Bare Knuckle: Vegas Top Guns, Book 5 (10 page)

“I spent the first eight years of my life in a trailer.” He shook his head. “You won’t get any bullshit from me, Trish.”

“Sorry.” Miracle of miracles, she managed to keep her hands to herself as she said it. Apologies were best topped off with convincing touches. Only natural. That wouldn’t be the case with Eric. She knew it. “My baggage, right? I have this idea of where I want to be and this… This isn’t it.”

He nodded once. All the understanding she needed. He leaned nearer, tipped her chin with his knuckles. “One day, showgirl.”

She smiled. A return to coy. But she had to break this off. It was getting too painful to stay, knowing they only delayed the inevitable. “Is that a promise?”

“Only if you’ve made it to yourself. Now kiss me and get out.” He said it with a grin.

“That’s more like it.”

His lips touched hers with delicacy, with sweetness. Were they saying goodbye? Because it didn’t feel final at all. Trish closed her eyes and soaked up every gorgeous spark.

He pulled back, then gunned the engine. Trish grasped the door handle when he said, “So I’ll see you on Friday.”

Her brain sputtered, and her heart did a crazy somersault. This was not good. More like, it was
too
good.

“Friday.”

“Boxing? Ring girl? Will you be there?”

Of course. Of course—and
oh my God
. Now she had six nights to figure out what would happen next. As if she had any say on her own. “Only if I get a callback.”

“You will,” he said with utter confidence. “Make sure you’re number one this time.”

“Sure thing, sugar.”

She blew him a kiss and sauntered toward the trailer’s white aluminum door, knowing he watched her the whole way. At the top of the steps, she gave her ass an extra shimmy. The Camaro revved and sped away—a sports-car version of Eric’s edge-of-control growl.

Retrieving her keys from her faux-Prada bag brought reality back lickety-split. She wondered which question would come first.
Where’ve you been? How’d the gig go?
Or,
Where the hell is your wig?

A toss-up. It really depended on her chosen mood. Mother, cheerleader or biggest critic.

Then there was the issue of breaking the news about
Princess of Egypt
and Pam dropping Trish on her ass. The sun was high above the desert horizon. Vegas stood tall in the distance, far less glitzy without its magnificent lights. Early autumn waves of heat snaked off the sand and clouded the familiar landmarks, including the Luxor. She couldn’t see her school from there, and she liked campus a helluva lot better.

From their trailer in the boonies, the future always looked distant. She had so far to go.

Even farther now.

Yet she carried a new buoyancy inside her and the taste of Eric’s coffee on her lips. She wasn’t such a dumb bunny as to think spending the night with him was going to change her life. Fabulous memories. Something to look forward to if she saw him again in the ring. That would be a sweet bonus. She’d claw Meg’s and Lola’s wigs off if they tried to take the first round.

She hadn’t had anything to look forward to outside of work and class for a long time.

At last, with a deep breath, she pushed the key in the lock and walked indoors. Mama stood in the tiny kitchenette sautéing what looked to be vegetables and tofu. Maybe for a spicy Szechwan stir-fry? It sure wasn’t cheese fries, but after indulging in a feast of sensations, Trish could do with something to scorch her mouth. She wouldn’t taste anything with less bite.

“Hey,” she said casually. She slumped her purse and huge duffels on her recliner. Mama had the old leather one, while Trish had the upholstered one where the blue had long since faded to a sickly gray. “What’s for lunch?”

“Where the hell have you been, missy?”

“Out.”

“Sure as shit
out
. You better start talking.”

“The boxing gig was cool. Three minutes work, total. A lot better payout than that indie runway show.” She strolled through the kitchen, cruising for a bit of clean protein. Starving. And low on impulse control. A low-fat string cheese would have to do. “Now it’s a matter of waiting for the callback. The transition from the Luxor to the arena was rough, but I shouldn’t have any trouble. Six weeks would be nice money.”

She unwrapped the cheese and nibbled in small bites. For as long as Trish could remember,
small bites
was one of the Ten Commandments of growing up a pageant girl. On impulse, she gnawed off a big hunk. She caught her mama’s scowl and threw that scowl right back.

“Don’t try to dodge me, Patty. And where in Jesus’ name is your wig?”

Trish bit her tongue.
There it is.
And to top it off, her mama was the only person on the planet who called her by her childhood nickname. It probably said something about their relationship. Ribbons and bows for the rest of eternity—that’s how Mama saw her.

She rubbed the back of her hair, which had dried into soft falls. No product. So strange that she felt more exposed in front of her own mother than she had with Eric. He made her feel beautiful and sexy. Mama was looking at her as if she’d decided to trade ribbons and bows for a bucket of night crawlers.

“I met a guy.”

“The one with the Camaro?”

“That’s right. Happy?”

“No. Not at all.” Mama stirred the vegetables with angry movements. The tofu was beginning to disintegrate in the frying pan. She wouldn’t spring for a wok. Thought it was pretentious. “What makes you think you can stay out till all hours with some stranger? Not a call!”

“When was the last time you remembered to check in during an all-night bender? Don’t you dare point fingers.”

“But you’ve always been such a good girl about men. You know what can happen!”

“And
you
know I’ve been on the Pill since I was fifteen. At your insistence.”

“For your protection, missy. You’ve seen my stretch marks. A baby would ruin your career. A year or more off work, and a body you’ll never be able to fix.”

Trish took a deep breath that scorched her throat. The cheese sat heavily in her stomach. Every time Mama talked over the horrors of accidentally getting pregnant, Trish wondered if she harbored regrets about giving birth when she was a junior—if, through the years, she’d been living vicariously through Trish’s successes.

No, she didn’t have to wonder. She’d always known. It only shone more clearly that afternoon.

There was no point in arguing that she’d used protection or in zinging her with the fact that getting into Eric’s Camaro had been the far riskier part of the night. She was tired, sore and agitated at the same time. At some point before finding the energy and concentration to head to the library, she’d need to call in a few favors. She needed another gig. A
real
one. Fast.

Time to shut down the minor, more personal drama in favor of bigger problems. Besides, no matter their occasional drama and spats, they were a solid team. Mama did most of the scouting for auditions, even more than Pam had. Maybe they could put something in place.

Time to put that to the test.

“
Princess of Egypt
has been shut down. I have less than three weeks left.”

Mama flipped the burner off and shoved the frying pan off the metal. “Well, that’s just peachy. What happened?”

While Trish helped rescue what remained of lunch, she related Pam’s phone call. Only…she couldn’t quite bring herself to admit being dropped. One bombshell at a time, though she’d needed to endure both at once.

“Damn.” Mama sank into a chair next to their Formica table. “That was gonna be a big one, Patty baby.”

“Don’t rub it in. I have a few weeks to draw the last paychecks, maybe make a proper impression on the right people. The ring-girl job will fill the gaps.”

“If you get it.”

Thanks for the support.

Mama tapped her fingernails on the Formica. Her hands were rail thin after having followed Trish’s diet for two decades. Moral support, she said, but also trying to keep up with the compliments Trish received. She liked to think it was harmless, almost flattering. They
were
a team, all the way down to tofu, for Chrissake. The lack of body fat, however, was beginning to make her early-forties Mama look a decade older.

Trish had a sudden craving for a cheeseburger. Eric would watch her swallow every luscious bite, and he’d tell her to lick up the salty juices. Hell, the sick stud might bring a camera. She wouldn’t put it past him now. That the thought turned her on… That was new.

She and Mama ate in silence. The Szechwan was barely edible, and Trish picked around the whole grain rice.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call,” she said at last.

Mama only shrugged. “I know how it is. He a good catch at least?”

“Not sure. He moonlights as a boxer. But he’s in the military somehow. We didn’t…” She blushed and dipped her gaze toward her plate. “We didn’t talk specifics.”

“He could be nice for you, missy. Fill in the gaps.”

The thought of manipulating Eric into taking care of her for even a short duration didn’t sit well. He’d see right through it and maybe trot out another of those impossible
no
replies. She wanted to avoid being on the receiving end of those. Permanently.

“It wasn’t like that at all, Mama.”

“Looking like you do, it’s no wonder. So…common. Christ, Patty. Didn’t I teach you better? After all I sacrificed, this is how you make the best of a bad situation?”

She’d been waiting for that familiar refrain too. Yes, her mother’s sacrifices had been huge. Even the divorce of Trish’s parents could be traced to the pageant circuit. Mama had wanted it. Bad. Daddy hadn’t wanted it enough. He’d fought to rescue Trish from that life, but in the end, he’d been the one to walk out. Mixed messages for a six-year-old. What else had she been able to do but keep winning prizes and earning praise from the only parent left in her life?

“I’m tired, Mama. Don’t—” She raised her hands preemptively. “Don’t say it. Yes, I’m tired because I was up all night, but I worked the show and the boxing gig too. I’m not as irresponsible as your glare seems to think I am.” She couldn’t stand looking at her picked-apart leftovers. “Thanks for lunch.”

Trish grabbed her gear and weaved back to her tiny bedroom. One window. She pulled the shade and flopped onto her twin mattress, then dragged a knitted blanket over her shoulders. She wore the same clothes from the night before, which smelled of perfume, sweat and sex. Cool. She’d hold that close awhile longer.

Later, she’d shower. She’d cram in a few hours on her
Don Giovanni
project. Then it was down to the Luxor to put on her face and her hair. She’d reemerge as the Trish Monroe who hadn’t lost her chance at a future in Vegas. That didn’t mean the job hunt needed to wait.

She snagged her phone out of her purse. From the safety of her darkened bedroom, wearing the last of Eric’s scent on her skin, she punched the first number.

“Perry? It’s Trish Monroe. How’ve you been, sugar?”

Chapter Ten

To spend Monday morning in a briefing room was shitloads better with thoughts of Trish bouncing around Eric’s head. She wasn’t just beautiful. It was the mix of personalities and the way she’d let him see under her shell, if only for glimpses at a time.

His phone was burning a hole in the pocket of his flight suit. Subtly, he put a hand over it. He hadn’t resisted loading a couple of Trish’s pictures, buried in a hidden folder so no one else would find his secret—and so she wouldn’t be exposed to the world at large. All his. All those lovely, sleek curves and the way her bright blue eyes practically glowed.

“Kisser,” snapped a sharp voice at the front of the room. “You with us? Or do you have somewhere you’d rather be?”

Eric jerked upright at hearing his call sign. Kisser. What a fucking joke. It hadn’t been funny even before his crash.

Major Haverty wasn’t someone to piss around with. His bite was sharp enough to match his call sign, Fang. He’d be leaving the command soon, but that fact hadn’t dimmed his authority. Eric spread his hands flat on the conference table, trying to shake the touch-memory of Trish’s sleek thighs. “No, Sir. I’m here.”

“Good to know,” Fang said from behind his podium. “Wouldn’t want to repeat myself when it comes to special assignments.”

The woman standing beside him was recovering wild child Major Leah “Princess” Girardi. Not only was she Fang’s second-in-command, she was girlfriend to one of Eric’s best friends, Mike “Strap Happy” Templeton. Almost two years ago, Princess had been the biggest fuckup in the squadron, despite her wicked flying. She’d cleaned up right before hooking up with Strap Happy. Jon “Tin Tin” Carlisle, her best friend and all around pervy little shit, as well as Major Haverty, had stood by her the whole time, helping to pull her out of that nosedive.

Odd as it was, a chick fighter pilot was demonstrating how, yes, it was possible to get one’s shit together. A year ago, his chauvinism and bad attitude wouldn’t have let him contemplate the idea.

A year could be a hell of a thing.

Now, the fact Princess was smiling at Eric could be either terrifying or reassuring.