Back in Black (7 page)

“You have a killer hickey on your neck.” He winked. “Next time we play that game, maybe we should pick a body part that’s not so visible.”

In less than the three seconds he’d originally planned for the kiss, she was out the door and had slammed it behind her.

Drew laughed. Damn, he liked her.

Worse, he wanted her.

Now what?

GILLIAN stood in the back of the auditorium as the excited director of the boys’ home introduced Drew as a “very special surprise” to the audience of squirming, defensive, disgruntled youths. As she’d half expected, the director had jumped at the opportunity to have the infamous Drew Black as a guest, even on short notice, and he’d quickly rearranged the schedule for the day.

Drew took it all as his due, and now he looked perfectly at ease on the stage. He’d worn an SBC T-shirt and jeans, and it was the perfect choice to fit in with the youths.

While Gillian listened to the director revering Drew in his drawn-out introduction, she fingered the colorful scarf wrapped around her neck.

For as long as she could remember, she’d bruised easily. With the sensual way he’d devoured her neck . . . well, as Drew had stated, he’d most definitely marked her. Not since her college days had she had a hickey. Though no one could see the mark, thanks to the scarf, she still felt conspicuous and . . . wickedly risqué.

Ridiculous.

But every time she remembered the touch of his mouth there, his hot breath, the way he clutched her to him . . . she got chills followed by flashes of heat and the unmistakable churning of desire.

She wanted Drew Black, more than she’d wanted any man in a very long time. He seemed to know her, really know her—as a woman, and as a sexual being.

Not that she’d been sexual lately.

For far too long, she’d been too particular to get sexually involved. She’d had casual dates that didn’t even rate a kiss, much less intercourse. The interest necessary for that level of intimacy just hadn’t existed for her.

But now, it was impossible not to imagine how someone like Drew, so free of social inhibition, might be in bed.

From the stage, his gaze met hers, and even with so much distance between them and thirty rowdy young men waiting impatiently to be entertained, she felt ensnared by his provocative intent. It was all Gillian could do not to bite her lip. Shifting her feet, she squeezed her thighs together. A deep breath had her breasts straining the front of her blouse.

And looking at Drew, at the quirk to his mouth and the glimmer in his eyes, she saw that he
knew
how he affected her.

Luckily, the director joined her, giving her the excuse to look away from Drew to indulge a quiet whisper.

“Thank you again, Ms. Noode, for bringing us such a terrific speaker.”

Was that an assumption? “You’ve heard him before, Mr. Darwich?”

“On televised interviews and online. He can be . . . colorful. But he’s also a brilliant, motivated businessman.”

“Such accolades,” she teased.

Mr. Darwich grinned. “I admit I’m a fan, both of Mr. Black and the SBC.”

After that, they quieted to listen to Drew. He had a presence about him that demanded attention. He spoke with experienced authority, in a way that kept the young men listening.

About twenty minutes into his explanation of how the SBC worked, and about the rules that applied, one of the boys spoke out.

He asked, “How much do fighters make?”

“As with most things in life, that depends on how hard they work and how good they are. But that sort of goes hand in hand in most cases—the harder you work, the better you get.”

“That ain’t no answer.”

Drew shrugged. “I can give you a range.” He named two figures that were worlds apart, setting more boys to grumbling. “A new guy barely makes anything, especially if he’s fighting in a nontelevised bout. If he has to cover his own expenses and doesn’t have any sponsors . . . yeah, it’d be tough to make ends meet. The stars, the guys who have earned the right to title shots—”

“Like Havoc, or Sublime.”

Drew nodded. “Yeah, like them. Those guys make top dollar. On top of that, sponsors are paying them more than most people make in a year, just to have a photo of them wearing their boxers or using their razor.”

That launched a few jokes, and Drew grinned with the boys.

“Yeah, it’s freaking nuts, isn’t it? But that’s what dedication can get you. And let me tell you, fighters like Havoc, Sublime, and Handleman, they’re smart and they’re not afraid of staying up late, getting up early, working harder than the other guys work to get what they want. Usually within a few training sessions, I can see who has the heart and talent it takes, and who doesn’t.”

A wiry young man stood. “Dude, I could be a fighter right now.” He flexed a scrawny arm, very impressed with himself. “Why don’t you give me a shot?”

Unfazed, Drew smiled. “For one thing, you’re not eighteen yet.”

“So?”

“So you can train, but you can’t yet compete in the SBC. If you really have what it takes, you could get involved with a gym, get some experience. I know fighters who’ve been training since they could walk. But as to how good you are right now, let me tell you, dude, no way in hell am I taking
your
word for it.”

The group laughed, making risqué jokes at their friend, heckling him good-naturedly.

They quieted when Drew again spoke. “You don’t know how many guys think they can cut it, but then they get into training and a coach works them over for hours. Most are ready to quit. This shit is not easy. I know the really good guys might make it look like it is. That’s why they’re the really good guys.”

The boy copped an attitude. “Man, I’ve been busting heads on the streets since I was ten. I tell ya, I can fight. Ask anyone.”

Drew shook his head. “You think street fighting impresses me? It’s stupid. Beyond stupid.”

The kid subsided, but Drew didn’t cut him any slack.

“You guys are young, and you think you’re invincible or you just don’t care. I don’t know which it is. But unsupervised mixed martial arts means that someone could get seriously hurt. You—or a friend of yours.”

His impact astounded Gillian. The boys all looked enrapt as Drew continued.

“You know how many serious injuries or deaths we’ve had in the SBC?” He put his index finger and thumb together to make a zero and held it up. “None. I want to keep it that way. That’s why the fighters are well trained, why we have rules, and why we have special equipment.”

“Wasn’t always that way.”

“Hell no, it wasn’t. When I took over, the sport had been banned in damn near every state. Getting a pay-per-view was impossible. But I turned it around, and now we’re the fastest-growing sport there is. I took it from a failing business venture to a multimillion-dollar organization. You know how I did that?”

He didn’t wait for a reply.

“By being smart. Anyone can be tough and dumb, and that pays jack-shit. But be tough and smart, and it’s worth big bucks. So don’t confuse what we do with barroom fighting. Our sport is not spontaneous and it’s not dirty. You have to be trained, in shape, smart, and fast and you have to have heart.” He searched the crowd. “You guys know what heart is?”

When they mumbled in uncertainty, Drew left the mic and walked to the edge of the stage. “Heart is getting back in there when you’ve just puked your guts up or taken a fist to the face or, worse, to the gut. It’s twelve-hour days of cardio, boxing, wrestling, jujitsu.” He scanned the crowd of faces. “It’s not drinking, not smoking, no Big Macs or ice cream.”

A few guys protested that. Obviously they liked their fast food.

“There’s little time for girls, or family.”

More complaints, these a little louder, and Gillian didn’t think it was the prospect of little family interaction that had set them off.

Drew strolled out into the audience. “This is not a career choice for candies, let me tell you. You have to have a stand-up and a ground game. And you absolutely have to be in shape. I’m talking gas in the tank. I’ve seen more fighters lose because their cardio sucked than I’ve seen knockouts. It’s pathetic.” He moved among the boys. “But most importantly, a fighter has to be smart.”

One boy said, “You don’t have to be a genius to throw or take a punch.”

“Maybe not,” Drew agreed. “But raw power is only going to get you so far. You think any of the top fighters are dummies?” He looked around at the boys, and with a crooked grin he added, “I sure as hell wouldn’t call any of them dumb.”

Robust agreement erupted.

“A fighter has to remember hundreds of moves until they’re automatic. He has to be able to analyze his opponent, figure out a game plan, and adjust accordingly during a fight. But he also has to be smart enough to manage his career, to make good decisions along the way.”

Another boy stood. “You talk tough, but you ain’t no fighter.”

Not in the least offended, Drew agreed. “Hell no. I don’t want to diet all the time and run twice a day. And when I don’t get much sleep, it’s because I’ve stayed out late, not because I have an injury or too many bruises to count.” Sotto voce, he said to the crowd, “Those guys are
tough
as nails, no doubt about it.”

When the boys stopped laughing, Drew put his hands in his pockets and started strolling among them again. “I’m not a fighter, and I know it. So that means I had to find something else that I’m good at.” He glanced toward Gillian. “I’m good at running the SBC. I’m good at understanding fighters, and I’m an incredible businessman.”

“And real humble,” someone called out, igniting more chuckles.

He released Gillian from his gaze and laughed with the boys. “Hey, I’ve got the background to prove it, ya know? The thing is, there’s always a choice. No matter how bad shit seems, no matter how others try to drag you down. Every one of you is good at something, and you should know it. There’s nothing wrong with recognizing your talents. If it’s fighting, then come see me when you’re eighteen and I can recommend some good camps where you’ll get the best training. If it’s business management, then Mr. Darwich can probably recommend some classes—”

Boos erupted.

“What the hell?” Drew said. “You telling me you guys are too wimpy to cut it in school? Do you know that at least fifty percent of the SBC fighters have a college degree? A lot of them have more than one degree.”

Gillian drew in a breath at Drew’s cursing—not out of disapproval, but rather admiration. Drew had analyzed his audience and knew the second he started to lose control of things. Just as he said a fighter should react during a fight, Drew had adjusted accordingly to keep them engaged. A few choice curse words had left the boys with a feeling of association, an affinity.

More questions were asked and answered, and through it all, Drew really reached the kids. By the time Mr. Darwich rejoined him back on the stage for a final thank-you, the boys were all pumped up and excited and making plans.

Then Drew stunned her, and them, by saying that, with Mr. Darwich’s approval, he’d like to donate an entire library of SBC DVDs. Most of the DVDs were taped fights, but some of them were instructional videos by the fighters themselves.

And for that, Drew got a standing ovation and raucous cheers.

Gillian applauded, too.

Drew Black had surprised her—again. Every minute that she knew him proved him more outrageous, and more considerate, than any man should be.

A
s they left the group home and walked out to the lot where Drew had parked, Drew caught Gillian’s arm. She turned to him with a brow raised.

He took up the pace beside her. “So what’s the verdict?”

He needed reinforcement? Did her opinion really matter to him, or was he only concerned about his position as president of the company? Either way, she didn’t have the heart to leave him wondering. “Two thumbs up.”

“Seriously?” Skepticism beetled his brows. “I don’t lose points for slipping in a few curses?”

“Not at all.” He deserved to hear the truth. “I wouldn’t have changed a thing. Your methods worked. The boys listened to you.”

“Yeah?” Pleased, he shrugged and said, “Thanks.”

As she again started away, he asked, “Where are you going?”

“I parked in a lot down the block.”

Puzzled, he looked from her, to where she indicated, and back again. “Why?”

To avoid this very situation
. She hadn’t wanted to be tempted to leave with him. And he was tempting, too much so. He affected her too strongly for her to test her own powers of resistance.

She fudged the truth by saying, “I wasn’t sure if the lot would be full.”

“Yeah, lot of traffic at a boys’ home, huh?” His dubious expression gave little credence to her lie. “Well, it’s too bad you insisted on driving yourself. We could have . . . chatted on the way over here.”