Fight or Fall Page 8

  “Why, Daniel?”

  “Because you’re not for him.”

  “Who says, Daniel?” Even if I expected the answer, I still wanted to hear it from him, to confirm my suspicions that my father was now planning who I’m supposed to date.

  “Your father.”

  “Since when does he get to choose who I date?” This was ludicrous, unacceptable. He ran my schedule, my career, and now my dates too?

  “I don’t know, Ms. Troudeau, but I don’t see anything good coming out of this – if you defy his orders.” He seldom showed any emotion, the hardness of facial features and his scarred forehead were mementos of his stint in the military. He has stuck by my father through the years, and for some reason I had this feeling that he did it to protect me and my mother.

  I stepped back, unwilling to have Daniel’s pristine record in my father’s eyes be compromised.

  “Will you do me favor, Daniel?” I asked, suddenly feeling the fight leave me, the threads of my light blue Vera Wang dress feeling extra heavy, the weight of what was being revealed to me now hung in the air. I’d never been stupid. I’d always tried to stay ahead of the game. But now my father was exerting his influence over every aspect of my life. His plans now extended to the men I dated, the men I went out with, and maybe the man I would marry.

  “If I can, Ms. Troudeau. What is it that you need?”

  “Please check on him. Make sure he’s okay,” I requested beseechingly, hoping that Milo was not in pain. I reached for the tiny diamond earrings that hadn’t left my ears since the day my mother gave them to me and pressed on them.

  Daniel gave me a small nod.

  I turned on my heels, going back the direction where I came from.

  For her, for my mother, I would do anything. Even at the cost of watching a man who has held my heart since I was fifteen fall apart, break into pieces, and have my father turn him into a man I’d no longer recognize.

  If this wanna-be-Ryan Reynolds touched her hand one more time, I was going to throw this vodka on his overly pressed suit and beat the shit out of him. He’s the same guy I saw at the party after my first fight – the moron who kept monopolizing her attention.

  “I love watching you fight, man,” Pete, owner of a popular water distributing company, said. Maxwell and I were chatting with him about the fight. He raised a thumbs up sign, what a weirdo, and continued, “I’ll always bet on you.”

  “Thanks.” I nodded my head, my eyes flickering towards his back where Ava and the blonde guy seemed to be laughing and enjoying each other’s company. They were with two other people, but the blonde dude’s eyes were trained on her. I couldn’t blame him – she looked damn good, like she always did. I might have told Bee before that I thought Ava looked slutty, but the honest truth was she never did. Even if she wore clothes that hugged her body like second skin, she never looked slutty. She always looked sexy, elegant, and hot.

  Dean Pope, Hollywood’s go-to action film star, stopped by and congratulated me on my win. There was an endless amount of ass-kissing going on. If I keep winning, they’d be smiling with me. But if I lost, they wouldn’t care one bit about me. To them I was nothing but a means to an end – their bets paying off. They were nothing but means to my end as well.

  Thank fuck Dia was out of my sight tonight. The minute she saw my glaring eyes when I entered the lounge, she wisely removed herself from within my reach. I really shouldn’t have given her name a month ago to be on the exclusive list of people that could attend on my behalf. Aside from Leif, she was the only one who knew why I was fighting.

  Maxwell and his band of rich friends were now on the other side of the room. Maxwell was constantly being hounded and surrounded by almost everyone in the room. I guess that’s how life went for a man whose net worth placed him on the country’s top 50 richest men, a fact I’d seen in one of those magazines I just happened to flip over years ago. The thing was, even if Ava was his daughter, she’s always remained the same to me and my sister. She had never looked down on us, not once. She loved my sister like she was her own sister. She treated me the same – like she was always infuriated, irritated at me. Until a few weeks back.

  I caught the end of her red dress slipping away in the corner. Blonde Fucktard was now talking to a guy, maybe a prominent politician or some shit. I discretely excused myself from the dragging conversation with Tom, the president of some financial company, and followed where Ava had disappeared into.

  “Naomi, it’s okay, I’ll talk to her.” She was talking to someone on her phone. The Las Vegas skyline was breathtaking from the 60th floor of this hotel. Ava’s right hand was lazily leaning against the glass railing; obviously she wasn’t scared of heights. From the back, her figure was captivating – long legs in that short red mini-skirt, spiked black heels, and her mass of hair pulled to the left, created an image that fueled the desire, the haze of lust that blindsided me.

  I want to kiss that exposed part of her neck, feel her hot breath against mine, press onto the softness of her body.

  Shit. When did I become such a horndog around her?

  “You want me to sing to you?” Her voice soft, mellow. Whoever she was talking to, it sounded like a person she cared for a lot.

  I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. I should just leave her alone. I was waiting for her to ask me about the fight, I had even unlocked the shower room, not listening to her father’s demands. She hadn’t even talked to me throughout the night, even after the little gathering was in full swing. As a matter of fact, it felt like she was avoiding me.

  Taking a few steps back, I stealthily traced back my steps. She needed privacy.

  Just as I was about to take the last step to go back in, I heard her singing in a sultry voice, “En haut de la rue St-Vincent...”

  What the hell was she singing? What language was that?

  Her hushed, melodic singing hypnotized me. I needed to hear more. I walked to where she was standing, appreciating the harmony, the sadness, the highs and the lows in her voice, “...Les escaliers de la butte sont durs aux miséreux butte sont durs aux Les ailes des moulins protègent les amoureux…”

  Princess, you continue to surprise me.

  “I love you.” A long sigh followed was by silence as she pressed the end button on her phone. She raised her head and took a long look at the view in front of her. Like her father, she owned this city. But right now, as she swiped a finger under her eye, from less than a foot away from her, I felt the tremendous pull of sadness that was pouring out of her. Her spine stiffened, probably willing herself to be okay, and let out another long sigh.

  “Ava, princess, what’s wrong?” I asked, making myself and my presence known to her.

  She turned her body to the left and her eyes widened in surprise. “Milo.”

  The urge to touch her, to not make her feel sad, was overwhelming.

  Facing her, I cupped her face in my hands. My rough, calloused thumbs felt the softness of her cheeks.

  “I…you…shouldn’t be here,” she stated, her eyebrows bunching, her face worried.

  I silenced her with my finger pressing on her bottom lip. “What’s wrong?” A single tear that I caught with my left hand fell from her gray eyes. In the dim lighting her eyes were like pools of silver; so beautiful, breathtaking.

  “It’s nothing. How’s your leg?”

  “Intact.” That Brazilian motherfucker had some extremely great fighting skills. If I hadn’t able to take him down, I’d probably have lost my leg or my consciousness earlier.

  “You don’t have to tell me what’s wrong.” Obviously she was being evasive. “But are you gonna be okay?”

  “Yes.” She nodded, with her right hand still on the glass railing, her left hand reaching up to touch the fresh bruise on the right side of my jaw.

  “Why are you fighting, Milo?”

  “Who were you singing to? What language was that?” My eyes fell to her slightly glossy lips. Lips that I’d kissed, tasted, hungered for.

&n
bsp; “Touché. It’s French.”

  “French?”

  “My father’s half French.”

  And the other half? Probably asshole.

  I raised my brows, holding back a smirk. “So you sing in French? Princess, you’re something else.”

  She laughed. “Sometimes.”

  “Hey, can you please not saying anything to Bee about this…the fighting…” I breathed out. “Just keep this between you and I for now.”

  Shaking her head left and right, she said, “I’m not going to lie to her, Milo.”

  “I know.” I placed a thumb on her chin, her skin felt so supple, so soft. “I just need time to do this.”

  Her shoulders lifted, turned her head to the side, and for a few seconds she didn’t speak. A span of one, two, three breaths passed. Facing me she tipped her head subtly. “Okay.”

  I lowered my hands down to the sides of her arms, feeling the light goosebumps forming. “You wanna go back inside?”

  “No. Not yet.”

  “Okay.” Pulling her closer to my chest, I realized that Ava was letting me do whatever I wanted to her body. She’d never been like this with me. Most of the time she wanted to throw something at me. Her lunchboxes, her purses, her shoes. I kept hoping that she’d have nothing to throw at me and she’d actually start throwing the clothes she was wearing.

  Shit. She would be a firecracker in bed. If she used the same amount of energy to throw stuff at me when she was under me, damn, she’d wipe me out.

  “Milo, are you okay?” Her question brought me back to reality. Since the time she kissed me, I’d been sporting this untamable erection for her. It didn’t matter how many times I jacked off; my dick wanted to sink in to her. I’d tried imagining other women, but always, just when I was at the brink of my release, Ava’s full lips, her silken hair, and sinful curves came into mind.

  “What do you think, Princess?” I rocked my hips towards hers, pressing harder against her. “You feel that? I’m not okay. I haven’t been since you pulled a disappearing act on me.”

  Instead of closing her legs, she opened them a little wider, arching her body backward. “I hate it when you call me Princess,” her voice was silkier, raspier.

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t need a prince to rescue me. I never have.”

  “You are a princess because you act so prissy.”

  “I don’t.” She drummed her hands on my chest, hard. “Only towards you.”

  “What do you want me to call you?” I inquired, my voice rough with desire. This was so wrong. Anyone could come out here to the balcony and catch us, but I couldn’t help my right hand from going under her tight dress, snaking my way from her thigh to her ass.

  “Call me Ava,” she demanded haughtily. Her eyes flared with lust and her breath was hot against mine.

  “Ava.” Fuck, her ass was firm as I formed a circle around it, squeezing, alternating the pressure— hard, soft, hard.

  “Do you let him, anyone, do this to you?” An insane amount of jealousy coursed through me. Did other men touch her like this? Was she like this with me, because somehow, some crazy way, I’d finally caught her attention? Why didn’t she call me after our kiss?

  She continued pressing the lower half of her body against the material of my dress pants, her eyes were now partly closed, her right leg was hitched up higher. I felt the unmistakable heat threatening to spill down her legs as my hands owned her thong-encased ass, and I fought the urge to stray on the other side. I knew what she wanted. A flick, a rub, my finger touching any part of the skin in front of me, pressing on me, causing her to go off.

  Restraining myself, I let my hand stay on her ass while my other hand gently massaged her arm. “Tell me, Ava. Do you let anyone do this to you?” She wasn’t mine, would never be mine, but goddamnit, I wanted to brand her, make her feel what she was making me feel, that I couldn’t get her out of my heads – the one inside my skull, and the other inside my pants.

  “No, Milo,” she struggled to answer, her breathing harsh, restrained.

  It took decades of lessons in restraint, combined with the need to find out the truth, that allowed my hands to stay where they were and not wander all over her like I wanted them to.

  I tilted her head, whispering harshly against her ear, “Why didn’t you call me?” She had just ran off, left my house, and it was dead air for more than three weeks until tonight. I wasn’t hoping for anything, but a simple text would have been fair. I was worried she didn’t get home safely. I didn’t know where she lived. I could’ve asked my sister, but first, I wasn’t talking to Bee yet, and second, my sister would probably say, “What the hell would you want Ava’s house address for?”

  She returned my stare, her eyes blinking rapidly. “I was, umm, embarrassed.”

  “Embarrassed? For kissing me?” I knew it. She was delirious when she kissed me.

  “No.” She huffed, her hand started caressing the front of my suit-covered chest. “Why would I be embarrassed of kissing you? First I screamed and screamed at you, then I groped you like no other, and to top it all off I fell asleep. Now tell me, Swimmer Boy, how is that not embarrassing?”

  When she called me Swimmer Boy it always made me grow hackles of incomparable irritation – it was just in the way she says it. I was a swimmer, but hell no, I ain’t no boy. Now her calling me a swimmer was a flat-out lie. I was no longer a swimmer. Her saying it just brought the reality of why I was here, fighting, having my body battered, in the first place. I slowly pulled my hand off of her ass and tried to straighten her dress.

  “I’m sorry.” Sensing the sudden change in my mood, she stated, her hands reaching up to my face, “It just came out.” Swimmer Boy. I was once. I no longer was. I didn’t know when FINA or the IOC would lift the ban. Maybe in a year, maybe in five, maybe in a decade.

  “Not your fault.” No one else’s but mine.

  “I, ahh, didn’t call you, but not because I didn’t want to. I’ve been traveling for the past few weeks and I’ve thought about texting or calling you, but I didn’t even know where to start. It’s not like we’re close friends, Milo. I go there to your old house once in a while to unwind, since it’s the only place I can go to where I feel like I haven’t lost myself completely. It reminds me of happy times, me, your sister, your mom bringing us cookies…” A faraway, longing look grazed her eyes. “I thought no one was there. I knew Brynn wouldn’t be there, so I didn’t expect anyone, least of all you. And when things happened between us all of a sudden, I felt like I was living a dream.”

  “A dream?” I repeated.

  What? Since when did she dream about me?

  “What are you talking about?” Her revelation stunned me. Ava was dreaming of me?

  “Ms. Troudeau, you there?” The voice preceded a tall, bulky guy who now stood by the side entrance where I had come from. “It’s time to return to the party.” He sounded like he was giving us a forewarning. I recognized the dude – he was always by Maxwell’s side or close to his vicinity.

  She stepped away from me, finding balance on her feet. Straightening her dress on the sides, her hands sifting through her hair, and her gaze unflinchingly steady, she responded, “You’ve always been my dream.”

  She turned her back, the clanging of her heels loud against the marbled floors matching the thundering pulse reverberating inside my chest. I stood there like a statue, unable to move from where I was standing. Ava, Prissy Princess extraordinaire, daughter to one of the richest men in the country, best friend to my sister, just confessed to me I was her dream.

  How in the motherfucking pits of hell did a man like me deserve that?

  “Thank goodness you’re here! I thought you were gonna stand me up!” Dia exclaimed, her green eyes flashing in relief. Her breasts were spilling over the ridiculously small white top with the words printed in bright pink, “Wanna lick them?” Been there. Done that. Never ever going back.

  “I said I was gonna be here,” I muttered un
der my breath. “Traffic was just ridiculous. They here yet?”

  Dia’s eyes furrowed. “Yeah, why?”

  “Well I just wanna make sure that they’re here,” I answered, walking towards the counter where a pimply kid was flirting with a young woman.

  “I already have my shoes,” Dia mentioned, pointing to her white bowling shoes while casually hanging on to my arm, which I had promptly removed from her grasp.

  “Dia, this isn’t a date.” I shook my head. “I only agreed to this because you already said yes for me, in front of Maxwell and other people, and I didn’t want you walking in shame. But next time you say yes for me, think twice, because I won’t be doing this shit again.”

  The other night, after I came back into the party, Dia was mingling with Maxwell, the blonde guy who was always hanging around Ava, Senator Powers, and Ava. I found out that the blonde dude was the senator’s son. It was the most stilted, awkward conversation I’ve ever had. My ex-girlfriend pretending to everyone that we were still together, Ava avoiding my eyes the whole time Dia was talking, and Emmett talking about his and Ava’s childhood. I wanted to rip the goofy smile off of Emmett’s face every time his eyes fell on Ava’s. Thank fuck Ava didn’t let his hands touch any part of her body, or I would have dragged his blonde head and slammed it on the table. When Emmett suggested that we should hang out, apparently he and Dia had gotten chummy when Ava and I were outside the balcony, I was about to say no until the Senator mentioned that Ava and Emmett were going on another date.