Holy crap, it couldn’t be.
Considering the brevity of the moment, she couldn’t say with absolute conviction that she knew the man, but something about him struck a chord inside of her, telling her she did even though she knew it was impossible. When he turned back around, he stripped his shirt off, revealing broad shoulders and the most defined set of pecks and abs she’d ever laid eyes on. Mouthwatering didn’t even begin to describe the man before her, and whether or not she knew a single thing about him didn’t matter, because she was in love.
Watching him closely, her eyes roamed over his body, absorbing every detail. There was a tattoo on his right bicep that traveled halfway down his arm and looked almost tribal. Smooth skin encased a body of solid muscle—not an inch of fat anywhere that she could see. A thick, muscular neck lead up to a head of dark brown hair that was clipped short in the back and slightly longer in the front. Her eyes traced down to a set of strong cheekbones, full lips, and a squared jaw. The words total package ran through her mind.
Closing his eyes, the fighter tilted his head back and a man wearing latex gloves stepped up and began smearing grease over his eyebrows, nose, and cheeks. Then he was passed off to another man, who ran his fingers behind his ears, over his shoulders, then down his arms and the rest of his body in a quick pat down, finally returning to his hands to check his nails and gloves.
The whole process took less than a minute, and then he was walking up the short set of stairs and into the ring. She soaked him in as he danced around the ring, shaking out his long limbs, and then the arena went dark again. A new song boomed overhead, filling her ears with the hard hitting sounds of Disturbed’s “Down with the Sickness.”
She thought the audience had been loud before? Nothing compared to the roar they created when the man with the neon green Mohawk strode down the walkway, an air of superiority trailing behind him like a fog. When he pulled his shirt over his head, Alyson took note of the impressive collection of tattoos decorating his arms and chest. The one she zoned in on, though, was of a black, sinister-looking dragon-like creature that appeared to be crawling over his left shoulder, looking back at whoever dared approach him from behind with malicious intent.
She shivered. This man, whoever he was, scared her. Her eyes strayed to his opponent who stood in his corner of the ring, a bored look on his face. Wasn’t he concerned at all?
The fighter with the Mohawk went through the same process as the one before him, and then entered the ring. He raised his arms in the air, circling the ring and riling the audience up even more. They shouted his name louder than ever, and Alyson felt part of herself shrink back in apprehension. A crowd this size, exuding this kind of energy, could get out of control in the blink of an eye.
Biting her lip, she fastened her attention to the men in the ring. The announcer stood in the center, microphone in hand as he addressed the room.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is the main event of the evening,” he said, his deep, authoritative voice booming. He continued on, announcing the sponsors of the fight and introducing the judges, which Alyson couldn’t care less about. All she wanted to know was the name of the man who had stolen her breath.
“This fight is scheduled for five, five minute rounds,” the announcer continued, something which Alyson thought didn’t sound too bad. Twenty-five minutes in the ring? Sure, her petite female body probably wouldn’t last two minutes, but these guys were in peak form, their muscles honed to perfection for just this purpose. Twenty-five minutes was probably a cake walk for them. She sat up taller as the announcer began the introductions.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen, in front of a packed house, the time has come. Fighting out of the blue corner,” he said, his voice growing louder as he pointed to the man in question, the one Alyson couldn’t seem to tear her gaze from, “this man is a jiu-jitsu artist. Standing at six-feet three inches tall and weighing in tonight at two-hundred and five pounds, he has a professional record of twelve wins and zero losses. Fighting out of Columbus, Ohio, please welcome Jamison—The Juuuuuuuudge—Westonnn!”
As the roar of screaming fans hit its crescendo, Alyson sat in complete silence, too stunned to move a muscle. Holy hell, it was him. Jamison Weston, the boy from her past, the boy—literally—from her dreams, had returned. Beside her, Olivia was joining in the frenzy, shouting out cat calls and making idle threats to Jami’s opponent as the announcer introduced him. Through it all, Alyson stared straight ahead, at the boy turned man, the person she owed her life to, and the last person she should want to see.
***
Blood spattered the canvas and Alyson flinched, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t bring herself to look away. It was the middle of the third round, and as far as she could tell, Jami was winning.
“Oh, my God, oh, my God,” Olivia chanted, sitting on the edge of her seat with her hands fluttering around her mouth.
The first round hadn’t been anything special—just a couple of guys hopping around on the canvas, occasionally lunging at one another, and occasionally making contact. By the second round, Jami sustained a split eyebrow, and he delivered a blackened eye to the guy they called simply Danny Doom. All in all, it was turning out to be a pretty average fight when measured against what she had witnessed earlier in the evening.
She glanced over at Olivia, shaking her head at the tense look on her face, the redness rising in her cheeks as she held her breath in anticipation. Alyson didn’t understand why her friend was so worked up. It wasn’t as if she knew either of the guys, but then her friend seemed to really like the sport.
In the ring, Jami stalked his opponent. In unison, they skirted each other left then right, their fists up around their faces. This was the boring part, and yet it was the most tension-filled—the moment when nothing and everything was happening, when the whole fight could shift in a matter of seconds.
And then it did.
Without warning, Jami struck out with his left fist, grazing Doom’s temple. Just as fast, his right foot came off the canvas, and with lightning speed, extended out, as he impacted first in Doom’s thick thigh and next at his exposed ribcage. Doom grunted, his face twisting in pain, and when he staggered back a step, Jami pounced.
With fluid grace, Jami launched himself against the other fighter, knocking him on his back. Covering his body with his own, Jami’s forearm jammed against the man’s throat at the same time his legs formed a complicated pretzel around his legs.
Panic streaked across his opponent’s face as he struggled to free himself. Twisting onto his stomach, Alyson felt her body tense, knowing instinctively that the man had made the wrong move. Instantly, Jami repositioned his arm around Doom’s neck, clamping down tight on his throat. Lower, his legs formed a vice around his middle, ensuring that he wasn’t going anywhere. Alyson’s teeth bit into her bottom lip as she watched, rapt, while Doom’s face turned shades of red. Why hadn’t anyone stopped the fight yet?
“Tap out!” she heard someone behind her yell.
“Tear his head off,” Olivia shouted, startling her with her ruthlessness. The last thing Alyson wanted to see was a man’s head torn from his shoulders, not that she thought they’d allow something like that to happen. Would they?
On the ground, Jami appeared to be trying to do just that. Arching his back, he cranked down harder, and Alyson’s hands covered her mouth in horror as she watched the man’s face turn purple, and then something happened, and it was all over.
The ref rushed up, waving his hands. A bell sounded, and then Jami was pushing his opponent—who wasn’t moving—off him, and rolling to his feet. Triumph was written all over his face, in his wide smile and dark, glittering eyes.
After a moment to confer with the judges, the announcer reentered the ring. By then, the medics—she assumed that’s what they were called—had managed to patch Danny Doom up enough to get him standing on his own two feet. He stood on one side of the ref, while Jami stood on the other.
“L
adies and gentlemen, at three minutes, fifty-one seconds of the third round, Referee Wilson stops this bout. Your winner by technical knockout and the new ISCF amateur light heavyweight champion out of the blue corner, Jamison The Juuuuuudge Westoooonnnn!” Grabbing Jami’s wrist, the announcer jerked his arm into the air, and the crowd went wild.
Despite her earlier worries about mob mentality, Alyson was too preoccupied with the brilliant, darkly sexy smile Jami wore to give it much thought. Watching him up there, blood oozing from a split in his left eyebrow, a bruise already forming around one eye, she had never felt more proud of anyone than she did at that moment. Jami might have had a rough start to life, but he had made it his own, and it was clear that he was excelling at it.
Alyson and Olivia stayed long enough for the fighters to clear the ring and be led from the arena before gathering themselves for the long ride home. Alyson had just stepped clear of their row when she felt a hand on her arm.
“Excuse me, Miss?” She turned a questioning look at the man beside her, her heartbeat quickening as she took note of the facial piercings and devious look in his eyes, when he stepped in close and lowered his mouth to her ear. “Mister Weston is having a small gathering at his hotel room in an hour, and he’d like it if you stopped by and shared a victory drink with him.” Translation: Mr. Weston was scouting for potential bed partners.
Alyson gritted her teeth, prepared to tell him to go to hell because she was a good girl and she didn’t roll like that, when Olivia inserted herself between them. Fluttering her lashes, she laid her hand on his arm and flashed him her sexiest smile. “We’d love to help Mr. Weston celebrate.”
A lascivious smile stretched across the man’s face as his gaze slid down her body, pausing on each subtle curve of her thin frame. He produced a business card. “Ten o’clock. Everything you need to know is written on the back,” he said, tapping his finger against the card. “Show this to the front desk and they’ll make sure you make it up. What was your name again?”
“I’m Liv, and this,” she said, touching Alyson’s shoulder, “is my very best friend, Ally.”
His gaze skimmed over her as his smile widened. “Nice to meet you, ladies. I’m Spencer.” He began walking backward. “If you run into any problems, my number is also on the back of the card.”
As soon as he was out of sight, Alyson slapped her friend as hard as she could across the ass. “What the hell were you thinking?” she hissed.
“Me?” Olivia’s hand shot out, and she slapped her in the arm. Fuck! That stung! Rubbing away the burn, Alyson glared at her. “Are you crazy? That guy just invited us to the party of the century!”
“No, he invited us to get drunk and perform sexual favors for ‘The Judge’,” she said, using air quotes. “I’d have to be a complete whack job to want to put myself in that situation
“Oh, come on, Ally!” Olivia whined, throwing her hands into the air. “You can’t seriously tell me that you don’t want to do this. Aren’t you even the least bit curious?” Alyson had to admit that she was, but she was also very aware that curiosity was what killed the cat. She hadn’t seen Jami in years, but there was a reason—even if she couldn’t recall what that reason was just then.
Olivia pointed a finger at her. “See! You are curious, and I saw how you looked at that guy. You were totally feeling it, weren’t you?”
“Who? That Spencer guy?” Her face scrunched in disgust. “Hell no!”
“Not him,” Olivia said, waving her words away. “The Ju-dge,” she singsonged as her neatly trimmed blonde eyebrows waggled suggestively.
Heat flamed her cheeks red, and Alyson groaned, unable to deny the charge. She had definitely been “feeling it” all right. “Okay, yeah,” she relented. “Maybe I’m a little bit curious, but that doesn’t mean I want to become the next notch in his bedpost.”
“Who said you had to?” Looping her arm through hers, Olivia led them out of the arena. “We can go, have a few drinks, meet him and his crew, get to know them a little bit, and then we can go home. Easy peasy!”
She always made things sound so easy, which was why Alyson felt a niggling of unease in her belly, but after a moment’s thought, her curiosity won out. “Fine, let’s go,” she sighed. “But if this turns ugly, I’m blaming you!”
THREE
Jami reclined on a sofa, his arms stretched across its back. Beside him sat a fresh-faced brunette who claimed to be twenty-one, but didn’t look a day over seventeen. Whatever. It wasn’t his problem. It wasn’t as if he were going to sleep with her, despite her obvious attempts to get him into bed. Now the pretty little vixen propped on his left thigh whose chest overflowed her dress was another story.
“I hear these suites come with a king-sized bed,” she purred in his ear.
A smile ghosted over his lips. “Two, actually.”
“Must be a bigger suite than I thought. Why don’t you give me a tour?”
He chuckled and ran his palm over the curve of her ass. “Later. Party just started.”
“They can live without you for a little bit,” she crooned, her nails raking lightly down his chest. “I need you now.”
Beside them, Miss Seventeen folded her arms over her chest and huffed in disdain. Jami ignored her, choosing instead to lean in and wrap his lips around his vixen’s carotid. Her breath sucked in sharply and she curled her body up tighter against him. He had to give it to Spencer. He really knew how to pick them. Every woman he brought in to an after fight party was mouthwateringly tempting. Just his type. It made it hard to choose, but he wasn’t complaining. He’d always enjoyed buffets.
Jami was moments away from taking tonight’s snack up on her offer and whisking her away to his room, party be damned, when a throat cleared. He lifted his head to glare at the intruder. “What do you need, Spence? I’m busy.”
Spencer passed a narrow-eyed look between him and the girl on his lap. “So I noticed,” he said, his voice tight. “I see you didn’t waste any time, Kim.”
Jami felt his brows draw together. He turned a questioning look at Kim, who appeared a little drunk and a bit surprised by Spencer’s presence, but otherwise unfazed by the comment. “Spencer,” she returned curtly by way of greeting.
“So was this your goal? Did you screw me to get to him?”
Even if he didn’t have a front row seat to the show, it would have been impossible for Jami to miss the underlying note of distress in his friend’s voice.
Kim gave a negligent shrug of her shoulder and leaned back in to press her lips to the side of Jami’s neck, murmuring, “You know how it is.”
With no further thought, Jami grasped Kim’s hips and shoved. A squeal of shock and surprise erupted from her as she crashed to the floor. Standing, Jami pegged her with a disapproving look. “One thing you should know about me, sweetheart. My friends are my family, and no one fucks with my family. You have one minute to get the hell out of here, or I’ll throw you out myself.”
He stalked away, trusting her to find her way out in the time allotted. One of the many benefits of being who he was: Not many people dared to cross him. He dodged a handful of grasping women on his way to get a drink, uninterested in being latched on to after depositing one of their kind moments before. To say his mood had soured would be an understatement.
Grabbing one of the bottles of cheap liquor lined up across the top of the built-in bar, Jami selected a glass and poured two fingers.
“Bitches, man,” Spence said, sidling in beside him. Jami poured him a glass and another for himself. “You’d think it would be simple enough for them to understand that you don’t screw around with a guy’s friends.”
Grimacing at more than the burn of alcohol in his throat, Jami stared at the glass gripped in his fist. “If I had known you had her first—”
“Forget it,” Spence interrupted him. “I know you’re not like that. It’s one of the things I like most about you. You’re loyal. Don’t come by that too often.”
A small smile t
wisted Jami’s lips. “Maybe you should start tattooing your name on them so I know which ones to avoid. I can’t cast my line into the pond anymore without coming out with your sloppy seconds.”
Spence socked him in the arm. “Who the hell are you callin’ sloppy? How about all the girls I have to listen to moan about how hot you are and how they’ve always wanted to meet ‘The Judge’? Dude, I can’t touch a chick who is in it for me, and if that shit don’t stop, like real freakin’ soon, I’m gonna get a complex.” A chestnut eyebrow arched up, and he tipped back a fresh shot of whiskey.
Jami laughed and reached for one of a dozen beers grouped among the liquor. Harvest Spice or some crap. With a mental shrug, he twisted off the cap and tossed it aside. “Never knew you were such a romantic.”
“Just call me Romeo.” Jami was sucking down his drink, staring off into space, when his friend nudged him in the side. “Check it out. Those girls I told you about just showed up.”
Jami’s gaze slid to the door, weeding through the thicket of bodies to the two women who Spence had described as not only young and hot, but a curious combination of sweet, innocent, and potentially naughty. His eyes fell immediately to the one with a mane of long, mahogany hair that dusted the small of her back, slim but muscular legs, and a set of curves that should come with a warning label. “Who’s that one?” he asked, tipping his chin up.
Spence followed the direction of his gaze. “Umm, I think she said her name was Abby. No, Amy. Wait!” He snapped his fingers, looking mighty pleased with himself. “Ally and her friend is Liv.”
Jami’s gaze slid to the shorter one. She was pretty and everything about her screamed supermodel sheik—tall, thin, and glamorous—a polar opposite of her friend. The dark and gorgeous girl beside her must have had a gravitational pull of a black hole, because he couldn’t keep his eyes off her.