Love On The Ropes (Ringside Romance) (8 page)

This was totally unprofessional!
What was wrong with her?
Refocus. Fan out like a butterfly’s wings, press
into the spine. Lower, spread out...

Her hands traced over a rough spot
on his skin, then another. Scars. Round, rugged scars that looked like ...
bullet wounds?

She snapped her hands back. He
turned his head and looked at her, his eyelids heavy.

“What?” he said.

“What the hell happened to you?”

He closed his eyes for a second,
took a deep breath, and in one swift move got off the table.

“Nothing,” he said, heading for
the door.

“I didn’t say you could leave.”

He turned to her, his hair hanging
into his eyes, his hands resting on his hips. But he didn’t make eye contact.

“Get back on the table,” she
ordered.

“Why? So you can beat me up some
more?”

“Wait, what I was doing ... it was
hurting you?”

“Forget it.”

“Jason—”

“Don’t.” He pointed his index finger
at her. “I don’t need a massage, and I surely don’t need you psychoanalyzing me
and digging into my secrets. It’s none of your business.”

“But your body is. Come on, get
back on the table.”

He hesitated, and Sandy held her
breath. This guy wasn’t used to taking orders from a woman. He definitely had
some kind of twisted female issues, one more reason to keep her distance. Sandy
needed normal, solid, and predictable.

With a resigned sigh, he ambled to
the bed and flopped down. She went back to work, trying to distance her mind
from her hands, to click into automatic healer mode. She’d done it plenty of
times when she’d worked on arrogant slugs who didn’t respect her gift.

But this man was different. He was
real and raw. And something in him called out to her.

Oh crap, she thought, pressing the
heel of her right palm into his back. This wasn’t about The Stripper as much as
it was about Sandy needing a man to mend that broken spot inside of her. One
thing for sure, she wouldn’t find such a man in BAM. She’d been smart enough to
keep her distance for years. Then Cody Monroe sneaked his way into her heart.
He’d told her how beautiful she was, how her eyes glowed with magic, and she’d
fallen apart in his arms.

Must have been Cody’s comment
about her eyes. Pops always criticized her for having serious, moody eyes, but
when Cody called them magical, hope lit her insides. Maybe she was a beautiful
girl after all, not the tomboy little sister of the Ryan boys.

“Damn,” she muttered.

“What?” Jason asked.

“What, what?” She jerked her hands
off from his back.

“You said something.”

“Didn’t mean to.” And she hadn’t.
Whew, she couldn’t afford for brain mumbles to escape her lips right now,
especially not with this guy on her table.

She’d been drawn to Cody much like
she was drawn to Jason. He was sexy, vulnerable, sexy, needy, broken, sexy and,
oh, yeah, sexy.

It didn’t help that she was past
thirty and didn’t have a man. She’d call her big brother after today’s show and
ask for that guy’s number—what was his name? Danny? Desmond? Big brother Curt
raved about the guy, that he was a great catch and would be a loving father and
loyal husband. She couldn’t help thinking if she wanted loyal she should get
herself a Cocker Spaniel.

“You’re done,” she said, giving
The Stripper a pat on the back.

He didn’t move.

“Stripper?”

Nothing.

“Jason?”

“Hmmm?”

“I’m finished.”

He slowly opened his eyes,
focusing on the far wall. “That was amazing,” he said, breathless. “Can you
come home with me?”

“Very funny.” She went to rinse
the slick oil off her hands.

“I’m not joking.” And Jason surely
wasn’t. He’d love to have a female like Sandy waiting for him at home, a woman
whose magical hands could make him relax better than any booze could.

He sat up slowly, grinding his
teeth against the ache in his back, and studied her expression in the mirror
above the sink. She seemed far away, but not angry like before. Good, he didn’t
want to make her angry, yet he didn’t know her well enough to know how to avoid
the land mines.

“The least you can do is let me
buy you dinner,” he said, then panicked because his idea of dinner was the
drive-through burger joint. He sensed she was classier than that.

“I have a rule.” She turned,
rubbing lotion on her hands. It made him hard. “I don’t date any of the boys.”

“What about that Monroe guy?” He’d
heard the rumors.

A strained look crossed her face.
“I thought he was different.” She pushed away from the sink and shoved the
lotion into her bag. “Bad judgment on my part. I learned my lesson. Won’t be
doing that again.”

“Just because he was an asshole
doesn’t mean we’re all jerks.” He felt compelled to push. He needed to stick
close to her. She was an excellent mark for this assignment. She knew all the
players, their families, and financial needs, and she had magic hands. Hands he
was going to dream about all night.

The door burst open and Rey Risque
popped his head in. “Sandy, Johnny needs you! Atomic Bomb miscalculated and
messed up Oscar.”

“Damn.” She raced out of the room.

And just like that she was gone,
off to save another fool.

Three wrestlers came into the
room: Floyd, Rodger Dodger and someone Jason didn’t know, a seven-foot guy who
drooled as he watched Sandy rush off down the hall.

“Man, I’d like to nail her,” the
giant said.

“She’s not available,” Jason said.

“No?”

“Doesn’t date wrestlers.”

“I know that,” the seven-foot
wrestler said. “That doesn’t mean I can’t nail her.” He laughed, but Jason
noticed the other two guys weren’t laughing.

“You’re an asshole,” Floyd said.

“Don’t I know it,” the giant
agreed.

“But this guy...” Floyd stuck his
hand out and Jason automatically shook it. “You were pretty good tonight, man.”

“Thanks.”

They all got down to business of
dressing or undressing for matches. Since he had a captive audience he figured
he might as well go for it. “I hate being practically naked out there.” He
slipped off the table and stretched out his neck.

Floyd chuckled.

“I mean I’m no Arnold
Schwarzenegger or anything.” Jason dropped the hint, hoping to get a bite.

“A little self-conscious are ya’?”
Rodger Dodger asked.

“Wouldn’t you be?”

“Nope. I’m buff, baby.” Rodger
stuck out his chest and the other guys chuckled.

“It’s just … when I’m out there,
half-naked in front of thousands of people, I wish I were, I don’t know,
buffer,” Jason said.

“‘Buffer,’ is that even a word?”
the seven-foot-tall guy asked, slipping on a pink tank top that read
Real
Men Wear Pink
.

The door burst open and a security
guard poked his head into the room. “You’re back on in ten, Stripper.”

“What the—”

“Since Oscar’s out, we’ve substituted
a rematch between Luscious Lucy and Naughty Nadine. During the fight they’ll
cue your music and you’ll jump into the ring and do your strip routine. Get
your clothes on and meet me out front.” The door slammed shut.

Damn, was this really happening?
He was going to strip twice in one night?

“Stripper?” Floyd said.

Jason glanced at him.

“You okay?”

Jason was flailing his arms in the
waters of an alternate universe where people cheered at the sight of men
stripping in public and beating each other to a pulp. No, he was definitely not
okay.

“I know what he needs.” Rodger
pulled a clear plastic bag from his duffle and waved it in Jason’s face. “You
need a little confidence. Take two of these.”

“What is it?”

“It’s safe, don’t worry.”

Rodger dropped two white pills
into Jason’s hand. All three men watched. Ah, the part of undercover work that
never sat well with him.

“Here, I’ll go first.” Rodger tossed
them back and took a gulp of water. “Magic pills. They make you feel like a
man. What a rush.”

J didn’t want to ask too many
questions. They probably weren’t steroids—he couldn’t be that lucky—but he was
getting closer.

“Come on, do it,” the seven-foot
wrestler said. “You’ve got ten minutes before you have to strip again.”

If the guys suspected he wasn’t
one of them, wasn’t willing to play at drug abuse, this assignment was over. J
looked at the pills in his hand: the very lead he’d been hoping for.

“I’d hate to use up your supply,
man,” Jason said.

“No problem. Sandy can always get
us more.”

Jason closed his fingers around
the white pills.

Sandy was the supplier? No, she
couldn’t be.

Fool. You’ve let her get under
your skin
.

The door burst open. “Stripper,
you ready?” asked the security guard.

“Sure.”

The seven-foot wrestler nodded at
J to take the pills. Jason palmed the things and pretended to swallow them. He
was good at pretending. Apparently he wasn’t the only one.

Sandy can always get us more
.

The words haunted him as he
layered on his clothes. That sweet girl with the magic hands was the perp. God,
why hadn’t he seen it?

He grabbed his jacket and headed
for the door.

“Good luck,” one of the guys said.
Which one, J didn't know. He didn’t care. He had to bust Sandy for distributing
drugs and put her behind bars. The sudden image of that sweet little thing in
an orange jumpsuit being intimidated by other inmates made his stomach turn.

“You know what to do?” the
security guard asked as they left the locker room.

“Yeah, I know.” Get even closer to
Sandy to learn how she thought and what she felt.  Get under her skin so he
could arrest her. Suddenly he wanted a shower.

“Hey!” the devil herself cried, racing
up to him. “You shouldn’t be going back out there.”

He clenched his jaw at the sound
of her voice, filled with such concern.

“What the heck’s going on, Jason?”
she said, searching his eyes.

“Nothing, I’m fine.”

“You weren’t fine a minute ago.”
Sandy grabbed his arm and pulled him to a halt. “Who the hell is sending you
out there again? You’ve got a head injury.”

Right, a head injury that blinded
him to what was real. He hadn’t seen it coming. He really thought she cared
about him, about the rest of the guys. Man, it had been a long time since he’d
been taken in like that, twenty-some years to be exact. The day Raymond McBain
went out for doughnuts and never came back.

“I’m fine,” he said. “Let go so I
can do my job.”

His voice sounded strange, even to
him. He kept his focus on the doorway to the stadium.

“Look at me,” she said.

He couldn’t.

“Jason? How many fingers do I have
up?”

He put his hand around her three
fingers and lowered them. “I could use another shot of whiskey,” he said,
hoping to get a closer look inside her backpack.

“You sure? You don’t seem right.”

“Give me a chance, later.” He shot
her his best seductive smile. Considering his current mood, it probably looked
like an attack of gas.

She cocked her head to one side,
studying him.

Shields up, protective armor in
place. No one gets in
.

He’d become a master at hiding his
thoughts and feelings, yet somehow over the course of the last few hours this
spitfire-turned-suspect had seeped through the impenetrable armor.

“You don’t look good,” she said.

Of course not. Manipulating people
was exhausting. Plus, there was the whole stripping in public thing, physically
exposing himself, and performing in this chaos called pro wrestling.

“What’s going on in that head of
yours?” she asked. “Or is anything happening? If you have a concussion you
shouldn’t go out there.”

“There’s my boy!” Cosmo marched
over to him.

It was everything Jason could do
not to punch the guy in the face for calling him
my boy
.

“I’m ready,” J said.

“He’s not,” Sandy argued.

“What are you, my mother?”

She took a step back as if he’d
slapped her.

He ripped his gaze from her pained
expression and looked at Cosmo. “Let’s do it.”

Cosmo nodded to the security guard
who escorted J to the stage curtain. Good, get him away from her and keep him
safe from those green eyes and that warm smile. Keep him from being a total sap
and falling into some fantasy world where a sweet little thing like Sandy takes
care of him, nurtures him. A world where she isn’t a dealer peddling drugs and
selling hope. That’s what it was all about, right? Drugs equaled hope? Hope for
relief from whatever pain a guy was feeling? Hope for the guys to make them
feel manly and powerful?

False hope.

“Two minutes,” the guard said,
peeking around the stage curtain.

No problem. Jason had pretended to
be any number of bastards in his life, from drug dealers to strung-out buyers. He’d
pretended to be dead in order to survive an ambush in Colombia; he’d pretended
to be A-OK to make Mom happy when his heart was breaking. Hell, he’d pretended
to be tough when stepping into the role of lead male in his family after Dad
walked out.

Yeah, he’d been pretending his whole
life, and was damn good at it. It didn’t matter if he fell apart at three in
the morning, or drank himself numb on June 12 every year. No one knew that
stuff. They only knew what he let them see. For his second performance of the
night, he’d let them see arrogance and skin. Lots of it.

***

“Bad, really, really bad,” Sandy
whispered to herself as she watched the match from the stands.

“Who are you talking to?” Floyd walked
up and put his arm around her.