” Her grip on Tony’s arm tightened. “You know, the guy from the magazine. What’s his name?” She asked her friend as if he weren’t sitting right there next to her. He noticed that the friend had red hair, similar to Francesca’s. He’d never had a “type” before. They could be blond, brunette—hell, they could be bald, so long as they went home with him. But tonight, the redhead in particular was annoying the hell out of him.

“Oh, yeah.” The other woman, Lindsey apparently, leaned closer to him. “You’re that bad-boy fighter. Scarface.” She yelled into his ear. “What happened to your eye?”

Tony pushed his chair back. If the music hadn’t been so loud, the chair would’ve screeched loudly against the floor. His movement was so abrupt, the women were left no choice but to wobble backward or they’d fall.

“Hey, don’t leave. We’re okay with the eye thing,” the one who wasn’t Lindsey yelled over the music. “Come. Buy us a drink. We’re real fun. Actually, the scar’s really sexy.” She reached toward his face, but he grabbed her wrist to stop her from touching him. He hated when people touched his scar. He was now completely annoyed. He dug into his pocket, slapped some money on the bar, and without so much as a single word to the ladies walked out.

The Florida heat immediately wafted over him, but it was something he was used to. He’d been born and raised in Miami. Heat, humidity, and mosquitoes were the norm for him, so the fact that it was even hotter outside than it was in the club was no surprise. His gray button-down shirt stuck to him, and he unbuttoned his sleeves and rolled them up to his elbows as he walked to his car. His rib cage was starting to ache, but he was still too pumped with energy to bother with it.

Losing the fight had really gotten to him, and Francesca had done nothing to comfort him. In fact, she’d just added salt to the wounds. She was too opinionated. She loved to remind him what a fuck-up he was. And she was always on her high moral horse making sure he wasn’t out having fun. She needed someone to remove that stick up her ass. Maybe if she had a little fun herself, she’d loosen the reins a little.

She never had anything positive to say when it came to him. He was tired of it. She called him out on anything that didn’t work with her master plan to make him a prized fighter, and he was sick of it. He hadn’t allowed his own father to treat him like a workhorse—he would be damned if he’d let her do it. What was her problem?

To add insult to injury, she refused to go out with him.

Thirty minutes later, he was back in Tarpon Springs and parked in front of Francesca’s house. It was time he gave her a piece of his mind. She was the owner of the gym, but she wasn’t his mother. If he wanted to drink, then he would. So long as he trained and won the next fight, who the fuck was she to dictate what he did in his personal life? Especially since she didn’t want anything to do with his personal life.

Tony slammed the door to his car, marched up to her front door, and knocked. Nothing happened, so he knocked again, harder this time. When she didn’t answer, he pulled out his phone and called her. Again, nothing. It was well past midnight; her car was parked in the driveway, and through the window he could see her lights were on.

He should have left.

He should have…but he didn’t.

Instead, he walked around her house to the yard. The longer it took him to find her, the angrier he became. Maybe she was on a date. Maybe there was a man inside the house. He didn’t care either way—he was prepared to go toe to toe with the hellion, and he would definitely give her a piece of his mind.

But then he saw red hair hanging from a lawn chair a few feet from the pool. As he approached her, he discovered an open magazine over her chest and a glass of wine on the small table next to her. She had fallen asleep still wearing her inappropriate work clothes: a form-fitting business suit. Her high heels sat neatly on the floor next to her. He had half expected her to open the door wearing her pajamas, but, of course, God forbid she should ever have a hair out of place. He wasn’t sure how to proceed. He knelt next to her.

“Francesca, wake up.” No response.

“Francesca.” He tapped her on the shoulder and nothing. He couldn’t very well leave her outside.

Slightly annoyed by the situation, he gently scooped her up and stood. He was sure she would wake and kick him in the balls for touching her. For a brief moment he contemplated tossing her in the pool just as payback for being so judgmental and mean after the fight. As if she’d heard his thoughts, she simply nestled closer to him, and any thoughts about retribution quickly subsided. Carefully he opened the sliding door. He walked inside and down a hall to the first room he found.

He laid her gently on the bed, but as soon as her body made contact with the mattress she started and instinctively jumped up off the bed in one quick movement. “What the hell?” Her eyes were wide and she was standing in a way that reminded him of a fighter about to pounce on his opponent.

He held his hands out in front of him. “Calm down. It’s just me.”

“T-tony? W-what the hell are you doing?” She looked side to side as if trying to figure out what was happening.

“You were asleep.” Suddenly he felt ridiculous. “Outside.” He pointed his thumb toward the door. “You fell asleep outside. I couldn’t just leave you there.”

Still standing by the bed, she said, “What are you even doing here?”

What
was
he doing there? What the hell had been the point? Oh, yeah…he was going to give her a piece of his mind, but instead, “What’s up with your hair?” came out of his mouth.

She looked at him as if he’d grown a second head, then brought her hands to her hair and pulled out the rubber band holding it in place. “What the hell, Tony?” She ran to a mirror and began removing her makeup with some sort of wipe thing. “I wasn’t expecting company.”

She was in the middle of smoothing out her hair when he put his hand out to stop her. “I didn’t mean it in a bad way,
cariño
.” She looked up when he used the term of endearment. “I’ve just never seen you look…not perfect. Do you sleep in suits?” He reached forward and touched the lapel of her white oxford shirt.

“Oh, stop.” She shooed his hand away. “I fell asleep.” She was still fussing with her hair. “I didn’t know you’d be stopping by.” She pointed at him. “Speaking of clothes, I’ve never seen you dressed up.”

He looked down at his slacks. “I went out.”

“Figured you would,” she said, her hands on her hips.

He ran a finger down her arm—he couldn’t help it. He wanted to stop, but he needed to touch her. He’d wanted to touch her for months. “You look beautiful. You always look beautiful.”

She stepped back and crossed her arms. “You still haven’t told me why you’re here.”

“Honestly?” he asked sincerely. She nodded. “I don’t really know. But now that I am, I just want to kiss you. I’ve wanted to kiss you for months.”

“A few hours ago you told me to fuck off. You weren’t thinking about kissing me.”

He moved closer. “Trust me, I was,” he confessed, “and if my face didn’t hurt so fucking much I might even attempt it.”

Her steely demeanor softened and she smiled wryly. One moment he wanted to shake her into being nice, and the next he wanted to bend her over and have his way with her on the nearest flat surface.

“Come on.” She gestured for him to follow her to the bathroom and had him sit on the edge of the bathtub as she rummaged for supplies. Sitting there watching her move around relaxed him somewhat, and as the adrenaline subsided, the pain escalated. She stood in front of him and said, “Tilt your head back.” He did as she instructed, looking up at her hazel eyes and full lips.

Apprehensively, she touched his face, her warm breath and soft hands on his skin helping to melt away some of the anger. She cleaned his wounds with alcohol swabs, putting ointment and butterfly bandages on the bigger cuts. When she was finished, she sat down next to him. “I don’t think you’ll need stitches, but you should clean them out a few times tomorrow. Maybe put ice on your…well, everywhere, I suppose. I’m guessing your shoulder took the brunt of the beating.”

“Yeah.” He rubbed his shoulder. “Thanks for patching me up.”

“You’re welcome,” she said, seemingly uncomfortable with the man’s closeness.

She stood up, took a step back, and began cleaning up. “About earlier tonight—”

“You don’t need to apologize,” he said. “I know you were just trying to make a point.”

“Apologize?” she scoffed. “I wasn’t going to apologize. I was going to say that I really think you could be a great fighter again if you just trained a little harder, partied a little less.”

“What the hell? A great fighter
again
? I’m already a great fighter.”

“No, you used to be a great fighter, and we could get that back. Together, we can work on your techniques and make you great again. You lost tonight. You lost big and you need to accept that.”

“It was fucking rigged and you know that!” He had his hands on his waist and glared at her.

“Are you seriously still blaming everyone but yourself? You know what? I’m done arguing with you about this. I’m trying to help you, Tony!”

“How? By insulting me?”

“Because I’m not telling you the things you want to hear, I’m insulting you?”

“You know what? Forget it! Just…fuck you! I’m outta here!” He turned out of the bathroom and for the second time in one night told her to fuck off and walked out.