Fighting For It

Book 1: The Ringside Series

by Jennifer Fusco

Genres: Sports; Romance; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

The first in a sexy new series where the hard-hitters of Las Vegas’s Stamina boxing gym are K.O.-ed by the women they never saw coming...
 
After suffering a devastating loss during his last fight, heavyweight boxer Jack Brady’s whole career went down for the count. Now, his late manager’s daughter has inherited his contract and Jack is pleased to discover that the girl he fell in love with as a kid has grown into a strong, sexy woman—until she makes it clear that Jack has no choice but to get in the ring.
 
Daniella Chambers is determined to get her father’s failing gym back on track with Jack’s upcoming fight. She knows Jack’s got the talent to become champion and decides to force the unmotivated fighter away from the neon lights of Vegas to train in the seclusion of her lake house. But when they take a time out from their sessions to steam up the bedroom, the urge to win gets all tangled up with their desires.
 
Now, Jack’s fight is swiftly approaching, and the fate of the gym isn’t the only thing on the ropes...
 
Includes an exclusive preview of the next Ringside novel, Going the Distance.

Release date: September 15, 2015

Publisher: InterMix

Print pages: 236

Sample

Chapter One

“Let’s get outta here,” the blonde whispered into his ear. “Come on, honey. I’ll let you do me in the bathroom.”

It wouldn’t take much. Quick trip to the restroom. Ten minutes. Tops. He gazed at the blonde.

Nah. Pass. As much as he liked the company of a hot blonde, he didn’t get off on restroom sex. But he wouldn’t rule out taking her home.

“Hey, Jack,” Jimmie, the bartender said. “Think you’ve had enough?”

Jack raised his glass in a drunken salute. He had had enough of a lot of things. But booze and girls ready to drop their zippers weren’t two of those things. What he’d had enough of was the town that had dragged him down and put his career in the gutter.

Vegas.

Las Fucking Vegas.

Jack Brady despised Las Vegas. He didn’t just hate the damn place. He fucking loathed his hometown as much as he hated himself. Every single inch. The candy-colored lights, the watered down booze, and loudmouthed tourists turned his already soured stomach. He sat on his barstool with the blonde clinging to him for dear life and glared at a photo of the famous skyline hanging on the wall.

Shithole.

Tipping his head back, he drained his glass, swaying in his seat.

“Well if you won’t do me here, take me back to your place,” the blonde offered.

He wouldn’t mind sneaking out and stealing a few hours of anonymity.

He’d had enough of people in town talking. And lately, all anyone who ran in his circles focused on was the life and death of his trainer, R. L. Chambers, and his out-of-control boxer that sent him to his grave. The muscles at the base of his neck tightened. The bullshit gossip that Jack’s lack of respect for his trainer paved the way to R. L.’s early demise made him want to hurt himself.

Bad.

He had known something was wrong. R. L.’s lack of appetite, his weight loss, the graying of his skin had signaled a decline. But his manager never said a word. And Jack, he could kick himself for not making his mentor see a doctor.

He knew the toughest of men eventually wore out. At sixty-three, he didn’t expect R. L. to go so soon.

Moisture prickled behind his eye, but he dared not let it form into a tear. His trainer, his mentor, deserved more than piss-ass drunken sobs. A helluva lot more.

He turned to the blonde and lifted his glass, toasting the memory of R. L. “To broken dreams and broken people.” He would’ve taken the drink, but the glass was empty. The second his glass hit the counter, it disappeared.

“Time to go home, Jack,” the bartender said. “Go on. Take your friend with you.”

“You can’t cut me off,” he slurred. “I’m just getting started.”

“You started at eleven this morning,” said the gentle voice. “Look, I know that R. L. was everything to you. He was like a second father, better than that shit bag your mother married. What was his name?”

“Gary,” Jack slurred.

“Yeah, that’s right, Gary. R. L. was more of a father to you than your stepdad, but you can’t let it eat you up.” He paused, giving Jack a look of concern.

There wasn’t enough whiskey in this whole damn bar to make him forget his terrible childhood, no matter how much he drank. He’d come up short in the family department, and he knew as well as anyone that even though his last name was Brady, his life at home didn’t resemble The Brady Bunch, not one bit.

He paused in thought and chuckled under his whiskey-soaked breath. If his childhood had mimicked the iconic television show, viewers would have watched Mike Brady drink himself to sleep while Carol, the mother, shook her ass down at the casinos happily delivering drinks, blow jobs, or whatever else the customers wanted for an extra twenty bucks. Now that would have been one hell of a program to watch: The Brady Bunch, Las Vegas style.

“You got enough money left for a cab?” The bartender interrupted his thoughts.

He shook his head. Fucking cab. He didn’t need a dirty cab. Dude needed to call a limo. For the champion. The heavyweight champion of the world.

But he wasn’t. That was some other poor bastard who stole his money, his career, and his title along with it.

The reality of it hit him hard.

What the fuck did he need a title for? Shiny piece of shit. Didn’t mean nothing. He lifted his hand and ran it across his sweaty brow.

What did he need any of it for? His manager was dead. His career? Over. Everything he worked for? Gone. And all that was left was an empty glass and a horny blonde.

And who gave a fuck about it? No one. Not even Jack.

He was okay with the other things he had to occupy his time.

Jack drew his cell phone from the pocket of his jeans and scrolled though the names. He stared down at each one. Amber. Tasha. Nikki. The list went on. He could have his choice and the blonde at the push of a button, but having and wanting were two different things. Company might do him some good. Take the edge off. Maybe he’d take the girl home after all.

“Get outta here, Brady. Sleep it off.” The bartender dried a glass with a soiled rag.

“I’m not going home. It’s too damned early to go home.” He leaned sideways to motion to a man across the bar, but tumbled off the stool. Luckily his feet did their job. He grabbed hold of the lip of the bar to steady himself. It took longer than he expected to right himself. Taking a moment to gather his bearings, Jack shook his head as if arguing with an ex-girlfriend who didn’t exist, “Tell you what, Jimmie. R. L. was a good man. A damned good man. Not like anyone else in this fake-ass town.”

“Damn straight.”

“Shut up. We got a game going here,” a man’s voice called from the corner of the bar. “No one wants to hear your fucking whining.”

Jack turned his head in the direction of the man, who was standing by the pool table, cue in hand. A glass of draft beer sat on the table next to where he stood.

“You wanna drink that beer or wear it?” Jack demanded, pushing the blonde off him for her own safety. He stuck out his chest. Eyes narrowed. Temper spiked.

“You wanna piece of me?” The man, dressed in a black motorcycle T-shirt and jeans, shot back. He stood up from leaning over the pool table and walked toward Jack.

Jack gritted his teeth, taking in the fat belly of the pool-playing son of a bitch. “I said, do you wanna drink that beer or wear it?”

“You wanna take this shit outside?” the pool player said. Then he took a few giant steps toward Jack. They were nose to nose. “Waddya say? Bitch.”

A hand clapped on Jack’s shoulder and the bartender stepped in between the two men. “I don’t need any trouble in here. If I call the cops, things will get real messy. For all of us. Let’s just take a breather.” Jimmie pushed Jack and the guy who’d been playing pool apart.

Jack’s eyes narrowed on the fat-ass biker. He smelled hot wings and beer on his breath. It’d only take two seconds for Jack to make Fat Ass regret eating those wings.

One quick punch.

“It’s all right, Jack,” Jimmie said calmly. “Come on, man. No trouble,” he addressed Pool Player.

Jack waited until the pussy took a step back. Only then did he back down.

The man returned to his game, and Jack’s gaze switched between Jimmie and the fat ass. Then the blonde reappeared, wrapping her arms around his waist. Jimmie gently guided both of them to the door. Pushing it open, the cool, dry desert air hit him in the face. The breeze cleared some of the fuzziness from his head and brought the whole ugly night into perspective.

“Sorry about that back there, Jimmie. I didn’t mean to . . .” Jack’s voice trailed off.

A hand, like a heavy weight, landed on Jack’s back, right between his shoulder blades.

“R. L. was a great man. And you two were tight, like blood, maybe even closer. I’m sorry for your loss,” Jimmie said. “Come on back tomorrow morning and I’ll make you some eggs to go along with that hangover.”

Jack nodded, and after nearly tripping down the steps, he followed the blonde into the black of the night.

Chapter Two

The door to Jack Brady’s apartment swung open, but damned if he remembered saying, “Come on in.” A woman with huge tits and legs that went on for days walked inside and pulled back the curtains, ripping him from complete darkness. And, with a night as wild as last night, darkness was a necessity. Sharp rays of sunlight pierced his eyes. Fuck. He hated everything to do with mornings. He lifted his arm, blocked the sun, and cursed the person who came up with the idea of mixing Jack and Coke.

Dust motes swirled in a path of light that led to the hourglass-shaped woman standing in his living room. “Hey, baby.” He raised his head from the arm of the sofa and drew in the length of her body. Her curves wouldn’t quit and, maybe, if she were lucky, she’d find out he didn’t either.

Women tended to come and go from his apartment as he pleased, but this one could stay as long as she liked.

If his head didn’t hurt like a bitch he’d pull that brown-haired beauty down to him and spend the afternoon working off his hangover. Naked. Then he might go another round with the blonde in the bathroom.

“Move your ass,” the dark-haired woman said. “It’s after two.”

He felt his brow furrowing. Air caught in his throat. “Who the hell are you?”

His question was met with a long, exasperated sigh. “I’m the woman who has a vested interest in you not getting your ass suspended. Now, get up.”

Fire shot through his blood. He raised his torso and swung his legs around to a sitting position. His head spun. Jesus. He felt like shit. He could’ve lain on the warm leather of the sofa all day. Watched some movies. Slept.

“Shakes send you?” Damn it. He didn’t have time for Shakes’s lame-ass requests.

“I’m not Mr. Shakes’s errand girl,” the woman said flatly, and she stepped into the sunlight. “I own you.”

Jack’s body gave an involuntary jolt. His stomach clenched and he studied her face, took in the tits and the long legs and—oh shit. “Dani.”

“It’s Daniella now.”

In an instant, he was eighteen years old again. His heart nearly stopped when she cocked her slender hip and perched her hand on it. Her stance took him back to the last time he saw Daniella Chambers.

The summer before she went off to college.

God, her body was smoking back then. But now. She’d left town a girl and came back a woman, all right. In a second, his old feelings rushed him. The biggest mistake he’d ever made was letting her go. He’d loved her. He doubted he ever stopped loving her.

But one thing was for sure: she quit loving him. She hated his wandering eye, and how he’d played fast and loose with her heart. Back then, he’d screwed everything up between them. On purpose? Possibly. For the best? Yes.

She was way too good for him then, and now, well, some days he hated himself.

“Don’t act like you didn’t know I was coming.” She sounded pissed.

Jack lifted his hand and scratched his head. Daniella Chambers. It made sense. With her old man dead, who else would’ve inherited the Stamina gym? He sure as hell wouldn’t have left it to Shakes or one of the guys. Her father had willed Stamina to her, and knowing how much she meant to him, that was how R. L. had wanted it.

Now Daniella owned the gym he trained and grew up in. She owned his home.

And now him, too.

His stomach turned with an involuntary roll.

She might hold the keys, but he didn’t have to like it. He had hoped he’d never see her again. He clenched his hand into a fist, fighting against himself to tell her to go to hell. He held back a trail of firewater, the kind that rolled in his gut and threatened to burn its way up his throat after hearing bad fucking news.

She owned him.

It would take more than a few Jack and Cokes to wrap his head around this one.

“Shakes said you haven’t worked out in a week.” She was nagging him already. Great. Just great. “I bet you didn’t run either, did you?” Oh, he’d run all right. He’d run out of here to keep from hearing her damn mouth. No way this was happening.

He didn’t take orders from beautiful women. He gave them.

“Well.” She glanced down at him like he was something stuck to the bottom of her fuck-me heels.

“I didn’t run.” He kicked back, sinking his body deeper into the sofa, and then stretched his bare legs out on the coffee table. “I increased my heart rate in other ways.”

A door slammed from behind them. Daniella turned toward the sound coming from the bathroom. The blonde from last night walked into the room, wearing nothing but a T-shirt that barely covered the waistband of her hot pink panties.

“Are these your keys?” Daniella said to the girl with a deadpan stare.

The blonde shook her head and her blue eyes widened.

Daniella swiped the keys from the table. “Meet me at Stamina in fifteen minutes.”

His abdominal muscles tightened. “Where you going with those keys?”

Daniella bit her lip, probably to keep from saying something crass, turned away from him, and started to the door.

He sat up. “Daniella, where are you going with my keys?” he shouted.

She ignored him.

Man, he could take a lot of things, but being ignored wasn’t one of them. “Ears clogged?” He knew he was being rude. Dammit, he wanted a reaction.

She pursed her lips and he remembered what she used to do with those lips. How hot they felt touching his. The places they’d been on his body. For a split second, maybe she was remembering what it felt like, too.

She stopped and glanced over her shoulder at him in a way only Daniella could. The woman stirred things inside him that shouldn’t be legal. She was sex on two feet. “I’m going to Stamina, and I’m taking your keys. So get off your ass, put your running shorts on, and meet me there in fifteen minutes.”

Her voice jabbed him in the gut, and he snorted. “Why would I do that?”

She started walking and didn’t look back until she got to the threshold of the door. Then she turned again and gave him that stare, that sexy, fucking serious-as-hell stare, and said, “Because, Jack, you need a win.”

“Who was that?” the blonde asked, moseying over and sitting down beside him. She slid her legs over his and rested her hand on his thigh.

He swallowed hard and stared at the floor. “My manager.”

“That woman is your manager?” Her lips pulled up at the corners. “You’re joking.”

He passed a hand across his brow. Christ. His head throbbed like he’d just been ten rounds in the ring. The last thing he was doing was joking.

“Boxers don’t have women managers, do they?” the blonde kept chattering, straightening out her T-shirt.

“I do.”

“Since when?” She gave him a puzzled look, continuing her lazy assault on his thigh.

“Since now.” His gut rolled. He wanted to move her hand from his leg, but having to endure the wrath of one woman was enough for one hangover.

She shrugged. “I don’t get it.”

Sometimes neither did he.

He didn’t understand a lot of things. For one, he didn’t understand his need to pick up girls only to take them home and forget their names. One look at Daniella standing in his living room told him it was a pointless pastime. He didn’t understand why his heart hadn’t raced since the last time he saw her. One look at her with her hand propped on her hip and his pulse went into overdrive. Nor did he understand the way his body heated when Daniella entered the room. Hearing the sound of her voice ignited a slow burn inside him.

Explaining that Daniella was his new manager was easy. Figuring out why she affected him the way she did was another story.

“So she’s, like, your boss or something?” the blonde asked, pushing the subject.

He grunted.

“Man, that’s messed up. Won’t other guys think you’re, like, a wimp or something?”

Christ. If he’d wanted this many questions, he’d have turned on Jeopardy! He shook his head. Truth was, maybe if he gave a shit about Little Miss T-shirt, he’d explain that boxers were a lot like racehorses. They had trainers and managers and contracts. Tightly written contracts that were bound and legal, and in his case, inherited until they were broken, exhausted, or sold.

He raised his hand and moved her legs from his.

“Just because you’re pissed off, don’t take it out on me.” The blonde brought her knees up to her chest and tucked them under the hem of her T-shirt. “I mean, shoot, if I boxed I wouldn’t be bossed around by some woman. That’s not even . . . manly.”

His jaw locked.

The blonde flipped her hair over her shoulder. “Did you get assigned to her because you lost your last fight?”

“No.” He wasn’t talking about that fight. Not to the blonde or anyone else.

“Does she even know what she’s doing, managing boxers?” She reached for the remote.

“She does.” He added another subject to his mental list of things he didn’t want to talk about. He’d have a hard enough time convincing Mike and the rest of the guys at the gym that Daniella knew her shit, let alone explain her knowledge of the sport to Bar Fly Barbie.

Screw Daniella for putting him in this position. She needed to go back to where she came from and stop hanging around the gym, wasting his time.

Jack grabbed the remote control and tossed it to the floor. With all the talk about Daniella filling the room, the blonde he’d been so keen on hours ago started to lose her luster.

She stared at the remote lying on the carpet. “If you don’t want to hang out, I guess I’ll go.”

He stared straight ahead at the black television screen, unblinking. “See ya.”

She huffed, got up, and found her jeans lying in the same spot on the floor where she was all too eager to shed them the night before.

“I’ll see you later,” she said, reaching for her purse. “When your mood’s improved.”

“Sorry, Christy.” Jack stood up as she left, knowing there was no point to it other than he wanted to show her some respect for staying over, even though they both knew it was a one-night stand.

Wonder how many one-nighters Daniella had had since she left town?

Probably none. She was too good for that kind of thing.

“It’s Misty.”

“Huh?” he said, wondering why she hadn’t left yet.

Jack waited for her to leave. Where did he put his running shorts?

“My name is Misty, not Christy.” The blonde’s voice echoed through his apartment.

Whatever, he thought, which was followed by one hell of a door slam.

Chapter Three

Daniella tried to avoid the Vegas Strip, but construction detours forced her to take a left at the MGM Grand and follow it straight past Mandalay Bay. Her car sped under the overpass and kept going straight until she reached Sunset and followed the road straight to Stamina. If she’d been thinking rationally, instead of being enraged at all things Jack Brady, she’d have loaded him up and dropped his lazy butt someplace south of Pahrump.

His hangover could use more than a twenty-minute run to clear itself. A lot more.

Her car eased to a stop in front of Stamina. The place looked empty. Locked. There was no choice but to wait for Shakes, who had promised he’d meet her here at two thirty. She rolled her tanned wrist over and checked the time. Shakes was late. Surely he’d show. But with the off-track betting open twenty-four hours, Shakes would be tempted to find himself sidetracked. Maybe if he’d spent less time over the years betting on anything that ran, fought, or scored, he wouldn’t find himself still taking care of Stamina in his golden years. That was the problem with living in Las Vegas; everyone was addicted to something.

Ten minutes later Shakes pulled up, still driving his old Buick, the same faded green boat he’d driven for nearly twenty years. How that car, like Shakes, kept going was a miracle.

He got out of the car and smiled at her.

The white EVERLAST logo on his T-shirt sat in the middle of his chest like a target. His jeans sagged the way they did on old men, but he didn’t look dumpy. In fact, he’d lost weight. He looked healthy, or at least he appeared to be taking better care of himself. He’d let his beard grow out, a full tuft of snowy white hair contrasted against his dark skin. At the sight of him, her heart lifted and the corners of her mouth pulled into a smile. Abraham Shakes outstretched his arms. Daniella walked right into them as if she were hugging her father.

“Good to see you, Dani,” Shakes said. “It’s been too long. Way, way too long.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” She averted her eyes to the tops of his scuffed shoes.

“Sorry it had to go down like this. Too damn sudden and fast.” He released her after giving her one last squeeze.

She read the sympathy on his face and emotion deep in his eyes. Tears formed just looking at him. The memory of answering Shakes’s call only to find out that he hadn’t dialed her number until after her father was dead centered in her mind.

She wiped the thought away. “It’s okay. We’ve got a lot to do.”

“Come on in, hon,” Shakes said gruffly, “Let’s get started.”

He unlocked the door and opened it. But before Daniella stepped inside the cinder block boxing gym, he removed the key to Stamina and placed it in her palm. Her heart drummed in her chest. It was only a key. Nothing to get emotional about. But if that were true, why did she fight to hold back tears? She crossed over the threshold and the scent of sweat and stale air took her back to the last time she’d been there.

Nearly ten years ago. The summer before she’d left for college.

“You don’t have to go in if you don’t want to.” Shakes gestured toward her father’s office. The place where he had found R. L. slumped over his desk.

She nodded. Yeah. She might wait a few days for that.

Walking deeper into Stamina, her heels clicked against the concrete floor, and the full-size boxing ring came into view. It still looked the same. Black ropes, blue canvas. The structure was flanked by floor-to-ceiling mirrors that ran the length of the gym. She walked deeper into the space, still not believing that she was really here. Not a thing had changed. Behind the ring, the heavy bag still hung near one corner and the speed bag in the other. Her father used to make all his boxers use the heavy bag as a staple of their training. The bag made to simulate a body, help build coordination, and improve power. The speed bag improved, well, speed.

She smiled, remembering what she knew. God, as hard as she tried to forget this place, she couldn’t. Boxing was in her blood.

Shakes followed her past the ring and over to the area along the wall where the free weights, jump ropes, and medicine ball resided. “One thing about Stamina, this place never changes.”

She allowed her eyes to survey the room. “You’re right.” Then she turned to face Shakes and said, “I’m not here to change anything. Just make what we’ve got even better.”

Shakes’s eyes widened. “You’ve got a lot of work ahead of you, if that’s the case.”

She put a hand on his arm. “Don’t worry, Shakes.”

“I ain’t worried that you won’t be able to do it, I’m just concerned about who you have to do it with.”

Of course they were talking about Jack. It seemed like every conversation regarding Stamina had something to do with Jack Brady.

She let out a slow, calming breath. Thoughts of Jack wouldn’t get her worked up again. She needed a cool head to put her plan into action.

Her father always preferred Stamina and the guys in it to anything else in the world. Nothing would please her more than honoring him by bringing back the glamour of boxing to the gym.

“I’m glad you decided to stay and keep the gym running. Stamina does a lot of good around here.”

Tension crept into the back of her neck. She lifted her hand and rubbed the spot to ease her tightened muscles. “I know it won’t be easy, but we can do it.”

Concern marked Shakes’s face. “Have you seen Jack?”

She let out a sigh and nodded. “It wasn’t pretty.”

Shakes nodded. “He’s been like that for weeks. Maybe with you being a sports psychologist and all, you can help him with his comeback.” He paused before muttering, “Damn shame.” Shakes shook his head.

She was game if Jack was.

“Do you know where my dad kept all his financial papers for the gym?” Daniella asked. “The bills, insurance records, things like that? I’d like to take a look at everything.”

Shakes nodded. “In his office. I’ll go get them.” He turned and walked toward the office, his shoulders slumped with age.

She moved to the wall and turned on all the lights in the breaker box. The fluorescents illuminated with a hum and shined off the concrete floor. A small chuckle bubbled up from deep inside her throat. The idea of her training Jack to put Stamina back on the map sounded, well, ridiculous. But when she walked inside, she knew she had to do it. Her whole childhood was spent in this gym. She spent hours every summer listening to her father schedule bouts for his boxers on the next fight card. Her involvement in her father’s business was another lifetime ago. She’d grown up, moved on, and he had passed. Now was now. He was gone.

And she was back.

She took in not only the space and the ring, but the mental images of the men who had filled them. Making a success out of Stamina was her paramount goal. Regardless of her own reservations about not being taken seriously in a male-dominated industry, how was she supposed to earn respect when she was forced to deal with Jack?

She bit the inside of her cheek. No. She didn’t know if any respect would be given to her based on her father’s legacy, but she wasn’t about to let Jack Brady stand in her way.

Chapter Four

Jack ran for about a mile, mile and a half, the distance between his apartment and Michael Perez’s house. Like Jack, Mike was one of R. L.’s guys, along with Trevor and Bulldog. He wanted to know what Mike’s plans were now that R. L. was gone. Maybe he didn’t know yet. Mike wasn’t much for words, but when he spoke, he always made a lot of sense.

Jack sprinted up the front steps and knocked on the door. Before his knuckles left the wood, the door opened.

“Sup?” The space widened and Mike turned around and headed back inside the house.

“Sup.” Jack followed.

Mike, already dressed in jeans, had no doubt finished his morning workout, loaded up on protein, and hydrated until his body probably thought it had gills. His body being his temple and all that shit. He kicked it between workouts in his green Oakland A’s T-shirt and whatever jeans he found on the floor. The shirt was at least a million years old. Damn thing was so holey, it could’ve gone to church.

Mike ate, drank, slept, and fucked on a schedule. That’s probably why Jack liked him so much. The guy had discipline. Self-control. Restraint. All admirable shit.

Sitting down on his black leather sofa, Mike placed a bare foot up on the table. He kept his eyes glued to the television, a Breaking Bad rerun, the one where Hank gets shot. They’d both seen it a thousand times. Dude nee