Hard to Handle (18 page)

“Crazy, isn't it? I could have been killed, or killed someone else. The deputies are assuming it was a random act of violence—like a prank gone wrong. You know, two yahoos with too much to drink and not enough sense to behave in a civilized way. Nothing else has happened.”

If it had been boys involved, instead of grown men carrying guns, that story might have been more plausible. “You haven't seen the truck again?”

“I haven't been back to Echo that much, but no one else has seen them.”

He segued right in to his next statement. “Really? Because Ned mentioned that you'd left the hotel. I just assumed you'd gone back to Echo.”

She went quiet, a precursor to her temper. “You and Ned have been chatty.”

Harley didn't have a good answer for that. “He was concerned.”

“Really?
Ned
was? Funny, he didn't say anything to me.”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Harley managed two deep breaths. “Are you moving back to your cabin?”

“Actually, no. Not permanently and not right away. I've already packed up some of my belongings and I hired an older retired couple to keep an eye on both cabins.”

Harley hated the thought of her there by herself alone, vulnerable. “Going somewhere?”

“To see my folks for a while. I'm not sure how long. After that…well, I have a job in mind.” She cleared her throat. “If it works out, I don't think I'll be back at the cabin for a while. But if not, then when I go back, I'll get some extra security lights installed.”

At least she planned to leave the cabin for now. “What's the job?”

She went silent for a stretch, then said, “I keep all my jobs strictly confidential.”

Harley's hand tightened on the phone, and he heard himself saying, “While you're at the cabin, if anyone bothers you, call me.”

Laughter rang in his ear. “And you're what, Harley? Only a few
hours
away.”

Eyes closed, he said through his teeth, “Three.”

She laughed again. “I'll be fine. The deputies promised to make a few trips past my cabin, just to keep an eye on things. They also gave me their cell phone numbers, and they're a whole lot closer than you are.”

That made sense, except he didn't like their added familiarity. “Sounds to me like they're hitting on you.”

Another laugh. “No, it wasn't like that. They're just doing their duty.”

“If you say so.” New tension cramped his muscles. “Where do your folks live?” Hopefully, well away from Echo Lake.

“Not far from you, actually. Southern Kentucky. Why?”

“Idle curiosity, that's all.”
Liar.
For some idiotic reason, knowing she'd be nearby made his pulse leap.

Was she thinking about a visit with him, too? Harley shook his head. “You getting your truck back soon?”

“Ned's working on it, but he got slammed with rush jobs on things, even some of the vehicles for the county. Since I had a rental, I told him he could prioritize. I should have it tomorrow, and then I'll return the rental and head to my parents' place.”

“I guess you're glad to be out of the hotel.”

“It wasn't too bad. I pampered myself with room service.”

Harley smiled, almost said that he would have joined her, and caught himself. “I better get going.”

“You've started training?”

“Nothing but.” Because that sounded like a complaint, he tacked on, “I'm fortunate that some of the best fighters around frequent Dean's gym. He and Sublime are both phenomenal, Mallet's getting there, and Barber, when he's in the right mood, is good for sparring.”

“When's your next fight?”

“I don't know yet. I need to get back in fighting shape first.”

“You looked in excellent shape to me.”

A grin slipped up on him. He'd heard plenty of compliments, but coming from Anastasia made it special. “Thanks. There's fit, and then there's ready to fight. It'll be a few weeks before I can even think about competing. If it works out, I'd like six or eight weeks to prepare.”

She went quiet for a moment, then whispered, “You sound good, Harley. You sound happy. I'm glad.”

Damn, how did she turn him inside out so easily? “You, too.”

“I'll let you go. Take care and…” She hesitated.

“What?”

With a shrug in her tone, she said, “I don't want you to worry. I'm not going to misconstrue this call.”

There she went again, saying the unexpected, confusing him and pricking his temper. “Misconstrue it how?”

“It doesn't take a genius to see that you're a protective person. It probably didn't seem right to you to leave after everything that had happened. But I'm an adult, I really am fine, and the trouble is over, so there's no reason for you to think about it again.”

In other words, she wanted him to forget her?

Frowning, Harley closed his eyes, struggled with himself, and just when he thought he might have figured out a reply, she whispered, “Good-bye, Harley,” and hung up on him.

Disgusted, confused, and strangely discontented with the entire situation, he dropped the phone onto the desk.

Damn, damn, damn. That hadn't gone as he'd wanted, but since he wasn't sure what he'd wanted, there wasn't much he could do about it.

Satch stuck his head in the door. “Everything okay with Anastasia?”

Eyes narrowed, Harley wondered if his uncle had been listening in the entire time. His timing seemed awfully convenient. “She's fine.”

“Good.” He stepped into the den. “You have a phone interview this afternoon.” Handing a printout of the information to Harley, he said, “Make sure you wrap up your workout in time. Oh, and we're getting some new photos after dinner.”

Idly glancing at the magazine's logo and demographic percentages, Harley said, “Didn't we just do that?”

“Months ago. You need something new. Something
now
. The photographer is donating his shots as long as he can use them in his portfolio.”

He glanced at Satch. “If you say so.”

“I've got you some new gear, too.”

“Let me guess: from sponsors?”

“Yeah. Don't forget, you need to be seen wearing the stuff—”

“And drinking the stuff, and eating the stuff—”

Satch held up some keys. “And
driving
the stuff.”

No fucking way. Curious despite his contempt for his uncle's over-the-top promotional efforts, Harley sat forward in his seat. “A car?”

“Leased free to you for three months. Longer if you get up to the title shot, yours to keep if you win.”

In disbelief, he came out from behind the desk. “What is it?”

“Dodge Charger with a hemi. Black. Five speed. Top-of-the-line stereo and DVD system. It's a pimped-out fifty-thousand-dollar car—yours just because you're you.”

Like most men, Harley liked cars…but unlike some guys, he preferred to keep it real. “I have a Jeep.”

Satch waved that off. “The Jeep is fine, but Dodge wants to see you in their Charger.” He lifted his shoulders and grinned. “It's good promo for them.”

Still skeptical, Harley crossed his arms. “Do I have to have their name tattooed on my ass or something?”

“Nope, just drive the car to the next few interviews and live appearances. And wear one of their shirts occasionally.”

Harley shook his head. This newfound fame was getting out of hand. “All right. Thanks Satch.”

Taking advantage of Harley's softened mood, Satch pressed other issues. “About some photographs with the ladies—”

“I'm not seeing anyone.”

“A situation easily changed!”

Harley put a hand on Satch's shoulder. “Let's go see the car before I head out for the gym. I'm seeing a Thai boxing coach first today, then working on takedowns and takedown defenses after that, so I don't want to be late.”

Satch went along, but he didn't relent. “What about some ringside girls? I talked to two of the new ones and they'd be thrilled for the chance to be photographed with you. No one would have to know you weren't actually dating them…”

“No.” The SBC hired sexy young things to flaunt themselves between rounds. But every fighter around hit on them, and that made them uninteresting.

“You're being unreasonable, Harley.”

They stepped into the garage and Harley saw the car. Sweet. And insane. “For now, why don't you just let me enjoy the new ride without hassling me on other stuff, okay?”

“Suit yourself.” He launched into a sales pitch of sorts as Harley opened the driver's door.

But the car wasn't exciting enough to keep Harley's thoughts off of Anastasia.

Given how he felt after talking to her, he was starting to wonder if anything could.

T
HE
new routine left Harley wiped out, so he was in no mood for the reporter or the photographer working on the damned exposé. Sunday was the only day he didn't train in some way, which meant Saturday night was his only night to blow off steam.

And despite his wishes, Satch had scheduled him for an interview.

Unlike other fighters, Harley didn't believe in cutting out everything he enjoyed. If he wanted a beer—as he did now—he had a beer. Same with a fat, juicy burger or a slice of sweet cake, though those cravings hadn't hit him lately.

He limited the indulgences to a brief binge on Saturday night. The rest of the week he stuck with a strict and clean nutritional plan with plenty of water, lean meats, and fibrous carbohydrates. Most mornings, his breakfast was a protein shake.

A gangly guy in glasses leaned in closer to Harley. “Can you give me a rundown of a typical week of training for you?”

Trying to block out Barber's smirking face in the seat across from him, Harley shrugged. “On average, I spend about thirty hours a week training.”

A recorder got shoved under his chin. “We'll do some taping of that later, but until then, why don't you tell us exactly what you do in training. Give us some details.”

Trying for subtlety, Harley eased the recorder away from his face. “My routine varies. I alternate weight-lifting and strength training with conditioning and nontraditional pacing.”

“Such as?”

He shrugged. “Swinging a sledge hammer, throwing tires, stuff like that. I also work in cardio exercises each week. Sprints, jogging, running hills and stairs, and laps in my pool. Three times a week I strengthen my wrestling skills, and twice a week I focus exclusively on my takedowns and takedown defense. Then there's the days when I work on submissions, practice my kicks, knees, and elbows.”

“How many coaches do you have?”

“Depends. Dean Conor, the owner of the gym and currently my trainer, augments the workouts by bringing in specialists with wrestling, boxing, Brazilian jujitsu—that sort of thing. One day a week is dedicated to mixed martial arts.”

“You enjoy that?”

Harley looked at the guy and wondered at such a stupid question. “Without the MMA, I wouldn't be much competition for anyone.” He took another swig of his beer.

“I talked with Dean Conor earlier. He said he has to pull you back sometimes, you work so hard.”

“After my elbow injury, I have a lot of catching up to do. Besides, I've never shied away from hard work.”

With renewed enthusiasm, the reporter jammed the recorder close again. “You mentioned your pool. I heard you recently moved into more permanent digs here in Harmony.”

Harley nodded. “My uncle picked out the place. Satch Handleman. He's also my manager, and he does a great job.” Harley knew Satch would enjoy the plug.

“Now that you're settled here in Harmony, are you seeing anyone special?”

“No.”

The reporter looked blank, but quickly rallied. “I understand you're a renowned ladies' man. How do you feel about being credited with building the female audience for the sport?”

Shit. Harley hated questions like this. “You need to field that one on Sublime. I think I saw him around here somewhere earlier. If the ladies are hanging around, it's likely due to him.”

Pleased, the reporter grinned at him. “I'm told he got things started.”

Harley winked. “They don't call him Sublime without reason.”

“Rumor has it that Sublime is retiring. How do you feel about that?”

“I hadn't heard.” But he had, and it infuriated him.

The reporter pursued the topic. “After dislocating your elbow, you were counting on Sublime to give you another chance at the title belt. Isn't that right?”

“I had hoped for another shot, yeah.”

“So if he's bailing now—”

Idiot. “Look, Simon Evans is an honorable guy. He's newly married, he's been here, done this, and now he's done it again. If he says he's going back into retirement, then he has a good reason that has nothing to do with me.”

Voice conspiratorial, the reporter asked, “You think he's dodging you?”

Harley laughed. When the reporter just looked at him, he shook his head. “You don't know too many SBC fighters do you?”

“Uh…not personally, no. But I've been following the sport for a while now.”

Leaning forward, crowding the guy, Harley said, “Then you should know that SBC fighters, especially those of Sublime's caliber, wouldn't dodge Satan himself. Simon would come in and take him apart. Gladly. I have too much respect for the guy to say otherwise.”

“Would you have beaten him?”

“Who the hell knows?” Harley dropped back in his chair. “I'm no slouch either, as I'm sure Sublime would tell you. When you get to a certain level, it's anyone's fight. Sometimes it comes down to conditioning or speed. One thing is certain: it would have been a battle.” With that, Harley made a winding gesture with his finger, telling the reporter to wrap it up.

“So what's next for you? If Sublime retires, who will you fight?”

“Whoever the SBC puts before me. I'm not picky. Bottom line, I'm here to compete and win. Period.”

The photographer closed in to capture his frown, his determination—and nearly blinded Harley in the process.

Shutting off the recorder, the reporter said, “Great job. Interesting stuff, man. Hope I didn't offend?”

“Not too much.”

Pulling back, the reporter looked around as if seeking help.

Harley laughed. “Thanks for your time. I appreciate it.”

“Oh yeah, sure. My pleasure.” He gathered his equipment. “We're nowhere near done, but this is enough from you for now. We're going to hang around here, though, talk to a few of your colleagues, get some candid shots and stuff. So just ignore us and be yourself.”

As the reporter hurried away, Barber asked, “How much will you pay me
not
to talk to him?”

“Not a single cent. Say whatever you want. I've decided not to give a shit.”

“A real change of heart, huh? So does that mean you're done being celibate for now?”

“No.” Tipping up his longneck for a generous swig, Harley ignored Barber's laughter, even though he knew it wouldn't do him any good.

The second the reporter and photographer had showed up, Barber started grinning. He was enjoying himself too much to back off.

He liked Harley's predicament.

But Harley didn't.

Ever since he'd walked into the bar, the women had been on him. Nothing unusual in that. A lot of females hung out at Roger's place, hoping to hook up with a fighter. Some of them were fans, some groupies, some just out to have a good time in the most expedient way.

Knowing what his uncle had contrived, Harley had repeatedly sent them packing.

Much to the photographer's annoyance.

The problem, as far as Harley was concerned, was his honest lack of interest. He wasn't just thwarting his uncle's plans to showcase his personal life for the masses.

He flat-out wasn't tempted.

Maybe it was the grueling training schedule combined with nonstop promotion that left him too tired to be intrigued by the thought of carnal activity.

Maybe it was the lack of variety in women. They were all attractive enough, and more than willing. Too willing, in fact. A little reserve might've sparked things.

And maybe he should stop lying to himself.

He knew damn good and well why he wasn't interested, but that didn't mean he had to share his burden with Barber.

“You know, Harley, I can understand restricting yourself to one beer, considering your training schedule and all. Getting wasted wouldn't be good. But you aren't even allowing one woman. You're at…what? Zilch? Zero? It ain't natural.”

Not looking at Barber, and avoiding eye contact with anyone female, left Harley with nowhere to look but at the tabletop. He idly drew a finger through the round watermark left behind by his beer—and hoped the photographer didn't take a shot of him doing it.

Leaning forward in a pretense of confidentiality, Barber cleared his throat. “I'm asking 'cuz, you know, if you're not into ladies anymore, I might need to pick up the slack—”

“Give it a rest, Barber.”

“Talk to Barber, buddy. Tell me what ails you. Maybe I can help.”

Stretching his arms high above his head, Harley yawned and said, “I think I'll call it a night.”

“It's barely ten and this is your only night out! Besides, that poor photographer is stuck hanging around, trying to get the money shot for you.”

“He can wait all night for all I care.”

“Relent, dude. Make your uncle happy. Thrill the photographer.”

Harley rolled his eyes.

“You're caving, I can tell. And you know the only way we'll get rid of the press peeps is to give 'em what they want.” Barber grinned. “And speaking of that, opportunity is heading this way right now.”

“What?” Harley looked around and saw two women headed toward them with blatant intent. “Well hell.”

“I get the redhead,” Barber told him. “You know I'm partial to redheads.”

“I thought it was blondes.”

“The blonde is taken. And if Simon hears you talking about Dakota, he'll maul both of us. You can have the brunette. No, Harley, don't turn tail and run on me or I'll be forced to call you names.”

“So?”

“I'll tell the ladies you're impotent. I'll tell them you cry yourself to sleep. I'll say you wet the bed—”

“Shut up, will you?” Closing his eyes, Harley waited, and a second later the two women were there. Because the small table only had two chairs, the redhead plopped herself right into Barber's lap.

He didn't mind in the least.

The brunette propped a shapely ass on the table right in front of Harley, barely missing the wet ring on the table.

“Easy, darling,” Barber warned. “Harley's in a bad mood.”

“Ahhh, poor Harley,” she said, leaning down and sticking her manicured fingers into his hair. “Maybe I can make you feel better.”

“Am I interrupting?”

Harley looked up and encountered a familiar face—one he'd never thought to see again.

The timing sucked. He hated scenes, and any time a woman from the past showed up, a scene was sure to follow. “Gloria, right?”

“You remember!”

“We met at Echo Lake.”

“That's right. We did.” Her smile said they'd more than met, but Harley pretended not to notice.

The woman sitting on his table didn't cut corners. She said, “Scram, Gloria. He's already been claimed for the night.”

Gloria blushed bright red. “I just wanted to say hi. I didn't realize you were from this area, Harley.”

It was such an obvious lie that Harley felt bad for her. “Do you live around here, too?”

“No. I'm just passing through the area and stopped in for some entertainment.”

Before Harley could reply to that, the woman on the table said, “He's entertaining me.”

Gloria's smile stiffened. “So I see.”

The photographer had a field day shooting fast shots, one right after the other.

Before things got any worse, Harley held out a hand to Gloria. “I hope you enjoy the town while you're here.” The comment lacked intimacy, and rang of a polite dismissal.

She took his hand and nodded. “Thank you.” When the woman on the table made a rude sound, Gloria released Harley and stepped back. “Okay then, have fun.” And with that she sauntered off.

The woman on the table said, “Real smooth. Does that happen to you a lot?”

Harley looked into big blue eyes, heavily lashed. “Do I know you?”

“Not yet, but Barber does, and he's told me all about you.”

He'd kill Barber later.

“Look, honey, unlike your miffed cupcake, I'm not here to ruin your night. But the photographer said they're doing a big exposé on you, and that means coverage for me—if I can convince you to let me stick close for a few minutes. So what do you say we lend each other a hand?”

Harley looked her over. Not too bad. “At least you're honest.”

“And I'm no pressure. So let's dance.” She popped off the table and took both his hands. “Come on, big boy. It'll cheer you up, I promise. Dancing makes everyone feel better.”

“I don't need to cheer up.”

Being insistent, she tugged on him until Harley felt compelled to either stand or be unspeakably rude.