Fight or Fall (11 page)

Digging on my black pumps, I hurriedly walked towards the Men’s Shower Room. I had to see if he was okay. He looked like his leg was hurt badly. I excused myself from the party, telling my dad, Emmett, and a few men who were having a small talk about the state of the country’s economy, that I had to make a call. In truth I couldn’t wait to check on Milo.

Rounding the corner, my head almost smashed into a man’s chest. I recognized him right away. He was dressed in his normal attire – black suit, black dress shirt, black shoes. The Man In Black. My father’s right hand man.

“It’s not a good idea, Ms. Troudeau.” His brown eyes warned, his posture as stiff as the expression on his face.

“I have to make a call, Daniel.” I gestured with my right hand, willing him to move out of my way. He was blocking me from advancing any farther.

“I don’t want to put my hands on you, but I have orders.” His brown eyes were pleading, asking me to defer to what he was saying. Even if he said he was going to put his hands on me, I doubted he would. He followed my father’s orders to a tee, but he was a good person. I’d seen it in the countless times he has tried to deflect me, protect me from my father’s ire.

“Why, Daniel?”

“Because you’re not for him.”

“Who says, Daniel?” Even if I expected the answer, I still wanted to hear it from him, to confirm my suspicions that my father was now planning who I’m supposed to date.

“Your father.”

“Since when does he get to choose who I date?” This was ludicrous, unacceptable. He ran my schedule, my career, and now my dates too?

“I don’t know, Ms. Troudeau, but I don’t see anything good coming out of this – if you defy his orders.” He seldom showed any emotion, the hardness of facial features and his scarred forehead were mementos of his stint in the military. He has stuck by my father through the years, and for some reason I had this feeling that he did it to protect me and my mother.

I stepped back, unwilling to have Daniel’s pristine record in my father’s eyes be compromised.

“Will you do me favor, Daniel?” I asked, suddenly feeling the fight leave me, the threads of my light blue Vera Wang dress feeling extra heavy, the weight of what was being revealed to me now hung in the air. I’d never been stupid. I’d always tried to stay ahead of the game. But now my father was exerting his influence over
every
aspect of my life. His plans now extended to the men I dated, the men I went out with, and maybe the man I would marry.

“If I can, Ms. Troudeau. What is it that you need?”

“Please check on him. Make sure he’s okay,” I requested beseechingly, hoping that Milo was not in pain. I reached for the tiny diamond earrings that hadn’t left my ears since the day my mother gave them to me and pressed on them.

Daniel gave me a small nod.

I turned on my heels, going back the direction where I came from.

For her, for my mother, I would do anything. Even at the cost of watching a man who has held my heart since I was fifteen fall apart, break into pieces, and have my father turn him into a man I’d no longer recognize.

If this wanna-be-Ryan Reynolds touched her hand one more time, I was going to throw this vodka on his overly pressed suit and beat the shit out of him. He’s the same guy I saw at the party after my first fight – the moron who kept monopolizing her attention.

“I love watching you fight, man,” Pete, owner of a popular water distributing company, said. Maxwell and I were chatting with him about the fight. He raised a thumbs up sign, what a weirdo, and continued, “I’ll always bet on you.”

“Thanks.” I nodded my head, my eyes flickering towards his back where Ava and the blonde guy seemed to be laughing and enjoying each other’s company. They were with two other people, but the blonde dude’s eyes were trained on her. I couldn’t blame him – she looked damn good, like she always did. I might have told Bee before that I thought Ava looked slutty, but the honest truth was she never did. Even if she wore clothes that hugged her body like second skin, she never looked slutty. She always looked sexy, elegant, and hot.

Dean Pope, Hollywood’s go-to action film star, stopped by and congratulated me on my win. There was an endless amount of ass-kissing going on. If I keep winning, they’d be smiling with me. But if I lost, they wouldn’t care one bit about me. To them I was nothing but a means to an end – their bets paying off. They were nothing but means to my end as well.

Thank fuck Dia was out of my sight tonight. The minute she saw my glaring eyes when I entered the lounge, she wisely removed herself from within my reach. I really shouldn’t have given her name a month ago to be on the exclusive list of people that could attend on my behalf. Aside from Leif, she was the only one who knew why I was fighting.

Maxwell and his band of rich friends were now on the other side of the room. Maxwell was constantly being hounded and surrounded by almost everyone in the room. I guess that’s how life went for a man whose net worth placed him on the country’s top 50 richest men, a fact I’d seen in one of those magazines I just happened to flip over years ago. The thing was, even if Ava was his daughter, she’s always remained the same to me and my sister. She had never looked down on us, not once. She loved my sister like she was her own sister. She treated me the same – like she was always infuriated, irritated at me.
Until a few weeks back.

I caught the end of her red dress slipping away in the corner. Blonde Fucktard was now talking to a guy, maybe a prominent politician or some shit. I discretely excused myself from the dragging conversation with Tom, the president of some financial company, and followed where Ava had disappeared into.

“Naomi, it’s okay, I’ll talk to her.” She was talking to someone on her phone. The Las Vegas skyline was breathtaking from the 60th floor of this hotel. Ava’s right hand was lazily leaning against the glass railing; obviously she wasn’t scared of heights. From the back, her figure was captivating – long legs in that short red mini-skirt, spiked black heels, and her mass of hair pulled to the left, created an image that fueled the desire, the haze of lust that blindsided me.

I want to kiss that exposed part of her neck, feel her hot breath against mine, press onto the softness of her body.

Shit. When did I become such a horndog around her?

“You want me to sing to you?” Her voice soft, mellow. Whoever she was talking to, it sounded like a person she cared for a lot.

I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. I should just leave her alone. I was waiting for her to ask me about the fight, I had even unlocked the shower room, not listening to her father’s demands. She hadn’t even talked to me throughout the night, even after the little gathering was in full swing. As a matter of fact, it felt like she was avoiding me.

Taking a few steps back, I stealthily traced back my steps. She needed privacy.

Just as I was about to take the last step to go back in, I heard her singing in a sultry voice, “
En haut de la rue St-Vincent...
”

What the hell was she singing? What language was that?

Her hushed, melodic singing hypnotized me. I needed to hear more. I walked to where she was standing, appreciating the harmony, the sadness, the highs and the lows in her voice, “...
Les escaliers de la butte sont durs aux miséreux butte sont durs aux Les ailes des moulins protègent les amoureux…”

Princess, you continue to surprise me
.

“I love you.” A long sigh followed was by silence as she pressed the end button on her phone. She raised her head and took a long look at the view in front of her. Like her father, she owned this city. But right now, as she swiped a finger under her eye, from less than a foot away from her, I felt the tremendous pull of sadness that was pouring out of her. Her spine stiffened, probably willing herself to be okay, and let out another long sigh.

“Ava, princess, what’s wrong?” I asked, making myself and my presence known to her.

She turned her body to the left and her eyes widened in surprise. “Milo.”

The urge to touch her, to not make her feel sad, was overwhelming.

Facing her, I cupped her face in my hands. My rough, calloused thumbs felt the softness of her cheeks.

“I…you…shouldn’t be here,” she stated, her eyebrows bunching, her face worried.

I silenced her with my finger pressing on her bottom lip. “What’s wrong?” A single tear that I caught with my left hand fell from her gray eyes. In the dim lighting her eyes were like pools of silver; so beautiful, breathtaking.

“It’s nothing. How’s your leg?”

“Intact.” That Brazilian motherfucker had some extremely great fighting skills. If I hadn’t able to take him down, I’d probably have lost my leg or my consciousness earlier.

“You don’t have to tell me what’s wrong.” Obviously she was being evasive. “But are you gonna be okay?”

“Yes.” She nodded, with her right hand still on the glass railing, her left hand reaching up to touch the fresh bruise on the right side of my jaw.

“Why are you fighting, Milo?”

“Who were you singing to? What language was that?” My eyes fell to her slightly glossy lips. Lips that I’d kissed, tasted, hungered for.

“Touché. It’s French.”

“French?”

“My father’s half French.”

And the other half? Probably asshole.

I raised my brows, holding back a smirk. “So you sing in French? Princess, you’re something else.”

She laughed. “Sometimes.”

“Hey, can you please not saying anything to Bee about this…the fighting…” I breathed out. “Just keep this between you and I for now.”

Shaking her head left and right, she said, “I’m not going to lie to her, Milo.”

“I know.” I placed a thumb on her chin, her skin felt so supple, so soft. “I just need time to do this.”

Her shoulders lifted, turned her head to the side, and for a few seconds she didn’t speak. A span of one, two, three breaths passed. Facing me she tipped her head subtly. “Okay.”

I lowered my hands down to the sides of her arms, feeling the light goosebumps forming. “You wanna go back inside?”

“No. Not yet.”

“Okay.” Pulling her closer to my chest, I realized that Ava was letting me do whatever I wanted to her body. She’d never been like this with me. Most of the time she wanted to throw something at me. Her lunchboxes, her purses, her shoes. I kept hoping that she’d have nothing to throw at me and she’d actually start throwing the clothes she was wearing.

Shit. She would be a firecracker in bed. If she used the same amount of energy to throw stuff at me when she was under me, damn, she’d wipe me out.

“Milo, are you okay?” Her question brought me back to reality. Since the time she kissed me, I’d been sporting this untamable erection for her. It didn’t matter how many times I jacked off; my dick wanted to sink in to her. I’d tried imagining other women, but always, just when I was at the brink of my release, Ava’s full lips, her silken hair, and sinful curves came into mind.

“What do you think, Princess?” I rocked my hips towards hers, pressing harder against her. “You feel that? I’m not okay. I haven’t been since you pulled a disappearing act on me.”

Instead of closing her legs, she opened them a little wider, arching her body backward. “I hate it when you call me Princess,” her voice was silkier, raspier.

“Why?”

“Because I don’t need a prince to rescue me. I never have.”

“You are a princess because you act so prissy.”

“I don’t.” She drummed her hands on my chest, hard. “Only towards you.”

“What do you want me to call you?” I inquired, my voice rough with desire. This was so wrong. Anyone could come out here to the balcony and catch us, but I couldn’t help my right hand from going under her tight dress, snaking my way from her thigh to her ass.

“Call me Ava,” she demanded haughtily. Her eyes flared with lust and her breath was hot against mine.

“Ava.” Fuck, her ass was firm as I formed a circle around it, squeezing, alternating the pressure— hard, soft, hard.

“Do you let him, anyone, do this to you?” An insane amount of jealousy coursed through me. Did other men touch her like this? Was she like this with me, because somehow, some crazy way, I’d finally caught her attention? Why didn’t she call me after our kiss?

She continued pressing the lower half of her body against the material of my dress pants, her eyes were now partly closed, her right leg was hitched up higher. I felt the unmistakable heat threatening to spill down her legs as my hands owned her thong-encased ass, and I fought the urge to stray on the other side. I knew what she wanted. A flick, a rub, my finger touching any part of the skin in front of me, pressing on me, causing her to go off.

Restraining myself, I let my hand stay on her ass while my other hand gently massaged her arm. “Tell me, Ava. Do you let anyone do this to you?” She wasn’t mine, would never be mine, but goddamnit, I wanted to brand her, make her feel what she was making me feel, that I couldn’t get her out of my heads – the one inside my skull, and the other inside my pants.

“No, Milo,” she struggled to answer, her breathing harsh, restrained.