The Brawler Page 9

  “As soon as I save enough money. You can’t stop me, unless you stick me in juvie.”

  The honesty was harsh, but Aly weathered it. “Is someone hurting you?”

  “No.”

  “Why run?”

  “Nobody sticks around. Why should I?”

  “Who left you, Maddie?”

  “My bio parents. My first foster family…God, I loved them.” She closed her textbook. “They couldn’t have kids of their own. I grew up thinking they’d always protect me. But they used IVF, got pregnant, and gave me up.”

  “Your current foster mother—”

  “Is dying. She can’t protect me.”

  There was that word again: protect.

  “Raoul’s moving away, so there goes another friend.”

  “I may be a math geek heiress, but friendships are my specialty.”

  “Your life’s about parties and money and hooking up with tons of guys. You won’t be available to solve a thirteen-year-old brat’s problems.”

  “The staff here cares about your safety. Call the hotline. Call the cops. Call me.” Noting the time, Aly grabbed her satchel. “Maybe it’ll help you to hear this, or maybe it’ll just help me to say it, but I was…stuck…once. Just one time, in New York. I needed a protector and found no one there.”

  “What did you do?”

  Blamed herself. Made a few stupid decisions. Lost herself in denial. But eventually— “I swore I’d never be that scared again.”

  Maddie stared down at the phone number. She didn’t say yes, but she didn’t say no.

  * * *

  At Hadland Park, Maddie stopped walking. The softball field was vacant, shadowed. Perfect. All the Christmas in the air, brightening a reality she knew to be much dimmer, was nauseating. Faith House was as merry as the department store window displays her foster mom, Renata, had taken her to see the day after Thanksgiving. Though chemo and radiation had zapped so much of Renata’s energy that she hadn’t the strength to prepare a turkey and trimmings, the next day she’d taken Maddie out early for their last good day.

  Memories of pushing through downtown crowds, sipping hot chocolate in foam cups, pointing out something insanely fancy and joking “Buy me that for Christmas!” were made, but felt too deep in the past.

  A couple of days afterward, Maddie had learned because Renata’s illness was “terminal,” the state would be taking her again. It had been—what was the word that rude bitch social worker had used?—imperative that Maddie understand the unlikelihood that anyone would assume any guardianship of an underdeveloped thirteen-year-old whose birth parents had been meth addict middle schoolers.

  Yeah, she was screwed.

  Or, she would be, if she didn’t run. No one could take her if they couldn’t catch her.

  She’d leave before Renata could leave her first.

  No one would miss her, anyway. Renata slept most days straight through. Her asshole of a son from Baltimore had put Renata’s condo on the market and complained every day that Maddie turned off potential buyers. She was convinced the people at Faith House welcomed her only because the founder was friends with her foster mom’s TV chef boss.

  Cynically, Maddie thought of the number Aly Greer had written in her notebook. She was almost curious enough to dial and confirm her suspicions that the number was a fake. It probably belonged to a spa or a Thai restaurant or a pest control company.

  “Pest control, yeah,” she mumbled, digging the toe of her worn tennis shoe into the ground before striding away from the park.

  Glamorous women like Aly couldn’t possibly give a damn about lost girls like Maddie. By some freak accident, their worlds had collided.

  A bus ride and a brisk walk brought Maddie to the nearest supercenter, where she purchased a screwdriver and a doorknob. It was basic, brass, but it had a lock.

  She’d skipped buying herself lunch for over a week to afford the doorknob. Now that she thought of the yummy pizza Aly had given her, she regretted not rationing it.

  It was after nine when Maddie returned to Renata’s cookie-cutter condo. In her dreams, she’d cook her way to world fame and would live safe and happy ever after in a sprawling mansion.

  Slipping into the silent unit, she closed the door slowly. An earsplitting pop beside her head had her ducking with a terrified gasp.

  “Busted your ass.” Patrick, Renata’s son, snickered as he dropped a fork and shreds of a balloon on the floor. He scratched his bearded chin. “You smell like smoke.”

  The corner where she’d waited to catch a bus home had reeked of cigarettes, liquor, and weed.

  “So did some weed head pop your cherry tonight?”

  “No!” Was he crazy? Sex wasn’t on her radar. She wasn’t like her mom, who’d given birth at twelve and chosen drugs over her baby. She’d never even kissed anyone—not that she’d tell him.

  “Open your mouth. I can tell if a cock’s been in it.”

  So gross!

  “I was at Faith House. You know, the place Renata sends me to so I don’t bother you? Then I went to Walmart.”

  “For what?”

  “Deodorant.” Maddie hated lying—it made her nervous to do it, no matter the circumstances—but had bought a stick of deodorant as a separate transaction in case Patrick gave her the third degree. With the doorknob and screwdriver buried in her tote, she held up a plastic bag.

  “Where’s the receipt?” he spat.

  “In the bag.”

  Snatching it, he dug out the receipt, scanned it, and dropped it back in.

  Maddie almost smirked in satisfaction, but had learned quick that Patrick didn’t appreciate being outsmarted. Every time she succeeded in making him look like the jackass he was, he found a way to hand down a punishment, which she then had to cleverly find a way around.

  When he’d disconnected her cell phone, she secretly bought a prepaid one. When he’d cut off her laundry access at the condo, she started hand-washing her clothes wherever she could find soap and a sink.

  But when he threatened her, she felt trapped. Stuck.

  “Out shopping while my mom’s worried?” Patrick flung the deodorant at her. “Can’t figure out why she hasn’t unloaded you yet. Just stay the fuck out of my way.”

  Gladly, creep. Wordlessly, Maddie stepped around him. She froze at the towers of boxes cluttering the living room. “What’s going on?”

  “Rummage sale. Sort out your shit, but if you take too long, it all goes.”

  “How come you’re doing this now? Listing the condo, putting our stuff up for sale? Renata’s not dead.”

  Patrick cocked his head. The anger in his eyes resembled confusion. “Why did she take you in? You’re not worth the government check.”

  Money. Yup, that made sense. Patrick wasn’t visiting because his mother was sick, and definitely not because of the holidays. “All you’re thinking about is selling off assets and cashing in her insurance policy.”

  This time, she thought for a breathless moment, he’s going to hit me.

  Patrick’s lips flattened; his fists tightened. “Stay out of my way, Maddie.”

  She did, escaping to her room. Back against the door, she waited until she heard the front door slam before she opened her tote bag and got to work.

  Switching the dark bronze knob for the brass one with a lock was a simple process. Only after she finished did she tiptoe down the hall, whisper good-night through Renata’s door, and return to her room.

  Out of habit, she barricaded the door with her desk chair. Then she rifled through her bag and pulled out the binder she carried everywhere.

  It contained pages of inspiration. Magazine clippings of lavish estates, designer shoes, automobiles, dog breeds, exotic dessert-and-wine pairings—anything that might fit into her dream future.

  She retrieved the glossy Vanity Fair that Aly Greer had left at the youth center. Aly was pretty and interesting enough to be featured on the cover. M
addie wanted to be snarky, but Aly hadn’t acted like the crazy-wild picture the media painted. And it was hard to really hate someone who dined at the coolest pizzeria in town and stomped quadratic equations.

  About now she was probably partying it up with her famous friends, living the high-fashion and high-class life that Maddie hoped she’d have one day.

  Maddie selected a few photos of amazing spring gowns and added them to her collection. Someday she’d have this life. She had to get out of Las Vegas first.

  After Christmas, she promised, sliding into bed with her shoes on in case she needed to climb the fire escape at a second’s notice. She wanted one more holiday with Renata.

  Some indeterminable time later, she heard the new doorknob jiggle. Bolting up, she held her breath…waiting. The lock held and the jiggling stopped.

  After Christmas, she consoled herself. After Christmas, I’m free.

  Chapter Seven

  Jackson’s publicity crew sold his morning to MGM Grand. At dawn he was giving a heavy bag in Batiste’s Boxing Club hell. But when he was at a crucial point in his workout, his designer-suited cousins rushed him out of the gym, instructing him to be at the resort by nine for an interview.

  His promotions company had been stirring the pot since he’d made the decision to train in Vegas.

  State-of-the-art gyms around the world were his to experience. Fitness companies vying to sponsor him, to persuade him to use their products, to link the success and hype of his name to their corporate images. But he’d already achieved physical perfection—if not surpassed it. His body wouldn’t win or lose this fight. His mind would.

  Survival, freedom, self-worth—he’d found it all through hellish bouts in his uncle’s gym until he’d learned to brutalize his way to undefeated professional victory. As long as he stayed on top, he could survive, be free, trust that he was worth something beyond money.

  No media tactics would carve that truth out of him. Shit, every mortal had a weakness. That he protected his made him indestructible.

  The key was to give the faces behind the cameras and microphones only what he thought they deserved—and leave them feeling fortunate to get even that. His ex-fiancée’s desperate campaign to corrupt his name and dive into his fortune had shown him how fickle the press could be.

  After a solitary drive to the Promontory Ridge place he’d scarcely visited since settling in Miami—save for a few videoconferences with the middle-aged husband and wife who lived in the guest house and were in charge of the main house’s year-round upkeep—Jackson showered and put on armor.

  The designer suit and imported shoes weren’t armor. Nor the cologne a boxing-enthusiast fragrance chemist had formulated specially for him or the diamonds-and-steel wristwatch he strapped on. His armor was an invisible guard, the psychological barricade that encased his emotions.

  A man couldn’t take on the role of Las Vegas’s king and not expect fanfare. He couldn’t represent America without wearing publicity like raven’s wings.

  A single bodyguard accompanied him to the stocked and loaded Porsche limousine idling in front of the estate. With a pair of trusted law enforcement professionals stationed stoically opposite him, and the driver an intercom summons away, Jackson almost immediately began to crack under the heaviness of silence. The drive to MGM Grand left him with too much time and opportunity to think.

  Remember, was more accurate. Losing control with Aly wasn’t wise. But he’d relinquished it when he put his hands on her in the boxing ring…when he let her use her mouth to take exactly what she wanted. She’d felt so good—the feathery softness of her red hair, the greediness of her fingers, the silk of her lips, the slick velvet of her tongue—but all he’d done was reveal his weakness.

  All he’d done was shown himself how much he wanted her. Own her body with his hands and let her lay a claim on his—he wanted that and more.

  It was the more, the below-the-surface shit, that sent his brain “Oh, fuck” signals. Getting each other off, favor for favor, the way they had that night was hot…but it wasn’t the sum of what he needed.

  He wanted more with Aly—was darkly curious to see how naked they’d have to get, how deep he’d have to go to find what hid beneath sexual demand.

  Because something else was there—something that might conquer him if he didn’t drag his ass out of its path.

  “Fuck,” he muttered.

  Both security guys snapped fully alert. “Problem, sir?” one of them asked, his voice smooth and cold as a sheet of metal.

  “No. Just figuring something out.” Something Aly had already suspected. She knew what they danced around was serious and dangerous. Enticing her to ignore the warnings and take lust a little farther, risk a little more, would be selfish if not heartless.

  He cared about her too damn much to initiate that kind of hurt.

  No. No, no, fuck, no. He needed to derail that train of thought, quick. Using the hands-free intercom, he asked the driver for an ETA.

  “Our car’s arriving in another seven hundred yards,” the driver reported. “The other cars have arrived at the destination.”

  By now it should be tradition that an event warranting one limousine would include an extra two rides. One car was the decoy used to help his group gauge the crowds and paparazzi and identify any threats. The other typically carried his entourage: security, Uncle Pax, Dez and his wife, Corbin and usually a few random women he wanted to arouse with a limo ride and celebrity treatment.

  It all attested to Jackson’s success, so the hassle of it was his cross to bear.

  When they turned onto Las Vegas Boulevard, he surveyed the streets through the car’s tinted glass. Strands of people—some lugging shopping bags, a few saddled with children, and too many brushed with that uniquely tourist awestruck expression—hurried toward MGM Grand.

  In the time it took the driver to expertly park between the other two limos, the pedestrians congealed into a tight cluster that was directly parted and muscled aside by hotel security.

  “Ever get sick of this?”

  Reaching for his sunglasses, Jackson glanced at the pair of security experts. He wasn’t sure which had posed the question, but the honest response was ready. “Constantly. The way I see it, there’re two choices. Resist the crazy or become it.”

  The three exited the limo as a woman shouted Jackson’s name over the noise and flashed her tits.

  “Or,” he added lowly, shifting subtly away as hotel security approached her, “third choice. Ignore it.”

  “See what you mean.” The shorter of the two men shook his head as he carved a path to the hotel’s lobby. “Jesus.”

  Smiling wasn’t Jackson’s forte, but the handful of phone-toting people he paused for didn’t care as they grinned wide and clicked. From what he could glimpse behind him as he and his guards approached the building, his cousins were flaunting and boasting enough for the group.

  Jackson noticed Pax wasn’t with them. Once inside the lobby, he went to Dez. “Where’s your dad?”

  “Last minute he said he was going to hang back at the gym. A service tech’s coming to check out the plasma in the staff room.” Dez gave a shrug and drew his wife, Brit, close. “You know he’s got no problem with this side of things, but he’s more about the day-to-day stuff. Preparation.”

  “The fight.”

  “You know it.”

  Yeah, Jackson knew it. On many levels, so was he.

  Dez cuffed his shoulder. “Brit and I are going to soak up some of this VIP hospitality. Unless you want us hanging around for your close-ups?”

  “Fuck you.” Video recorded interviews were never favorites for Jackson.

  At his house, he’d called his publicity manager, who’d explained that the venue had made numerous concessions for the promotions company. The interview would be in a private section of the hotel and he’d be released by afternoon. His entire party would enjoy a full day of complimentary luxury as a than
k-you for his cooperation. He was ready for the questions and cameras when the polished hotel concierge introduced him to a network television journalist and production crew.

  Authorized media and security patrolled the area, but he had no trouble pushing them into the background the way he tuned out any other audience as a pair of makeup artists attacked the years-old scar on his right cheek.

  Afterward, he let photographers pose and direct him for a series of shots. Then he and his people migrated to a conference room where he accepted a Bacardi from a server and sat down with the television journalist.

  “Eliáš Brazda has two career losses,” she began in a modulated voice. “Describe how his stats affect your confidence, facing him at the Garden Arena next month?”

  “Brazda’s losses affect Brazda,” he replied. “Do they make him insecure? I don’t know. Make him hungrier? I hope so, ’cause I want a hungry opponent. But his losses don’t touch me.”

  “Are you confident?”

  At this, the entire room vibrated with laughter. Confidence, he had that in spades.

  “Gotta be.” He tasted the Bacardi. “If I’m carrying doubt, then I shouldn’t step into that arena.”

  “Let’s talk nicknames.” She chuckled. “Las Vegas’s king. The Brawler. You’ve carried ‘Brawler’ for the bulk of your fighting career. What’s behind it?”

  If she was fishing for backstory, she’d picked the wrong bait. There was nothing sentimental or charming behind the name. “I’m a bastard in the ring. That’s who ticket holders and pay-per-view subscribers see when they watch me fight.”

  “Do you fight to entertain?”

  Jackson paused, digesting the question. “I fight,” he admitted, “because I’m a fighter.”

  The reporter studied him, considering. “You’re also an investor for a Fortune 500 company, BioCures West Energy Corp. Your mentor, J.T. Greer, is primary shareholder. Recent press releases indicate interest in alternative energy sources—radical move for a rather traditional natural gas and electric provider. What can you say about that?”