Pushing the Limits (6 page)

She repressed a sigh. She was going to blow this story if she wasn't careful. And worse, she knew that it had somehow become more than that. She liked him.

Fuck.

“Well, I'm not at all qualified,” Dane was saying. “But your dad has decided to overlook that and give me a shot.”

“He saved the company fifty thousand dollars today,” her father said.

Her eyes widened. “How?”

“He used those hulklike muscles of his to catch a propeller falling off a balancer,” her younger brother, Doug, said.

Her eyes immediately flew to said hulklike muscles and her stomach did an involuntary lurch at the sight of his biceps straining against the fabric of the Edwards' Propellers logo'd T-shirt. “One size fits all” apparently didn't apply to bodies built like Dane's.

She reached for a diet soda. “That's great. Congratulations,” she told him, desperate to avoid looking at him. Living in Seattle, she'd successfully been able to avoid bringing any of the men she'd dated into the family home to meet her parents and brothers. This wasn't even the case—they weren't dating—yet it felt so much like a meet-the-parents dinner that her appetite vanished.

“I have you to thank,” he said quietly and she abandoned trying to open the can of pop.

“Where did you two meet?” her mother asked.

She shot Dane a silencing look as she said, “Oh, just around.” She shrugged. A nervous appetite returning, she violently scooped three cabbage rolls onto her plate, then grabbed another one before setting the dish on the table. This was a disaster. He was sure to discover the truth about her now.

“Around where? Work?” her mother pressed.

She shook her head no as she chewed furiously, unable to enjoy her favorite meal as her stomach turned.

Dane was still staring at her with a questioning look.

She swallowed and sighed. She had to say something or the questions would continue. “We met at a club . . .” she started slowly, hoping he would go with it. She hadn't told anyone about her purse getting stolen because that would open up the discussion of why she'd been out on the street after midnight alone anyway. Her brothers would have plenty to say about that. They still seemed to forget she was an adult. One who could very well kick all of their asses.

“Yeah. I saw her walking home from work . . .” Dane started, but she shook her head, her eyes widening.

“Work at a club?” Her mother looked confused.

“Yeah, after the fight she was working.”

Her brother Marshall, sitting directly across from her shot her look. “Working a fight? A story angle?”

Unable to control herself, she popped another cabbage roll into her mouth as she shook her head, wishing the floor would give way or a funnel cloud would choose that moment to sweep the house into the air.

Dane looked even more confused. “A story angle? Why would a ring girl have a story angle?” he said slowly, eyeing her suspiciously.

Oh, shit. She was screwed.

A silence fell over the table as all eyes stared at her.

Then her whole family started laughing.

“Right. A ring girl . . . and I just fought Muhammad Ali,” Doug said, diving back into his dinner.

Her mother grinned. “You hired a funny one, Ray,” she told her father.

He nodded.

Colby forced her own little laugh as she avoided Dane's eyes.

“Seriously though, Colby, how is work going?” Doug asked.

Could they stop talking about it already? “Work's fine. Hey, did you hear about the new tennis courts they are building near the center?”

“Don't change the subject. I'm dying to hear about that new position you mentioned,” her mother said.

She could feel Dane's eyes burning a hole through her forehead. “I haven't heard anything yet,” she mumbled. Great, now he knew she was a reporter. It wouldn't take him long to figure out the rest. She expected him to stand up and leave, but when she dared a look at him, he shot her a knowing look from across the table.

Huh?

She had no idea what was happening or why he didn't look ready to tear her apart right now. Didn't the revelation bother him? She barely tasted her dinner or heard the conversation going on around her as they finished eating.

“Let me help,” he said as she started clearing the dishes from the table half an hour later.

“No, that's okay,” she said quickly.

“It's the least I can do.”

He'd saved the company a lot of money and the future business of a new client that day. She figured he was off the hook for dishes, but she nodded when he insisted further, gathering the plates on the other side of the table.

In the kitchen, he set them down on the counter. “So about . . .” he started.

“Dane, let me explain,” she said, quickly.

He shook his head. “You don't have to. I get it.”

“You do?” No way was it possible that he was
that
understanding. He couldn't be that much of a saint. She waited to hear exactly what he thought he understood.

“Your family obviously has high expectations for you and you didn't want to tell them the truth,” he said with a shrug.

Her mouth fell open. Oh, shit, he didn't understand at all. He thought she'd lied to her family about being a reporter when really she was a ring girl? He had it completely wrong. She opened her mouth to try to explain, but then closed it quickly. Hating herself for not having the guts to come clean, she nodded slowly.

He came toward her and touched her arm. “Don't worry. I won't say anything, but I really think you should be honest with them. They are wonderful people. You are really lucky to have such a supportive family.”

She swallowed hard, his words getting lost somewhere in her brain as her body tried to process the tingling sensation running through her at his touch, at the sight of him in the too-tight black T-shirt that barely held together at the biceps and chest. Her family's company logo stretched across his chest, distorted. It had never looked so good.

“Anyway,” he said, letting his hand drop, and checking his watch. “I should go. Thank you again for putting in a good word for me with your dad.” He paused. “No one's ever really helped me out like that before.”

The awkward tension filling the kitchen nearly suffocated her. She forced a smile. “Yeah, no problem,” she croaked.

“Okay, well, I'll see you around?” he asked.

Unfortunately, he probably wouldn't be able to shake her. She nodded. “Yeah, see you around.”

As he left the kitchen, she released a deep sigh, falling back against the counter. What a mess she'd created. Myriad emotions ran through her, and she couldn't decide which was the most unsettling—the guilt she felt for lying to him and her family or the desire for him she'd fought moments before. Oh, shit. She was screwed. No matter what the outcome of all of this, somehow things would end badly.

Her mother entered the kitchen, a wide smile on her face. “Oh, my God, he's gorgeous,” she whispered.

“If you say so,” she muttered, busying herself with the dishwasher.

Her mother shot her an I-know-you-have-eyes look.

She sighed. “Yes, okay, he's gorgeous.” And also kind, sweet, and totally oblivious to the fact she was going to use him to get the story of her career.

“I'll be back in a few minutes,” Colby whispered to Ella as she removed the Xtreme Fight blanket from her lap and stood.

“Where are you going?” the other woman hissed, glancing at the time clock. There were only two minutes left in this first round of the first fight of the night.

“Bathroom. You're up next anyway. I'll be back before the third round.”

“You better be. I'm not covering your round. I just started my period and this bloating is not something I want to parade around up there more than once per fight,” she said grumpily.

Wow. She really suffered from PMS. She'd been irritable all evening. “I'll be back,” Colby said before hurrying through the crowd, ignoring the catcalls and dodging gropey hands as she made her way to the back of the stadium. A quick glance at the clock on the wall revealed she had six and a half minutes before she had to be up there holding her round card. She wasn't sure what she could find that quickly, but anywhere was a start.

Removing her heels, she ran barefoot up the back staircase toward the offices. As expected, Cameron Bennett's office door was locked, so she went into the fighter reception office, where new fighters filled out their paperwork and waited to see Cameron about signing on to fight with the organization.

There wasn't much inside the small space, except for a desk and chair to fill out the contract paperwork, a small sofa, a bar fridge full of water bottles, and a coffeemaker, with day-old coffee still sitting in it. Behind the desk were the application forms and sample contracts.

Couldn't hurt to have one of those. She'd never seen the Xtreme Fight contracts. She assumed they were standard across all fighting organizations. Still, she grabbed one, folded it, and tucked it inside her bra top. Looking around, she sighed. There was nothing else in the room. She paused. Except the garbage can . . .

Rushing to the door, she quickly scanned the hall. No one around. She could hear the bell signaling the end of the first round. She had about four minutes. Bending, she reached under the desk for the can, and started sorting through the paper. Her hand stuck to one and she suppressed a groan. Gum. Gross.

How many other reporters were ever reduced to sorting through garbage for a story?

She unfolded one balled-up piece of paper after another. Mostly contracts where the guy had made a spelling mistake and had tossed it out to start over on a new one. She squinted to read most of them. Not the greatest of handwriting among
the group. Didn't matter, there was nothing important on them anyway.

She sighed as she picked up the trash from the floor and started tossing everything back into the can. Of course she'd choose the most tight-lipped organization to try to do a story on. She couldn't help but wonder if she was going down a dead-end road. Things happened beyond the cage that were definitely newsworthy, but unfortunately, she doubted she was going to be privy to any of it.

As she gathered the last of the papers, a tiny slip of pink paper fell out of the pile and she picked it up.

A doctor's note?

She read quickly and her eyes widened.

A note from a doctor of one of the fighters on that evening's card.

Risk of repeated tear in left tendon upon repeated overuse.

Request for fight clearance—denied.

Holy shit. This guy wasn't supposed to be fighting that evening. Adrenaline coursed through her at the first real evidence supporting her suspicions. Had the fighter not told anyone? Had he thrown out the doctor's note and chosen to fight anyway? Or did Bennett know the guy was injured and allowed him to fight anyway?

Her heart raced as she heard footsteps on the stairs. Quickly throwing everything back into the garbage can, she stood as Ashton Bennett, Cameron's son and the organization's prize champion fighter, appeared in the hall.

He frowned when he saw her. “Shouldn't you be downstairs?”

She nodded, swallowing hard as she discreetly tucked the pink doctor's note into the bottom of her tight shorts. “Yeah, I just needed to take a minute . . . I was feeling a little nauseous.”

Ashton eyed her stomach. “You're not pregnant, are you?”

She shook her head wildly. “No!”

“Good.” He checked his watch. “The second round is almost over, you should get back down there.”

She nodded, going out into the hall, praying he wouldn't notice the extra paper padding her chest and butt. “Of course,” she said, moving past him.

He reached for her arm.

She turned, holding her breath.

His eyes fell to her cleavage.

Oh, shit, she was busted.

“Have you considered breast implants?”

Her mouth dropped.

“The organization can cover the cost, and you can pay it back over time,” he said.

She released a breath. “I'll definitely think about it,” she said, pulling her arm away as the bell signaling the end of the second round sounded downstairs.

God, she had to get a story and get the hell out here, before body modification was added to the ever-growing list of desperate things she'd do for a promotion.

* * *

Opening her Facebook account the next day, Colby created her “Colby E” ring-girl profile. Selecting an image of the Xtreme Fight logo as her profile pic, she quickly filled in inaccurate details and established the account, connecting it to an old personal e-mail account she no longer used. Then she quickly sent friend requests to all of the fighters on the list she'd gotten from the office.

Opening a new browser, she did the same for Twitter. Then she searched for the fighters. Unfortunately, few of them used the social media site and most of the tweets from the ones who did consisted of drunken snapshots of them after the fights.

She sat back and waited, tapping her nails against her table. Facebook would be her best source of information.

Within minutes, six of the friend requests were accepted, and she quickly scanned each of the fighters' information and recent posts.

Billy Holloway, a featherweight fighter she'd met the night before, had posted a shot of his leg in a cast on January 4 . . . less than three weeks later there was a photo of him at his fight weigh-in and then several shots of the fight. Obviously he hadn't gotten clearance for that.

She sighed as she continued to scroll through his posts. February 2 photos of X-rays showing multiple fractures in the same leg. His post attached to the pic read, “Fighting career won't be happening for a while, contract with Xtreme Fight
canceled.”

Next she clicked on Ashton Bennett's profile. What kind of posts did Cameron's son have? All pics of him and his girlfriend drinking and partying. She wondered how his father would react to seeing his star fighter not taking his training for next week's championship match seriously.

She moved on to Phillip Noseworthy, a heavyweight fighter who'd been sitting behind them watching the fights the night before, his leg in a cast. His profile was filled with more X-ray images of fractures and pictures of deep gashes on his forehead from scar tissue opening up during fights.

She shook her head. The Maximum Fight League would never allow their fighters to post their injuries all over the Internet where other fighters could see . . . but then again, unlike Xtreme Fight, the MFL would never allow their fighters to fight injured.

An hour later, she found the profile for Eva Consuelos's activist page, the organization she'd started, Fighting Kills. Colby scrolled through the thousands of postings, reading the various complaints and examples of mistreatment of fighters listed there. Unfortunately, the posts were from girlfriends, friends, mothers of the athletes . . . not the fighters themselves.

The Nevada State Athletic Commission wouldn't take these concerns as legit. She continued to scroll, searching for any post from an organization's fighter—even a former, disgruntled one would be better than nothing, someone she might be able to contact and get more information from.

Nothing.

As she reached the bottom of the posts, she saw the dedication and condolence posts from other fighters and their spouses after Consuelos's funeral.

He was a great fighter inside and out of the cage. He was a good man and will forever be missed.

A strong heart, strong athlete, and strong competitor.

He stepped into the cage one too many times. He is a reminder of the gamble, each and every fight.

Her heart saddened as she continued to read the tributes, but she realized one thing—no one mentioned Dane or blamed him. They all just talked about the dangers of the sport and the fact Consuelos had died doing what he loved. She wondered if Dane knew no one held him personally responsible for that night's tragedy.

She hadn't seen him since the dinner at her parents' house earlier that week, but her mother had said according to her father, he was doing great, learning quickly, and eager to work. She was happy he was doing well and the last thing she
wanted was to bring his past back into the new future he was trying to build for himself, but she didn't see any other way to get the story she needed. These fighters were fighting injured and obviously the organization wasn't playing by the Nevada State Commission's rules governing the sport.

And she suspected Dane knew about that all too well. There was more to the fight with Consuelos, and the only person who could help her with that was him.

* * *

The ringing of his cell phone after midnight made his heart beat a little faster. A late-night call was never good.

Expecting to see either the hospital or police station's number on his phone, he glanced at the caller ID and sighed. Blocked call.

He silenced it and then checked the phone's alarm that was set to wake him the following morning.

Six a.m. Still set. Just the way it had been the last ten times he'd checked.

Not that he'd need the wake-up. He rarely slept. He hated to sleep. Awake, he had some control over the thoughts that plagued him. Asleep he was at the mercy of whatever images decided to drive him mad.

Just in case, he turned the volume louder before lying back against the pillows in the humid apartment. The six-hundred-square-foot space above the wedding chapel/pawnshop on Las Vegas Boulevard, which he'd moved into ten months before, didn't have air-conditioning. His electricity had been cut the week before, so the standing portable fan at the end of his bed could provide no comfort against the brutal August heat. It was like living in an oven. Most nights, he would drive around town with the truck windows rolled down to get a breeze. Even a warm one was better than nothing. But lately gas usage was also a concern, so instead, cold showers several times a night had become his way of coping with the sweat beading on his body like condensation on a glass sitting in the hot sun.

The phone chimed with a text message.

Damn.

He reached for it and saw Tyson Reed's name on the screen. His former coach at Punisher Athletics was the last person he wanted to talk to. An MFL lightweight champ, Tyson represented everything Dane had wanted to be and now could never become. But more than that, his coach had been the last one to walk away from him, supporting him until the very end—when Dane refused his calls. Guilt about disappointing the one man who'd always been a friend, a mentor, and the only real nonjudgmental support he'd had made his chest hurt.

He hadn't heard from him in over a month, and he'd assumed his coach had finally gotten the message he was done with fighting and anything that reminded him of that life, which unfortunately included his only friends.

He was tempted to delete the message without reading it, but the small piece of him that missed the fighting world wouldn't allow him to. Opening it, he read,
Is this you on this video?

Nervous beads of sweat now formed on his brow. Shit, whatever it was, he hoped not. His eyes narrowed as he clicked on the link below the message.

Killing machine, formerly known as “Gentle Giant” breaks up bar fight
.

He sat straighter as a blurry image appeared on the spider web of broken glass of his iPhone screen.

Despite the shitty viewing ability, he recognized The Vault nightclub.

The loud rock music and the noise of the crowd made him turn down the volume on the phone.

He saw Lee's cousin and his entourage and the shoving match that ensued. Then Chris appeared.

Shit. It was a video of the fight the other night. How the hell had Tyson seen this?

He glanced at the YouTube stats. 63K views since the other night. He'd gone viral?

Fuck.

He tossed the thin, cotton bedsheet aside and stood, pacing the bedroom, no longer watching the fight he knew too well. One that had cost him his job.

He glanced at it quickly and squinted. People would have to be looking pretty darn hard to figure out that this was him, even if there were other videos posted with better footage.

Apparently they were.

Still. After almost a year? People still gave a shit about his whereabouts and the trouble that seemed to have a GPS on him.

His eyes fell lower, to the comments below the video. 1565.

He hesitated before scrolling, expecting to see links to the Consuelos fight. Angry hate messages. Judging, far-too-accurate assessments of him . . .

His mouth felt like sandpaper as he read . . .

This guy was a great fighter. Shame his career ended the way it did.

Dane Hardy still has it. Two guys in thirty seconds. The guy's the shit.

We want Dane back.

The last comment from
Hardy Fan 203
was a kick to the gut.

He used to be a crowd favorite, despite an inconsistent record. It wasn't that he'd wanted to take fighting less seriously than his camp mates, but his fight preparation had always been based on the state of his mother's mental health. If she was at an all-time low with her depression and needed him, he'd have to miss out on training, pissing Tyson off, giving the matchmaker at the MFL reason to doubt his commitment and often resulting in lost fights. And he'd never been able to be completely honest with his coach about his home situation and the reason he'd been MIA. Tyson's father was a legend in the sport, and while that family had its own issues, Dane hadn't wanted to bring his family's issues into the gym . . . into the cage.