The Beauty and the Brawler (5 page)

          Paz, apparently sensing the imminent danger his asshole of a co-worker was in, strolled through the door, put down his mug of coffee, gently picked Samara up, and carried her across the small space and sat her down. “Do you want to be a prison mom?” he calmly asked.

          “No.”

          “Then you can’t kill him.”

          “But—”

          “No.”

          “Paz, he—”

          “I know.”

          “And—”

          “I understand, but the answer is still no.”

          “I just want to—”

          “No.”

          Samara stomped her foot and growled as Trip’s chuckles grew louder and louder. “Asshole.”

          Trip grinned. “But I’m a
pretty
asshole.” He blew her a kiss. “Because of me, our baby will be beautiful. You should be grateful.”

          Paz caught her before she made it over the table, fingers curled into claws once again, and threatened the other man. “I
will
unleash her on you.”

          Spreading his arms wide, Trip replied, “She’s a little moody because I gave all the details of our torrid affair without her here.”

          Samara stilled and softly spoke. “I’m going to kill you, Obadiah Jacob Latimore the Third.” His grin melted at the use of his given name. “I’m going to kill you then tell everyone about your life as
Real Steel.”

          Paz looked between the two of them. “Real Steel?”

          “Oh, Sammie, c’mon!”

          Her head cocked as she began to hum a tune Trip was all too familiar with. They didn’t call her
Sammie the Voice
for nothing.

          Trip pointed at her. “You swore you wouldn’t!”

          “What am I missing here?” Paz queried.

          “Oh, nothing much,” Samara retorted casually. “Just Trip’s old career choice as a—”

          “I’ll take it back I swear!” He waved his arms. “I’ll make sure everyone in the building knows I’m full of shit!”

          Behind her, Paz snorted. “My friend, it’s far too late for that. Everyone already knows.” He raised his brows towards Samara. “Lucy, you have some ’splaining to do.”

          She pouted a little. “Can’t we just continue with our regular daily routine?”

          His lips twitched. “Cute...but no.”

          Flopping back into her chair, she placed a hand to her forehead. “I can’t handle this kind of stress. I’m with child.”

          It was Trip who pulled her hand away from her face. “Sweetheart, it’s six a.m., I had to drink shitty lounge coffee, and your breasts are not on display for my enjoyment.” He folded his arms across his chest. “You should be thankful we aren’t passing you from knee to knee by now and tanning your ass.”

          Samara’s shoulders slumped. It was going to be a
long
day.

***

          Manfred, the smell of food, and a home that
didn’t
look like a tornado and hurricane had a fuckfest in her living room gwere the things Samara noticed upon opening her front door. This meant one of two things; she had a
really
domestic, possibly homicidal stalker in her condo
or...
Nyssa was here.

          Her sister was the only logical explanation to the change in her home because her mother didn’t have a key to her place—thank God
—
and her father wasn’t a big fan of New York as a whole. Plus, she smelled mustard-fried chicken breast. And the
only
person who fed Samara’s addiction to mustard-fried chicken breast was Nyssa. Out of the two of them, she was the one who managed to be efficient in the kitchen. Everything Samara made had a slight Cajun
feel to it. It was arguable that she should be grateful her sister cooked. Arguable didn’t mean she
would
be grateful.

          “Please, for the love of all that’s holy, let it be a domestic, possibly homicidal stalker,” she murmured, praying.

          “Sammie, that you?” her sister called out from the kitchen.

          Samara rolled her eyes towards the ceiling. “You
really
don’t like me, do you?”

          Nyssa stuck her head around the corner. “Good, you’re here.”

          “Yes,” she said slowly. “It’s
my
condo. The question is—why are
you
here?”

          Shrugging, her sibling replied, “Was in the neighborhood.”

          Samara stared.

          “No, seriously,” Nyssa continued. “I was
literally
up the block in a five-hour meeting with one of my clients who plays for the Giants. I flew in this morning. Something you’d know if you answered the phone every once in a while.” She wiped her hands with the small towel hanging over her shoulder. “I figured you’d still be on-air. It’s only noon.”

Tossing her bag down, Samara slipped out of her jacket and sneakers before heading for the bathroom so she could wash her hands and face. “Yeah, called it an early day. Still kinda sick, yah know?”

          “My future minion is working you over, eh?”

          Samara had frozen in her tracks so many times today she might as well call a sculptor from the wax museum to come and fulfill her lifelong dream of being immortalized, candle style. “You’re shitting me, right?”

          “I shit you not, ma’am.”

          “Did all of the east coast figure it out before me?” she cried.

          Nyssa laughed. “After your
come-to-Jesus
moment the other day, it really wasn’t that hard to put two and two together, Sammie. Even if I
was
fuzzy around the edges.”

          With a small, defeated sigh, Samara marched towards the bathroom. “I might as well announce it on air tomorrow morning.”

          “Not unless you want Mommy here until the kid turns eighteen.”

          She leaned over the sink, suddenly feeling all kinds of nauseous again. “Damn. I have to tell Mom and Dad.”

          “Speaking of dads,” Nyssa drawled, leaning against the doorway. “You planning to tell Luc any time soon?”

          Samara’s head snapped up. “Who said it was... Shit, I might as well not even finish that goddamn sentence. Of course it was Luc.”

          Something between the sound of a squeal and a scream left her sister’s mouth before Nyssa began to bounce around, clapping her hands. Samara caught her by the shoulders, stopping her. “You c
cannot
say anything.”

          Nyssa’s eyes widened. “You
do
plan on telling him,
don’t you?”

         
She chewed her lip. “’Course I do.”

          “Good.” The other woman turned back toward the hallway.

          “Just not right now,” Samara finished.

          Nyssa halted. “Now what
now
?”

          “This isn’t the kind of thing you tell someone over the phone.” Shifting from one foot to the other, she ran a hand down her face. “Needs to be done in person.”

          “So take the drive out tomorrow,” her sister suggested.

          Samara shook her head. “Can’t. I have to wait until this weekend, after my guest host slot on KD104 with Trip and Paz in Jersey. I’ll make the commute from there to Philly.”

          “And
then
you’ll tell him?”

          “
Then
I’ll tell him.”

          Nyssa nodded and started walking again.

          “You can’t tell Sunny, either!” Samara called after her.

          “I’m not even speaking to that prick!”

          “Why not?”

          “Because he’s a prick! That’s why not! Stop questioning why I’m not speaking to the prick!”

          “You don’t have to bellow! It’s not
my
fault he’s a prick!”

          “It’s
nobody’s
fault he’s a prick! Well...except for Satan’s because I’m convinced that’s who he serves!”

          Jesus. Those two. Nyssa needed to take her own advice for once. After six years, one would think her sister would’ve caught on by now. Then again, if she
had
caught on, would she be accompanying Samara on this week’s episode of
Thirty-Something and Pregnant
?

          Snorting, she followed after her sister.

Nothing like watching a kid get his ass handed to him to put your life in perspective,
Luciano thought as he stood just outside the Trenton Home for Boys—the same godforsaken place where he’d grown up until he ran away and never looked back...at least not until years later. Every time he stepped on the property he remembered. He remembered the fights, the anger...the gaping loneliness. Now as he stood watching a modern-day David and Goliath tale, every memory became more acute,
sharper.

No matter how many times Mr. Mini Fists of Fury got knocked down, he bounced back up. Luciano was impressed...but unwilling to make his presence known just yet. At least not until...

“Ah! The little shit bit me!” The older kid pulled back, his wrist bleeding.

Luciano grinned. A dirty fighter—he could appreciate that. He hadn’t hit the six-foot mark until he was seventeen, and then he just kept on growing. But
he understood the plight of being small, feeling weak.

The smaller scrapper hopped up again, a sound close to a battle cry leaving his mouth as he lunged for his bully. Luciano finally stepped from his hiding place, reached out, and plucked the pint-sized warrior out of the air by his shirt. Three pairs of eyes widened at the sight of him.

“Yo! I don’t believe this shit! It’s the Philly Brawler!” one yelled. Patting his pockets, the same kid asked, “Can I have your autograph?”

Luciano gave all three a hard stare until they got the message and scrambled over one another to get away, yelling about the Philly Brawler and his crazy eyes.
He ignored the crazy part...even though it stung a little. He didn’t have crazy eyes...at least he didn’t
think
he did.

“Lemme down!”

Looking to the still-swinging kid he had trapped with one hand, Luciano sighed and said, “I thought we talked about this, Marco.”

Ten-year-old Marco De Rossi stilled, panting. “They started it, Luc.”

He sat him down, stooping to get a good look at his face then whistled low. “Some shiner you got there, kid.” He poked it.

“Ow!” Marco hit him in the shoulder. “What’s
wrong
with you? Don’t touch it!” He cupped a hand over his bruised eye.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Luciano said in a flat tone. “That make you mad?”

“Yes!”

“And this?” He poked Marco’s busted lip.