Текст книги "Fighting the Fall"
Автор книги: Jennifer Snow
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Praise for Fighting the Fall
“Readers won’t ‘fight the fall’ in the latest Beyond the Cage story! Jennifer Snow writes heroes with heart and her powerful, gritty MMA fighters will make readers remember why they read romance. A sexy tale that packs a strong, emotional punch.”
–Joanne Rock, RITA-nominated award-winning author
“Jennifer Snow creates characters you fall in love with. Parker and Tyson heat up the page making their story un-put-downable!”
–Jennifer Fusco, author of Fighting For It
“Jennifer Snow’s writing is full of heat and heart. Prepare to fall in love.”
–Jeannie Moon
Also by Jennifer Snow
Breaking Her Rules
Fighting the Fall
Jennifer Snow
InterMix Books, New York
AN IMPRINT OF PEN GUIN RANDOM HOUSE LL C
375 HUDSON STREET, NEW YORK, NEW YORK 10014
FIGHTING THE FALL
An InterMix Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 2015 by Jennifer Snow.
Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
INTERMIX and the “IM” design are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
For more information about the Penguin Group, visit penguin.com.
eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-40897-5
PUBLISHING HISTORY
InterMix eBook edition / October 2015
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Penguin Random House is committed to publishing works of quality and integrity.
In that spirit, we are proud to offer this book to our readers;
however, the story, the experiences, and the words
are the author’s alone.
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Contents
Praise
Also by Jennifer Snow
Title Page
Copyright
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
About the Author
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A big thank you to my agent, Stephany Evans, for planting the seed for this series and my editor, Jennifer Fisher, for all her feedback and insight on how to make each book stronger. Of course, I’d never be able to finish the book without the amazing support of my husband, who still blushes when he asks what I’m writing and I reply, “Sexy scenes.” And a big kiss to my little man, who pretends to read all of my books, even though there are no pictures. XO
Chapter 1
“Tell me this script is a joke,” Parker Hamilton said the moment her agent answered his cell phone.
“You asked me if I had anything. This is it,” Ian Bentley said. The sound of traffic and wind in the background meant he was driving his BMW convertible.
A car her career had helped him afford, she thought as she paced the concrete pool deck in her Las Vegas backyard. “The female lead is ditzy and flaky and speaks in texting lingo. I mean, come on—who says LOL out loud? Where did this script even come from?”
The first script she’d received from him in months and it was worse than the ones he’d sent her years ago, when she’d attempted to restart her acting career as an adult. Back then, she’d been desperate and eager to show Hollywood VIPs that she wasn’t just a child actor but an industry professional who could continue a career on-screen. Integrity hadn’t really been high on her list of attributes and she’d accepted any role that came her way. Now, with a Golden Globe Award nomination and several Screen Actors Guild Awards to her credit, she wanted serious roles, complex characters to portray. She wanted to show diversity and depth in her acting. That wouldn’t happen with the script she’d just struggled to finish reading.
“Look, if anything else comes across my desk . . .”
Parker’s eyes narrowed at the hint of guilt she heard in her agent’s voice. They’d worked together for a long time. She knew that tone. “Send it to me.”
Ian sighed and hesitated before saying, “Parker, it’s really not your thing. You’ll just be wasting your time reading it.”
Well it wasn’t like she had tons to do these days. “I’m trying to change what ‘my thing’ is, remember?” They’d had this discussion after she’d wrapped up filming her last movie and they’d both agreed it was time to try different roles, expand her résumé a little.
“Okay, but I was thinking more like a family comedy or something. The script I have is a docu-drama.”
“I can do docu-drama,” she said quickly.
“That’s quite a big leap from chick flicks and romantic comedies.”
Her agent was right. Those were usually the scripts she felt the most comfortable with, but lately even those opportunities were passing her by. Since her public breakup with top Hollywood film director Brantley Cruise the year before, her offers had been fewer and further between and her last two movies had tanked at the box office. She hadn’t worked in six months, and holing up in her Las Vegas home was making her crazy. She needed to get back to LA, and back to making movies. And she really wanted to take a risk and see if she was capable of a different kind of role. “Please just send it to me. Let me read it at least.”
“The lead is an MMA fighter.” The sound of a loud horn blasting almost drowned out his words, but his “Hey fuck you, man” was clear enough.
She missed LA traffic. “Okay, so I’d be playing opposite an MMA fighter . . .” Not really seeing a problem there.
“No. The female lead is an MMA fighter . . . Parker, hold on, I’ve got another call . . .”
As he clicked over to his call-waiting, Parker dipped her foot into the warm pool water. At one time, her agent would never have put her on hold. Not too long ago, she was pulling in seven-figure paydays. Things changed so quickly in Hollywood. One day she was walking the red carpet on Brantley’s arm, the next she couldn’t even secure a job in a Cover Girl commercial. She needed things to change again . . . and fast. She wasn’t getting any younger; thirty in Hollywood was the equivalent to fifty in real-people years.
Turning, she studied her reflection in the tinted-glass patio doors. An MMA fighter. Hmm . . . She tightened her stomach muscles, rounded her shoulders, and raised her fists. Plastering the meanest look she could muster, she stared at herself. She could play the role of a fighter.
Dropping her hands, she sat on the edge of her pool. The Vegas sun reflecting on the surface, even at eight a.m., made her reach for her sunhat. The last thing she needed was more wrinkles when the last two casting directors she’d met with had claimed she was a little too “seasoned” to portray a young twentysomething.
She watched the time on her cell phone tick by another thirty seconds, wondering if Ian had forgotten about her. It wouldn’t surprise her. It seemed everyone else in Hollywood had. Five years ago, after her first Academy Award nomination, the studios were sending scripts to Ian specifically for her. That’s when she’d met Brantley—he’d cast her as the lead in his holiday romantic comedy and a month later, they were Hollywood’s hottest couple according to E! magazine. Brantley’s influence over the casting of his movies had practically guaranteed her roles in blockbuster hits.
Things had ended almost a year ago, and since he was no longer interested in her, neither was anyone else. She felt as though the breakup had blacklisted her somehow, as if Brantley had been awarded all of the directors and producers in Hollywood in their separation.
She continued to wait for Ian because she really had nothing else to do and all the time in the world to stress about her career. She longed for reassurance from him that things would turn around, but she wasn’t so sure her agent believed that.
When he clicked back over a minute later, he said, “Parker, I’ll have to call you back. I’m heading into my mother’s senior’s complex. She lost her third set of false teeth this month . . .”
God, she hoped she didn’t live to be that old. Aging terrified her. “Okay, but before you go—just think about it. What’s the harm in sending me the script? I’ll read it and maybe you’re right. Maybe I’ll hate it . . .” But she needed something and this last script he’d sent was sure to put the final bullet in her career.
“You’re going to have to learn MMA,” he said with a deep sigh. “Even for the audition you should at least know something about the sport. How to jab or something.”
“Fine. If I read the script and like it, I’ll learn MMA.” She shrugged. How hard could throwing a few punches be? Besides, she just had to make it look good. No doubt a body double would actually be used for the choreographed fight sequences.
“Parker, you’re going to take one look at this script and say forget it.”
“Maybe not.” She no longer had the luxury of being picky. She did, however, refuse to play the career-ending role her agent had just sent her. She was fortunate enough not to need the money, since she’d put plenty away from her days as a successful child star. She’d spent her early years working on a long-running family sitcom, Meet the McIntyres—and then moved onto the big screen at the age of eleven, starring in her first feature film about a young girl with telepathy. This was about getting her career back on track. “This would be a challenge. I like challenges.”
“Fine. I’ll get Felicia to e-mail it over to you this afternoon,” he said, still not sounding convinced.
She smiled. “Thank you,” she said, disconnecting the call.
So, she had to learn MMA. How hard could it be?
* * *
The only thought on Tyson Reed’s mind as climbed the staircase at the back of the building to his loft apartment was preparing for the next day of training.
It was after eleven p.m. when he unlocked his apartment door above Punisher Athletics, his MMA gym. He went immediately to his washing machine, emptying the sweaty training clothes from the day from his bag and turning on the machine. Next he went to his bedroom, where he refilled the bag with two pairs of training shorts, two T-shirts, extra hand wraps, and tape, then set the bag near the door. It didn’t matter that he lived a staircase climb away from the gym. He always packed the bag. He was always prepared for the next day’s training.
It was a habit left over from the days when he lived at his family home, a three-bedroom bungalow just outside of Las Vegas. Every day since he’d dropped out of high school at fifteen, he and his father would make the early morning drive to the gym to train, to prepare, to get him ready to continue the family’s legacy of the best in the world.
Going into the bathroom, he turned the shower to hot and stepped in a moment later. The water stung his sore, torn knuckles as he washed the dried blood away. His hands were his weapons and they took a beating every day to prepare for the battle inside the cage.
Returning to his bedroom, his MFL light heavyweight championship belt caught his eye, lying flat on the top of his closet. He’d seen it every day for the past three months, ever since he’d removed it from his waist after winning the title. But it still hadn’t found its way into the championship display case in the gym downstairs. It didn’t deserve the spot yet.
He needed to defend it first.
And in two months Tyson would get that chance and feel worthy of the heavy gold belt that, for now, felt like a crushing weight on his shoulders, forcing him to struggle to the surface for air in a sea of self-doubt. The object of obsession that made sleep tortuously slow in coming, and the following day’s training all he could focus on.
Tomorrow he would be that much stronger, that much faster, that much more ready. Tomorrow, then the next tomorrow, and each tomorrow from now until the cage match were all that mattered. All he cared about.
He turned off the lights in his bedroom and set an alarm he knew he wouldn’t need, then lay there in silence as his mind replayed that day’s training. The only thought quieting his mind? Tomorrow I will be better.
* * *
The next morning, sitting at her laptop, coffee cup in hand, Parker tucked one foot under her on her chair as she opened a Google search. She started typing “MMA gyms in Las Vegas,” then stopped. Brantley had been a huge fan of the sport . . . he’d even dragged her to several fights when they were held in LA and every Pay Per View fight night, she could expect him to be out with the guys at whatever strip club was showing the fights. Therefore she knew a little bit about the sport.
Brantley’s favorite fighter was some light heavyweight fighting out of Las Vegas. She’d watched several of the guy’s fights . . . What was his name? It was the same as some other well-known boxer . . . Mohammed? No . . . Mike? Tyson!
Tyson Reed.
Typing his name into the Google search, she smiled when she saw the second listing to appear, right under the MFL’s website—a site for Punisher Athletics. The man had his own gym. Perfect.
Opening the website, she clicked on the location page and typed the address and phone number into her phone. It was located just off of the strip, about twenty minutes from her home. She clicked on the Reed Family page. An image of an older man standing next to Tyson appeared above the text. The photo description read Alan “The Steel Fist” Reed and his son, Tyson, at the grand opening of the family’s first gym. She leaned closer to peer at the image of Tyson. He was exactly what one would expect an MFL champion to look like—tall, muscular, shaved head, tattooed. He wasn’t smiling in the picture. His expression was one she couldn’t really read—confident, strong, yet reserved.
He was a great-looking guy. The kind Hollywood would recruit for action movies to get the best of both worlds—someone who could do all of his own action scenes and still have the hot hero look that would make women flock to the theaters.
Next she clicked on the training schedule. There had to be a women’s class. She’d taken Boxerfit aerobics once at a gym in LA—it hadn’t been bad. But there were no women specific classes listed. Weird. There was just the same breakdown on each day of the schedule: cardio, conditioning, strength, grappling, boxing, jujitsu . . . The classes ran from nine to nine each day, seven days a week.
Wow, these guys were hard core.
Clicking on the fighters’ page, she scanned the profiles. Scrolling, she saw only men. Did they even train women at Punisher Athletics? At the bottom of the list she saw two female names. Two out of thirty. Obviously the sport hadn’t caught on with women as much as she’d thought. Or was it just that Punisher Athletics wasn’t eager to train the female sex?
Well, either way, it didn’t matter. Clicking back on the photo of Tyson, she smiled and took a sip of her coffee. “Hello, new trainer.”
* * *
Few people could get away with telling Tyson Reed what to do, but the man across from him could tell him to jump from the Eiffel Tower replica on the Las Vegas strip and he would do it without hesitation. So when his father, Alan “The Steel Fist” Reed, a legend in the fighting world, suggested adding gymnastics to his pre-fight training, it was met with an immediate “Yes, sir.”
“There’s a trainer at Champions Gymnastics. Her name is Melinda, she’s expecting you to call her,” his father said, putting the hand pads away in their designated spot on the wooden shelf against the gym wall. Tyson kept the gym organized and clean and so did everyone else.
He nodded, still fighting to catch his breath after the intense circuit that was only the beginning of his workouts that day. Now there would be another one added to his already grueling schedule. That was fine with him. “I’ll call her today.” He’d heard of other fighters taking gymnastics to help with their flexibility and focus, and he wasn’t opposed to trying anything that might give him an edge over his opponent. He was constantly learning, adapting, finding new ways to become the best. When other fighters were just catching on to a new technique, he’d already mastered it and learned how to defend against it. Constant training and staying one step ahead was the only way to keep winning.
“After you eat, you’re with Clyde for Muay Thai, then conditioning with Ken. I’ll be back later today for sparring.”
At sixty years old, his father was still the best sparring partner Tyson was lucky enough to train with. A boxing champion and a legend in the sport, his father had given up training new fighters five years before, but he continued to coach his son.
An honor Tyson didn’t take lightly. “Yes, sir. When do you leave for Japan?” His father was going to check out a new competitor currently fighting in one of the Japanese MMA leagues to see if he might consider coming to Vegas to join their training camp. A strong camp, comprised of the best athletes in the sport, benefited everyone.
“I leave tomorrow morning. I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone. At least a few days, maybe a week.”
“You’re sure you don’t want me to go?”
“You have the fight of your career in less than two months. Focus on that.” Alan patted Tyson’s shoulder as he removed his running shoes and put on his sandals.
Tyson nodded.
“All right, I’ll see you later. Call Melinda.”
As his father left the gym, Dane Hardy, one of Tyson’s senior trainers and fighters, grinned at him from inside the octagon, where he was shadowboxing and warming up.
“What?” He knew what, but he wanted to see if the guy had the balls to say it.
He didn’t. “Not a thing, man,” Dane said, climbing down from the cage and heading toward the front desk.
Tyson knew his father’s latest suggestion of gymnastics would sound lame to the other guys. As much respect as they had for his dad, they all knew he’d become a little punch drunk over the years. Decades of concussions and head trauma had resulted in symptoms similar to Parkinson’s disease—tremors, slow movement at times, and muscle stiffness, all things that seemed to disappear when Alan was sparring. But he trusted the older man’s judgment and if his father thought he needed extra flexibility and balance work, he’d do it. He’d only lost one fight his entire career. His father’s guidance hadn’t steered him wrong yet.
Dane handed him a bottle of water and a towel. “But I do have to ask: What’s he going to have you do next? Cheerleading?”
The guy couldn’t resist. “If it means keeping the belt.” He took a swig of his water. “Tell me again—where’s your championship belt?”
The guy grumbled something unintelligible as the front door opened.
“That’s what I thought,” Tyson said as he turned.
His grin evaporated as a tall, thin, blonde woman walked into the gym. Her six-inch heels and her red lips meant she had to be lost and looking for directions. Tyson turned away and began restocking the mini-fridge with water bottles. Let the other guys fight over who would help her. Still, he was aware of the sound of her heels approaching on the gym floor.
“Hi, can I help you with something?”
What a surprise. Dane was the first to jump on it. The man had a permanent hard-on for tall, thin blondes . . . hell, so did most men. At one point, he too had been partial. Now, he wasn’t so stupid. The hotter they were, the farther away he stayed. And by the look of this one, several miles wouldn’t be safe enough.
“Are you Tyson Reed?” Smooth and deep, her voice wasn’t what he’d been expecting. Neither was the fact that she was asking for him.
“Today, I wish I was, but no . . . the guy you are looking for is that man right there,” Dane said.
“Couldn’t have said I’m not here?” Tyson mumbled as Dane stepped behind the desk and reached for another bottle of water.
“I could have, and you could get me on a fight card sometime this decade . . .” the fighter said, making a crude hand gesture as he went back to his training.
“Nice,” the blonde said with a frown.
“If that offended you, you better leave now before someone lets an f-bomb slide.” He rested his hands on the counter and waited for the sales pitch he was ready to shut down. These training gear companies really knew how to sell their products. Hot women with absolutely no knowledge about fighting but could flirt their way to a “yes” passed through his gym on a weekly basis, pushing everything from hand wraps to nearly illegal supplements.
“Okay, let’s start again,” she said, relaxing her shoulders and lifting her Tiffany diamond–encrusted sunglasses from her eyes and sliding them up over her hair.
The dark brown eyes weren’t what he’d have put his money on either. Wasn’t it normally blonde hair, blue eyes?
“I’m Parker Hamilton.”
Was that supposed to mean something to him? He waited.
So did she, a confused frown appearing on her face the longer the silence continued.
He didn’t have time for this. “Well, great chat.” Turning, he resumed stocking his shelves with supplements, making sure the labels all perfectly lined up and faced outward.
“You don’t know who I am?” she said.
Oh shit. He turned and lowered his voice, not wanting the other guys to hear. “Look, I’m not proud to say this, but there’s been more than one tall blonde in my bed, so forgive me if in my no doubt drunken state, you were passed off as a fantastic dream.”
Her mouth dropped. “You arrogant asshole.”
“What? I said ‘fantastic.’” What did she want from him?
“You could only imagine just how fucking fantastic it would be, but trust me, you’ve never had the pleasure.”
“Great use of the f-bomb—especially the double entendre.” He cocked his head to the left and folded his arms. “Well, if you’re not here to claim you are carrying my child or provide an explanation for the mystery rash I had a few months ago, what are you selling?”
“I’m an actress.”
“Then you’re really lost.”
“I want to train here.”
“And I want a new Maserati. Guess we’re both out of luck.” He picked up the cardboard box that had held the supplements and broke it down.
“I’ll pay you to train me . . . it’s for a part in a movie.”
His eyes did a quick once over. Without the heels, he’d guess she was five six, five seven . . . she couldn’t weigh any more than a hundred pounds and most of that was in her ass and the obvious doctor-enhanced boobs. Not a trace of muscle definition anywhere—at least not from what he could see. “Cage Masters—two blocks away on West Sunset Road—they can help you.”
“I went there. They said if I want to learn how to fight like a girl, I needed to talk to Tyson Reed.” Her smile could only be classified as pure evil as her lips curled at the edges, revealing a perfectly straight row of white teeth.
Again, not exactly the teeth of someone who got punched in the mouth regularly.
“I believe that’s called ‘trash talk.’ I Googled it,” she said, placing her hands on her hips.
He commanded his eyes not to follow.
“She Googled it,” Dane said, appearing behind him.
He fought a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Apparently. Look, Ms. Parker . . .”
“Hamilton.”
Whatever. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I can’t help you. In fact, you would probably need a group of trainers and dieticians full-time for a year to take this—” he gestured toward her body—“and make it look like someone who’s been training MMA.”
“I’ve got three months and I’m willing to pay a hell of a lot more than these guys, I’m sure.” She gestured toward Dane and then leaned across the desk, giving him the perfect opportunity to stare at her ample chest pouring over the top of her tight white tank top.
He didn’t take it. The once-over on her body had been mistake enough. His dick and his head were often on opposing sides of most of his decisions where women were concerned, and this time he was sticking with the head outside of his gym shorts.
Besides, three months? No way was that possible. And he had his big fight soon. No, letting her train at his gym was a bad idea on too many levels. “Sorry, the answer is no.”
“How much?”
“I’m not interested in your money.”
“You’re going to refuse a paying member?”
“You’re not a paying member. You’re a walking cock-tease and I’ve got real fighters, training for real fights. Besides, I told you. I don’t even know how you got the part. Your body type doesn’t exactly scream cage fighter.” He’d like to pin her in a cage, but that was totally different.
She bit her lip; admittedly, he was shocked he hadn’t gotten slapped for the cock-tease comment. “I don’t have the part yet. The audition is in a week.”
Now she was just insane if she thought he could help her that quickly. “Well, I hate to be the one to shatter your Hollywood dreams, sweetheart, but even if I wanted this liability, I really can’t do much in a week.”
“I’ll pay you a thousand dollars to try.”
He paused. A thousand dollars? She really was insane or just had more money than she knew what to do with.
“My agent said that for now, I just need to know a few moves—the right stance or a few punches . . .”
Sounded simple. But he knew from experience, nothing with a hot blonde was ever simple. This too would somehow come back to bite him in the ass. But another extremity was begging to get up close and personal “training” this woman—exactly why this was the worst idea ever.
“No.”
“I can even just sit in on a few classes first. You won’t even know I’m here.”
She was persistent. “Oh, sweetheart, everyone would know you’re here.”
She flashed him what he could only assume was her best on-camera smile.
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
She pouted.
He looked away. He hated pouting women. That simple little gesture with their lips was like kryptonite to him. He often found himself giving in too easy, too fast at the sight of a tempting bottom lip.
“Please.”
“No. I’m sorry, I can’t help you.” He had his own fight to prepare for. He had fighters to train and a gym to run. He didn’t have time for this shit.
She sighed, reaching into her purse. A second later, she slid a copy of her photo sheet toward him. “My number’s on here. Think about it. Please. I’ll go as high as two thousand for the week. Call me when you change your mind.”
Obviously, she thought money was a motivator for him. It wasn’t. The gym was doing great and his MFL payouts kept him living his modest lifestyle just fine. He stashed the photo sheet under the desk. He’d toss it out when she was gone . . . or keep it for his own viewing pleasure. “Don’t wait by the phone, Ms. Hamilton.”
