Back in Black (17 page)

She hesitated, but then said, “That would be nice. Thank you.”

He let out the breath he hadn’t known he was holding.

Then she said, “And Drew?”

Caution rose. “Yeah?”

“I’m already thinking of you.” She ended the call with a click, leaving Drew smiling, hard, and fucking well enchanted. So even though he’d acted like an ass, Gillian didn’t hold a grudge? Good to know.

She wasn’t an easy woman, but she wasn’t difficult, either.

He liked that about her. Hell, he liked everything about her.

No way in hell would he sit idle while someone fucked with her property. He’d find the guy responsible. As he’d told Gillian, a man in his position needed special associations. For Drew, that included a top-notch investigative group.

 

 

DREW stood in the sidelines of Havoc’s busy gym, waiting for Brett Bullman to finish up. He paced, cursed to himself, and generally emanated a
Fuck off
vibe to anyone who thought to speak with him.

For more than a week, things had been great. With negotiations, with Gillian, with life. He’d fulfilled a lot of travel obligations, but it didn’t tire him, especially not when he had Gillian to think about—and thinking of her had turned into his favorite pastime.

Then Brett had to go and mess up his mojo.

Most fighters would be all over this type of over-the-top publicity. But as soon as Drew thought it, he saw Havoc talking to Simon Evans, both of them now coaches as well as fighters, sweaty from sparring, and he remembered how private those two had been, too. They were each well known with a broad fan base, but they didn’t hog the limelight or seek out attention. Low-key, that described them. Damn good at what they did, confident in their abilities, and secure enough that they never had the need to prove anything—except in a fight.

Fighters could be so damned difficult.

Drew started pacing again. Many of the guys had left for the locker room to shower and change, but not Brett. Tireless and dedicated, he stayed in the ring, going full steam. He’d been at it for hours, switching up sparring partners several times, and now he went toe to toe with Gregor on his ground game.

He didn’t run out of gas.

Amazing. Brett Bullman was the real deal, a natural athlete with a rock-solid work ethic and enough heart to take him to the top. The SBC could capitalize off Brett big time, if he’d only get on board with the program.

Done talking, Simon and Havoc walked over to coach Gregor and Brett as they went through practiced moves, both in stand-up positions and on the ground.

Intrigued with possibilities, Drew watched.

As one of the most gargantuan fighters in the sport, tall, broad, all muscle and core strength, Gregor should have been able to outpower Brett. Gregor was in a weight class over Brett, and he was no slouch. He might be goofy at times, but in the ring, Gregor turned it on and went after his opponent with single-minded intent.

Didn’t matter this time.

Brett fended off every attack and launched his own with success. Brett had the kind of speed usually only seen in lightweights. From previous bouts he’d seen on the Internet, Drew knew that Brett was rock jawed, shaking off punches that would have put most down for the count, and his punches landed like sledgehammer blows.

Gregor couldn’t best him.

Getting caught up in the excitement, Simon and Dean continued to yell instructions. But now, hoping to even up the fight, it was only Gregor they coached.

Their encouragement had no visible effect.

Brett was a fucking wonder boy.

Only recently had Drew learned about Brett’s background. He came from a home so broken it bordered on abuse. As a kid, he had lived part-time on the streets, and then somehow put himself through college. After he saved a little money, the crazy s.o.b. decided to teach himself to fight.

And apparently when Brett decided to do something, he succeeded.

Not many knew about the piss-poor parents he’d had and the neglect he’d suffered. Brett kept that all real private. But the fact that he’d schooled himself off DVDs of other fights wasn’t a secret. He’d divulged that much after a win, when the commentator asked him about his training.

Now, even though Brett lacked exposure, he’d made the rounds through smaller venues, annihilating all competition until he’d become an Internet phenom.

Fans loved him.

When they learned of his past and all he’d overcome, they’d love him even more.

After some promotional buildup, Drew wanted to put him in the ring with the best, and he knew, even if Brett didn’t win, he’d put on one hell of a fight that the audience would eat up.

With the right press, Brett’s first big SBC fight could break the record at the gate.

His was a great human-interest story. It epitomized the sport: how the strong survived, how motivation and heart could never be discounted.

But Brett, damn him, wanted no part of it. Not that Drew would accept his decision. Giving up hadn’t gotten him where he was today. Pushing, working deals, convincing others to go along with his marketing schemes . . . that was key. One way or another, he’d get Brett on board.

Finally Simon called a halt to the bout. Gregor spit out his mouthpiece, pulled off his headgear, and bent over with his hands braced on his knees, sucking air.

For half a minute, Brett paced the mat like a caged lion. After he’d worked off the adrenaline, he walked over to Gregor with a smile—and thanked him for “helping him out.”

Gregor, still winded, feigned a sucker punch to Brett’s jaw, laughed, and then slapped him on the back.

Brett never even flinched. Leaning on the ropes, he talked to Simon and Dean. After asking questions, shadowing a few moves, and taking more instruction, he called it quits.

Brett had that killer instinct that would take him to the top. And he was one hell of a nice guy, to boot. Women would love seeing his background. Men would be inspired—

“He’s not going to go for it, you know? You might as well forget it.”

Drew hadn’t even heard Simon approach. He acknowledged him with a scowl. “Did he tell you that?”

“I heard him tell
you
that.”

Someone knocked over the bar to a weight set, making a terrible clatter on the concrete floor. Drew glanced up and found a woman standing there, her eyes rounded and her attention glued to Brett.

Simon leaned around Drew to see her. “Who is that?”

“Hell if I know.” Turning back to Brett, Drew watched him as he headed for the shower.

The son of a bitch knew he was there to talk to him, but he was trying to dodge him!

Drew started to go after Brett, but Simon forestalled him.

“Don’t be an ass, Drew. Let the man shower off the sweat.”

“Is there a back door?”

“Not from the showers, no.” Amused, Simon shook his head. “You’re relentless.”

Taking that as a compliment, not an insult, Drew rolled his shoulders. “A shitty upbringing like his is a fucking fantastic angle, and you know it.”

The girl had snuck closer, and at Drew’s language, she made a sound of disapproval.

Drew eyed her. Great. Now he’d have Gillian bitching him out about his language again. A gym should be sacred from delicate female ears, damn it.

Simon stepped around him. “Can I help you?”

With a sort of wide-eyed, slack-jawed concentration, her gaze went all over Simon. But then Drew had expected no less. The ladies had fawned over Simon from day one. That was why his fighting name had become “Sublime,” something Simon would never shake off.

Right now Simon wore only black boxing shorts, and as physiques went, he was no less than gifted. His hard training had a hand, but a prime draw from the gene pool had played a part, too.

Drew snorted. “Cat got your tongue?”

She snapped to attention—without taking her gaze off Simon. “I was hoping to speak to Brett.”

“He just hit the showers,” Simon told her. “He’ll be out soon. You’re welcome to wait.”

“Oh . . . okay. Thank you.”

Drew studied her with new interest. “Are you Brett’s girlfriend?”

“No, I . . .” Her eyes widened again. “Ohmigod. You’re Drew Black.”

At her tone, a mix of revulsion and awe, Simon crossed his arms and grinned.

The poor girl didn’t know which way to look.

If he’d met her before, Drew didn’t recall it. No big deal that, because as prez of the SBC, a lot of women tried to align themselves with him. He forgot most of them.

Shrugging at her, Drew said, “Guilty.”

To which she replied with sharp disdain, “Most definitely.” And then to Simon, “I’m sorry about knocking over that . . . bar thing.”

“No harm done.”

“Okay, then . . . I’ll just wait over there.” She pointed to the far side of the gym, well away from them. “Thank you, again.”

The second her skinny little uptight butt cleared hearing distance, Simon started laughing. Leaning in close to Drew, he whispered,
“Ohmigod, you’re Drew Black!”

Drew fought a grin. “Shut the fuck up.”

Simon slapped him on the shoulder. “I don’t think she’s a fan, Drew. I think her shock was based more in horror.”

“Like I give a shit.” He paced around again. “What’s keeping Brett?”

“A desire for cleanliness?” When Drew didn’t share his sense of humor, Simon gave up on him with a pitying shake of his head. He left for the locker room.

A few fighters emerged, freshly showered and dressed in street clothes. Since Drew still stood there, not looking very busy, they paused to speak to him.

Pasting on his patented smile, Drew joked around, encouraged them, bitched about this and that, and then bid them farewell. Off to the side of the front door, he saw the little blonde looking very uncomfortable as she waited for Brett.

She kept sending him cross looks as she, too, paced. With each step, a ponytail bounced and swished. The late March day had brought a taste of early summer, with clear skies, moderate temps, and no wind, so the girl wore light clothes. A cotton football jersey hung loose over skinny jeans and frayed canvas sneakers.

With a jaded scrutiny, Drew decided she was probably cute enough to entice Brett. Too bad she seemed to have an aversion to him already, or he might have enlisted her to help him sway Brett to his way of thinking.

Drew caught himself and scowled.
Screw that
. Never before had he needed a woman to help him accomplish jack-shit. It was Gillian’s bad influence, making him think such things.

And now that he’d thought of her, that familiar coil of desire tightened inside him.

Their damned dinner before his departure had ended without a recap of their sexual escapades. He hadn’t exactly asked her back to his place, and she hadn’t exactly turned him down.

It was more like both of them were being circumspect. But damn it, he already craved a repeat. Soon.

Somehow he’d have to work it out.

Finally, when Drew’s patience neared an end, Brett pushed through the locker room door. Hair still wet, dressed in jeans and a plain white T-shirt, he headed across the gym with single-minded determination.

He didn’t look at Drew, and when he got close, he beat Drew to the punch, saying,
“No.”

Unacceptable. “You’re giving up a great fucking opportunity.”

Without breaking stride, Brett shrugged.

Drew followed him. “This is your chance to make a big entrance, damn it. The public will fucking
saint
you once they know everything you’ve overcome.”

Through his teeth, Brett said, “I don’t want to be sainted.”

“We can use your background to build up the hype like never before. I’m talking network coverage. ESPN. The whole shebang.”

His expression darkening even more, Brett said again,
“No.”
He pushed through the front door, and Drew went after him.

Outside the gym, the setting sun painted the skies crimson and nearly blinded him. Drew held up a hand to block the glare.

Brett pulled on mirrored sunglasses and kept going.

Drew halted. He’d be damned before he’d chase after a new fighter. Putting his hands on his hips, he shouted to Brett’s back, “For God’s sake, man. Everyone has a bad relative or two.”

Brett froze with his back to him; his shoulders went rigid.

At least he had his attention, Drew thought. “People will relate to what you went through. The drunken father, the mother in prison—”

Brett jerked around. In a deadly low tone, he said, “Shut up, Drew.”

Uh, yeah. Drew took Brett’s measure and knew he was truly enraged. Maybe he shouldn’t have mentioned his parents’ situation . . .

“I mean it, Drew.” Brett inhaled, seeking control. “My past and everyone in it is off-limits.”

“It’s the perfect angle.”

Drew took a turn reaching for control. “This is the one we can capitalize on. So make up your mind: do you want to be part of the SBC or not?”

Shoving the sunglasses to the top of his head, Brett came closer. He was definitely angry, but mostly astounded. “You’re telling me that if I don’t do this, you won’t give me a contract?”

Not really, but if that’d work . . .

Drew sized him up. In one hand, Brett held his gym bag. His other hand was fisted at his side. But he knew fighters well enough to gauge things. Brett Bullman wasn’t the type to start brawling in the street. A major factor in any fighter’s success was great control. Brett had it in spades.

He might walk away, but he’d worked too damn hard for this to ruin it by pulverizing Drew.

Confident of his position, bearing his own annoyance, Drew put his hands on his hips. “How bad do you want this, Brett?” His expression didn’t change. “I can make you a fucking star. I can get you sponsors out the ass. I can make your name synonymous with the sport so that—”