In the Ring (BOXER Book 1)

by Rie Warren

  But whatever. He’d singlehandedly taken me from warehouse fighting cages and Cincinnati betting rings to standing-room-only boxing bouts and Vegas hotels. Who was I to complain?

  “Let’s go get you laid like a rock star, champ!”

  Champ. The pride I felt when Michael called me that was replaced by a skeevy cash register ching when Devlin said it.

  Dev clamped a hand on my shoulder.

  I glanced at Michael.

  His deep gray eyes became completely blank. A grim line bracketed his mouth. It was the same slash of firm lips from earlier, when he’d watched me take that punch to my left eye, which was purple and swelling.

  “I thought you couldn’t make it,” I said.

  “Like I’d miss my punching bag make us the moneybags, right?”

  Well, when you say it like that, don’t I feel cheap.

  Dev pushed between Michael and me and effectively closed him out of the conversation. “’Sides, it’s fuckin’ Vegas. Strippers. Money. Casinos. Shows. Pussy. Ideal way to celebrate.”

  I thought I heard him say ka-ching! And then I wondered when he was going to invest in a gold plated grill for his bleached-white teeth.

  Michael brushed past us.

  “Wait up, man! I thought—”

  “I forgot. I have to Skype my boyfriend tonight.” He spoke with his back turned and one hand on the door handle. “I’m already late.”

  Yeah, right. Mikey’s boyfriend. The bastard I blatantly chose to forget along with my duty to remain forever in the closet. Inwardly I railed, but I didn’t show it. I couldn’t. Michael had more courage than me. He was gay. He was proud. I was a barefaced liar. And—oh joy—he was in a happy loving relationship with his partner.

  My hopes dashed, Devlin’s hos it was.

  “I’ll order up that grub for you. See you tomorrow.” With a last wooden look, Michael ducked through the door and disappeared.

  He took all the wind from my triumph with him.

  “C’mon, Patsy. Paste a smile on that face. Let’s make sure that johnson of yours is in workin’ order, huh?” Dev slapped my shoulder. “You’re the new kid on the big-bucks block. Stop fuckin’ frowning all the time.”

  He kept on wheeling, dealing, wheedling, whining. All I heard was money, money, money, FAME, dollar bill signs.

  I stalked to the bathroom, lost the robe, picked up my razor.

  Dev followed me. Leaning against the wall, he dug out a pocketknife to clean his manicured fingernails while I scraped shaving foam off my face.

  “You know he’s practically married to his partner, right?”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Michael. To Wade, or Walter or whatshisname. The guy who pony’s up for him.”

  “Wade.” A hasty stroke of the razor blade and I got a nick on my neck.

  “Don’t get me wrong. I’ve got nothing against the rainblow of love—unless you wanna be the best of the best in the sports world. You know how it goes.” He pared off a thumbnail and flung it into the wastebasket. “So no more discrepancies.”

  Out of all the people to tell my deepest secret to, I’d chosen Devlin. What a dumbass move. Not that I had to worry he’d ever spill the beans. Hell no. He wanted to keep my sexuality so far in the dark it would never reach the light of day.

  “There haven’t been any discrepancies.”

  Not since I’d started fighting professionally. The fact I hadn’t fucked a man for so long—nailed him to the wall, taken him hot, hard, and fast—probably had something to do with me jonesing for a piece of Michael’s ass.

  Riiiight.

  “Lose your rep, lose your fans. Who wants to watch a sissy fighter? Hell, who wants to fight one? The women would be seeing their therapists over jilted-lover syndrome if you came out.” He put the Swiss Army knife in his pocket.

  My razor clattered into the sink, and I braced my hands on the edge of it. “That’s not right.”

  “Don’t be so naïve. Everyone has hang-ups. Jocks are supposed to be big, strapping, able-to-fuck-any-cunt-on-two-legs boys. You look the part. You got the fans. You need to follow through.”

  Bile hit the back of my mouth. I was not going to fuck a woman just to keep my name in lights.

  “I’ve got your best interests at heart. Always looking out for you.” The too-bright bathroom lights gleamed off Devlin’s polished teeth bared by a practiced smile.

  I inhaled deeply.

  Dev hadn’t steered me wrong yet. We’d been through thick and thin and everything in between. Everything—for my part—except a woman’s legs. So what if he wanted a little payback for his promo? It was the way of the world, especially the one we grew up in. And I wasn’t prepared to go this rodeo alone. I’d have to trade off my conscience for concealing my sexuality.

  “Hey, you’re tensing up again.”

  I’d heard those words before.

  Dev’s hands sank into my shoulders, making them rise to my ears. “Can’t have that. So listen, you eat your cardboard meal, and we’ll head out. I’ve got the paparazzi waiting. We’ll snap a few pictures of you getting hot and heavy with the lovely ladies. Presto magic! It’s all good.”

  It didn’t feel good. Hiding felt dirty.

  “Don’t worry.” Dev leaned in to whisper, hooking my gaze in the mirror. “I’ll keep your secret under wraps.”

  Epic win! New heights!

  And my new hopes regarding Michael were shot right to hell. We couldn’t be, not ever. He wasn’t available anyway.

  Devlin was right, because let’s face it: when push came to shove, you had old friends in your corner or no friends at all.

  Chapter Five

  Ka-Ching!

  THE EXHAUSTING FIGHT AND seemingly endless night finally finished with the debauchery of my hangers-on. We ended up in a showy casino where I drank glasses of iced water while they imbibed fancy champagne by the magnum on my bill.

  Due to Dev’s worldwide broadcast on Twitter, followers I didn’t even know surrounded me. People I definitely wouldn’t want to get arrested for, because I’d only been to juvey the one time when I’d stolen a loaf of stale Wonder Bread from the corner market. The family needed feeding. Sue me.

  Vegas, bodyguards, appreciation freebies from sponsors in the form of cocktails I didn’t touch, poker chips I gave away, and female tail I wasn’t interested in. I didn’t give a fuck about the glitzy side of shit, but Dev paraded me through the crowds like a studhorse. He was all Showtime, ESPN, HBO specials. During one interval between our Cadillac SUV and the next Liam, The Bonny Bruiser FaceTime, he shoved the calendar on his iPhone at me.

  He punched his index finger at the screen. “Big Time, fucker!”

  I went all loosey-goosey in my legs as soon as I saw the back-to-back talk show spots he’d lined up for me next week. I was no good in front of cameras.

  Just then another one flashed in my face.

  Suddenly everyone wanted a piece of me. But not the man I wanted most.

  Michael was so put together. I was a total fucking mess. He had degrees. I had a dipshit da who used to give me second-degree burns on my arms from his cigarette butts when I mouthed back. Before I got bigger than him.

  Dev continued to yak in my ear. My brain continued to spin out like tires on a rain-slicked road.

  I’d hardly even kissed a guy. That was an intimacy I’d never been ready for. Pathetic. I’d tried to get with girls again after the Margaret Morrissey Debacle, just in case the first time was a total fucking fluke as well as—ya know—every single one of my impulses ever.

  Turned out that was not the case.

  Long before this boxing fame had happened, when I could still fly under the radar, I went on a porn-store adventure complete with my first gloryhole blowjob. That opened up a limitless Pandora’s Box. After that first time, I caught the bus to Dayton. I did gay bar bathroom hook-ups. No names exchanged, and back then the anonymous fucking was just what I’d needed. Nothing felt better than driving my cock into some guy’s t
ight ass, railing the hunk until he groaned uncontrollably and shot his come-load all over the wall.

  I’d give my left leg to get my third leg off because it had been a goddamn long dry spell.

  By the time Dev and my bodyguards delivered me to my suite at some ungodly hour of the morning I was A: stone cold sober, and B: really fucking horny.

  I can just whack it or whatever.

  I shed my clothes in a heap with a long, loud groan of frustration. Michael had no idea what he did to me. He massaged me, dressed me, wrapped my hands. He touched me in almost every intimate way imaginable.

  I snagged another bright blue drink from the fridge along with a bowl of carrots and low fat dressing Mikey must’ve returned to set out for me. With my rabbit food in hand, I fell back on a bed that was way too big for only one.

  Maybe if Michael just jerked me off as part of the aftercare I could move on from my ultimate stalker-style lovelorn sickness.

  I snapped a freaking carrot stick in half between my teeth and swallowed the roughage down with my sports drink.

  I glared at my naked cock. I willed it to stop tormenting me with images of bending Mikey over and spreading his firm ass between my hands to thrust inside to my bursting nuts.

  The bastard cock between my legs leaked another fat drop of precome.

  Michael exercised me like a prized stallion—no, like an athlete he respected. All the while I watched him sweat, his muscles flex, his smile widen the more he tortured me. I could’ve sworn his eyes had melted when he’d looked at me tonight; or maybe that was me, melting from his deep gray gaze.

  Or maybe I was completely delusional, a dumbass, a first-class schmuck.

  I wished I’d spent the night with Michael not the hundreds of nobodies who probably couldn’t give a shit about me other than I was their Vegas meal ticket. I wanted an entire night with Michael even if all we did was sit around and shoot the breeze.

  I wished it wasn’t my hand circling my dick when I shot against my stomach in thick, warm spurts.

  Loneliness, thy name is Liam.

  You loser.

  #

  I was barely awake when Dev barged into my suite the next morning. He immediately threw clothes at me and shouted orders. I wolfed down an oh-so-healthy egg white omelet and a quart of fresh-squeezed orange juice before I stumbled into the shower.

  Devlin followed me into the bathroom. He had no goddamn concept of personal space when it came to me. With him standing at the sink, waiting with a towel, I had no time to do a little morning jagoff.

  “How much do we pay Michael?” I asked above the roar of the high-powered shower jets.

  “Enough.”

  I popped my head out, shampoo and all. “You sure?”

  “I can pull up the reports if you want.” Dev stared at his reflection in the mirror and rubbed a finger across his capped pearly whites.

  “Health plans for him and Sean?” I wanted to make sure my two best people—my sexy trainer and my grouchy, grizzly coach—had as good medical coverage as I did.

  “Yeah.”

  “401Ks?”

  “You think I’m a gonif?’

  When he preened in front of the mirror like that . . . yeah.

  I rinsed off, stepped out, and accepted the towel. “Good.”

  “You look like last week’s garbage.” He prodded my swollen eyelid.

  “Thanks.” I grinned. “Add that to the job description.”

  Twenty minutes later we were on the road. At the municipal airport another blacked-out SUV rolled in behind us. I got out, Dev too. Anya slid out of the car at our rear with Michael coming around to her side. He led her over to me.

  I looked between the two of them. He scowled. She shot me a meaningful look. I couldn’t figure out either of their expressions.

  Dev stood at the doors of the airport. “What? Get your hands off your dicks already. Look lively, ya fucks.”

  Before I could question why Anya was puddle-jumping with us, we were through the ticket counter, out the back door and crossing the landing strip. Then I saw exactly why Anya had been dragged along.

  This was another of Devlin’s prearranged photo-ops for the press. The gossip hounds stood in loose formation behind a cordoned-off path that led to a private jet.

  At least this was a step-up from the piss-stinking Greyhounds I used to travel in for my Midwestern circuit of cage fights.

  As the press snapped photos and shouted questions—all to do with the “lucky lady” at my side—I replied with monosyllabic answers.

  Devlin shoved me closer to Anya until we practically kissed on the tarmac.

  Michael narrowed his eyes at me.

  I had no idea why his undies were in a wad. I looked down at my pressed khakis, blazer, tie, and blue button-down to match my aqua-blue eyes. I was all zipped up, tucked in, and I’d brushed my fucking teeth twice, thank you very much. I hadn’t even forgotten to add aftershave for a change.

  In a similar outfit, Michael strutted past, his fantastic ass on show. “You smell like a hooker,” he grumbled at me.

  Anya snickered. Cameras were in my fucking face again. Dev flapped his gums on the phone the entire time.

  I discreetly sniffed my pits. Still Irish Spring fresh. I navigated Anya up the gangway and into the deluxe first class airplane where Michael stood just inside. He treated me to another glare as I beckoned Anya in front of me into the cabin.

  I followed and sat down beside her.

  Michael stomped past.

  He was usually Mr. Sunshine right down to his blond curls. Hell, even his last name was bright and shiny. I was supposed to be Mr. Doom and Gloom and f-bomb this and g-damn that in this operation. Now he seemed seriously surly.

  “Wow.” Anya rubbernecked. “What crawled up heees ass?”

  The boxing ring babe had spent enough time travelling on the circuit/circus to have American slang down, but her Ukrainian accent remained thick.

  I shrugged.

  “Maybe a blow hole with his boyfriend?”

  Okay, maybe she didn’t have the slang down pat. “Blow out.”

  “Da.”

  Anya wore a blown-out blonde wig when she walked the ring, but underneath she had short black hair. She ditched the wig as soon as we took off, pulling out a Styrofoam head form from her carryon and placing the fake hair on top. After brushing it into shape, she zipped it away.

  With a big sigh, she’d combed her fingers through her real hair, saying, “I don’t get ze whole Marylyn Monroe look but que sera Surratt.”

  She sat back and angled her fingers, tipped with long orange-tinted fake nails, so she could type on her iPad as she made notes about mechanical engineering and other assorted aeronautical things that boggled my mind. Under the cover of tangerine acrylic, I knew her natural nail beds were bitten to the quick almost as close as mine.

  “I bet he has fight with Wade,” she said.

  “You think?” I failed to keep the glee from my voice.

  She swiveled toward me and opened her lips to speak. Before she got a word out, she clammed up. With tight eyes, she stared behind me.

  I felt Michael’s heat before I saw him and I sat back in a rush when he stalked down the aisle again.

  He stopped beside my seat.

  He stared at me hard.

  Why the hell is he looking at me like that?

  Clothes on? Yes, I was fully covered. I’d already double-frigging-checked. I subtly cupped a hand over my mouth and exhaled. My breath was minty fresh, care of those two, two-minute tooth brushings. I smoothed back my unruly black hair only to knock my hand on the frames of my glasses. I couldn’t deal with contacts today. My left eye was nearly swollen shut.

  I snatched the wire-rimmed frames off my face and blinked at a semi-blurry, still annoyed Michael.

  He stormed away again.

  Anya whipped her head around to watch him retreat to the back of the plane, then she chuckled. “He ees so pissed.”

  Devlin cupped a ha
nd over his cell. “What the fuck crawled up his ass and hatched eggs?”

  I sank lower in my seat.

  Michael made another pass when we were midflight on our way to New York City—my new home base. He came across Sean lolling in his seat across from Anya and me, toking an unlit cigar. Anya continued to make furious notes on her tablet. Dev was attached by his mouth, head, and hands to his cell. I sat drinking the nasty sludge-shake Mikey had snuck into my travel-on.

  A Game of Thrones was open in my lap. I’d just started reading the massive series. I really dug it. My heart pounded as I continued to read. That nimble little shit, Ned’s son, was on the freaking castle rooftop. I had a terrible feeling something bad was about to happen.

  Michael’s shadow fell across my book. I finger-marked the page, pushed my glasses back up my nose, and peered at him.

  His jaw ticked. He looked pissed off and, therefore, totally fucking hot from his blond curls to his stormy eyes to his broad shoulders . . . and definitely lower. My body reacted in an instant. I untucked my shirt to cover up my brand new boner.

  “You don’t wear glasses.” He crossed his arms over his chest, straining the seams on his biceps.

  I folded away the glasses—like this private plane, they were definitely a step-up from my ugly teenage geek-boy frames. “Mostly to read.”

  “I like them.”

  I hurriedly placed them back on my face.

  “What’s your deal?” He rested his hip against the back of the seat across from me.

  “Huh?”

  “You. And Anya.” He dropped his voice, motioning his head toward the babe beside me.

  Chapter Six

  What Doesn’t Happen in Vegas . . .

  HANG ON A SECOND. Does Michael think I’m into Miss USSR? Talk about miscommunication. And wow was he angry? Because the angry look definitely worked in his favor.

  “Um,” I hedged.