Before we could think any more about the nondescript man and what messages he might be bringing Fenton, there was a wave of cheers. The party erupted outside the master suite as Fenton himself appeared. He had a muscular arm around two blonde women that on first look appeared to be twins. A second glance, though, showed me one had black roots under her blonde hair, while the other had bleached out her mousy brown hair. They were dressed in identical, silver miniskirts with pink halter-tops. Fenton hadn’t bothered to put on a shirt and showed off an angry bruise under his ribs proudly.
The girls alternately held up tall drinks with straws and I could tell from the gold liquid that Fenton was drinking tequila.
"Everyone grab a drink – it’s time to get knocked out!" he roared.
The crowd cheered again and the DJ turned up the club music. Fenton strode through the suite, his hands roving all over his companions as he shouted obscenities over Peretti's fighting style.
"A lucky punch," Fenton said. "I let my mind drift for one moment, otherwise Peretti would never have landed that hit."
"People are saying you were out all night at a strip club before the big fight? Is that the reason you were distracted?" an interviewer threw a microphone into Fenton's face.
"I might have broken curfew, pissed off my coach, and had a little too much fun, but this is Vegas, baby. What else is a man supposed to do?" Fenton declared.
The crowd cheered again. More barely clad women surrounded him and they all posed for the flashing cameras.
"Well, what do you say to Mario Peretti? He now thinks he'll be up against Maxwell Lewis in the title fight instead of you. Do you think that's possible?" the interviewer asked.
Fenton took a long drink of tequila and nipped a lime wedge right out of a woman's mouth. "Let Peretti think whatever he wants. One lucky punch is not going to get him the title."
"So, you're not worried?"
"Worried? I've got nothing to worry about except hotel security shutting down this party before we have enough fun!" Fenton yelled.
The crowd roared again and surged around him. The entire suite was one giant dance floor. I slipped away from Kev's insistent arms and fought my way toward Fenton. He was surrounded by a briar patch of stiletto heels and sharp elbows, but I managed to wiggle my way through.
Somehow, he saw me coming, and his blue eyes locked on mine. A thrill of fear and attraction spear through me as he pushed his arms wide, knocking back a swath of sparkling women, and pulled me toward him. He yanked me hard against his bare chest and his blue eyes blazed.
"Surprised to see you," he said. "Again."
"I'm sorry," I said. "I don't mean to keep popping up at the wrong time in the wrong places."
"You don't get it," Fenton said. "I don't need your endorsement deal, I don't need your advice, and I certainly don't need your help getting myself in trouble."
"How about getting out of trouble?" I asked. I pushed off his hard chest and arched back even as we kept swaying and dancing together. "You can't tell me this is what you really want."
"It’s not about what I want," Fenton said. "It's about what is best.”
Chapter Twelve
Fenton
I did not tell her she was better off without me. It should have been obvious. The party was getting out of control, but Kya did not leave. She bounced around the dance floor, the wild fans and MMA fighter wannabes not letting her supple hips and waist go by without pulling her into the rhythm the speakers pounded out. I wanted to shove them all aside and let Kya go untouched, but I could not reach her.
Shots of tequila appeared in front of me along with women in tiny scraps of dresses with sour lime wedges between sweet glossed lips lined up wherever I walked. The more I drank, the easier it was to forget the feel of the mats against my face. Peretti's gloved fist against my face had made me see red. The split second played again and again, slowed only by the tequila.
Peretti's fist or Kya's face – no wonder all I wanted in front of me was tits and tequila. I called for more and the music got louder and the crowd got wilder. I wondered if they all had the same volume button.
Let's crank it up, I thought.
When I saw Kya leave, I let go. It was not long until the tequila spun the party into a dark whirlpool. I let it swallow me. At least, I was going down alone.
#
The flat screen television had three different stiletto heels sticking out of it. A spider web of shattered screen surrounded a leopard print, black patent leather, and gold high heel shoe. I wondered idly where the others were, but my head hurt too much to look. I kept my aching head pressed into the pillow as I wriggled to get a horizontal look at the rest of the room. One of the white sofas from the sunken living room stood at the foot of the bed. At first, I thought it was a white feathered headdress, one of those 50-pound Vegas showgirl monstrosities. Then, I realized the sofa had been torn open, white down feathers had exploded everywhere.
A trail of beer cans, tequila bottles, and shriveled lime wedges trailed out the door of the master suite and into a bigger disaster. Had the bouncers let in a pack of circus lions? I remembered a group of performers, lithe women in tight costumes. The memory flashed too bright, flaming hoops in front of the bar. It could not have been real, but it might have explained the standing row of circus rings, bull whip, and singed ceiling.
"Mr. Morris? Everyone has been escorted out. It's time to go." A burly security guard stood over my bed.