"I wish I could say the same for him," I said.
"Just banged up," the cab driver eyed Fenton through the rearview mirror. "Probably drank a lot, fought like an animal, and then crashed when the adrenaline ebbed."
Despite his optimistic prognosis, the cab driver flew through the Vegas traffic until he reached the driveway of the Tropicana. There, he slowed and pulled over on the street. "Looks like he's got other problems," the driver said.
Fenton Morris fans had converged at the entrance to the hotel. Women in tight, white t-shirts imprinted with his name bounced by. Large cardboard cutouts of his face covered in lipstick kisses bobbed above the crowd. Flashes went off like fireworks and multiple entertainment crews stood around with cameras and microphones ready. Word had spread that Fenton Morris was partying at the Tropicana and everyone wanted in on his no-holds barred fun.
"I'll never get him through that unnoticed," I said. "Is there a back way?"
"Stevie? This is Mike, yeah, I know it’s late, but I'm calling in a favor," the cab driver clutched his phone. "I got a high profile drop off and I need the loading dock at the Tropicana."
He pulled back out into traffic one-handed and kept talking as he steered around the giant casino and pulled up to a blocked entrance. Within minutes, he was thanking his friend and a uniformed guard unlocked the gate.
"I can let you in the back, no problem," the guard said.
"Thanks, man. I gotta leave the cab and help her up. Okay?"
The guard looked at me and nodded. "Service elevator goes all the way from the dock to the top floor. Opposite end, it's a long walk, but you'll miss the crowds."
We slung Fenton between us and he came to enough to shuffle along to the service elevator. When the doors closed, I asked, "How did he know I needed to get to the top floor on the other end?"
"You're staying in one of the big time suites. The entire hotel has seen your picture so they can cater to you. A little invasive if you ask me, but definitely a perk," Mike said.
We made it to my suite, and I unlocked the door. Fenton came to as Mike lowered him to the couch. "No hospital, I'm fine," he said.
"That's what I told her. Though if you don't start treating her right, I can assure you there'll be a tire iron in your future. Then, you'll need the hospital."
"Nice guy," Fenton commented as Mike left.
"Yeah, I'm lucky I got into his cab." I took off Fenton's hat and pushed him back down on the couch. "We're lucky. Now just relax for a while, recover."
I went to get ice and a wet washcloth and when I came back, Fenton scowled up at me. "How do you know those men from the bar are trying to fix my next fight?"
I sat down next to him and started swabbing away the dried blood. "I, um, may have followed them and watched them do it to another fighter. Some poor featherweight boxer over at the MGM Grand. They must have some pull because it was all out in the open and no one seemed to notice."
"Except you. Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?" Fenton asked.
"More dangerous than letting one of them buy me a drink?" My joking tone was lost on him.
Fenton snatched the washcloth from me and sat up. "You have no idea, do you? You're just running around doing whatever you want, whatever you think will land you this deal, and you don't even care what danger you're stepping in."
I slammed the ice into a small towel and folded it up. "I don't care? What about you? You just up and decide to join an underground fight for a little cash? What about your career? Like it or not, you have people that care about you and what you do. Why would you do something like that?"
"For this," Fenton said. He pulled out the stack of cash and handed it to me.
I dropped the ice to the floor. "That is an insane amount. For one fight?"
"For one fight, just me. I needed it to pay for the private gym. You think I'd make Kev or my coach pay my way? I only switched gyms because the owner is in on the fix."
"I know you think you didn't have a choice, but you did. I could have helped you. I would have." I scooped up the ice and handed it to him. "I will, if you'll let me."
"And, I'm telling you I'm fine." Fenton took the ice, but stood up. "All your help comes with strings attached. You just want me to sign your endorsement deal, so you can go trotting back to Chicago, buy your little house, and live your comfortable life in your new office. I learned a long time ago not to lean on someone who has one foot out the door."
I picked up the washcloth and twisted it in my hands. "I'm not going anywhere."
"Yeah? Well I am," he said. He unzipped his sweatshirt to reveal his hard and bare chest. Then, he yanked a t-shirt out of his back pocket and pulled it over his head. He could not hide the grimace of pain as he raised his arms. There was a wicked bruise forming over his ribs.
"You're hurt; you need to rest. I'll leave. I'll get out of your way. Just stay here and give yourself a break," I told him. "You can't go out there. A sea of paparazzi is waiting for you."
Fenton tugged the black hat back on his head. "I'll be fine. And, I'm not about to let you leave. You'd probably end up in some back room betting on a cockfight."
"Only if that's where you're going," I stood up and marched in front of him.
He shook his head and the ghost of smile brushed past his mouth. "I'm just going to that expensive private gym of mine. I left all my stuff there." He pulled a card out of his pocket and checked the address.
"You don't need any of it tonight." I moved to block his way.
"I need my phone. I'm expecting a call," Fenton said.
I dodged in front of him again. He put his wide hands on my waist and went to lift me out of the way. As soon as he flexed, he grimaced again. Fenton's hands dropped from my waist and one pressed over his ribs.
"You're not going anywhere," I cried.
"It's just a bruise." He swayed on his feet. "But maybe I should lie down for a few more minutes."
He made it back to the couch and smiled when I came back with another cool washcloth, a blanket, and pitcher of juice. "Please tell me you’re going to mix some tequila in that for me. You know, for the pain," he said.
"Oh, so now you'll admit you're in pain?" I asked. I slipped onto the couch next to him and laid the cool washcloth on his forehead. I retrieved the ice and placed it under his sweatshirt where his ribs hurt. Then, I poured him a glass of juice, tequila, and pulled a few aspirin from my pocket. "What was the last thing you ate?"
"Please, no, I can't stand the angry chef slamming his pots around all jealous over you," he said.
I laughed. "Then it’s a good thing we've got leftovers. I'll make you a steak sandwich."
Fenton reached for the remote, dimmed the lights, and turned on the fireplace. "To help me recover," he said with a devilish glint in his eyes.
I came back with the sandwich and sat down next to him again. "That's all I want, you know. I don't really care about the endorsement deal or whether or not you sign. I just want you to be okay."