Caged

by Lorelei James

  “And yet you didn’t ask me out.”

  “That’s the second thing.” Those blue eyes shone in the dark. “I didn’t know how to ask. And before you laugh or get sarcastic, you should know that I don’t date.”

  “Ever?”

  “Ever. I haven’t asked a girl—woman—out since I was fifteen.” Deacon watched his finger twirling that section of hair. “I haven’t had a girlfriend since high school, Molly. I’ve been with women, but never for more than sex, and never for more than one night.”

  Molly could’ve asked him why, but she suspected he’d hedge. She slanted her mouth over his for a smacking kiss. “So I’m special? Awesome. I am so glad you figured out a way to tell me we were going out. Because, babe, you didn’t ask.” She smooched him again. “Even if it did take you for-freakin’-ever.”

  His sheepish smile . . . just got to her.

  “So the long answer to your ‘sleep naked’ question is yes. I’ll crash in the raw if you’ll tone down your seductive mojo and let us both actually get some sleep.”

  “I’ll try, but no guarantees.” He planted kisses in random spots across her chest. “So the long answer to your ‘girlfriend touching’ question is no. You’re the first and only. Fair warning, babe. If you’re nearby, I’m gonna be touching you.”

  “I can deal with that.”

  He tucked her body in to his so they touched head to toe.

  Normally Molly did a starfish imitation on her mattress, but she much preferred being skin to skin with a hard-bodied man.

  She’d drifted into that floaty pre-sleep place when Deacon murmured, “You sure you’re tired?”

  “You’re not?”

  “I’m wide-awake.”

  “Do you want to watch TV or something?”

  She felt him grin against the top of her head. “I was thinking you could read me a bedtime story.”

  That yanked her out of her sleepy state. Self-professed nonreader Deacon wanted her to read to him because he was interested in the story? Not just because he’d been bored during the drive?

  How freakin’ awesome. She’d always envied couples who read together. As far as she was concerned, reading to him counted.

  “Well, we did leave Colin and Caitlin hanging.” She threw back the covers. “I’ll grab my e-reader.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  DEACON walked into the training room on Saturday morning ready to do battle.

  Maddox went back to working with Ivan after pointing to the jump ropes.

  So that’s how it’s gonna be.

  He warmed up first with a few stretches, push-ups, pull-ups, frogs, and gator rolls. Then he snagged a jump rope and hit it.

  Most of the time when Deacon was training he could block out everything and focus on form. But today his thoughts kept straying to Micah Courey. If he’d been training here all week. If Ronin had made a decision on adding him to the roster. If any of this training mattered. If he’d ever get past being a contender to being a champion.

  The years he’d spent in the underground fighting scene, the unrecognized championships hadn’t made him complacent. He’d always wanted more. Ronin had recognized that from the first time they’d met.

  That’d been an eye-opener. Deacon had been undefeated for two years. He’d craved a challenge to the point he’d started to travel to other cities to fight. He hadn’t found a worthy opponent in Albuquerque, Santa Fe, Tulsa, or Oklahoma City. But when he showed up in Pueblo, Colorado, that’s where he’d learned the difference—the hard way—of fighting a true master.

  Of course¸ at the time—five years ago—he hadn’t known Ronin Black held a seventh-degree black belt in jujitsu—a black belt designation was the only requirement to fight. As Deacon had climbed into the ring, he’d been less than impressed by this Ronin guy. Although they were in the same weight class, Ronin wasn’t bulked up—his physique ran more toward lean. That right there should’ve set off Deacon’s warning bells. But he’d dismissed it.

  Mistake.

  Big mistake.

  Ronin had toyed with him the first two rounds. Testing him. He’d even let Deacon get in a couple of body shots with both his kicks and his fists.

  But when the third round started, Ronin brutalized him for an eternity—he’d later learned it’d been only two minutes—before he knocked him out.

  When Deacon had come to, his fury had overtaken his embarrassment. And that fury hadn’t lessened when Ronin had stuck around to talk to him after the match. Ronin’s Zen-like attitude and watchful eyes seemed to bore into Deacon’s soul. That put him on edge and pissed him the fuck off. He’d been a total dick to Ronin. Why the man had stuck around still boggled Deacon’s mind.

  Now Deacon was grateful that the great man had seen something in him that he hadn’t seen in himself.

  Ronin had shown up in the hotel bar. After a couple glasses of whiskey, they’d both loosened up. Deacon had finally found a kindred spirit in Ronin—a man who understood the addictive side of fighting. No judgment, no excuses, just the need for violence. And the sometimes shameful feelings that accompanied that near-obsessive need to prove yourself with blood, bruises, and pain.

  And so Deacon had found himself opening up to Ronin, telling him some of the ugly details of his life that’d prompted him to leave everything behind and start over. In turn, Ronin had shared his struggles with his family, the dojo, and how his disillusionment had sent him back into the world of underground fighting.

  Everyone always talked about life-changing events, but Deacon hadn’t put any stock in those types of claims . . . until he’d met Ronin Black. Within a month of that meeting, Deacon had relocated to Denver. If he passed the six-month probation time, he’d become a jujitsu instructor at Black Arts while keeping up his MMA training. In Ronin keeping Deacon’s secrets about his past, Ronin had entrusted Deacon to keep his secrets too.

  “McConnell!”

  Deacon let the jump rope fall to the floor. He reached for the towel on the bench to mop his face before he turned around and said, “What?” to Maddox.

  “You warmed up enough to spar?”

  “With you? Bring it.”

  Maddox shook his head.

  That’s when Deacon noticed the Black Arts MMA fighters—Ivan and Sergei—as well as Black Arts instructors Fisher, Blue, Ronin, and Knox had gathered around. He was about to toss off a snarky comment about not needing a formal welcome back, when he saw a guy in a hoodie, arms crossed, waiting beside the ring.

  Micah Courey.

  “Is he my new sparring partner?” he asked Maddox. “Or am I his?”

  Deacon glanced at Knox—who looked very pissed off. Knox opened his mouth, but Ronin’s headshake had him snapping his mouth shut.

  What the hell?

  “Come on. I’ll introduce you,” Maddox said.

  Knox left Ronin’s side and stood in front of Deacon. His six-foot-four-inch frame blocked everyone from view. “I had nothing to do with this. And I’m pissed the fuck off about it.”

  “I can handle myself, Knox.”

  “I know that. All’s I’m saying is you shouldn’t have to.” Then he walked off.

  Maddox got into Deacon’s personal space. “Problem?”

  “You tell me.”

  “We’ll talk later about the bug that crawled up the former Shihan’s ass. Right now come meet Courey.”

  Rather than follow Maddox, Deacon cut in front of him and reached the hooded figure first and thrust out his hand. “Deacon McConnell.”

  The guy clasped his hand hard enough to fucking break it. “I know who you are; you know who I am. So let’s cut the shit and get to it.”

  “Deacon, you’re up first with the mitts,” Maddox said.

  Deacon forced himself not to react. He rarely held the mitts; his sparring partner did. After he returned with them, Maddox frowned at him. “What?”

  “Headgear too.”

  “I never wear headgear.”

  “You’ve never needed to before n
ow.”

  Tell him to fuck off.

  No. Do what he says and knock that smug motherfucker out when you’re throwing punches.

  The cooler, revenge-seeking part of his brain prevailed. “Fine. It’s buried in my locker.” Deacon headed to the corner where the lockers were.

  After Maddox had taken over the MMA program, he’d installed private lockers so none of the fighters had to rub elbows with the jujitsu students or instructors in the dojo’s locker room unless they wanted to shower. He dug through the bottom of his locker until he found the modified helmet. His extra mouth guard had gotten caught in the strap, so he took it to the drinking fountain and washed it out before returning to the ring.

  Maddox and Courey ended their conversation as soon as they saw him.

  “Work punching only. No lower-body work,” Maddox said.

  Courey said, “What’s the level of practice?”

  “Prefight. Don’t pull back, but no blows to the head.”

  “Even if I see a chance for a clean hit?” Courey asked.

  Good luck with that, asswipe.

  “Deacon? What level are you prepared for?” Maddox asked.

  “Any level you think is best, Coach.”

  Maddox’s jaw tightened, and he addressed Micah. “Bump it to fight level, then.”

  “No,” Ronin interjected from the sidelines. “The last thing Deacon needs is to pull out of the fight because of a training injury. Stick with prefight level. If you two get bored, then we’ll bump it up.”

  Thanks for the vote of confidence, Sensei.

  Since he wasn’t in gloves, he didn’t take off his shoes or his shirt.

  The first thing he noticed about Courey was he didn’t bow when he entered the training ring—a blatant show of disrespect, in Deacon’s opinion, since they were in a martial arts dojo. The second thing he noticed was the man thought he had something to prove. Courey didn’t warm up; he immediately started throwing speed-punching combinations.

  And as the time passed by in a series of jarring thumps, Deacon saw the benefit in being the former champion’s sparring partner. Within the first fifteen minutes, Deacon had zeroed in on a couple of weaknesses. He didn’t get too cocky about it. The weak spots might be apparent only because Courey wasn’t able to switch it up with kicks.

  For the first time in a long time, Deacon remembered what it was like to be the one with his back to the cage. To be the defender, not the aggressor.

  Just when he thought he had Courey’s tells figured out, Deacon dropped the mitt to block what he assumed was a rib shot, and Courey landed a right hook to the jaw. A punch hard enough to snap Deacon’s head, which sent him careening backward, ass hitting the mat.

  His hearing went wonky, but he couldn’t be sure if it was from the blow or the headgear blocking normal noise.

  Surprisingly, Fisher was the first guy to reach him. Deacon removed the mitts and his headgear and said softly, “He doesn’t hit as hard as you, so why am I on my ass?”

  Fisher didn’t crack a smile. “Because your equilibrium is off due to the head protection. You don’t wear it in the ring, so it’s stupid for you to train with it.” He leaned closer. “And don’t get me started on why the fuck you’re wearing mitts and being his bitch. Should be the other way around.”

  One thing Deacon respected about Fisher—the man was loyal to the Black Arts fighters. Even their dustup about Molly taking private lessons from him hadn’t damaged their professional working relationship.

  Deacon moved his head side to side, trying to work the tension out of his neck. He saw Maddox advising Courey. He saw Ivan and Sergei on the bench. He saw Ronin off to the side, keeping an eye on everyone. Blue had disappeared.

  Then Maddox wandered over and crouched next to him. “If you’ve caught your balance, get back to it. Courey’s turn with the mitts.”

  He wasn’t feeling real cooperative, but he forced a cool tone. “Another day.”

  “Why? You’ve taken hits harder than that.”

  “No shit. But I wasn’t expecting to get knocked on my ass first thing this morning after being gone from training for six days. I’ve still got Saturday drills to do. Ito’s coming to work throws with me, right?” He paused. “Unless you were planning on having Ito working with Courey. In that case I’ll do footwork with Fisher, Sergei, and Ivan.”

  If the sour look on Maddox’s face was any indication, he knew he was fucked. Deacon had covered all his training possibilities for the day—none would be with Courey. “I get that you’re pissed off he’s here, Deacon, but you’re supposed to be learning from him.”

  “Maybe he’d better learn what Sensei means by prefight power level.” From the corner of his eye, he saw Ronin walk away.

  “I’ll give you a pass today, but Courey will be training here off and on over the next few weeks, so get used to the idea you’ll be partners.”

  Fuck that. Maddox could force him to do a lot of things, but being a punching bag for Micah Courey wasn’t on the list.

  Before Maddox could force the issue, Ivan and Sergei climbed into the ring and stepped between Deacon and their trainer. Maddox took off. Ivan held out his big hand to help Deacon to his feet.

  “Thanks, man.”

  “No problem. You ready to play footsie?”

  Deacon snorted. Footsie. Ivan poked at Sergei for his expertise in savate, French foot fighting. Sergei, whose English was minimal, trash-talked Ivan’s specialty in sambo, the Russian martial art that was a weird combination of wrestling and judo.

  One thing Maddox could be given props for—all of the fighters he’d brought on board had different specialties. “Yeah, I’ll see what punch-kick or kick-punch combos Sergei has been working on to trip me up.”

  “Trip you up. Funny.” Ivan translated for Sergei, and he barked out a laugh.

  “Hey, where’s Blaze?”

  “Pulled his calf muscle. Same day you left. Riggins told him to rest it for a week minimum,” Fisher said. “He’ll be hobbling around for Beck’s thing tonight.”

  “Beck’s thing?” Deacon asked.

  Ivan shot a quick look over his shoulder. “Birthday thing. Not everyone is invited.”

  “Aw, but I am?”

  Fisher clapped him on the shoulder. “At a strip club. Right up your alley, huh?”

  Fuck. It would be, if he hadn’t promised Molly he’d steer clear of them.

  Sergei frowned and spoke to Ivan. The big Russian shook his head. Deacon made out three words—Dave & Buster’s.

  While Ivan and Sergei went back and forth, Deacon watched Maddox and Courey confer with Ito, who’d just walked into the training room.

  Ivan pinned Fisher with a hard look. “We’re going to that game-playing place first, right?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “Sergei’s girlfriend forbids him to go to strip clubs.”

  “And he lets her dictate that to him?” Fisher said. “Lame.”

  Two weeks ago Deacon would’ve been railing against that too. But now . . . he wouldn’t break his promise to Molly even to save face with the guys.

  “Like Sergei said, he’d rather not piss off his girlfriend and get cut off from pussy just to look at some random stripper’s tits.”

  That gave him an out. “That’ll work for me too. I’ll hang at Dave and Buster’s, but then I’ve got plans with Molly.”

  Fisher sighed. “Didn’t you just spend an entire week with her?”