Pushing the Limits (10 page)

Jack frowned. “Look, Colby, I know you're after Faith's job and I know you think
Get Fit Las Vegas
is beneath you
because you worked as an anchor in Seattle, but if you're not in the van, ready to go in five minutes, you won't have to worry about the show anymore.”

Damn it. As much as she wanted to get away from the show, until she could secure the promotion, she needed the job, and besides, she doubted Ari would consider her for Faith's job if she got herself fired from this one. “I promise I'll be there,” she said, hurrying toward Ari's office.

Ari hung up his office phone as she entered. “Aren't you late for location?”

She winced. Stupid Jack had ratted her out. “Yes, sir, but I needed to talk to you again about that Dane Hardy story.” She swallowed her guilt. How easily she referred to him as a story when hours before she was straddling him naked.

“You've realized it's a dead end?”

“No. Actually, I think there might be a bigger story there.”

He sighed. “Colby, I really don't have time . . .”

She retrieved the doctor's note she'd found in the trash the weekend before and handed the rumpled pink slip to him. “Look. This guy wasn't supposed to be fighting last Friday night.”

He scanned the note. “Where did you get this?”

“I found it in the trash.”

He forced it back into her hand, and going into his desk, he pumped hand sanitizer on his hand.

“Ari, I think there's a great story here. Xtreme Fight is allowing athletes to compete when they shouldn't. In the past there's been some speculation about their drug-testing policies. This might be the start of the proof we need—”

“To do what?” he interrupted.

“Shut them down.” Wasn't it obvious?

“Shut them down?” He moved around her and closed the door. “Colby, we report on sports.”

She nodded.

“And I'll be honest, everyday sports stories can be boring as fuck.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but he silenced her. “So when there are controversial stories such as a fatal head-kick or failed drug tests . . . we want those stories. What we don't want is to shut down one of the main sources of those stories.
Understand?”

She was ready to argue, but he silenced her again. “Look, I told you to go after this Dane story because frankly I didn't see any harm in you chasing a dead lead to try to revive it with a fresh, new angle.”

She clenched her jaw.

“But, the truth is, it is an old story. No one cares about Dane Hardy anymore or Marco Consu—whatever his name was . . .”

She did. She cared. A lot. Too much. Which made this whole thing—deceiving Dane, trying to pry info from him—harder, and her boss couldn't even appreciate the new story developing from all of that? She really was a hamster on a spinning wheel.

“And as for this new story you think you're uncovering? It needs to stop now,” he said firmly.

“But . . .”

“Colby, it stops now. Don't go any further with this.” Ari sat back down at his desk.

She pressed her lips together, her steely gaze locked on his . . . until finally she nodded. She wasn't getting anywhere with him. She wasn't sure she would ever get anywhere with him. “Yes, sir,” she mumbled.

“Now go get the cheerleader interview before Jack comes whining to me again,” he said, turning his attention to his computer.

Without a word, she left the office. One thing was certain. She was never getting ahead at Knock Out Sports. Which made getting this story that much more important. Ari Connelly may not care about it, but she suspected there were other media outlets that would.

The text message from Tyson was a screen shot of an MFL contract.

Shutting his locker door harder than he intended, Dane held his finger above the delete button. Fuck. It would be a hell of a lot easier to move on with his life and put fighting behind him if people would let him.

He should delete this message as he'd deleted all other attempts at contact from his former coach. But noticing specific details highlighted toward the bottom of the page, he hesitated. Enlarging the pic, he read.

One exhibition match against Rico “The Bulldog” Mendez to be held at the Hard Rock Casino Exhibition Center on Sept 22nd.

He frowned. They weren't actually offering him a return to the MFL, but a redemption match for Rico? They expected him to climb back into the cage to be a punching bag for three five-minute rounds against the best pound-for-pound fighter in the world right now? So the guy could retire and go into the MMA hall of fame as the greatest undefeated fighter in the weight class?

What did he get out of that?

Absolutely nothing.

He deleted the text without responding, tossing his phone aside. He shouldn't be surprised by the MFL's latest asshole move. He'd always had to fight for contracts with them and for the higher payouts that were given to guys with less experience than him. Tyson had done his best, but the fight matchmaker, Erik Johansen, was only concerned with one thing: doing whatever it took to make the MFL the most successful MMA organization in the world; and he did that by catering to the best fighters in the world. So, when fighters like Rico wanted something, they got it.

Well, not this time.

He changed out of his coveralls and into his jeans and T-shirt quickly. The other text message that had been waiting on his phone after his shift had ended was from Lee. His final paycheck was still waiting for him to pick up at The Vault. He'd had enough time to cool off and, while he was still pissed about the wrongful dismissal, he couldn't be too upset. The job at Edwards' Propellers was definitely a much better situation.

“Hey, man,” Colby's brother Doug said as he entered the change room. “The guys are going out for a few drinks. Want to come along?”

He hesitated. He'd gotten a quick text from Colby after leaving her that morning, saying that Mrs. Everwood had locked up behind her—after they'd had breakfast together—but that was it. He had no reason to think she wanted to see him that evening, though he'd been secretly hoping one of the messages on his phone would be from her. All day, he'd had to force images of her beautiful body lying on his bed from his mind, chase away thoughts of her soft hands touching him and the feel of her lips against his skin. If three of his coworkers had been able to read his mind that day, he was certain he'd be out on his ass.

He shook his head. Well, Colby's father and brothers had nothing to worry about. He wasn't idiot enough to think that there would be a repeat of the night before. The mind-blowing sex had started things off pretty damn fantastic, but his cold-sweat nightmare embarrassment would send even the nicest woman packing. Who the hell wanted to deal with his baggage? He was a mess, and until he got his head on straight again, he was no good to anyone.

“Um . . . sure, okay,” he said finally. Making some new friends away from the fighting world couldn't hurt. Another step toward his new future. “I'll meet you guys in a bit. I have to do something real quick first,” he said, grabbing his bag and tossing it over his shoulder.

“No problem. I'll text you and let you know where we are,” Doug said.

“Great,” Dane said, leaving the room and heading to his truck.

After forty minutes of gridlock traffic on the Las Vegas Boulevard, he parked in the lot behind The Vault and went inside the club through the street-entrance door. He wanted to get in and get out as quickly as possible. “Hey, Jax.” He nodded to the bartender setting up for the evening. “Lee in his office?”

“Yeah, he just went back there.” Jax dried a beer glass and set it in on the shelf. “Hey, sorry to hear about you getting fired. Tough break . . .”

“Yeah, well, don't piss off Lee's family,” he said.

Jax shook his head. “Man, that guy drives everyone in here crazy. You did the right thing. I just wish he'd been one of the two you took out with that brutal left hook of yours,” he said with a smirk.

“Me too. See ya around, Jax,” he said, tapping the bar and heading toward Lee's office.

“Oh, hey, man, I almost forgot. Tyson Reed was in here a few nights ago asking for you. Thought you should know,” he said.

Wow, his former coach really was persistent. “Great, thanks.” Suddenly, he was almost relieved he'd been fired. Ignoring Tyson's calls and texts was one thing, but having to come face-to-face with him after ten months would be tough. Saying
no to the guy when he owed him so much would be hard, but there was no way he could agree to that fight.

Knocking once on the open office door a few seconds later, he went inside. The man was on his cell phone and nodded to acknowledge him.

Dane sat in the chair across from Lee, his feet aching from the new steel-toed boots he was wearing at work. But it was a good pain—a reminder that he was finally getting his life pieced back together.

And he wasn't about to let anything ruin that.

Lee disconnected the call and reached into the file cabinet behind him. “Here you are. I assume this is why you're here,” he said, awkwardly.

Dane nodded, accepting the envelope. “Yes, thank you.” He paused, unsure if saying anything would make any difference. “Look, man, I apologize about the other night, but you have to know your cousin and his entourage are bad news. The bartenders hate having to deal with him and he is not helping the club's business,” he said. Already fired, he had nothing to lose by being honest, and maybe it might help the remaining staff.

Lee sighed. “
I
hate dealing with him, but he owns thirty percent of this place. If there was a way to buy him out and ban him, believe me, I would.” He ran a hand through graying hair and he looked tired.

Dane wasn't so sure he believed that—the guy was family after all—but he nodded. “Okay, well, thanks again,” he said, peeking inside the envelope as he stood. Then he stopped. “Hey, this check is only for three hundred and forty-six. I was expecting five hundred.”

“I held back a hundred and fifty for damages from the other night.”

Dane's jaw tightened. “Damages?”

“Three bottles of tequila broken and a bar-stool leg.”

“And you're taking it out of my check?”

Lee stood. “Where else can I take it from, man?” His cell rang and he glanced at the display. “Motherfucker. It's Chris. Bet you that hundred and fifty bucks he's calling in sick again.” He glared at Dane. “You were my best guy. Fuck,” he said, slamming the phone back down against the desk.

Dane stood his ground. “Exactly. So I want the rest of my money. You know that fight the other night wasn't my fault. I was defending myself against two assholes and, by the way, the video went viral.” He wasn't leaving without what was owed to him. He needed the money now more than ever. Payday from his new job was still a few days away, and he wasn't
even sure he'd get a full check right away.

Lee looked ready to argue, but seeing the look on Dane's face, he shook his head. “Fine. I'll take the money out of petty cash,” he mumbled, opening the lockbox on his desk and removing the bills. “Here,” he said, handing over the cash.

Dane accepted it. “Thanks.”

“Yeah . . . Oh, and I'm not sure if anyone told you, but Tyson Reed was in here . . .”

“I know,” he said, cutting him off. His gut twisted again at the thought that the man was so desperate to talk to him he'd tracked him down. Thank God there was no way he could find out where he was working now.

As he left the office, a text message from Doug lit up his cell.

We're at ShadowDancers. First round is on the new guy so hurry up
.

Fantastic. He tucked the money into his back pocket. Easy come, easy go.

* * *

After three hours with bubbly, energetic cheerleaders and then two hours in her cubicle trying to piece together a six-minute local-interest piece that would air just before commercial break on the ten-o'clock local sports show, Colby needed a drink.

Here she was on the verge of a story that could shed light on the underground fighting organizations, and she was wasting her time interviewing sixteen-year-olds.

Opening the door to ShadowDancers, she spotted her brothers in the far-corner booth, where they sat almost every night after work. Stopping by the bar first for her vodka cranberry on ice, she joined them. “Hey, guys,” she said, climbing into the booth next to Marshall. She frowned, glancing at the water glasses in front of them. She shot each of them a look. “I'm not understanding what's happening here.”

“We're waiting for the new guy to get here. First round of drinks are on him,” Doug said, picking up her glass and taking a swig.

Her mouth went dry. She'd texted Dane that morning to let him know that Mrs. Everwood had locked his apartment door behind her, but she hadn't heard back from him, and all day she'd desperately tried to shove thoughts of the night before to the back of her mind. She felt guilty as hell, and even worse, she was starting to have feelings for him, and he hadn't even acknowledged her text . . . And now he was on his way there.

Maybe she should leave.

“Ah, there he is,” Marshall said.

Or not, she thought, turning in the booth to see Dane approach the table.

God, he was hot. How was it possible that he looked even better in a pair of ripped jeans and black T-shirt than any
GQ
model in a three-piece suit? The fact that she knew how amazing his body was underneath the clothing didn't help. She could feel her cheeks burn as their gazes locked.

His expression was unreadable. Was he happy to see her?

Turning, she picked up her glass and drained the contents.

“Wow, sis. Rough day?” Marshall asked.

Her heart raced. “I don't want to talk about work today, okay?” she said, quickly.

They all shrugged.

“Hey, sorry I'm late,” Dane said, reaching the table and looking everywhere but at her.

Wow. Admittedly, she'd practically fallen into bed with a stranger the night before, but she certainly hadn't expected this reaction from him.

“What's everyone drinking?” he asked.

They all gave their orders. Except her.

He cleared his throat awkwardly as he said, “Colby, what do you want?”

Well, that was a loaded question. She met his gaze, keeping all emotion from hers as she said, “Not a thing.”

He shifted uncomfortably. “Well, do you want to help me carry?”

“I think you can handle it.”

“Please,” he said quietly.

Her brothers were watching, listening with unconcealed curiosity. She sighed. “Okay.” She climbed out of the booth, and when they were out of hearing range, he turned to face her.

“Hey, I'm sorry.”

She shrugged. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, I do . . . I'm just having trouble figuring out what.”

Figures, he couldn't understand where she might be slightly pissed about being fucked and subsequently ignored. “Well, a response to my text this morning might have been nice . . . seeing as how I spent the night in your bed,” she whispered as they approached the bar.

Yanking his phone out of his pocket, he shoved the message beneath her nose. “This text?”

“Yes,” she said, glancing briefly at it.

“What was I supposed to say in response to ‘
Mrs. Everwood locked your apartment door behind me
.' Most ambiguous text message ever,” he said, sounding annoyed. “At least I left a note.”

“I don't want to wake you? Thanks for last night?” She raised an eyebrow. “Talk about ambiguous.”

“I also said ‘Friend.'”

“No. Actually, you said ‘Friend?'”

A hard, silent stare-down followed, and she refused to be the one to cave first. She wasn't the type of woman to sleep around, and he had no idea how conflicted she felt about the night before. She wasn't letting him off the hook for his casual dismissal that morning. Not when the connection between them the night before had been so much more than just physical.

For her, at least.

His shoulders sagged and his face broke into an embarrassed grin. “Okay, I can see how my note could have been a little confusing.”

“A little?” she asked, but she felt the corner of her own mouth twitch.

“A lot,” he said, moving closer to her and touching her bare arm.

A ripple of shivers danced down her spine at the simple touch and she was grateful that they were in a crowded bar. Grateful? Yes, definitely grateful. Her mind was conflicted enough. She didn't need a repeat of the night before confusing things even more.

“What I meant to say was I had an amazing night with you and I hope I didn't freak you out with the whole nightmare thing,” he said, searching her expression.

Oh, crap. She felt all annoyance melt away, which was not good. Annoyance toward him helped to overshadow her guilt. “Not at all . . . and I had an amazing night too.”

He moved even closer, brushing her hair off her shoulders as he leaned in to whisper, “Is it a bad thing I want to kiss you right now?”

Yes. She swallowed hard, heat coursing through her at the feel of his breath on her neck. “It's only a bad thing because we have an audience,” she said with a sigh, quickly glancing toward their booth, where her brothers sat impatiently scanning the crowd for them—or rather, their drinks.

He moved away reluctantly. “Right . . .”