Pushing the Limits (2 page)

“So . . . not much.”

She shook her head. “But—”

He stood. “Colby, you're good at what you do. Jack is thrilled with you on the set of
Get Moving Las Vegas
.”

Get Fit Las Vegas.
If the studio's executive producer didn't even know the name of the show, it couldn't be that significant to the station.

Sensing he was dismissing her, she moved to the edge of her seat. “With all due respect, sir, anyone could be good at reporting these local stories.”

He shot her a look and she wished she could pull the words back. Fantastic. She'd devalued herself.

“That came out wrong. What I mean is, I'm looking for more of a challenge. I'd really love to get back to reporting on things that matter.”

“These are local human interest stories. They do matter, and people love them,” Ari said dismissively.

“Well, then, why are they cut to seventeen minutes?” The half-hour segment consisted of almost as much commercial time as it did content.

“People love them in small doses,” he said with a shrug.

“Please consider my application.”

His grunt was noncommittal. “We are still a ways away from needing to make a decision. Faith will be here for a few more months . . . longer, if we can force that baby to wait as long as possible.”

Faith Hart was their resident hot reporter who unfortunately knew her shit when it came to sports. The camera loved her, and so did the athletes she interviewed for the show. She was expecting a baby with the Maximum Fight League's fight matchmaker, Erik Johansen, in the fall, but of course, at seven months, the woman barely looked pregnant. “Okay, but please—when you are getting closer to making a decision—will you at least keep my résumé under consideration?”

He eyed her. “Colby, do you know how I started in journalism?”

Yes. His father had worked for
PrimeTime News
for thirty years. She shook her head.

“I was an ambulance chaser. I saw flashing lights or heard sirens and I'd grab my camera, jump into my sometimes-working car, and risk life and limb to get a shot of the action.”

Doubtful. She nodded.

“What I'm trying to say is, if you want a story, go get one. One that would show us your research and investigative
skills. You have the on-set requirements we are looking for, but some of the other candidates we are considering have more field experience.”

She was pretty sure Faith didn't chase her own stories. The athletes maybe, the stories not so much. She repressed the argument on the tip of her tongue. “Okay. I can do that.” Sure, she hadn't been out in the field for a few years, but it wasn't as though she couldn't get a lead and follow up on a story. It was her natural, incessant curiosity that had sparked her interest in journalism in the first place. From a young age, she'd been known as the nosy busybody in the neighborhood. Nothing that happened within the three-block radius where she was allowed to ride her bike escaped her notice. She'd made it her mission to find out everything possible about new neighbors. She'd spend after-school hours locating pets that were missing and returning them to their owners. And one summer, she'd decided to investigate why the peddle-bike ice-cream cart always skipped their street—a long, steep hill. Discovering her suspicions were correct, that it was the hill keeping the man away, she'd made a deal with him to wait ten minutes at the bottom, to give the kids time to come to him.

Okay, so it wasn't award-winning investigative journalism, but it was impressive for an eight-year-old.

Feeling more confident, she said, “Yes, I will do that.”

“Great.” He glanced past her and checked his watch. “My next meeting is here already, so I'll have to cut this short.”

She gathered her things and stood, following him toward the door. “Thank you for your time, sir. I'll keep you updated about the story.”

He opened the door and she stepped out into the reception area. “Great.”

She smiled, but her heart fell when she saw his next appointment sitting on the couch. One ankle draped casually over his knee, Dylan flipped through the latest issue of the
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit edition. What the hell was he doing there? He hadn't told her he was applying for the job.

Not that she'd told him
she
was.

He grinned as he set the magazine aside and stood. “Ari, ready for lunch?” he asked.

Ari? They were on a first-name basis? And he was getting
lunch
? She'd gotten screwed.

“Yes. Give me a second, Dylan,” Ari said, approaching his assistant's desk.

“What are you doing here?” Colby hissed.

“The same thing you are. Only better,” Dylan said with a wink as Ari rejoined them.

“We'll take my car?” the executive said.

Dylan smiled. “I won't turn down a ride in a Maserati,” he said, tossing a smirk at her over his shoulder as the two men headed off to lunch.

Damn it!

She squared her shoulders a moment later as she entered the elevator and hit the button for The Pit. She could get a story.

She
would
get a story. And she would swipe that job right out from under Dylan's cocky little smirk.

* * *

It just couldn't be a peaceful night, could it?

The look on the security guard's face as he approached was unnecessary. Dane Hardy had been watching with growing unease the trouble brewing near the bar inside the Las Vegas casino nightclub.

One shift without an issue. Was that too much to ask?

“These two have to go,” Chris, the young guard, said, when he was close enough to be heard above the blaring hip-hop music inside The Vault. “I've spoken to both of them twice, but they won't go their separate ways. The smaller guy seems to be the instigator—definitely the aggressor.”

Dane nodded. Little-man syndrome. They saw it far too often. “Is Lee around?” He hadn't seen the bar owner so far that evening.

“Haven't seen him.”

“Okay.” Leaning toward Kyle, the other doorman on duty that evening, Dane quickly explained the situation, then followed Chris toward the men making a scene inside the club. Since he started working there nine months before, there were few nights when he didn't need to step in to break up a situation. The Vault wasn't exactly a high-class Vegas hot spot. Hidden in the far back corner of the Lucky Girl Casino, a block off of the strip with its own entrance facing a back alley, the place essentially catered to the crowd who were turned away at all of the other red velvet ropes. The club was a catchall for Vegas's undesirables.

Himself included.

“See what I mean,” Chris said, nodding toward the smaller guy. He wore an expensive suit and shoes, and the watch on his left wrist was worth more than what Dane made in a month.

Definitely the more vocal of the two, Dane thought as he reached them.

“Come on. Apologize to the lady and we're cool,” the guy was saying to the bigger man, standing with his arms folded, an unyielding expression on his face.

The
lady
in question was an Amazon of a woman standing next to him sipping a martini, who looked like she should be able to handle her own issues quite easily. Dane recognized her immediately as one of the top female MMA fighters for Xtreme Fight. He nodded uncomfortably at her.

She grinned and shrugged.

Obviously she was enjoying watching the drama unfold. Bloodthirsty outside of the cage as well. Fantastic. “What's the problem here?” he asked, stepping between the two men. His boots stuck to the dirty wooden floor.

“This guy spilled my lady's drink and he refuses to apologize,” the shorter guy said.

The taller, bigger guy wore an expression of bored amusement. “I did apologize. He was too short to hear it,” he said.

Small Guy snarled, predictably lunging forward, and Dane sighed as he held a hand against the guy's chest. “Calm down.”

“Hey, don't touch me,” the guy said, moving back and smoothing his jacket as though Dane's touch had wrinkled the expensive fabric.

Studying him quickly, Dane wondered what the hell this guy was doing here, anyway. Had he stumbled in unaware that his watch was a beacon to get mugged as soon as he left the club? Or that his arrogant attitude was a target for a fight? Whatever—he doubted the man would be dumb enough to make the mistake twice.

“You both need to separate or leave,” he said quietly. The bar had a policy of not embarrassing the guests, and disagreements were to be dealt with discreetly and professionally. He glanced around, the irony not lost on him. Broken bar stools, neon lights that had stopped glowing months ago, and bartenders who looked like they should be behind a prison kitchen counter serving food, and yet they weren't allowed to simply bounce these guys from the place, toss them out on their asses?

“I'm not leaving,” the bigger guy said, turning his attention away from Dane and Small Guy and back to the pretty brunette he'd obviously been trying to get drunk enough to take home, judging by the line of empty shot glasses in front of her and her glassy gaze that continued to eye-fuck him over the guy's shoulder.

“That's right. This asshole's not going anywhere until he apologizes.”

Small Guy obviously wasn't giving up on that. Dane spoke. “Look, he said he apologized. Why don't you and your date
find a nice quiet corner to be alone in . . . ?”

Small Guy pushed against his chest.

It had zero effect on Dane's solid, muscular strength, except to piss him off. He gripped the guy's upper arm, the only form of restraint that was permitted, and, nodding to Chris to deal with the other guy, he quietly moved the one he was holding away from his girlfriend and the rest of his buddies. They were taught to treat these assholes as they would children—remove them from the situation and deal with them one-on-one.

“Let me go.” He struggled, but Dane's hold only tightened. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

An underpaid employee trying to get through another fucking night in hell.

He stopped near the door. “Let's go outside,” he said, ushering the guy through the door. Once they were outside, Kyle's six-foot-eight, three-hundred-pound frame blocked any chance of reentry. “Now, here's what's going to happen. You're going to hail a cab while I go back inside and ask your girlfriend if she wants to leave with you. If she does, she will be out by the time you're successful in getting a ride.” Dane released him and took a step back. History taught him that once free, these jerks often took the opportunity to swing.

Small Guy was smarter than he looked as he straightened his jacket instead. “You can't kick me out. My cousin owns this club,” he said with a cocky smirk.

Damn Lee! Between the owner's friends and family treating the place like their own personal hangout, running up unpaid tabs, taking up the best booths, and demanding priority at the bar, it was no wonder the man couldn't turn the place around, as had been his intention when he'd bought it the year before.

“Well, your cousin hired me to make sure there's no trouble inside the club.” He turned to go back inside and the guy swung, his right fist connecting with the side of Dane's neck.

Dane stiffened, his hands clenching at his sides. He hadn't hit anyone in almost a year. A former MMA fighter, he'd left that world behind after a mistake that cost him everything. He relaxed his fists and took a breath. He sure as hell wouldn't let this arrogant drunk provoke him. Turning, he said, “Okay, we can do it this way instead.” Hailing a cab himself, he opened the door as it pulled to the curb and shoved the guy inside the backseat. He slammed the door shut, taking his annoyance out on the car instead of the guy's face.

The taxi driver, a familiar face that often worked this end of the strip at this time at night, rolled down the passenger window as he locked the back doors. “Where am I taking him?”

“Let me the fuck out!” the guy yelled from the back.

“Anywhere he wants, as long as it's not here,” Dane said, checking his watch. Only an hour to go. His legs ached from standing all evening and he was sweaty and exhausted, the Vegas heat rising from the pavement sapping his energy.

“You got it, Gentle Giant,” the taxi driver said as he rolled the window back up.

Dane's mouth went dry as he stepped away from the car. Gentle Giant. He hadn't been called that in a long time. He didn't even know who that person was anymore. It certainly wasn't him. Not since he'd killed a man inside the cage.

If Colby could get her hands on the first woman to ever have this insane idea of beauty, she would strangle her. Then again,
she
must be certifiably crazy to be putting herself through this torture.

She closed her eyes tight and held her breath as the cosmetician ripped another strip of wax from her inner thigh. “Ow, ow, ow!”

The woman shot her a look. “We haven't even gotten to the really painful part yet. The inner thigh is not that bad.”

Not that bad? She felt as though her skin had been ripped off and what remained was on fire. “Not that bad, my ass,” she mumbled. She leaned on her elbows and risked a peek at the progress. Her jaw dropped. Seriously? That was it? All that pain for that tiny little hair-free patch? One that was now bright red and swollen, with a tiny bruise instead? “How much worse does it get?”

“That depends on your pain tolerance,” the woman who'd introduced herself as Anna said. “Are you sure you want to continue?”

No.

Colby hesitated, staring at the wax strip in Anna's hand. How badly did she want this job? Watching Ari and Dylan walk away the day before, she'd felt defeated, but as she'd walked through the studio, she'd noticed Faith getting ready to interview one of the Maximum Fight League's ring girls on the set of
Against the Ropes
. The woman had recently signed a book contract for a tell-all behind-the-scenes of MMA. Of course, since she was under contract with the top MMA organization in the world, Colby suspected her book wouldn't exactly tell “all.” Which had started the wheels turning in her mind.

“Seriously, the stuff you learn about the fighters and the organization by being up close and personal—albeit, half naked—is astounding,” Amber Lin was saying to Faith.

And in that second, Colby had an epiphany. What better story than an inside look at the behind-the-scenes of mixed martial arts, one of the most popular, yet controversial, sports out there? The Maximum Fight League was well respected and reputable, but she knew other minor fight leagues and no-holds-barred, unsanctioned fights still happened in the city. One that came to mind was Xtreme Fight, a minor league division, run by Cameron Bennett, which seemed to be a catchall for fighters who couldn't make it into the MFL. They'd been investigated several times by the Nevada State Commission's office for violations to the code—steroid use by fighters and athletes fighting with injuries—but no charges had ever been
reported. Maybe there was a real “tell-all” story to be had.

But looking at Amber Lin's perfect body, she'd almost dismissed her crazy idea of trying to get a job as a ring girl with the organization, thinking that maybe she should fill out a fighter application instead . . . but she wanted a story, not broken bones.

Though this torture she was going through was worse than a punch to the face. She sighed as she lay back against the table. “Go ahead.”

Ten excruciating minutes later, Anna stopped.

“Are we done?” Colby asked in surprise. After the first couple of times, her body had almost gotten used to the quick, intense pain associated with each strip. It hadn't gotten easier exactly; her pain tolerance had either increased dramatically or her flesh had gone numb.

“No. I was wondering if you wanted a full Brazilian or if you'd like me to leave a landing strip or heart shape or triangle?” Anna picked up a laminated chart with various landscaping designs on it and handed it to her. “We can do any of these.”

Colby blinked as she took it. “I don't understand.” And she wasn't sure she wanted to. In twenty-eight years, she'd successfully been able to avoid this. Living in Seattle and working her butt off to prove herself in a male-dominated industry, she'd hadn't exactly had time for many relationships, and the few men she had been with casually over the last few years hadn't seemed to mind her
au naturel
ways. She sighed. No wonder so many women had low self-esteem and body confidence: the standard of
beautiful
kept changing and becoming more and more unattainable and unrealistic.

But in her case, this wasn't for beauty, it was for her new, self-imposed assignment.

“Well, some women leave a little. What do you think your boyfriend would prefer?”

The involuntary snort that escaped her made Anna's eyebrows rise.

As if she'd ever put herself through pain like this for some guy. “I'm not doing this for a boyfriend.”

“Oh, excuse the assumption. Your girlfriend?”

Colby sighed. At this rate, she'd probably do better if she did start playing for the other team. Other than the one-time stupid mistake with Dylan, she couldn't even remember the last time she'd had sex. Competing with men instead of trying to get one had always seemed to be her focus. Lying back down, she said, “Remove all of it, please.” The barely-there bikini bottoms the Xtreme Fight League required her to wear to the fights wouldn't cover much.

Walking into the interview for the ring girl position had made her feel sick enough. Leaving with the bra top and underwear and a lingering slime on her skin from the looks of the organization's owner, Cameron Bennett,she'd nearly lost her lunch, a big juicy hamburger and fries that obviously wouldn't be part of her diet anymore.

Real journalists make sacrifices.

Though she seriously doubted Anderson Cooper had ever gone to these extremes to get a story, she thought, gripping the table as Anna's warning of this ordeal getting worse was proven true. A long half hour later, she painfully left the salon after paying the even more painful hundred dollars for the service.

Her inner thighs were on fire, and the fabric of her underwear stuck to her as she climbed into her car. “This better be worth it,” she mumbled, glancing toward the Xtreme Fight new-employee contract on the passenger seat.

Ten minutes later, she pulled into the parking lot of Perk-Up to meet her best friend, Kate, for their weekly coffee and catch-up session. The early-morning meet-up was one of her favorite parts of the week, but today she was tempted to cancel so she could go home and shower to get the remaining wax off and cry before heading into the office.

But seeing Kate's Jeep already in the parking lot, she parked the car and got out. The two of them had been best friends since junior high, and they'd stayed close even when Colby had moved to Seattle. She was grateful that time and distance had done nothing to impact their tight friendship and they'd picked up right where they'd left off when she'd come back.

Opening the door, she entered, keeping her inner thighs apart as she walked toward the counter in the busy café.

“Why are you walking funny?” Kate said, frowning as she poured tarlike coffee into one of the café's signature oversized mugs.

“Don't ask,” Colby mumbled. “Why are you behind the counter? You don't work here anymore, remember?” Taking the coffee from her friend, she took a lifesaving gulp, burning her tongue. It helped to distract from the burning on the lower half of her body, but not long enough.

“It's faster than waiting for service,” Kate said, lifting the divider and joining her at their usual table in the corner near the window that overlooked the Vegas Strip. She removed her sweater, revealing her nurse's uniform, and yawned as she sat.

Wow, she made sitting look so easy.

Colby was terrified that if she crossed her legs, peeling them apart again might kill her. She slowly lowered herself into one of the plush leather chairs, holding her breath as her ass made contact.

Kate's dark brown eyes narrowed. “Oh, my God. You slept with him again.”

Colby shuddered. The idea of anyone anywhere near her business at that moment made her cringe. Would the swelling ever go away? “Who?”

“That hunk of a cohost of yours.” Kate's expression went dreamy and the look of interest in her eyes was almost enough for Colby to allow her to believe the lie.

Almost.

“No. I did not.” The first time had been a mistake, one she had no intention of repeating. Especially not now that they were competing for the same job.

“Well, why are you moving like you rode a mechanical bull for hours?”

She laughed. “It's nothing. How was work?” Kate was an emergency-room nurse at Sunrise Hospital, but with her long, wavy, light blond hair and tall, curvy frame, she could be a model. Looks
and
brains. If Colby were the insecure type, she'd never be able to be best friends with the woman. Next to Kate, she disappeared. Which had always been fine with her. In high school, she'd always been more concerned with beating the guys at sports than feeding their egos. Unfortunately, that habit was a tough one to break; therefore her success rate with relationships was pitiful.

Kate suppressed another yawn. “Long. These fourteen-hour shifts are killing me. How did your meeting with Ari Connolly go? Am I looking at the newest anchor for Knock Out Sports?” She looked at Colby expectantly, as she had seconds before when she'd been expecting to hear that Colby had finally gotten laid. Colby couldn't bear to disappoint her friend twice in thirty seconds, so she forced a smile.

“It went great,” she said slowly. “I mean, as well as it could have . . .” Should she tell her friend about her crazy new story idea? She hesitated.

“What?”

She shook her head. “Nothing.” She couldn't. Kate would kill her if she knew she was going undercover in one of the most questionable fighting organizations in the city to get a story. She'd be worried about her that evening, and her friend had enough stress in her life. Besides, she knew Kate wasn't a fan of MMA, having seen and treated far too many injuries from the sport. “I'm just up against a few other candidates for the job, so nothing is definite yet.”

Kate waved a hand. “You have a master's in journalism, a sports broadcasting diploma, and five years' experience. They'd be crazy not to offer you the job. Don't even worry about it. You got this,” she said sincerely.

Colby wished she shared her friend's optimism. Kate believed that good things happened to good people and she thought all you needed to do was want something bad enough and it would happen.

So far in Colby's life, that hadn't been the case. Hard work had been the only way she'd risen to the top and achieved her goals. And she knew that's what it would continue to take—for her at least.

She took a sip of her coffee and forced a fake note of confidence into her voice. “You're right. They would be crazy not to give me the job based on my credentials.”

But just in case . . .

* * *

Colby backed up against the wall in the noisy, too-small, crowded bathroom at the Xtreme Fight event center, readjusting her skimpy bootie-shorts over her butt cheeks. Through a thick haze of hair spray and perfume, she eyed the other ring girls getting ready. How did they keep these things from creeping into their butt cracks? Even if by some miracle she were able to keep her knees steady on the three-inch heels and make it successfully around the octagon, holding the second-round card over her head, there would be no avoiding showing off her ass to the crowd.

She clutched her purse at her waist, in an effort to both hide her stomach and not have the bag stolen, the mix of strong scents killing her. She had to get out of the bathroom, but that would mean actually going out in public and leaving the small comfort of security it provided. Fear over what she'd signed on for that evening gripped her, making it difficult to breathe.

“Hey, new girl, you all right over there?” The tall blonde at the mirror closest to her eyed her.

Colby shook her head no as she mumbled, “Of course. I'm great.”

“Well, which is it?” The girl paused, her mascara brush midair.

Several others turned to look at her as well, and memories of the cheerleading camp her parents had forced her to attend when she was fourteen in an effort to “girl her up a little” came flooding back. Lipstick, high heels, high-pitched giggles, and whispers that were no doubt about her all crashed her memory as she stood frozen, her back pushing against the cool brick wall.

This is ridiculous, she told herself. She wasn't a tomboyish young girl anymore. She was a successful journalist and she had a job to do.

“She looks like she's going to faint,” a shorter brunette with tattoo sleeves covering both arms said.

“Nah, she's naturally that pale. I saw her yesterday at her interview,” the tall blonde said, moving closer.

Now Colby did feel as though she were about to faint. She was crazy to be here. She was so far out of her element. She
swallowed hard when the girl lifted her chin.

“You have absolutely no makeup on,” she said, a note of terror mixing with disbelief.

“Bullshit,” the brunette said, coming closer. “No one's skin is that perfect.” She peered closer to study Colby's face in the dingy lighting.

“I have makeup on,” Colby said. Not as much as they did. The bright colors around their eyes and the heavy application of black eyeliner was way over the top, and the bright sweeping of color over their cheekbones was almost clownlike.

“Not enough. Where's your makeup bag? We have like five minutes to get out there,” the short brunette said.

She cleared her throat. “I think I'm fine,” she mumbled, but she opened her purse and pulled out a pale pink lip gloss.

“You're kidding, right?” the blonde asked.

Colby shook her head. “Why would I be kidding?”

The women each grabbed an arm and dragged her toward the mirror, where their oversized purses were full of makeup products.

“This fresh-face look might be cute in normal lighting, but out there, you're going to look like a seasick ghost.” The brunette opened a compact and started pressing a silky powder to her cheeks and forehead.

The blonde dug through her bag and retrieved a bright red lipstick.