Back in Black (24 page)

“No one can coerce Mr. Black, his behavior
is
suitable, and I assure you he has never abused me!”

“He might not strike you, but there are all types of abuse, Ms. Noode. I was referring to the way that he treats women as second-class citizens, how he calls them demeaning names and ridicules them in the business world.” Emotion added steam to her outburst. “He is known for using women like paper napkins, only to toss them out with the trash when he’s done. And you know he’ll be done with you soon enough.”

Drew rolled his eyes at her venom, but Gillian didn’t have the same reaction.

Her eyes narrowed. “Millie Christian, I presume?”

That took Millie back a step, but she quickly regrouped. “I see that you’ve heard of me.”

“Indeed.” Gillian looked her over with the same distaste she’d give to a bug.

“Because of
him
.” She pointed the recorder at Drew. “Because of his foul mouth and disrespectful attitude toward women.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Gillian said. “I believe any source, male or female, who shared so much erroneous information would have garnered the same reaction from him. It wasn’t sexist at all, just intolerance for lack of facts.”

Drew’s eyebrows went up. Score one for Gillian.

“You’re
defending
him?” The reporter’s red hair nearly stood on end. “But then, I shouldn’t be surprised. If you’re trashy enough to sleep with him, of course you’d see things his way.”

Gillian shook her head as if in pity. “What is wrong with you, Ms. Christian? You sound like a lover scorned, but surely that can’t be the case.” Her lip curled in a way that Drew had never before witnessed. “I know that for a fact, because Drew Black would never be interested in such a petty, mean-spirited,
stupid
woman.”

Millie’s face went red with rage.
“You’re nothing more than a—”

With all cameras taking it in, Gillian cut her off and put her in her place.

“Oh, please, Ms. Christian, get a grip. Your vindictiveness and spiteful attitude are not appropriate to a professional interview. You’re not asking decisive, pertinent questions. You’re just a gossipmonger.” Gillian shooed her away. “I’m not talking with you. You’re not a professional in any sense of the word.”

Millie Christian turned reddened eyes on Drew. Through her teeth, she said, “Tell me, Mr. Black, were you glad when the photographer was killed?”

“Actually, no. His death denied me the satisfaction of beating him down.” Drew smiled at her. “And if he’d lived, I could have found out who he was working for.”

She sucked in a breath at his honesty. “Just what incriminating scenes will we find on that camera when the film’s developed?”

“That’s more than enough.” Belatedly taking charge again, Sparks stepped in front of her.

But the other reporters were just as keen on a bona fide scandal. They recorded what they could, and the questions were flying like crazy—all aimed at Gillian.

A mic was shoved under her nose. “Are you personally involved with Drew Black, the president of the SBC?”

A second reporter pushed the first aside. “What is the scope of your employed position?”

The first shoved back. “Is Drew Black trying to reform, and why?”

As Sparks herded Millie Christian away, she yelled over her shoulder, “Drew Black’s position in the SBC is at risk, isn’t it? Have even the owners tired of his crude behavior? Who will replace him?”

“For the love of . . .” Muscling aside the reporters, Drew took Gillian’s arm and started dragging her along. The fighters and their women closed ranks around them, making it impossible for the inquisition to continue. But still the flashbulbs lit the night.

“Jesus,” Dickey said. “It was like a damned feeding frenzy.”

“Won’t matter,” Simon said. “It’s not like someone from the NFL was caught. This is one time I’m glad we’re not more mainstream.”

“It’ll hit the smaller news venues, mostly online,” Dean said. “But I can’t see network news picking it up.”

Bullshit. Every sports show out there would sink their teeth into the story. Sure, as long as the SBC did great, most chose to ignore it. But something like this?

His fighters weren’t dumb; they realized the same thing. But Drew knew they were trying to reassure Gillian, and he appreciated their efforts.

For himself, he wasn’t worried. He, and everyone else, knew his value. He was synonymous with the sport, and that made him nearly irreplaceable.

But Gillian . . . this would damage her good name, defame her in the PR world, and affect the jobs she got in the future.

Unless he could figure out a way to fix it.

As everyone packed through his front door to wait out the vultures, Drew’s thoughts scrambled. The only solution he could think of was one he didn’t want to contemplate.

He looked at Gillian’s stricken face, her shattered attempts at dignity, and he knew, for her, he would do it.

He’d quit the SBC.

 

 

TOUCHED by some strange emotion, Brett smoothed a hand down Audrey’s arm. She dozed against him, her head in the notch of his shoulder, her small hand resting on his abdomen. He wanted her again, of course. It was insane how she stirred him, kept him on the edge, and made him resent his dedication.

She looked so sweet and sexy, curled beside him, and last night . . . well, she’d taken him by surprise with her lack of inhibition. It wasn’t a wealth of experience that had made her bold; it was the same churning, irresistible attraction that he’d felt for her the second he laid eyes on her.

Feeling her breath on his skin, the way her long hair trailed over his arm, how trustingly she relaxed against him, filled him with an overwhelming need to claim her the best way known to man.

But he’d kept her up late and didn’t want to wake her so early.

Weak rays of sunshine cut through cold gray skies. It’d be a good morning for jogging. Quiet. Peaceful. Unlike some fighters, he didn’t mind conditioning. He didn’t have to force himself to do it. For him, it was as accepted, as much a part of his routine, as brushing his teeth and showering.

But today . . . today it took a little more effort to leave his bed, only because Audrey was in it.

She stirred but didn’t awaken. The room had cooled considerably, so Brett pulled the quilt up and over her shoulder. Curled at the foot of the bed, Spice lifted her head to look at him, blinked her bright eyes, and went back to sleep against Audrey’s feet.

Seeing his pet so accepting of Audrey put a funny little twinge in his chest. Other than Spice, he hadn’t openly cared for anyone or anything in a very long time. He hoped he was a nice guy, considerate and mannered. But those traits had always come with a purposeful distance.

With Audrey . . . he couldn’t quite drum up that same indifference. Already his feelings for her were noticeable beyond enjoying sex or mere companionship.

Whether he was ready or not, she’d crawled under his skin and was making her way into his heart.

As silently as possible, Brett gathered up the clothes he’d need and, with one final stroke along Spice’s back, slipped from the room. After he dressed, he wrote Audrey a note and put it on top of her purse, still on the sofa. He chugged down a protein drink and then put on a pot of coffee and set out everything Audrey might need.

Wondering if she’d awaken while he was gone, he slipped out of the apartment.

This early, the neighborhood was quiet. In the impoverished area, most stayed up late and slept in till early afternoon. That suited Brett just fine; he liked that his alternate schedule gave him added privacy.

A blanket of dew clung to everything, even the pavement. Up ahead, fog drifted in and around street lamps still glowing. His sneakers made a satisfying splat, splat, splat with each long stride he took.

He loved jogging.

He’d been jogging since he was fifteen, using it as a way to ease tension, to gather his thoughts, to marshal his anger . . . at his parents, at injustice.

At a lack of viable choices.

But mixed martial arts had given him choices. Plenty of them. As he’d told Audrey, he was a fighter at heart—but he was so much more than that, too. He was first and foremost a survivor. No one could ever take that from him.

He’d gotten through his father’s drunken rampages.

He’d muddled through the humiliation of his mother’s drug-inspired prostitution.

He’d survived life on the streets, the cold, and the hunger.

Drew called him a wonder boy, but Brett knew that wasn’t right; everyone was born with an instinct to endure. What else could he have done? Give up?

Trying to escape his own private demons, and the guilt that sometimes niggled at him, he ran a little harder. The guilt pissed him off. So he hadn’t seen his mother in a long time?

He didn’t want to see her ever again. For him, she ceased being his mother long ago. She’d allowed his father to vent on him physically during drink-induced fits. She’d relegated him to least importance in their family by begging the bastard to stay. And she’d gone against his pleas by not only drugging away her pain, but selling her body for the money to do so.

No, Brett didn’t miss her. He wasn’t even sure he pitied her anymore.

Fighters dubbed him “the Pit Bull.” Appropriate, he supposed, recalling how his mother used to curse him for refusing to see things her way. Even after his dad had smacked them both around, leaving behind bruises and blood, she’d wanted the bastard to stay.

For her, accepting verbal and physical abuse was better than being a woman alone. Then, when his dad had skipped out, his mother had a complete meltdown; and she became an addict and a whore in less than six months.

A flush of heat, of remembered shame, washed over Brett.

Thanks to his mother, he’d learned that anything and anyone could be left behind. And knowing that had made him a stronger person.

He loved the idea of fighting for the SBC; it had been a goal from the day he started serious training. But, as with everything else in life, it’d have to be on his terms.

Luckily, Drew had backed down from his insistence that Brett’s background could be used as a sideshow attraction to pull in viewers.

He put his head down and pounded the pavement in a furious sprint.

When the flush of resentment eased, he slowed again. Last he’d heard, his mom was sitting in jail, and truthfully, it was a blessing. At least while she was incarcerated, Brett didn’t have to think about someone killing her with a dirty needle, disease, or just for kicks.

An hour later, with dawn casting hues of pink, orange, and red over the horizon, Brett came back up to his apartment. Sweat soaked his hair, his shirt, but he felt physically good. Loose, relaxed.

He thought of Audrey, either at the table sipping coffee or, better yet, still snuggled in his bed. The now familiar tightening of desire rippled through him.

He opened the front door and found her wrapped in the quilt, sitting on the sofa and talking on her cell phone. She glanced up, her big brown eyes warm with welcome. After a small wave, she went back to talking with her caller.

Brett paused inside the door to look at her.

Her bare shoulders above the quilt looked soft and sleek and pale. Fresh from the bed, her blonde hair flowed down her back in long twining tendrils. Cute bare feet poked out from the bottom of the quilt.

Unable to resist, Brett went behind the sofa and touched his hand to her soft hair, her shoulders, her collarbone. She went still, paused in her talking, and then leaned into his hands.

He needed a shower, but that didn’t stop him from brushing aside her tumbled hair so that he could kiss her sensitive nape. A small shiver ran through her.

Damn, she enticed him.

“Millie,” she said in a voice gone high and thin, “I need to go now.” She stammered and then said, “No! Don’t do
anything
until I get there. Yes, I’m serious. Forget dead-lines. It’ll wait. I won’t be”—she glanced back at Brett—“too long.” A pause. “That doesn’t matter. I want to hear it all for myself before we start posting the story, okay?” She looked at Brett again, over his sweaty shirt and his loose jogging pants. She licked her lips, and her voice went husky. “I’ll be quick. I promise.”

Brett grinned. By quick, she better mean an hour from now, because he’d have to have her before he drove her back to her place.

After a few more verbal exchanges, she disconnected the call and tossed the phone near her purse. “I left my phone out here and missed a bunch of calls.”

Nothing important, he hoped.

Still looking at his body, she said breathlessly, “You need a shower.”

“I know.” When she finally met his gaze, he held out a hand to her. “Why don’t you take one with me?”

A
LL her life she’d been a responsible person. For years now, she’d felt a driving sense of duty that kept her from most social endeavors, particularly romantic involvements. She knew she shouldn’t leave Millie waiting, especially under the circumstances: Millie claimed to have solid proof of the brutality and corruption in the SBC.

But . . . for once her heart overruled her head.

She stood and took Brett’s hand.

As if she’d accepted more than his offering of shared intimacy, his gaze darkened, heated. She felt it, too. They were on a precipice of commitment, and she couldn’t be happier—or more nervous—about it.

Walking backward, her hand held securely in his, Brett led the way into the small bathroom. “What do you have going on today?”

Audrey bit her lips, cleared her throat. Knowing what was about to happen, and how new it still was for her, it wasn’t easy to think right now. “A meeting with Millie, work, and then just errands.” She tried to sound blasé and failed miserably. “Why?”