Got A Hold On You (Ringside Romance) Read online

  Got A Hold On You

  By Pat White

  This re-mastered edition of GOT A HOLD ON YOU is the first digital edition published in 2012 by Joy Creek Press.

  Copyright©2012 by Pat White

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter One

  “I said fringe, not feathers! I can’t go out there wearing feathers. I’ll look like a freakin’ ostrich!”

  Frankie McGee stared up at the nearly seven-foot-tall pro wrestler and realized God was punishing her. This was her penance for not going to confession, forgetting to floss, and refusing to date the men Nana Cooper picked out for her. Yep, Frankie’s hell and damnation would be served sewing seams and sequins for the most outrageous group of men walking the face of the earth. At least it would this week.

  “Are you mentally challenged or something?” The Purple Panther howled. His echo bounced off the gray cement walls of the cramped dressing room buried beneath the stands of Chicago’s suburban Lancaster Stadium.

  “I step into the ring in twenty minutes. I can’t go out there looking like this.” He spun around, the wisp of lavender taffeta floating in a perfect circle around his bare, muscular torso.

  He was right. It wasn’t his color.

  “Fringe. F-r-i-n-g-e,” he said.

  He could spell. She was impressed.

  The Purple Panther ripped the cape off his shoulders and tossed it at her. It landed on her head. If he only knew she had the power to send him packing to the local zoo. But no one could discover her true mission. Not yet, anyway.

  “It better be fixed by the time they cue my music, or Sullivan’s gonna can you before you can say ‘headlock.’”

  The sound of giant feet stomping across the hard cement floor was followed by a crash. Then silence.

  “Is it safe?” she asked her fellow seamstress, who’d kept silent during the tirade.

  “He’s gone,” sixty-year-old Maxine Parker said.

  Frankie snapped the purple cape off her head and glared at the door.

  “Overgrown ape,” she said, sifting through the pile of sewing supplies on the worktable. This wasn’t supposed to happen. She wasn’t supposed to have contact with the wrestling wackos.

  “Men shouldn’t know the difference between feathers and fringe,” she muttered under her breath.

  “These ain’t no ordinary men, hon. Haven’t you figured that out by now?” Maxine adjusted her bifocals.

  “No, I guess not.” But then, Frankie was still trying to figure out how she’d ended up here in the first place. Then she remembered: good old-fashioned duty. Or was it guilt?

  Frankie thumbed her tortoise-rimmed glasses to the bridge of her nose, snatched the ripper, and dug the sharp edge along the feathered seam.

  “They get a little nervous before a big match,” Maxine said. “It’s only normal.”

  “There is nothing normal about this business.”

  “Now watch it there, toots. Pro wrestling’s been my home for more than forty years.”

  “Right, sorry.”

  Real smart. Insult the one semi-normal person in this crazy business. “Semi” being the key word. After all, how many sixty-year-old women would wear a skin-tight, fuchsia leotard and tights, topped by a black sweatshirt with gold lettering that read Rock ’em, Sock ’em, Knock ’em? Maxine’s graying hair was swept back into a French knot highlighted by pink glitter and a silver bow. The woman went to great lengths on her appearance only to sit in a back room of yet another stadium, waiting for the next prima donna to complain about a crooked seam or missed sequin.

  “What do you think?” Maxine held up a pair of faux snake-skinned trunks. They looked like they’d fit a twelve-year-old.

  “You sure you got the right size?”

  “Too big?”

  “Too small.”

  “Oh, pshaw. These are just right for the Thundering Tornado to show off his package.” With a wry smile, Maxine winked her false eyelashes.

  Frankie ground her teeth and continued to rip and pull the purple threads. The Panther had said twenty minutes and she had a feeling if he could spell he could probably count.

  She was a seamstress for only a week, she reminded herself, the most critical week of the year according to Uncle Joe, owner of the ridiculous Wrestling Heroes and Kings. Then Frankie could get back to her real job of figuring out how to save her uncle’s company from financial ruin from the comfort of a secluded office.

  Hell, she could do anything for one week.

  The metal door flew open. Uncle Joe scrambled inside, slamming the door with a crash.

  “We’re ruined, completely ruined! This was our big chance.” He plastered his portly, middle-aged body against the cement wall, his wrinkled dress shirt gaping at his belly.

  Frankie glanced at Maxine.

  “Normal,” Maxine confirmed.

  “It was the perfect story line!” Uncle Joe continued. “It would break new ground, bring our old viewers back from Steel’s Outrageous Wrestling. Fans want drama, drama, drama!”

  He paced the eight-by-fifteen-foot room, pulling at his thinning hair until it stuck out like a porcupine on a good hair day. Frankie glanced at Maxine who was busy tightening the Tornado’s trunks. She obviously didn’t think there was anything to worry about. Then again, she probably didn’t know about WHAK’s financial problems. No one did.

  Frankie studied her uncle, his eyes bulging, his lips quivering. He always was one for the dramatic. Still, it might be serious this time.

  “What’s the problem?” she asked, pinning a strand of purple fringe to the taffeta.

  “The new writers came up with a fantastic story line. Tatianna the Tigress is sultry, sexy, wild -- the perfect reason for Black Jack to leave his wife!”

  “I still can’t believe you’re exploiting that man’s four-year-old divorce to boost ticket sales,” Maxine scolded.

  “Jack’s career needs help. It’s my job to keep these guys in the game as long as possible.”

  “It’s your job to make money off their blood, sweat, and tears, you mean,” Maxine snapped.

  Uncle Joe paced to the wall and conked his head three times against the cement. Frankie looked for blood.

  “Take it easy, Maxine,” Frankie said. “It’s not like any of this is real and the talent gets hurt.”

  The older woman pursed her bright pink lips and stabbed the snake-skinned trunks with her needle. Uncle Joe moaned and pulled on his hair until Frankie thought it would come out in clumps between his fingers.

  “Out with it, Uncle Joe,” Frankie demanded. Troubleshooting was her specialty.

  He whirled
around. “Tatianna’s escaped!”

  “Escaped? She’s a woman, not a trained seal.”

  “No matter. She’s gone. Got a lead on a sitcom looking for mammoth women who can bench-press five hundred pounds. She took off for California. It’s over. We’re ruined.” He slid down the wall and buried his face in his age-spotted hands.

  “You mean to tell me there isn’t another female in this entire company who can fill in until you find another actress?”

  “No, no, no.” He shook his head. “They’ve all been seen in one form or another. I can’t have Monica Moonbeam or Luscious Leeza go strutting out on Jack’s arm. There is no one else. Jezebel’s got the night off, Cookie’s already going out on Louie the Lawman’s arm, and Amazing Amanda is helping with Clyde’s grudge match against the Titanic. What am I going to do? This was our chance, Francine, a chance to redeem ourselves. I promised the fans high-stakes drama in the main event, high-stakes drama!”

  A determined knock interrupted his panic attack.

  “I’m looking for Joe Sullivan,” Bill Billings, Uncle Joe’s assistant, called through the door.

  Uncle Joe smoothed his hair back into place, cleared his throat and pulled open the door.

  “I’m checking on the costumes, Bill. What’s up?” His voice was deeper, more authoritative than a second ago.

  “Wanted to know if you’d figured out our Tatianna prob—” Bill stopped in midsentence, and his gray eyes locked onto Frankie. “Brilliant!”

  The hair pricked on the back of her neck.

  She looked at Maxine, then at Uncle Joe, then back at Bill. All three smiled the same, devilish smile that made her scan the room for a quick exit. Unfortunately, she’d have to get by Bill first, formerly known as Bill “The Bomber” Billings.

  “Uh, I have to get this cape to the Panther before he rips my head off.” Frankie started for the door.

  “This is exactly why you’re the number-one guy in the business, Sully,” the Bomber said, eyeing Frankie. Why did she feel like he could see all the way through her navy suit jacket, cotton blouse and camisole to her lace bra?

  “I’ll see that this gets to the Purple Panther.” Bill swiped the cape from her hand and grinned, a gold-capped tooth sparkling front and center.

  When he shut the door, Frankie readied for battle.

  “No,” she said, squaring off at Uncle Joe.

  He clasped his hands together and fell to his knees. “Francine, please. Your mother and I—”

  “Don’t you dare bring her into this. If she even knew I was here I’d be disowned.”

  “I’d better get this to the Tornado before he throws a hissy.” Maxine slipped past them and out the door.

  Frankie slapped her hands on her hips and glared at her uncle. “I’ve jeopardized my job to bail you out of trouble. I told my boss I had to take care of a sick relative. I couldn’t tell him what I was really doing. My God, if anyone knew I was associated with this…this business I’d be the laughingstock of the industry. And to think that I’ve lied to Bradley.”

  “I did it for you, Francine.”

  “You did what for me?”

  “I built you a legacy.”

  “Yeah, a legacy of debt.”

  “But I had good intentions.”

  Frankie made for the door, but Uncle Joe caught her arm.

  “You know I’d do anything for you,” he said. “When things were good I shared my success. I loaned you money for college—”

  “At ten percent interest.”

  “And bought you your first car.”

  “A hearse.”

  “It was roomy,” he offered.

  “It was pink with blue pinstripes!”

  “I’ve always done my best for you,” he said, groveling. “I was there for you when that no-good father of yours was off—”

  “Enough. The guilt trip won’t work this time, Uncle Joe.”

  “Think about your honor, your integrity.”

  “A lot of honor I’d have parading myself in front of twenty thousand people on some idiot’s arm!” She ripped open the steel door. Uncle Joe threw himself, spread-eagled, across the doorway.

  “Christmas, 1972!” he cried.

  “Out of my way.”

  “Remember what I got you?”

  “No,” she lied. How could she ever forget the Ice Skating Barbie he’d given her? Dad had promised to bring it, but she’d learned early not to believe in Dad’s promises.

  “Your sixteenth birthday,” he countered. “The backstage passes at the U2 concert.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Harry the hamster, the autographed Foreigner poster, Cinderella in the school play?”

  “Now wait a minute, I earned that part.”

  Uncle Joe grinned.

  “Didn’t I?”

  “I did everything I could for my favorite niece.”

  The guilt anchor grew heavier by the minute, pulling her down, down, down...

  “All I ask is this one thing. Tonight’s show is crucial. It could mean going network, big ratings, big advertisers!”

  “I won’t do this. I have self-respect.”

  “Think about your poor, adoring uncle.”

  Clink. The anchor hit rock bottom.

  A knock interrupted her spiraling guilt trip.

  “Is it safe in there?” Maxine called.

  “Come in, Max.” Uncle Joe opened the door.

  He had Frankie right where he wanted her and he knew it. He sandwiched her hand between his weathered fingers. “It would mean a lot to me.”

  “So does my reputation.”

  “But…” His eyes darted from the scraps of material on the sewing table to the overhead fluorescent lights, back to Frankie. “You’ll be wearing a mask.”

  Maxine coughed.

  “No one will even know who you are. It’s perfect. You’re perfect.” He studied her through framed hands as if considering her for a movie debut.

  “I thought Tatianna was six feet tall with flaming red hair.” On a good day she stood five-three.

  “You’re better.”

  “I’m female.”

  A nervous giggle escaped his lips. He squeezed her hand and made for the door. “Max will fix you up, snap, snap. She’ll make the costume fit you just right.”

  “I don’t have the costume.”

  He pulled a plastic bag from the inside of his suit coat and tossed it at Maxine.

  “Hey!” Frankie protested, smelling a setup.

  “Forty-five minutes.” He tapped his watch and sauntered out, a victorious whistle escaping his lips.

  “Sneaky, manipulative, guilt-tripping uncle!” she cried.

  “Come on, let’s get you fitted.” Maxine opened the bag and pulled out the contents. “This can’t be right.”

  Frankie caught sight of the five-inch triangle of leopard-skin material dangling from Maxine’s fingertips.

  “Whoever heard of a spotted tiger?” Max said.

  “My life is over.” Frankie’s knees wobbled and she collapsed into the folding chair. “A mask, Uncle Joe said there was a mask.”

  Maxine tipped the bag upside down. It was empty.

  “No mask.” Frankie slouched in her chair.

  “Not to worry. I’ll whip one up lickity split. Something plain, yet exotic, with pointed ears.” She crooked her fingers on top of her head to demonstrate.

  Frankie jumped to her feet. “I can’t do this.”

  “Sure you can. You’re a good girl. Good girls do these things because they love their uncles.”

  Frankie fisted her hands by her sides and paced the small dressing room. Uncle Joe had always been there for her. Always.

  “The other Tatianna was bigger than you, so we’ll have to make a few nips and tucks here and there. Wouldn’t want those bosoms of yours to come tumbling out on national TV.”

  “Work on the mask first. Work on the mask,” Frankie pleaded. Anonymity was her only hope.

  “You’re gonna have
to get rid of those glasses. You can see without them, can’t ya’?”

  “I have tinted contacts in my purse. I hate them.”

  Trotting from one end of the room to the other, she imagined herself before the board of directors at Smith and Barnes, her biggest client at present. How on earth would she explain prancing nearly naked in front of half a billion people on national TV? Sure, they’d take her next financial analysis seriously, about as seriously as a two-year-old running for Congress.

  “Done,” Maxine said.

  “So fast?”

  “They don’t call me Maxine the Miraculous for nothing.”

  Frankie stared at the costume, which looked like it was tailor made for a pre-pubescent teen.

  “Go on, get dressed.” Maxine shoved it at her.

  “I must be out of my mind.” She snatched the costume and ripped off the price tag. “Cheapskate,” she muttered, glancing at the $17.95 clearance sticker. She went behind the curtain and stripped off her clothes, her toes chilled by the cement floor. A whole lot more of her was going to be chilled in a minute. She stepped into the panties, clasped the bra in front, then slid it around and adjusted herself. She was no Dolly Parton, but she wasn’t a washboard either.

  “Maxine, I think you made the top too small.” She stepped out from behind the curtain.

  “Well, look at you. I never would’ve guessed you had such a round figure underneath all those clothes of yours. I could probably let out the darts a little, but I gotta finish the skirt.”

  Hope flared in her chest. “A skirt?”

  “Sure. We wouldn’t let you go out there bare-legged.”

  All wasn’t lost. Frankie threw on her navy suit jacket to ward off the chill.

  The door burst open with a crash. “Where’s my cape?” the Purple Panther demanded.

  Frankie jumped to her feet. “Hold your shorts, you overgrown slug of testosterone! The Bomber took off with your bloody cape, so go claw his eyes out!”

  “Oh, uh, sure, uh, sorry.” The Panther paled and backed out of the dressing room as if he thought she might brain him with the metal folding chair.

  “You’re a natural,” Maxine said, her gray-blue eyes glowing with admiration.

  “Don’t look at me like that. I don’t belong here. I belong in a boardroom, impressing the directors with plans to consolidate and raise the bottom line.”