Bare Knuckle: Vegas Top Guns, Book 5 (12 page)

Sorry, Sir. Won’t happen again, Sir. He’ll be fine now.

Eric’s head hadn’t been in the game when he’d taken to the air. He’d resorted to rote measures to maintain the envelope-pushing techniques Tin Tin had said would get him killed.

At least the shit hadn’t been
that
right. Eric was still alive.

If he could barely handle it, how could he expect a chick to? Although Trish wasn’t the Barbie Eric had first assumed, she lived the life of a showgirl gypsy—not exactly a dependable, low-maintenance girl. Plenty of more casual souls had bailed over the years. Christina had lasted six months before shouting that Eric had “no emotional depth other than Carey”. During the darkest times, when he felt like he was holding his brother’s life in his hands, Eric had wanted to bail right along with her.

They didn’t know how Carey had been there for him—the
only
person who’d understood his drive to leave Detroit. Everyone else thought he should’ve been able to make a life in such a big city. Instead, Eric crawled out of town and into a fighter jet, saving his own sanity by leaving his brother behind.

Carey had wanted out too, only he’d chosen OxyContin and boosting cars.

Leah walked over with a whole lot of attitude, but God forbid Mike catch anyone checking out her fantastic ass. Seriously, the man had no sense of humor regarding his woman. She ran a touch down his arm as she strolled toward her hot pink Ducati. They were a disgustingly matched pair.

Eric couldn’t help a quick-flash thought of Trish. Unexpectedly, he remembered the way they’d laughed, wrapped together on his bed. Relaxed. Sated. Almost…playful.

When had playful memories ever popped into his brain before dirty ones?

Princess Leah strapped on a helmet that matched her bike. “Michael, did you tell them?”

Liam’s mouth bent into a smirk. “Don’t tell me you two are finally getting hitched.”

“A barbeque,” Mike said dryly. “We’re having a damn barbeque. What the hell is with you?”

Eric shook his head. “He thinks marriage is catching.”

“Not marriage, my friends.” Tall and far too goddamn handsome, Liam wagged his finger in mock disgust. “
Happy
matrimony, and a sweet-faced baby as well.”

This was what it meant to have friends. He’d risk his life for Mike and Liam. No question. That meant he wouldn’t point out that a year ago, Liam and Sunita had needed counseling more than they’d needed oxygen. The soon-to-be ex-bandit was still struggling against the lingering demons of PTSD. He’d made progress a guy could only hope for when it came to honoring important people in his life—the kind of progress Eric had been waiting ten years for Carey to make.

“Barbeque,” Eric said neutrally. He wanted to wrap up this conversation. Get somewhere private. Listen. Handle it. Then get his reward.

“A week from Saturday.” Leah revved her Ducati—a damn gorgeous sound. “Thirteen hundred hours.”

“You’re the only person in the world to make a barbeque invitation sound like an order,” Liam said.

She waved her fingers. “It’s a gift. See ya, boys.”

Mike sped after her, and Liam followed close behind in his souped-up Evo X.

Eric pulled the phone out of his pocket. Dread iced his skin, even while sweating under the hot Nevada sun. The only way to deal was to dial.

Chapter Eleven

Edgy. Edgy. Edgy.

Calm down.

Trish only had another minute to fuss with her eye makeup and the set of her wig—a stick-straight highlighted blonde number. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d worried so much over her appearance. Maybe Miss Georgia? Probably the most nerve-racking experience of her life. She’d placed top five, but her mother’s disappointment had been palpable. Her mostly uncommunicative father hadn’t called.

Geez. Sour memories tonight.

At least she’d gotten the callback from the boxing arena. Her second gig had been on Wednesday. Add in Fridays and Saturdays, and that meant doing the Luxor-to-ring scramble three times a week. Could be worse. Could’ve been better had the dash given her more than fifteen minutes to get ready for the ring.

What if Eric didn’t fight that evening? What if he didn’t want to spend time with her again?

A man could change his mind pretty damn easy in a week.

She pushed away from the vanity, trying to rein in her crazy-fast thoughts. The silver lining to the evening, however, wouldn’t dim. With a flounce past Meg and the new brunette—maybe named Lisa?—she said, “I’ll take number one tonight.”

No room for argument. She was an optimist, after all, even when life had repeatedly given her a firm talking-to about putting faith in dubious hopes. If Eric stepped into the ring, she fully expected him to take down his opponent with the same ferocious ease he’d secured last week. She wanted him to be there, and she wanted to be in within his powerful sphere when he had his game face on.

Then…she wanted some alone time when he was through playing Incredible Hulk.

Anticipation was a potent thing. She’d never been with a man who so enjoyed drawing out the moment.

She grinned to herself as she strode into the corridor, which was filling with fighters and their entourages. Her life was stuck in exactly the same predicament as when she’d walked that hall the previous Friday, but her strut was genuine. Eager. She gathered stares like a little girl in a field gathered dandelions.

Trish knew that sometime during the evening—no knowing when—he’d be out in the crowd. She knew it like she knew how to swing her hips as she passed dozens of men.

Stepping into the ring, holding her placard, was a whole new experience. Lights glared as usual. The crowd hollered as usual. The MC whooped them into a frenzy, pointing out her assets as she slipped inside the ropes. But the erotic, throaty story Eric had told to get her off the other night rang in her ears. Forget the boxing matches. Ten thousand men were there for
her
. The potency of her sudden arousal was staggering. If anyone looked closely enough, would they notice how damp her bikini bottoms were? The thought sped her heart. She was nearly dizzy with lust when she took her seat.

Why did fit guys pounding on one another appeal on such a primal level? Trish crossed her legs, with Meg and the new girl poised on either side in their front-row alcove. Battles for land, money and status—all true. The heart of it was beating brains for the chance to fuck the girl of their choice. An impulse as old as time.

Trish was
so
not immune.

She was an absolute mess of nerves and desires by the time the announcer began the windup for the fourth bout. Sure enough, Jim Jennings. She’d almost forgotten the name he used when fighting. Why the deception? Eric Donaghue was a much nicer name, so he didn’t share her reasons. Something to do with his outside life?

Never mind. He’d shown up. He was going to box. That was enough to make the moment sing.

Trish took her place on the steps leading into the ring. From that taller vantage, she could see down the tunnel from the training rooms. The first fighter was taller than Eric, but far leaner. Although the man’s reach would be formidable, Trish couldn’t imagine his thinner body taking a few dozen blows powered by Eric’s wall of muscle.

There he was. Rather than the plain robe from the previous week, he sported the one he’d worn when taking pictures of her on the bed. She had to believe it was no coincidence. Black satin molded over his shoulders and tapered to where it tied along his more slender waist. The luxurious fabric shone beneath the blinding lights. He kept his head down, but the hood was thrown back. He moved with sure purpose, shrugging and bouncing on his toes to warm up. Twice he slammed the fists of his boxing gloves together.

He and his opponent climbed into the ring, with Eric opposite to where Trish stood. He slid those luscious shoulders out of the silk, which pooled at his feet. He kicked the robe away. Trish soaked in the potency of his back. Every movement shimmered like water over rocks in a stream. He was that built, that carved of granite. The gut-wrenching scar that crawled over his golden skin was an added measure of badass. She couldn’t help wondering if he intentionally presented his opponent with that formidable proof of his pain tolerance.

He turned.

Their gazes slammed together across the white mat. Such a rush. He was a man about to do battle. All of that concentration and violence was centered on her. His eyes were as dark as the sky at midnight, and his combination of rugged and elegant tattoos complemented the warrior he’d become.

She shivered. Hard. He must have noticed, because a nasty smirk curled his beautiful mouth.

The referee helped Trish into the ring—no easy proposition in four-inch heels. She wore a tiger-stripe bikini, with shoes to match. She felt like a tiger sashaying around the ring, holding the placard high. Eric’s stare was as hot and blatant as if he’d grabbed her ass in front of all those screaming people. She winked as she walked past.

The opening bell dinged, and she took her seat.

Eric landed fourteen body blows and an uppercut before the other man touched him. Goddamn he was fast. Not merely strong, but fleet of foot and perceptive. He seemed to know exactly where his opponent would strike next, then stayed the hell out of the way. Eric’s aim was always true. So when he reared back for a devastating blow to the man’s face, Trish knew it was over.

Knock out. Two minutes and thirty seconds.

Meg huffed a disappointed sigh. “I could’ve left forty-five minutes ago.”

“But it was worth seeing,” Trish said, dazed.

The referee lifted Eric’s arm above their heads, signaling his victory. Eric spit out his mouth guard. His expression remained deadly serious, even when he found her place in the crowd. She couldn’t wait to feel that intensity turn into passion.

She stood, blew him a kiss and sauntered out of the arena.

Forty-five minutes later, high on adrenaline, Trish hadn’t changed out of her costume. She’d only donned a robe and found reasons to hang around the girls’ dressing room as Meg and the other woman left. Christ, she wanted to touch herself. What she waited for would be so much better.

Unable to stand the anticipation any longer, she grabbed her stuff and emerged into the corridor. Most of the fans had left. She smiled to the few who remained but didn’t coo over them. Too distracted. Too focused on the door to Eric’s prep room.

Her fingers were numb as she knocked. All sensation had hightailed it to her erogenous zones. He’d touch her and she’d go nuclear. Simple as that.

He opened the door. Trish closed it behind them.

She was in his arms before she took another breath. A hard kiss. Hands everywhere. She stripped the satin robe from his torso and feasted on so much prime male flesh. Mouth. Teeth. Fingernails. He’d showered. His hair was damp and he tasted of clean water.

Only when she returned to his mouth, ready for another hard kiss, did she notice. Something was wrong.

He…stood there.

All of the enthusiasm had been on her part.

His hard-on was undeniable as she stepped out of his arms. The rest of him was as unmoving as a marble statue—the sort of masterpiece his body so resembled.

“What?”

“Nothing. Sorry.”

His halfhearted apology made it worse. She’d heard that tone of voice before—the “it’s not you, it’s me” tone. It was the flat, bored emphasis of a man who’d had his fun and wanted out.

Trish nearly had to sit down. The disappointment was that crushing.

“Okay. I got it wrong.” She swallowed past her pride. “A good night is a good night, and we had one.”

She turned on her killer heels, gracefully retrieved duffels that looked heavy enough to carry a half-dozen bowling balls and reached for the doorknob.

“Still only good, showgirl?”

Confusion and desire threatened to pop open her head. “What?”

“You have a habit of calling us ‘good’.” That nasty-fun smirk returned. “What’s a guy gotta do to earn a better adjective?”

“Fucking kiss me back, for one.” Anger spilled out of her without reserve—a faucet turned on full blast. “Is this some kind of joke? You were the one who mentioned seeing each other tonight. That turned it from a one-night stand into something more. Now you don’t want to touch me. What the hell is going on?”

“I said it’s nothing.”

“Bull crap.” She wiped at her eyes, which were filling with unexpected tears. The whip-fast turn of her emotions was disorienting. “Unless you want me to think this is a twisted kiss-off—and believe me, I know what that feels like—you better start talking. Four syllables at a time is fine, but open your mouth.”

Eric suddenly looked tired. His broad shoulders slumped, so at odds with his usually precise posture. He studied her for a long, long moment. She could almost see the wheels working behind his brooding eyes.

“My brother’s in rehab.” He straddled the metal bench that split the locker room down the middle. “OxyContin.”

Trish couldn’t have picked a less likely opening line. She stood dumbfounded.

“He’s at a specialty facility that promotes creativity. Gets a new art tool each week he’s clean. A privilege. The first step was paper. You know, origami?”