Got A Hold On You (Ringside Romance) (2 page)

“Didn’t I?”

“I did everything I could for my favorite niece.”

The guilt anchor grew heavier by the minute, pulling
her down, down, down...

“All I ask is this one thing. Tonight’s show is
crucial. It could mean going network, big ratings, big advertisers!”

“I won’t do this. I have self-respect.”

“Think about your poor, adoring uncle.”

Clink. The anchor hit rock bottom.

A knock interrupted her spiraling guilt trip.

“Is it safe in there?” Maxine called.

“Come in, Max.” Uncle Joe opened the door.

He had Frankie right where he wanted her and he knew
it. He sandwiched her hand between his weathered fingers. “It would mean a lot
to me.”

“So does my reputation.”

“But…” His eyes darted from the scraps of material on
the sewing table to the overhead fluorescent lights, back to Frankie. “You’ll
be wearing a mask.”

Maxine coughed.

“No one will even know who you are. It’s perfect.
You’re perfect.” He studied her through framed hands as if considering her for
a movie debut.

“I thought Tatianna was six feet tall with flaming red
hair.” On a good day she stood five-three.

“You’re better.”

“I’m female.”

A nervous giggle escaped his lips. He squeezed her
hand and made for the door. “Max will fix you up, snap, snap. She’ll make the
costume fit you just right.”

“I don’t have the costume.”

He pulled a plastic bag from the inside of his suit
coat and tossed it at Maxine.

“Hey!” Frankie protested, smelling a setup.

“Forty-five minutes.” He tapped his watch and
sauntered out, a victorious whistle escaping his lips.

“Sneaky, manipulative, guilt-tripping uncle!” she cried.

“Come on, let’s get you fitted.” Maxine opened the bag
and pulled out the contents. “This can’t be right.”

Frankie caught sight of the five-inch triangle of
leopard-skin material dangling from Maxine’s fingertips.

“Whoever heard of a spotted tiger?” Max said.

“My life is over.” Frankie’s knees wobbled and she
collapsed into the folding chair. “A mask, Uncle Joe said there was a mask.”

Maxine tipped the bag upside down. It was empty.

“No mask.” Frankie slouched in her chair.

“Not to worry. I’ll whip one up lickity split.
Something plain, yet exotic, with pointed ears.” She crooked her fingers on top
of her head to demonstrate.

Frankie jumped to her feet. “I can’t do this.”

“Sure you can. You’re a good girl. Good girls do these
things because they love their uncles.”

Frankie fisted her hands by her sides and paced the
small dressing room. Uncle Joe had always been there for her. Always.

“The other Tatianna was bigger than you, so we’ll have
to make a few nips and tucks here and there. Wouldn’t want those bosoms of
yours to come tumbling out on national TV.”

“Work on the mask first. Work on the mask,” Frankie
pleaded. Anonymity was her only hope.

“You’re gonna have to get rid of those glasses. You
can see without them, can’t ya’?”

“I have tinted contacts in my purse. I hate them.”

Trotting from one end of the room to the other, she
imagined herself before the board of directors at Smith and Barnes, her biggest
client at present. How on earth would she explain prancing nearly naked in
front of half a billion people on national TV? Sure, they’d take her next
financial analysis seriously, about as seriously as a two-year-old running for
Congress.

“Done,” Maxine said.

“So fast?”

“They don’t call me Maxine the Miraculous for
nothing.”

Frankie stared at the costume, which looked like it
was tailor made for a pre-pubescent teen.

“Go on, get dressed.” Maxine shoved it at her.

“I must be out of my mind.” She snatched the costume
and ripped off the price tag. “Cheapskate,” she muttered, glancing at the
$17.95 clearance sticker. She went behind the curtain and stripped off her
clothes, her toes chilled by the cement floor. A whole lot more of her was
going to be chilled in a minute. She stepped into the panties, clasped the bra
in front, then slid it around and adjusted herself. She was no Dolly Parton,
but she wasn’t a washboard either.

“Maxine, I think you made the top too small.” She
stepped out from behind the curtain.

“Well, look at you. I never would’ve guessed you had
such a round figure underneath all those clothes of yours. I could probably let
out the darts a little, but I gotta finish the skirt.”

Hope flared in her chest. “A skirt?”

“Sure. We wouldn’t let you go out there bare-legged.”

All wasn’t lost. Frankie threw on her navy suit jacket
to ward off the chill.

The door burst open with a crash. “Where’s my cape?”
the Purple Panther demanded.

Frankie jumped to her feet. “Hold your shorts, you
overgrown slug of testosterone! The Bomber took off with your bloody cape, so
go claw his eyes out!”

“Oh, uh, sure, uh, sorry.” The Panther paled and
backed out of the dressing room as if he thought she might brain him with the
metal folding chair.

“You’re a natural,” Maxine said, her gray-blue eyes
glowing with admiration.

“Don’t look at me like that. I don’t belong here. I
belong in a boardroom, impressing the directors with plans to consolidate and
raise the bottom line.”

“Oh, you’ll impress them with your bottom all right.
Skirt’s done.” She held up the “skirt,” a wisp of sheer black lace trimmed in
feathers.

She swallowed hard. “I’m going to be sick.”

“Nerves. Got something for that too.” Maxine dumped
out her silver-studded bag. A dozen kinds of lipstick tumbled onto the table,
along with a cylinder of breath spray, two backup sets of false eyelashes and a
chartreuse feather boa.

“Here ya’ go, hon.” She handed Frankie a dull tin
flask.

“What is it?”

“Homemade brew. Never failed me yet. Swallow down and
pick out your shoes.”

“Uh, thanks, Max, but I don’t really drink.”

“How’s your tummy feel?”

“Like I’m about to do a triple somersault off a high
dive.”

“Then drink up. A healthy swig should do it.”

If anyone knew how to cure nerves it was a seasoned
showgirl like Max. Frankie closed her eyes, pinched her nose, and took a
ladylike nip that turned into a generous gulp thanks to Max tipping the flask.
The concoction scorched her throat. She coughed, hiccupped, and gagged,
struggling to breathe.

Max slapped her back. “That a girl. All better.”

Sure, if Frankie could get her eyes to stop watering.

“Wouldn’t hurt to smell a little sexy, get you in the
mood to perform.” Maxine aimed a small, red bottle in Frankie’s direction and
squirted.

Frankie coughed again and waved her hand. “What is
it?”

“Pandora’s Passion.” She shoved the perfume, along
with her other treasures, back into her purse and started picking through the
box of shoes. “What size?”

“Seven.”

“Got an eight. Close enough.” She tossed a pair of
gold, three-inch spiked heels at Frankie.

“Take ’em for a spin while I whip up the mask.”

Frankie slipped on the shoes and admired her feet, not
used to wearing anything other than half-inch business pumps at work, or tennis
shoes on her days off. With great effort she stood, wobbled, and tumbled her
way a few steps into the concrete wall.

“Hips, hon! Hips! Swing ’em when you walk!” Maxine
coached.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d swung her
hips, if ever. Pushing away from the wall, she fought for balance, shuffled a
hoppity-skip across the room and collapsed on the worktable face down in a pile
of flaming pink feathers. “Max?”

“Yeah, hon?”

“I’m not nervous anymore.”

“Good girl.”

“I also can’t focus.”

***

“I don’t need a damn gimmick,” Jack said, securing the
knee brace with a quick tug of the strap. He figured the joint was good for
another year, then he’d have to go under the knife.

“Part of the show, Jack. Just wait till you see what
we’ve got planned,” Billings said.

“The last time you said that I ended up strapped to
the front of a Zamboni.” He pulled the skin-tight black leggings over his brace
and reached for his socks and boots.

“This is better, even better.” Billings’s eyes
gleamed.

That meant trouble. “Don’t tell me, another stripper
match?”

“Nope,” Billings’s smile broadened.

“Dancing bears?” Hell that would be tamer than some of
the stuff he heard they were planning to boost ratings.

“Not even close. We found you the perfect Tatianna.”

Jack shoved his foot into the black boot and glared at
the former wrestler. “Dammit, Bill, I’m not going out there with some flaky
bimbo on my arm just to appease the old man.”

“It’s about the fans, Jack. Never forget that.”

How could he? The same fans that had once paid to see
a good old-fashioned rasslin’ match now expected to see sex and blood for their
$30 ticket. At least that was Sullivan’s line.

But it would all be over soon. Jack was nearing the
end of his contract, and the light at the end of the tunnel burned brighter
than ever. The last five years had been hell. Thank God he would finally be
free of the insanity and live a normal life.

“We’re trying her out tonight to test the new angle,”
Bill said, walking toward the locker-room door. “She’ll be waiting in the
Monkey Tunnel.”

“Great. Wonderful. Fantastic.” He jerked the laces of
his boot with deadly force, wondering when it all started to go south and why
he hadn’t seen it coming long before now. The traditional wrestlers were slowly
being pushed out by the exhibitionists, the superstars of sports entertainment,
who didn’t know the difference between a pile driver and a screwdriver.

It was time to get out. No doubt about it. His body
was cashed and his mind was wandering. Not good when you’re waving a
three-hundred-pound opponent over your head. It had taken nearly twenty years,
but Jack was finally ready to hang up his boots. More than ready.

“Hudson, you want to try something different tonight?”

Jack glanced at Neurosis, his opponent in the main
event. The kid’s orange hair was pulled into six short ponytails that looked
like bursts of flame escaping his scalp.

“Different as in you win?” Jack said. At least
Sullivan hadn’t taken the belt away from him. His reign would make WHAK history
tonight—champion for fifteen weeks straight, taking on any and all
challengers. It felt good to be champion.

“Very funny, old man.” Neurosis drew the word “panic”
across his chest in red marker. “Let’s try some new stuff. I learned a move
from the cruiserweights. I do a back swan dive over you from the turnbuckle,
land on your shoulders, dive down between your legs, flip you over into a
Carter Crush...”

Flipping, flying, twirling. Jack’s head started to
spin. This wasn’t wrestling. Not the wrestling he knew. Not the wrestling Butch
taught him some twenty-five years ago when he pulled him off the streets and
threw him down on a wrestling mat.

“Keep it simple, kid. I’m still healing.” Jack ran an
open palm across his rib cage.

“Don’t heal as quick as you used to, eh?” the punk
taunted.

“Watch it, kid, or you’ll end up on the receiving end
of a Black Jack Banger that’ll scramble your brains.”

“Don’t get your undies in a bunch, old man. So, is the
match supposed to end in a pin, submission, or disqualification?”

“It’s a no DQ match. How about a count out?”

“I’ll fly over the top rope onto the announcer’s
table. I can take out that jerk announcer Prince Priceless while I’m at it.”

“Not bad.” Jack smiled, remembering Prince’s snide
remarks on last week’s show about Jack needing to be admitted to a nursing
home. “Once we’re back in the ring I’ll start with an Irish whip to the corner
followed by a few kicks to your ribs. I’ll pull you to your feet and do a suplex
from the second rope. I’ll cover you for the pin and pass you the next set of
moves. Let’s end it with me shouldering you out of the ring.” Jack adjusted his
elbow pads and grabbed his drover-style leather jacket.

“And the girls?” Neurosis asked.

“I don’t care what they do as long as they stay out of
the ring.” He snatched the black Stetson off the overhead rack and fingered the
picture of his dream cabin tucked inside the brim, his good luck charm. Soon.
He’d be free soon.

Neurosis slipped a torn, black shirt over his marked
up chest. “Edible Eve isn’t going to be happy if she can’t be part of the
action.”

Jack glared at the kid.

“Okay, okay. I’ll tell her to stay out of the ring.”

“Although...” Jack ambled toward the door and
hesitated. “What happens outside the ring is fair game.”

“All right! The cats go at it for the crowd. Who’s
playing Tatianna?”

“Never met her.” He slipped the cowboy hat onto his
head. “But I hear she’s a hot one.”

“So, Eve can let loose on her?”

“I don’t see why not.” Hell, these actresses got paid
pretty well for their twenty minutes of fame.

Neurosis rubbed his hands together. “This is going to
be one hell of a match.”

“You can say that again.”

And with any luck, it would be one of Jack’s last.

He was huge. Overpowering. Intimidating as hell. And
she wanted her mommy.

Frankie stared into Black Jack Hudson’s dark green
eyes and tried to swallow. Her mouth was as dry as the Sahara.

“You getting this, lady?” He took a step closer.

She backed up against the cold cement wall, breathing
in the scent of leather and sweat. He was talking to her, but she didn’t hear a
word he said.

“Stay out of the ring, got it? I don’t care what you
and Edible Eve do on the sidelines, but if you step your pretty little ass into
the squared circle, I swear I’ll toss you over the top rope myself.”