Love On The Ropes (Ringside Romance)
Read Love On The Ropes (Ringside Romance) Online
Authors: Pat White
By
Pat White
Copyright 2013 by Pat White
Original copyright 2006 by Pat
White
All rights reserved. No part of
this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or
electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage
piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.
This is a work of fiction. Names,
characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s
imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely
coincidental.
Contents
“In other words, you want me to go
undercover as a professional idiot—I mean, wrestler.”
DEA Agent Jason McBain would have
laughed at the ludicrous order if he weren’t so burned out from three months of
undercover hell posing as a drug dealer.
“If you’ll let me continue,”
Supervisor Ronald Meek said.
Jason steepled his fingers and
pretended to listen to the Dickless Wonder. Meek was in rare form today,
spouting statistics, theories and strategy. The man could rationalize it fifty-seven
ways to Sunday, but Jason knew what this was about: Meek didn’t want him
around.
Of course not. Meek was still
burning about Jason’s collar of the Kamachi drug ring. He didn’t appreciate
Jason outperforming him, and he was embarrassed that he’d nearly gotten Jason
and the team killed by passing along bad intel. Fact was, Jason could outthink,
outshoot and out piss every guy in the friggin’ unit. They hated being reminded
of that, which was what the Kamachi case did.
“We’re not sure how they’re
distributing it,” Meek continued. He handed the five agents assigned to his
team a spreadsheet.
Jason glanced at the pristine
white form. They were sending him away from the action because he did his job
and did it well. He glanced around the black lacquered table at his fellow
agents: Dugan, Steck, Andrews, Totem. They were supposed to work as a team,
like in Special Ops. But here every man seemed out for himself.
“We’ve tracked the activity from
Des Moines to Omaha, then from Dallas back to Chicago. The drug is a hybrid
steroid—dangerous stuff, especially when used by kids. It pops up after the
show comes to town. These wrestling promotions are run by an owner, a handful
of office staff, plus a dozen or more wrestlers. Pro wrestling is the
connection to the drugs. I’m guessing Chicago is the hub of this operation.”
Meek looked at Jason. “Of course, it’ll be your call. You’ll run things as you
see fit.”
Hell, if Jason were running things
he’d tie Meek the Geek to a ring post and let a four-hundred-pound wrestler use
him as a punching bag.
Meek continued his lecture,
tapping a fancy blue pen on the manila file folder. Jason reached into his suit
jacket looking for gum. His hand brushed against Sophia, his six-inch Komodo.
Now there was a thought: he could arc the blade across the conference table in
1.3 seconds, nail Meek between the eyes and be out of here before lunch. Nah.
He’d lose his job for sure, and it wouldn’t look too good to write “fired for
killing my boss” on a job application.
Jason’s mind wandered as he
listened to Meek’s voice drone on like a siren suffering from a low battery.
Using Sophia on him would be a waste of a good weapon. Better to use her on
something productive like cutting the shoulder-length hair he’d grown for his
last assignment. Jason hated the style: long, shaggy and out of control.
“You still with us, McBain?” Meek
asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“You can have two agents as field
support if you need them.”
“I won’t.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, sir.”
Even after the Kamachi collar they
still thought him a big, dumb thug. Dumb as a cement post, that’s what he’d
overheard Meek say, probably because Jason wasn’t into small talk and looked
more like a bouncer than a DEA agent. Yet they’d seen the file and knew he’d
earned his degree like everyone else. Okay, so it wasn’t from Harvard like
Meek’s or UCLA like Kyle Totem, who sat quietly on Jason’s left. But it was
still a degree, paid for by the U.S. government. A degree he’d earned
post-military, which in his opinion was the better education. His time with Special
Ops taught him how to stay alive.
“So, when do I begin this,” Jason
hesitated, “assignment?”
“As soon as you’re ready.” Meek
closed his folder and eyed him. “You might need a few months to bulk up for the
part.”
Bulk up, his ass. At six-two, J
weighed in at 220—mostly muscle. He’d been working out since he was fourteen.
He had to be strong to protect his family.
“I’m in good enough shape.” He
didn’t know much about pro wrestling, but he knew it wasn’t a real sport and
suspected there wasn’t much athleticism involved.
“I’ve secured a spot for you in
BAM, a wrestling promotion out of the Midwest,” Meek continued. “The owner,
Cosmo Perini, owes the Feds a favor so he’s agreed to let you go undercover.
Your stage name will be Jack the Stripper.”
J clenched his jaw. A friggin’
stripper?
Keep a lid on it.
Don’t lose it in front of this jerk
.
“Jack the Stripper, huh?” he said.
A couple of the guys snorted.
J didn’t have to ask who came up
with that idea. It was the perfect way for Meek to sabotage his career—by
making J the joke of the division. Hell, by making him the joke of the entire agency.
“Don’t cut your hair or shave too
close,” Meek said. “Jack the Stripper is a heel, a skuzzy character, according
to Mr. Perini.”
Wonderful. J just finished an
assignment that lasted three months too long in a seedy part of Detroit. The
only thing that kept him going was the thought of getting his buzz haircut,
shaving, and sitting in a hot tub for three days. It would take that long to
wash the scum off his body.
Instead, he’d have to keep his
shaggy hair and three-day stubble, and become a freak stripper for a fake
sport. Jason reconsidered stringing up his boss and slapping him around a
little. Who needed a job, anyway?
“The promoter’s information is in
the file,” Meek said. “Contact Mr. Perini and schedule training sessions so
you’ll look convincing in the ring. I’ll expect a report every week. Sooner if
you run into trouble.”
Was that hope in his voice? Ass
hole.
“How long do you expect this
assignment to last?” J asked.
“As long as it takes.”
Which meant forever. Meek wanted
revenge, and he’d found the perfect way to get it: by shipping Jason off with
the circus.
J took a slow, deep breath. Sure,
suspects convicted of distributing steroids could end up with a ten-year plus
sentence depending on their criminal history, but Jason wanted something sexy,
something exciting, like busting meth labs or heroin rings. Instead he was
stuck with distribution of a drug preferred by cheating athletes and macho
teenagers.
“Now, on to the Hutchinson case,”
Meek said. He glanced at J. “That’s all, Agent McBain.”
J wanted to sit there to prove to
Meek that he could handle listening to the high-profile stuff he’d be missing,
but he couldn’t risk it. After months in undercover hell, he was burned out. In
this state, even a controlled guy like J could lose it. He wouldn’t, not in
front of this bozo.
“Thank you, sir.” Jason stood,
grabbed the file and casually strode toward the door.
“McBain?” Meek’s high-pitched
whine called out.
J turned. “Yes, sir?”
“I spoke with Robert Dunham
yesterday.”
Jason waited. Dunham made the big
decisions, set up teams, cut people loose.
“I got the impression that if you
nail this assignment as effectively as the last you could get your own team
come fall.”
J tried to act appreciative.
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” he
said.
He left the conference room and
headed for the elevators, heat burning his neck. Wasn’t it just like Meek to
taunt him with the promise of his own team? J’s dream had always been to call
the shots, to run his own group of agents. But so far he’d ended up working for
incompetents like Meek.
“Jason, wait,” Agent Totem called
out as he reached the end of the hall. The man caught up as J pressed the down
button.
“It’s bullshit, man. Total
bullshit,” Totem said.
Totem wasn’t a bad guy, just kind
of submissive when it came to authority figures.
“Thanks for the support, but—”
“No, listen. Meek is holding back.
I think there’s something else going down with the wrestling promotion. I’m not
sure what, but there’s more to it. Watch your back.”
“Agent Totem!” Meek called from
the door. “You were getting coffee?”
Totem glanced over his shoulder.
“Just wanted to wish McBain good luck, sir.”
“You should be more focused on
your own career.”
“Yes, sir.” He looked at J.
“Bastard,” he whispered.
“Thanks.” They shook hands.
Totem went back into the meeting
room. Before closing the door, Meek shot J his patented, rat-like smile. He sure
was holding something back.
J turned back to the elevator. So,
was this a setup, a way for Meek to torch his career? No matter. He’d wait it
out. Sooner or later the top brass would figure out Meek had shit for brains
and an ego the size of the Pacific Ocean.
J got into the crowded elevator
and thought about his next move. Research, plan, execute. Study his enemy and
become him in order to catch him. Only this time he wasn’t sure who the enemy
was.
A minor detail. He’d figure it
out.
A tall brunette squeezed in next
to him. Her scent reminded him of Daria. Damn, he needed a long soak in a hot
tub, maybe a massage to go with it. The stress from staying alive these past
few months, then being ambushed by his boss this morning had stripped him bare.
The brunette smiled. He’d been
staring at her.
Get a hold of yourself, man.
The self-imposed celibacy was
messing with his head, causing him to lose focus. He smiled back. Maybe he
should break down and take this female out for a night of hot, fast sex, going
fifty on the Harley.
Her face flushed two shades of
red. She’d read it in his eyes, which meant his normally, impenetrable armor
had cracked in a few places thanks to his last assignment and this morning’s
ambush.
The doors opened and he brushed
past her. He had a job to do. No female would throw him off course.
Make that female or male. Meek
thought he was torching J’s career? Not happening. J would become the best pro
wrestler in the business, find out who was dealing steroids or worse, and nail
the son of a bitch.
* * *
“Are you a masochist?” Sandy Ryan,
medical assistant extraordinaire, stared down the stubborn pro wrestler. Make
that stared up. Hmmm, maybe that’s why the six-foot plus beast wasn’t listening
to her. He towered over her by a good seven inches.
“Sit your butt down,” she snapped.
He flopped down as ordered. They
never argued with her. Men in pain were like that: they gave in and gave up. Maybe
if they’d listen to her once in a while they’d be in less pain.
A few of them would still be
alive, too. Damn steroids. When were the boys going to learn that they were not
as invincible as their stage personas? When were they going to admit that
fellow wrestlers were dying of heart attacks every year from abusing the dangerous
drug?
Curly Carlisle sat on the locker
room bench and sighed, stretching out his neck.
“Sit still so I can start with the
ice,” she commanded.
“Yes, sir.”
She took a step back and stared
him down. “You trying to piss me off? Because I’ve got five other guys I could
be working on.”
“Sorry,” he muttered.
“I’ll bet you are.” She pulled an
ice pack out of her bag. Cracking it a few times to activate the chemicals, she
ground her teeth at the guy’s subtle insult. She’d heard the rumors about her
being the ice queen lesbian. Usually she didn’t care, but with her baby sister’s
news about being pregnant a lot of things were bothering her that usually
didn’t. Truth was, she’d turned thirty-one last February and if she didn’t
watch herself she’d become an old maid like Aunt Doris. She cringed at the
thought. Doris was so lonely and sad, always talking to her goldfish, Victor.
Was that Sandy’s destiny?