The Wilde Stranger

Chapter 1

one

. . .

Sadie

"You still there, Sadie? Or did they toss you in the ring?" My best friend, Gigi, was taking a little too much pleasure in my misery. "Hey, you there?"

I rubbed the tender spot with my free hand.

"I'm here, unfortunately. Look, I've got to get a few shots for the magazine, or Bradford is going to fire me.

I'm going to squirrel my way up to the netting and see if I can get a close-up of a grimace or agony-of-defeat kind of thing.

These two have been going at it so long, the whole room reeks of the sweat of anticipation.

Talk to ya later." I pushed the phone into my pocket.

I wound my way through a gauntlet of elbows, angry fist pumps and sloshing cups of beer and managed to reach the netting.

I was small, and, other than my very stupid decision to wear a bright pink tank top to the assignment, mostly unnoticeable in the chaotic crowd of overzealous spectators.

I was sure more than half had big lumps of cash bet on the fight.

It was the two top-ranking heavyweight fighters, big rivals.

I was not a follower of the sport, but Bradford sent me as a last resort.

It was always a good feeling when your boss told you everyone else was busy.

It was like being the last player picked for the dodgeball team.

The smell of sweat and blood made me nauseous as I moved closer to the netting.

The fighters were locked in what I would creatively describe as a rage-filled embrace.

So much of the sport was static holds it was hard to even get a decent action shot.

I'd noticed on the poster out front of the fight venue that the fighter with short dark hair and a massive tiger tattoo on his back was named J.J.

Gregor, and the bald one with enough tattoos to make it look as if he was wearing a sweater was named Buck Finch.

At the moment, it seemed Gregor had the upper hand but then I didn't know shit about the sport.

A cage fight didn't warrant using my precious Tommy camera, so I grabbed the digital, pointed it toward the center of the ring and waited for something, anything, to happen.

Buck's leg wobbled, and he lost his footing.

Gregor took advantage and slammed him to the mat.

I managed to catch the look of despair on Buck's face just before I was sprayed with warm moisture.

I reached up and swiped my hand across my forehead and gagged when I saw the viscous blood on my fingers.

A big hand smacked down hard on my shoulder. I gasped and dropped the camera. The leather strap tugged on the back of my neck. "What the fuck!" I hissed and turned back to face a man with deep set eyes and bushy eyebrows that seemed to have a life of their own as they crouched into a glower.

"You can't be up here," he growled. "Where's your press pass?"

I moved my shoulder out from his painful grasp. "Uh, I don't have one on me. I'm with Sports World. Tim Bradford, the editor, sent me. I should be on your list. Sadie Rivers."

"Don't know what list you're talking about, Miss, and I don't know anything about a Sports World photographer having a pass to be here. Out you go."

"Wait, what? I'm out? But I need to finish my assignment."

My pleas bounced off his barrel chest. "This way or I'll carry you out."

"You don't have to carry me. I have legs.

" We made our way back through the rambunctious crowd.

It seemed that last slam to the mat was the end for Buck, and the judges had named the winner.

One good shot. That was all I had. I was going to get fired for sure.

Maybe that was for the best. Bradford obviously lied about the list, and now I was being ejected from the fight with little to show for it except a bruise on my side.

"Hey, Oscar, we need you over here," someone yelled. It seemed the big bully escorting me out was named Oscar. He pointed his thick finger ahead. "Exit is right there, and don't let me catch your skinny butt in here again."

"It's not all that skinny," I protested.

Oscar hurried off in the direction he was called.

I took a few steps toward the exit and spotted the door that said "staff only.

" I'd read many books on photography, and according to the pros, you never landed the "killer shot" unless you took some risks.

Sneaking into the staff corridor wasn't exactly standing in the middle of Vietnam ducking gunfire, but maybe luck would finally catch up to me tonight.

It certainly hadn't followed me into the venue.

And that reminded me, I had a call to make.

I glanced around. The fight had just ended, and there was too much ruckus for anyone to notice a tiny pink pill bug rolling through the staff doors.

I stepped into a long, dimly lit corridor that smelled only slightly fresher than the dank air on the other side of the doors.

Several of the overhead lights were flickering, giving my entire escapade a touch of horror-movie ambience.

I hurried down a hallway and turned left down a second corridor.

I pushed through a slightly open door and found myself in a locker room.

There were two padded tables like the kind you were forced to sit on in a doctor's office.

Metal lockers spanned two walls, and the mildew smell that permeated the whole room assured me a line of tile showers was around the corner.

One of the heads was even dripping a steady beat on the tile floor.

Considering how worshipped and exalted the two fighters were, it was a pretty shabby locker room.

The roaring crowd on the other side of the wall caused the lockers to vibrate. It let me know all the action was still out in the fight auditorium. I wasn't going to get many photos tonight, that was for damn sure. But it was my boss's fault.

I dialed Bradford, and surprisingly, he picked up. I'd been ready to leave a long, ranting diatribe about the predicament he put me in but upon hearing his voice, most of it went out of my head. And it was going to be a fabulous rant, too.

"Hey, Sadie, I'm watching the fight at a friend's." The loud voices, music and distinct crunching of chips assured me that was the case. "I hope you got some good shots."

"Do you mean the shots of two massive, muscle-bound, tattooed men in constant bear hugs? Yeah, there are some real action shots coming your way. And by the way, there was no list. I've been escorted out of the venue."

I sensed he'd snuck into a quieter room because there was less background noise. "They kicked you out?"

"Turns out you need a pass to take photos of the fight, a pass I don't have."

"Uh, yeah, about that," Bradford started sheepishly. "I meant to—"

"Shush, someone's coming," I whispered into the phone.

"Huh? Thought you were kicked out."

"Yep, I was … technically. Bye." I frantically searched around and found a rolling cart of towels parked near the door.

I ducked behind it. Sometimes being small had its advantages.

The footsteps in the hallway grew louder.

I held my breath and closed my eyes as if that would make me disappear.

My heart sped up when the door handle clicked.

I could peer between the second shelf of towels and the top of the cart to see the room, but I was confident they couldn't see me.

It was Buck. His head hung low in defeat, and sweat dripped off his face.

He used the towel hanging over his shoulders to wipe it.

The door opened again. A man with glossy leather loafers and a blue polo shirt walked in.

Unlike the fighter, he was combed, blood-free and doused in cologne.

"What the fuck was that out there, Buck?

" He swung his arm in the direction of the fight arena just in case Buck had no idea what he was referring to.

That seemed impossible because the fighter looked positively grief-stricken.

And that look wasn't easy to pull off beneath a swollen eye and bloody nose.

"You caved. Do you know how much money I had riding on that fight?

" The man smacked the locker with his palm.

The sound reverberated through the room.

I lifted my 35mm and rested it lightly on the top towel. I snapped a photo of Buck's face. It was truly a heartbreaking mess, a mess only Tommy could capture.

"I'd swear it's almost as if your heart isn't in this anymore, son.

I don't know what to say. Just majorly disappointed.

" He strode out on his shiny shoes. His kid was sitting on a table looking about as concussed as a person could look, and the man only worried that he'd lost money on a bet.

Terrific dad. Reminded me a little of my own.

Only mine never bet money. He never parted with a penny unless it was a "solid financial venture.

" He also didn't have time or patience for his daughter.

I sat there trying not to move a muscle, which was tough considering the horrendous tickle at the tip of my nose.

I moved my face so my nose could graze the cold metal of the camera.

It wasn't the same as a good ole nose scratch but it helped.

I wondered how long poor Buck planned to sit on the table and stare absently down at the tile floor.

My hope was that he'd head to the shower, so I could make my escape.

This was a stupid endeavor. What the heck kind of life-changing photo was I going to get in a locker room?

The door opened again, and for a brief second I was relieved, thinking Buck's dad was coming back to administer first aid or retract his earlier awfulness.

I was wrong. It wasn't the dad. It was the opponent, the victorious opponent.

Was I going to have a solitary, ringside seat to a rematch right there in the locker room?

Tension seemed to thicken and heat the air in the small room.

My heart smacked against my ribs as I felt a sneeze forming.

I wriggled my nose hard, and that seemed to do the trick.

Not a word was spoken as Gregor, also bloodied and beaten, dragged one of the tables to block the door from opening.

Was he going to finish off his opponent?

I was trapped in a room with two of the most formidable men on the planet.

I contemplated my options. There weren't really any except for showing myself, apologizing for the interruption and scurrying from the room as fast as my feet could carry me.

I could always swing my camera at them in defense but then it would surely break, and I'd be even further out of a job than before.

I closed my eyes a second to work up the courage to emerge from my hiding spot.

I heard an intense growl and then a body was slammed up against the lockers.

My eyes popped open as I braced for that terrible rematch.

What I found was something wholly unexpected, but it was a rematch of sorts.

The two men, fierce opponents in the octagon, were locked in a passionate kiss.

Gregor had his hand on Buck's crotch as they passed the blood and sweat from their bodies between them.

I froze for long enough to check that I wasn't imagining things and then lifted my camera.

I got a nice shot of their open mouths devouring each other.

It was admittedly hot to see two hunky, sweaty men go at it so ferociously.

I got caught up in the drama of the moment, and my camera slipped and clanked against the side of the cart.

I sucked in a shocked breath. Gregor jumped back. Their stunned expressions shot my direction. I hopped up. "Didn't see a thing," I blurted nervously.

"It's a fucking photographer." Gregor lunged toward me.

I pushed the cart into him and ran for the exit.

I used all my adrenaline-soaked strength to shove the table back and lunge for the door.

His giant hand grabbed hold of my digital camera.

He yanked it so hard I fell painfully to my knees.

He yanked it again. I shot forward but managed to keep from smacking the ground face-first.

"You'll break her neck," Buck said. "Stop."

I sat up on my knees. "Here, let me take it off my neck." I handed him my digital camera. I'd been needing a new one anyway.

Gregor snatched it and stared at the screen. While his attention was diverted, I raced to open the door.

"It's not here." My shoulders shot up around my ears as I heard my digital camera shatter into a million pieces. "Give me that other camera!" I managed to squeeze out just as his massive hand smacked the door. I narrowly missed being caught in it.

I ran down the corridor, back the way I'd come.

Gregor's giant physique filled the passageway behind me.

There were too many people blocking the exit.

My frantic mind told me to get lost in the crowd.

Once again thankful for being pixie-sized, as my family described it, I pushed through the press of sweaty, inebriated spectators, making sure to stop in small clearings like a prairie dog hiding in its burrow.

I clasped my camera as if it was a part of my body. I had it. I had my iconic image. I had my Hindenburg, my Tiananmen Square shot. The contents of my camera would make my career. If Gregor didn't kill me first.

I backed into a new opening behind a group of guys who were talking and finishing their beers. One of them elbowed the big guy next to him. "Hey Z, isn't that Gregor? He looks pissed."

I peeked past an arm or two and gasped when I realized how close Gregor was to finding me.

I shrank down, and my gaze picked up the bright pink shirt I'd stupidly worn.

In my defense, I hadn't had time to go to the laundromat, and the stupid bubble-gum pink shirt was all that was left in my drawer.

As small as I was, I might as well have been carrying around a torch with pink flames.

Gregor's eyes shot my direction. The guy, who I'd ridiculously noticed was really fucking hot, elbowed the big guy again. "Z, I think he wants you to step in the octagon with him." He laughed. "Shit, he's coming this way."

My heart jumped into my throat. I snatched the black sweatshirt off the back of the guy's seat and took off.

"Hey, what the fuck? That's my sweatshirt!"

My camera bounced like an anvil against my chest as I scooted between rows and yanked on the sweatshirt. It came nearly to my knees, and my hands disappeared in the sleeves. If only I could disappear completely because now I had two angry men chasing me.