Consumed: A MMA Sports Romance (67 page)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Kya

I
got up the stairs and onto the sidewalk before Fenton passed out. I held on as
he slumped onto his knees on the sidewalk. There was no way I could hold him
up.

"Bet the pit bosses
are clocking you because you are one lucky gal," the cab driver said. He rushed
over and helped me haul Fenton into the backseat. "I almost left, but
decided to give you just a few minutes more."

"You've been waiting
here this whole time?" I asked.

"Like I said, with
your luck, you're going to win big one of these days and then you'll remember
ol' Mike," he said.

"Thank you, Mike, I
will. But I don't know why you think I'm lucky. Everything I get near is
turning into a mess." I climbed into the seat next to Fenton and cradled
his head in my lap.

"Honey, you climbed
out of the basement of Ling Pho Lounge without a scratch on you. That's
lucky." Mike jumped into the driver's seat. "I've heard they take
women from the crowd and toss them into cat fights. You don't even have a hair
out of place."

"I wish I could say
the same for him," I said.

"Just banged
up," the cab driver eyed Fenton through the rearview mirror.
"Probably drank a lot, fought like an animal, and then crashed when the
adrenaline ebbed."

Despite his optimistic
prognosis, the cab driver flew through the Vegas traffic until he reached the
driveway of the Tropicana. There, he slowed and pulled over on the street.
"Looks like he's got other problems," the driver said.

Fenton Morris fans had
converged at the entrance to the hotel. Women in tight, white t-shirts
imprinted with his name bounced by. Large cardboard cutouts of his face covered
in lipstick kisses bobbed above the crowd. Flashes went off like fireworks and
multiple entertainment crews stood around with cameras and microphones ready.
Word had spread that Fenton Morris was partying at the Tropicana and everyone
wanted in on his no-holds barred fun.

"I'll never get him
through that unnoticed," I said. "Is there a back way?"

"Stevie? This is
Mike, yeah, I know it’s late, but I'm calling in a favor," the cab driver
clutched his phone. "I got a high profile drop off and I need the loading
dock at the Tropicana."

He pulled back out into
traffic one-handed and kept talking as he steered around the giant casino and
pulled up to a blocked entrance. Within minutes, he was thanking his friend and
a uniformed guard unlocked the gate.

"I can let you in
the back, no problem," the guard said.

"Thanks, man. I
gotta leave the cab and help her up. Okay?"

The guard looked at me
and nodded. "Service elevator goes all the way from the dock to the top
floor. Opposite end, it's a long walk, but you'll miss the crowds."

We slung Fenton between
us and he came to enough to shuffle along to the service elevator. When the
doors closed, I asked, "How did he know I needed to get to the top floor on
the other end?"

"You're staying in
one of the big time suites. The entire hotel has seen your picture so they can
cater to you. A little invasive if you ask me, but definitely a perk,"
Mike said.

We made it to my suite,
and I unlocked the door. Fenton came to as Mike lowered him to the couch.
"No hospital, I'm fine," he said.

"That's what I told
her. Though if you don't start treating her right, I can assure you there'll be
a tire iron in your future. Then, you'll need the hospital."

"Nice guy,"
Fenton commented as Mike left.

"Yeah, I'm lucky I
got into his cab." I took off Fenton's hat and pushed him back down on the
couch. "We're lucky. Now just relax for a while, recover."

I went to get ice and a
wet washcloth and when I came back, Fenton scowled up at me. "How do you
know those men from the bar are trying to fix my next fight?"

I sat down next to him
and started swabbing away the dried blood. "I, um, may have followed them
and watched them do it to another fighter. Some poor featherweight boxer over at
the MGM Grand. They must have some pull because it was all out in the open and
no one seemed to notice."

"Except you. Do you
have any idea how dangerous that is?" Fenton asked.

"More dangerous than
letting one of them buy me a drink?" My joking tone was lost on him.

Fenton snatched the
washcloth from me and sat up. "You have no idea, do you? You're just
running around doing whatever you want, whatever you think will land you this
deal, and you don't even care what danger you're stepping in."

I slammed the ice into a
small towel and folded it up. "I don't care? What about you? You just up
and decide to join an underground fight for a little cash? What about your
career? Like it or not, you have people that care about you and what you do.
Why would you do something like that?"

"For this,"
Fenton said. He pulled out the stack of cash and handed it to me.

I dropped the ice to the
floor. "That is an insane amount. For one fight?"

"For one fight, just
me. I needed it to pay for the private gym. You think I'd make Kev or my coach
pay my way? I only switched gyms because the owner is in on the fix."

"I know you think
you didn't have a choice, but you did. I could have helped you. I would
have." I scooped up the ice and handed it to him. "I will, if you'll
let me."

"And, I'm telling
you I'm fine." Fenton took the ice, but stood up. "All your help
comes with strings attached. You just want me to sign your endorsement deal, so
you can go trotting back to Chicago, buy your little house, and live your comfortable
life in your new office. I learned a long time ago not to lean on someone who
has one foot out the door."

I picked up the washcloth
and twisted it in my hands. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Yeah? Well I
am," he said. He unzipped his sweatshirt to reveal his hard and bare
chest. Then, he yanked a t-shirt out of his back pocket and pulled it over his
head. He could not hide the grimace of pain as he raised his arms. There was a
wicked bruise forming over his ribs.

"You're hurt; you
need to rest. I'll leave. I'll get out of your way. Just stay here and give
yourself a break," I told him. "You can't go out there. A sea of
paparazzi is waiting for you."

Fenton tugged the black
hat back on his head. "I'll be fine. And, I'm not about to let you leave.
You'd probably end up in some back room betting on a cockfight."

"Only if that's
where you're going," I stood up and marched in front of him.

He shook his head and the
ghost of smile brushed past his mouth. "I'm just going to that expensive
private gym of mine. I left all my stuff there." He pulled a card out of
his pocket and checked the address.

"You don't need any
of it tonight." I moved to block his way.

"I need my phone.
I'm expecting a call," Fenton said.

I dodged in front of him
again. He put his wide hands on my waist and went to lift me out of the way. As
soon as he flexed, he grimaced again. Fenton's hands dropped from my waist and
one pressed over his ribs.

"You're not going
anywhere," I cried.

"It's just a
bruise." He swayed on his feet. "But maybe I should lie down for a
few more minutes."

He made it back to the
couch and smiled when I came back with another cool washcloth, a blanket, and
pitcher of juice. "Please tell me you’re going to mix some tequila in that
for me. You know, for the pain," he said.

"Oh, so now you'll
admit you're in pain?" I asked. I slipped onto the couch next to him and
laid the cool washcloth on his forehead. I retrieved the ice and placed it
under his sweatshirt where his ribs hurt. Then, I poured him a glass of juice,
tequila, and pulled a few aspirin from my pocket. "What was the last thing
you ate?"

"Please, no, I can't
stand the angry chef slamming his pots around all jealous over you," he
said.

I laughed. "Then
it’s a good thing we've got leftovers. I'll make you a steak sandwich."

Fenton reached for the
remote, dimmed the lights, and turned on the fireplace. "To help me
recover," he said with a devilish glint in his eyes.

I came back with the
sandwich and sat down next to him again. "That's all I want, you know. I
don't really care about the endorsement deal or whether or not you sign. I just
want you to be okay."

"Is that all?"
He propped himself up on one arm and ran his other hand over my hair. "I'm
not interested in doing business with you. I want more."

His hand guided me closer
and I met his lips willingly. The kiss was light and gentle. I did not want to
hurt him, and he seemed to be testing something. Our lips brushed gently, and I
felt a warm glow of tenderness wrap around me. This was more – not just
attraction or passion, but something more precious. The kiss was fierce and
delicate. I felt his pulse pounding in his neck, but it was nothing compared to
the wash of longing that flowed between us.

"I was
jealous," I said. "I couldn't stand to see you with those other
women, rival agents or not. I wanted to make you jealous, too."

"I wanted to protect
you, keep you safe. I need you safe. I need to know nothing bad will happen to
you," he said. His soft kisses seared me more than our other passionate
entanglements.

"I am safe. We're both
safe. Just stay here tonight, please," I said.

Fenton leaned back onto
the couch cushions again and pulled me alongside him. I happily tucked myself
against his body, careful not to lay my arm over his sore ribs. I nestled my
face into the crook of his neck and felt his body relax. We dozed in the
flickering firelight, wrapped up together.

I woke up a half an hour
later to Fenton muttering in his sleep. I sat up, worried that I was hurting
him, but his dream continued.

"It's not like that,
sis. I can do it. I can take care of us this time. Don't hang up, please don't
hang up," he mumbled.

"Fenton?" I
laid a hand on his shoulder, but he did not wake up.

"Don't hang up,
sis," his hands fluttered in his sleep.

I slipped off the couch
and found the card he had looked at earlier. The address of the private gym was
printed on the plain white card stock. No wonder he wanted to get his things;
he was expecting a phone call from his sister. I remembered that was what I had
overheard him discussing with the private investigator. He had tried to make
contact with his sister.

The address was not far
away from the Tropicana. I could get there and back before he woke up. I looked
at Fenton. He was more actions than words, and I had to find some way to show
him he meant more to me than a business deal. It would be easy to bring him his
phone and clean change of clothes.

I sneaked out the suite
door and headed out into the Vegas night with a smile on my face.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Kya

I
got to the cabstand, still feeling confident. Fenton was upstairs asleep, and I
could get back before he woke up. I would not even have to tell him I was the
one that left to get his things. I stopped for a moment and considered asking
Kev Casey to do it for me, but the last thing I wanted was to owe that man a
favor.

"Is Mike here?"
I asked.

The uniformed man at the
cabstand shook his head. "No, he's off-duty. But I suppose you could call
him. He's a sucker for requests."

"No, he deserves a
little time off," I said. I got into the first cab in line and handed the
driver the white card. "Can you take me to this address?"

The driver nodded without
a word and slipped into traffic. He drove fast, with no music on and none of
the chatter I had come to expect from cab drivers. He only gave me one sullen
glance in the rear view mirror and then concentrated on the road.

In the silence, I had
plenty of time to second-guess what I was doing. If Fenton woke up and found me
gone, he would be angry. Not only was I off and, according to him, more likely
to get myself in trouble, but I was still trying to impress him. I had to make
sure he knew it was for him, not the business deal.

The cab slammed to a stop
before I could figure out how to convince Fenton I was not just another sneaky
agent. The driver handed me back the little white card and tapped the digital
meter.

"How much if you
wait for me?" I asked.

The driver handed me a
smudged business card with his cab company's number on it.

"You can't wait a
few minutes? Leave the meter running," I said. "Seriously, I'll be
right back. I don't want to call another cab and wait."

The driver shrugged and
took my cash. As soon as I got out the car, he drove off. A nervous chill
slipped down my back. I missed ol' Mike and could see him shaking his head at
me. I had told myself this was a simple gesture, something nice to do for
Fenton, but I was getting the feeling I was only going to make more trouble. I
shivered on the street, feeling exposed, and looked around for the address on
the card.

The Wynn Casino and Hotel
was lit up nearby, and as I looked around, I started to feel better. It was
busy section of the strip. Lots of shops were still open, catering to the
late-night shoppers of Las Vegas. There were blindingly bright neon signs
leading partygoers to food and drink. And, there were knots of people heading
this way and that, enjoying their Vegas vacations.

You're
fine
,
I told myself. Still, I had the uneasy feeling I was being watched.

It’s
a silly thought
, I tried to convince myself. No one would
be after me. I was a low-level agent, clearly not a high roller. Even if they
knew me from the luxury suite at the Tropicana, they could see I had nothing on
me.

I turned quickly and rang
the bell next to the street number that matched the card. The door was
otherwise unmarked and I was relieved when a uniformed concierge opened the
door. The logo on his crisp white shirt matched the card and I stepped forward,
happy to get off the street.

"I'm sorry, this is
a private club," the concierge said.

"I realize
that," I said. "I'm just here to pick up something for a member. You
can bring it out to me, but I'd really rather come inside." I stepped
forward again, feeling a rising need to get off the street, even though I could
not see anyone suspicious behind me.

"We operate very
exclusively. I cannot let you inside," the concierge said. "For the
safety and privacy of our members."

I glanced back at the
street. A tour bus parked by the curb and let a steady stream of people out to
swarm into the nearby souvenir shops. I was being silly – there was no one out
there but tourists. I figured the paranoia was because I was tired. I just
wanted to get Fenton's phone and get back to the suite as soon as possible.

"I know, I mean, I'm
sorry," I handed him the card. "I'm just here to pick up Fenton
Morris' things. He is staying elsewhere tonight."

The concierge's lips
quirked up, but he nodded at the card and let me inside. I trotted into the
all-white lobby, ridiculously glad to be inside.

"What exactly are
you picking up?"

"Mr. Morris would
like a clean change of clothes and most importantly, his phone," I said.

The concierge disappeared
through a white unmarked door. I jumped a foot into the air when a voice behind
me said, "Mr. Morris?"

I turned and came face to
face with Mario Peretti, Fenton's MMA rival. Up close, he was just as fierce
and intimidating as all his posters portrayed him – until he smiled.

"I'm Mario, nice to
meet you . . .?"

"Allen. Kya
Allen," I said.

"Ah, the endorsement
agent," Mario said. "Don't worry, I only listen to the good things.
Guys like Fenton and I know all about how different reputations can be from the
truth."

I relaxed and reached out
a hand to shake his. "It's nice to meet you, Mario. So, you don't think
Fenton lives up to his reputation? You might be the only one in Vegas that
feels that way right about now," I said.

"I don't think I'm
alone in that," Mario said and smiled at me again.

I felt my cheeks warm and
changed the subject. "I didn't think rival fighters would share a
gym?"

"I was the one that
suggested this place," Mario said. "Fenton and I talk outside of
fights, trash talk, and photo ops."

"You do?"

"Yeah. It makes
sense. We have a lot in common," Mario said. "He's like me, setting
everything else aside until he gets to the top. Though, I'm starting to see why
he having trouble keeping everything separated."

I drummed my hands on the
white desk and wished the concierge would come back. "Why do you say
that?"

"I recognize
you." Mario leaned against the tall desk. "From the fight. As I rule,
I block out the crowd, most fighters do. I was just so surprised to see
Fenton's look out there that I had to glance, too. He was looking at you."

"That's impossible,
there were tons of people in the crowd that night," I said. My cheeks
flared warmer.

"But I recognize
you. Thanks for helping me land that punch," he said.

"No, please don't
say that. That's horrible," I cried.

He chuckled. "Fenton
may have lost the fight, but everyone loves a comeback story. Don't get me
wrong, I'm going to stop him, but the next time, it'll be a fair fight."

"I'm excited to see
that, live on television from my hotel room," I said.

Fenton's rival laughed
again. "Nah, he'll want you there. Now that I've seen you up close, I
can't really say that Fenton lost the fight. Seems like he might be on a lucky
streak." Mario winked at me and sauntered away.

The concierge returned
and handed me Fenton's black duffel bag. "Will that be all, miss?"

I nodded and headed out
the door. My mind was reeling. Fenton had seen me – I was the reason he was
knocked out. Out over a sea of faces, he saw me. The thought was thrilling at
the same time as my guilt was confirmed. The door to the private club locked
behind me and the sound shook me from my thoughts.

"Oh, the cab,"
I muttered. I should have asked the concierge to call me a cab. Then, I could
have waited inside.

I hefted Fenton's duffel
bag onto my shoulder and fumbled for my phone. I dialed the number to the cab
company and tapped my foot. The dispatcher promised me it would only be a
ten-minute wait.

You're
fine, everything's fine
, I told myself.

The street was still
busy, and the tour bus was still waiting for its swarm to return with plastic
knick-knacks. I forced myself to browse a postcard display. It was silly to
feel like someone was watching me. Vegas was an anonymous town, and no one knew
me. I was no one special. Still, the feeling persisted and I worried that
someone was watching me in particular.

"Ms. Allen, so nice
to see you again," a voice said.

I turned and drew back,
almost knocking over the post card display with Fenton's black duffel bag.
"How do you know my name?"

The man in suit gave me a
sharp smile and narrowed his eyes. "I checked up on you. I know all about
you. Ms. Kya Allen, endorsement agent. Normally, you chase tennis players and
golfers, but your boss thought you needed a challenge. You're here to sign
Fenton Morris, but you haven't made it happen yet."

"Who needs Fenton
Morris?" I said. "I just met Mario Peretti and right now, he's the
better bet."

"Really?" The
man eyed the white door. He had been watching me and seen me go both in and
come out.

"Yes," I said,
glad he was distracted from Fenton. "Plus, he doesn't come with all the
bad boy bullshit. Fenton's a walking circus right now, and I'm just not into
that."

"Liar," the man
in the suit said. "You might be focusing your business elsewhere, but you
certainly are not done with Mr. Morris."

I realized I was still
holding Fenton's duffel bag. "What business is it of yours?"

"I saw the way he
reacted to your little stunt with my friend," he said. "You hardly
had time to do more than smile before he was up in my friend's face. That kind
of jealousy just confirms a little theory I have about you two."

I saw a yellow cab pull
over in front of the private gym. I edged towards it, my heart pounding. Behind
it a black town car parked and flashed its headlights. The man in the black
pants and t-shirt got out of the town car and strode towards us.

"See, I think you
and Mr. Morris are not coming together on a business front because you are
together elsewhere. Or at least, you want to be. You're not his normal
shiny-dressed slut, so I'm thinking it’s more serious than that. Dare I say
love?"

I shoved past the man in
the suit. "You can keep your theories to yourself, and your threats.
Fenton's not going to do what you say. You can't threaten him."

"You're right,"
he said. "Threats don't work against a man like Fenton Morris. So, what we
need is good old-fashioned leverage. And, you know what makes the best
leverage?"

I marched towards the
yellow cab, but the man in black stopped me. "You're not going to find any
dirt on Fenton. You don't have any leverage."

I looked up and the tall
man's brown eyes flashed with an apology. He yanked the black duffel bag from
my hand easily and wrapped his other arm around my shoulders. I was forced
towards the black town car.

"Don't be looking to
him for help," the man in the suit said. "My muscle here doesn't
appreciate being flirted with and used. You just smiled at him to make Fenton
mad. He's a nice guy, but that's gotta hurt. Now, get in the car before he has
to hurt you."

"Wait, what are you
doing?" I asked.

"I told you –
leverage. Fenton will do exactly what we asked him to do because if he doesn't,
he won't ever see you again."