Fight or Fall Page 2

  Kelsey's blue eyes shined. "You always look gorgeous, Ava. How do you do it?"

  I gave her a small grin. "Thank you. You're so sweet." If she only knew what I looked like earlier in my pajamas and messy hair before getting off of the plane, she might have changed her mind about her compliment.

  What she was seeing now was the made-up Ava, all glammed up and ready to take on the world. I applied extra shimmery eye shadow with a crème color base to my eyelids and a bronzer to my cheeks to compliment my dress. My hair fell down past my shoulders after clipping it up on the sides with my mom's diamond hair barrettes. For my lips, I used a tinted pink lip gloss for a pop of color.

  Luckily, I was blessed with my mother's great genes. Magazines have referred to my face as sculpted by the finest painters; the high cheekbones, the arched eyebrows, the soft, plump lips. I had nothing to do with that. Those I inherited from my mom, the woman who launched a thousand magazines and catapulted the popularity of two-piece swimsuits to the world. My 5'10", 140-pound frame was also a generous gift from my mom. I didn't have to work out in order to keep everything lean and tight. I had a rapid metabolism naturally. I just loved to work out anyways. My face, my body - these were the reasons why I was the media representative for my father's companies. Ever since I turned eighteen, my father required my presence at Troudeau Enterprises sponsored events. My father had a reputation of being a hard, difficult man, much to the chagrin of his investors. Since I became the face of the company, the public has seen his company under a new light - one that was more relatable and could be trusted. He was already an established man, but with just under a year of my presence in front of cameras, attending media and charity events, the stock value of the company he built from the ground up had quadrupled in assets.

  The public loved me, and I loved being in front of the camera. Under the magnified lenses, the glittering lights, the hustle and bustle of multiple interviews going on, I was at home. In front of the camera, I shone, bloomed, and grew. I had fun with it. I loved being at the center of it all. I liked the feeling that I could talk and someone would listen, even if I didn’t hear back from them directly. I prided myself in knowing that in the usual fifteen to thirty minute interviews, I was carrying on my mother's legacy. This was her world. A world where she was at her finest, in her glory, until she met him. My penchant for being photographed, my desire to smile in front of the cameras and show off my face and body, I got it all from her. But there was one thing that was passed on to me from the other half of my DNA. The unique gray eyes that can vary from having hints of yellow and blue to almost black onyx, depending on my mood, was the one thing that set me apart from my mom. I got it from my father.

  Maxwell Troudeau was the man behind the billion dollar Vegas empire he built from when he was a starving French college student decades ago. But Avalea Troudeau, yes, me, was the face that brought thousands of investors on board when the company was on the verge of bankruptcy. We might share the same DNA and the same colored eyes, but we were as different as night and day. Years ago, I'd have left his wing, flew out of the nest, and found my own footing. I knew I'd be successful at it, too. I had the same persuasive powers and charisma that he possessed, judging from the millions of hits on social media sites whenever I set a new fashion trend.

  Years ago I would have been free from his grasp. But that was then.

  This was now. I no longer had the ace in the cards. He held the Ace, King, Queen, Jack, and ten in the same suit. A royal flush in the world of poker where he got his start, the root of where his empire grew from.

  He had all the power now.

  He had her.

  Before entering the Exclusive Hotel’s magnificent doors, I took a deep breath and slowly let it out. This was the newest hotel to be added to my father’s investments. After finishing ten more interviews and posing for more pictures, it was show time. Time for me to raise my barriers and steel my insides.

  “He’s already here,” Daria’s voice brought me back to the present. “He’s looking for you. Daniel called me while you were chatting with the People’s News anchor.”

  “It’s okay, Daria,” I reassured her. “By the way, you look great tonight.” She was wearing a red taffeta gown that accentuated her voluptuous figure and complimented her olive-toned skin. Her Costa Rican skin tone was something that I’d kill for – she’d never have to tan while my fair skin burnt to an annoying shade of red and orange when I stayed in the sun for longer than thirty minutes.

  I turned around and faced her, squeezing her left hand. “It’s really okay. It’s not like I haven’t done this before.” I have, but it had been a while. He hasn’t had the compulsion to attend any public events for almost a year. This new business undertaking must be really special to him.

  “What is this one for anyways?” I asked, fiddling with the flap of my strass embellished evening clutch bag. With the hundreds of events I attended in a year, I just went with the flow. I didn’t ask questions anymore. I just showed up and mingled. While I’m fascinated at being in front of the cameras, I had no desire to get to know people who were as fake as their silicone breasts and Botox-implanted cheeks. It was hard to meet genuine individuals in this world – most of them befriended me because I’m the daughter of Maxwell Troudeau. I’d learned that lesson many times over.

  “I’m not sure,” Daria replied, her head shaking as she pushed on the elevator buttons. “Daniel was evasive about it. He just said that your father wants you here.” Her phone pinged again. It had been ringing non-stop since I met her on the side before I stepped onto the red carpet. When I’m with Daria, I don’t answer my calls. Unless it’s Brynn or Naomi. They knew where to reach me, and Daria would patch them through to me in less than a heartbeat.

  “Daniel’s being evasive? That’s not new.” I rolled my eyes as we stepped inside the elevator. Most of the guests must be up on the 55th floor already. Usually there would be other people with us, milling about, rushing to get in the elevators. Maybe we were late?

  “Am I late?” I wondered out loud while checking my reflection in the mirrors in front of me.

  Daria, who was now busy sending text messages on her phone, lifted her head up, and her hazel eyes showed disagreement. “No, Daniel said to be here at eight. It’s only 7:50. We are right on time. I won’t have you late. I know how your father is.”

  Oh, I knew too. He hated people who did not arrive at the appointed time. He valued his precious time. Every second counted and every minute that passed was a lost opportunity if you were late. This was one of his guiding principles. Along with the spotless mirrors, the unique combination of tuberose and pear scents, and the abundance of Troudeau Enterprises logos in each of his hotels. Those were non-negotiable.

  The elevator button lit up at number 55.

  Daria reached for my shoulder and gave me a side hug, my clutch getting in the way in the small space between us. “It’s okay, chica. You’re stronger than him. Just let me know if you need me, okay?”

  I gave her a small smile. When she called me chica it made me smile every time. It made me remember that I’m a powerful woman. I grabbed the orange Tic-Tacs from my clutch, flipped open the tiny top of the container, and popped ten pieces of the orange goodness into my mouth. The refreshing mint taste calmed me down.

  As my three-inch red shoes hit the outside of the elevator, I flashed my teeth at Daria, knowing that it gave her a small amount of relief when my facial muscles turned upright and proclaimed, “I know I’m strong, Daria. I’m stronger now. Let’s go in there and show them how the ‘Princess of Las Vegas’ gets it done.” The air quotes that I added were for good measure.

  I hated that name. Princess. It was absurd and cliché. Did I have a tiara floating around my head? Who anointed me to be the Princess? I disliked Barbie when I was a kid. I hated tiaras, pink ponies, and Cinderella even more. Just ridiculous.

  Daria’s chuckles lasted for a few seconds until we reached the entrance of the ballroom.

/>   Game on, Ava. Show time.

  The air in the room boasted of egos and pride. The designer outdid herself with the decorations – the understated elegance of purple, gold, and black hues evident in the mirrored walls and painted walls brought the feeling of luxury and sophistication without being blatant about it. The 7500 square feet room, the biggest room in this hotel, provided the open space for a high profile event such as this one.

  I mingled with a few rising celebrities – a member of a boy band, a recently divorced actor, and a founder of an internet website. As I looked around, I began to notice something odd about this setting. I’d been to many events, but this one had a weird feeling to it.

  I racked my brain trying to figure out what it was. As a server holding a tray of champagne walked by, I counted the number of guests. It was easy because there weren’t so many.

  Seventy-two.

  The room felt ten times bigger than it was because of the small number of guests. I saw more women earlier downstairs when I was walking through the media gathered by the hotel’s entrance.

  Most of the guests were men. They were a combination of old and young guys, in their suits, gleaming dress shoes, and shiny cuff links. I could count the number of women on my fingers. I knew most of them. Some I wasn’t familiar with.

  Realizing this as I was speaking with Senator Joe Civens, I caught the tail end of our conversation – he was requesting for me to plan a golf day with his daughter, Marie. I nodded my head and was about to excuse myself when from my peripheral vision I saw him lift his right forefinger – a distinct sign that he was waiting for me to greet him.

  “I’ll give Marie a call,” I replied to the Senator of California. He was a charming guy. It was just too bad that his daughter was a blonde bimbo who couldn’t keep her legs closed even if they were nailed tight with a hammer. I’d be calling her when I was ninety and the world had gone into a complete apocalypse.

  He was a head taller than me, taller than most of the men in attendance. As I neared him, I placed two of my fingers by my right ear and pressed on the small diamond earring that adorned it.

  He was wearing a black notch-lapel jacket with a black dress shirt underneath it, all custom-made and custom-fitted by his designer, Emilio. His gray eyes honed in on me, the right side of his mouth lifted, his voice commanding as he said, “Gentlemen, do you remember my daughter, Ava?”

  “Hello, father.” I gave him a small tilt of my head to acknowledge him. To the two men he was conversing with I said, “Nice to see you again, Emmett…Senator Powers, please tell your wife I’m still swooning over the art pieces she sent for Christmas.”

  Emmett, the only son of Melinda and Bob Powers, was a blonde, blue-eyed, fine male specimen. When we were kids, he was one of the boys I hung out with, especially when my best friend, Brynn, was confined to the hospital for a year. I heard that he recently graduated Columbia Law School and was set on following the political aspirations of his father.

  Emmett’s gaze lingered on me as he spoke, his voice now deepened like the maturity in his eyes. “It’s been a while, Ava. You look beautiful.”

  My cheeks warmed at the compliment. This was the boy who I played sweaty soccer with, traded spit with for a ride on his new bike, and the one who wiped my tears when I felt sad about Brynn. He was all grown up now. And at the moment, he looked at me like I was the strawberry ice cream in a chocolate-covered wafer cone that he had overpaid ten dollars for each time I brought him one. His mom was super strict, and no sugars and sweets were allowed in her house. It was a good thing we were neighbors, because I kept a running tab and became his ice cream dealer.

  My father’s voice interrupted my childhood flashback. “Ava, now that Emmett’s back in town, maybe you can show him around, catch him up on what’s changed since they moved to D.C., and give him a tour around our hotels, maybe even accompany him to the new shows?”

  I detected a hint of my father’s matchmaking attempts. He has never done this before. At least not in a blatant, overt manner like this.

  “Of course,” I smiled, this time a genuine one. Emmett was a nice guy, a childhood friend. I looked forward to catching up with him.

  Senator Powers had a huge smile on his face as he watched the exchange between Emmett and I. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Daniel, my father’s Haitian right hand man/bodyguard/assistant, approaching us.

  “Pardon me,” my father said, already stepping to the side as Daniel whispered something in his ear.

  “What have you been up to, Ava?” Emmett’s deep voice inquired. His blue eyes were a shade darker. If I remembered correctly, he had a deep dimple that appeared on the left side of his mouth when he was joking around.

  “Oh, you know…just busy being Miss Society Princess,” I teased, now feeling the pain of the high platform shoes I was wearing. I better find a chair soon. Ugh, I hated when that happened.

  “You hate being called a ‘princess’, so I know you’re lying.” The sides of his face crinkled, his dimple now finally making an appearance. Goodness, he was turning his full charm on.

  Senator Powers joined in. “You haven’t seen each other for years, yet you seem to remember a lot about her, son.” The small glass of dark liquid he was holding was now lowered to his side.

  Emmett lifted a brow. “I remember everything about Ava, dad. It’s hard to forget a beautiful girl.”

  If I thought he was coming on to me earlier, forget that. Now I knew he was really coming on to me.

  “Umm…” Before I could utter another word, my father appeared on my side, stating, “It’s all ready. We have to go now.”

  Go?

  “Where?” I asked, my brows furrowed.

  My father’s large hand clamped onto my arm. “The main event, Ava. The reason why everyone’s here.”

  “Main event?” The confusion distinct in my voice.

  Emmett replied matter-of-factly, “Fight Night, Ava. Didn’t your dad tell you?”

  My father’s hold tightened on me while he led the way to a small, dimly lit entrance.

  Fight night?

  I’m going to throw up.

  It’s been said that everyone’s lives are pre-determined. From the moment of conception, your life’s plan had already been mapped out.

  It’s called destiny, fate.

  Well, I say fuck that.

  I thought my destiny was to be a swimmer. An Olympian. A world-class athlete. I didn’t just say that because I was making shit up. I had four World gold medals to back it up, eight World silver medals, and twenty eight swimming trophies and medals collected since I was ten. Take me out to the pool and I’ll show you how a butterfly stroke is supposed to be done, how a breaststroke is completed by a master, and how to fucking win swim competitions.

  That pre-determined shit? That destiny thing? It’s for those idealistic idiots who thought that the world was made up of the seven colors of the rainbow, that everyone in the world was nice and soft-hearted; that shit basically didn’t stink. Or that your own family, your blood, could never betray you.

  Whatever destiny I thought of, whatever dreams I had since I was eight until now, it all went down the drain. Never to be seen again. My swimming medals? Gone. My swimming records? All taken down. My sponsors? Done. It’s been six months since it happened. Six months of not talking to her. Six months of avoiding her calls and her e-mails. Six months of distancing myself from the only person in the world who could make me commit such a heinous act.

  After the scandal that caused tsunami waves in the swimming world, hundreds of reporters and media personnel wanted to ask me why. I hung up on all the phone calls, declined all the media invitations, and said no to all types of news exclusives.

  I might be a man without honor, as she called me, but I still would not lie. If I were to answer their questions, “Why did you do it?” “What caused you to do it?” “Do you regret doing it?” I knew what my answer would be every single time – I thought I was doing it for her. My sister �
�� my only remaining family member, my own blood – the girl, the woman, the person whom I was tied to since she was only a beating pulse in my mother’s womb. Yes, I thought I was doing it for her. Instead, she now saw me as half the man that I was, not the beloved brother she grew up loving and looking up to. I wish I could take it back. But there are no take-backs, no redo’s, no do-overs.

  Which is why I am in this situation now.

  Could this guy be any more stupid?

  Fuck. That hurt.

  Maybe he’s not that stupid.

  The punch to my left side felt like it tore my left kidney open. This goddamned beast who looked like he soaked himself in oil and suntan lotion managed to sneak a punch to my side while I was busy trying to figure out his next move. I’d thrown his body on the floor twice, the last time sounded like he broke his back, and body slammed him into the wall, but he was still standing.