* * *
“The black.”
Tyson stared at the two dress shirts—one black, one white—the only two he owned. The only time he wore them was for MFL events and then only because the organization insisted on a dress code, not trusting their fighters to not show up to media events looking like bums. “Are you sure? Black shirt, black pants . . . I don’t want to look like the man in black.”
“You mean Men in Black?” Connor asked.
“No. I meant Johnny Cash . . .” He shook his head. “Never mind. So, the black one? Really?”
“Yes. Look, this chick is probably hiring caterers who will most likely be wearing black pants and white shirts. You will already stick out like a gang member in church—you don’t want to be confused with the hired help.”
Good point. “Fine,” he said hanging the white one back in the closet and removing the black one from the hanger. He still couldn’t believe he’d agreed to attend, but Parker had looked so nervous about this party . . . or was it seeing her ex again? He wasn’t exactly thrilled to be meeting the guy either and the more he’d thought about Blue Cloud Pictures buying the rights to the movie, the more it annoyed him. It meant that when Parker left in a few weeks to start filming in LA, she’d be spending days and nights with Brantley Cruise— hotshot director she’d already been naked with. He hated the idea. And he hated that he hated the idea. A lot.
Connor looked past him into the closet. “Why isn’t your championship belt in the display case?”
Tyson buttoned his shirt from the bottom, having learned his lesson about missing a button the hard way when it was all the focus on Sportsnet after his first media press conference. One of the best mixed martial artists in the sport, but miss a button on a dress shirt and they jump all over it. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because I don’t want anyone breaking into the gym and stealing it.”
“Very funny. I told you—I wasn’t going to take anything.” Connor reached past him and took the belt from the closet. He ran a hand along the center, removing the thin layer of dust on the symbol of the cage in gold and the MFL logo. “My little brother—best pound-for-pound fighter in the light heavyweight division. This should be in the display case.”
Tyson ignored him. Connor wouldn’t understand the concept of delaying praise until it was truly deserved. He tucked the edge of his shirt into the dress pants and zipped them. Holding up his reversible leather belt, he said, “Which side—the black or the red?”
“That depends. Do you want to look classy or like a twelve-year-old at his junior high dance?’
He gave his brother a blank look. “So—which side?”
“The black side out,” Connor said, shaking his head, putting the championship belt back on top of the closet.
“I can’t believe I’m asking you for advice. Look at you—when are you going to get some new clothes?” His brother was still wearing the torn old, baggy jeans he’d shown up in and the gray Punisher Athletics T-shirt Tyson had given him.
“When I trust myself enough to leave the house.”
He nodded. So far, so good. Six weeks and his brother was sticking to his word—no drugs, no alcohol. He was gaining weight now that he was eating again, and his eyes looked clear. “We can . . . ah . . . go out this weekend and pick up a few things.” He cleared his throat and avoided his brother’s gaze in the mirror.
“Thanks, man,” Connor said, touching his shoulder for half a second, before letting his hand fall away. “You look good,” he said, stepping back as Tyson turned.
“Movie star good?”
“Those cauliflower ears, twisted nose, and tattooed head destroyed any chance of that long ago . . . but somehow your girl still finds you hot.” He shook his head. “Women are crazy.”
“Agreed,” he said, thinking about what his brother had just said. His girl? Parker wasn’t his girl. But he sure as hell wasn’t cool with her being anyone else’s girl and that was a first.
* * *
Parking his motorcycle in the driveway, Tyson removed his leather jacket and helmet and made his way around to the side of the house, where Parker had told him to go. He walked in through the open backyard door and went inside. Scanning the crowd inside Parker’s home, he was relieved that there were only twenty, maybe thirty people lingering in the open-concept kitchen and living room and out near the pool. He tugged at the sleeves of his dress shirt, but when they slid back up his arms, he unbuttoned them and rolled them several times. Fuck it.
“Wow, Tyson Reed in the flesh,” a male voice behind him said and he turned to see a tall, thin guy dressed in a light gray suit and red dress shirt, open at the collar.
Thank God he hadn’t listened to Connor and worn a tie. “Hello,” he said, extending a hand. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage.” He had no idea who the guy was, but if he was the lead playing opposite Parker in this movie, he may have a problem with it. The man’s silver cufflinks were probably worth more than his championship belt.
“I’m Brantley Cruise, the movie’s new director.”
Even worse. The real life ex-leading man.
“I’m a big fan of yours and your father before you . . .” He laughed. “Wow, I’m fangirling all over the place here.”
Tyson forced a laugh, the flattery not easing his annoyance over the image that flashed in his mind of this guy with his hands on Parker or the knowledge that he’d casually tossed her away. He wanted to punch him for both reasons. “Thank you. I’d like to return the compliment, but I don’t watch a lot of movies.”
“Well, I hope you’ll watch this one,” he said. “Drink?” he offered as though he were the host of the party.
Tyson’s spine stiffened as he looked around again for Parker. He spotted her outside near the pool talking to several other guests and his mouth gaped. Dressed in a long, sheer red dress and strappy silver sandals with heels that gave her an extra six inches, he couldn’t tear his gaze away. The dress had no back and hung low in the front, which meant she was wearing next to nothing underneath it.
Damn.
“She is breathtaking,” Brantley said next to him.
His fist clenched at his sides. The idea that this guy also got to enjoy the view infuriated him. And in LA he’d have Parker all to himself. For the first time her chosen occupation annoyed him.
“And I have to say, that new body . . .” He let out a low whistle. “I mean, she was always smoking hot . . .”
He couldn’t take anymore. “You mentioned a drink. I’d love one,” he said tightly. His gaze shot back to Parker as she laughed at something one of her guests said and the sound drifted across the yard. Damn, he wished he were the recipient of that smile.
Brantley still stood next to him. “I was surprised you actually agreed to train her. What with your championship title on the line in a few days.”
He nodded.
“I mean, I know why she went to you,” he said with a cocky grin. “To try to make me jealous.”
Tyson’s eyes flew to the man. What? He frowned. “How would that have made you jealous?”
“When we were a couple, she knew how much I admired and respected you and your family. I don’t doubt for a second this whole MMA movie idea was just some ploy to get us working together again. She had to know I’d buy the rights to any movie just to get to meet one of my own favorite fighters, and the timing of her press release . . . A little too coincidental, you know what I mean?”
His jaw clenched. Had that been Parker’s motivation? She had been intent on him training her and she’d eventually gotten her way.
Her gaze finally landed on him and she smiled and waved.
He held a hand up in greeting, unable to shake off the other man’s words.
“I’ll get you that drink now, champ,” Brantley said, tapping him on the shoulder as he walked away.