by Abby Niles
Someone jostled Dante from behind and he bumped the man standing in front of him. The guy glanced over his shoulder and did a double take. His eyes widened. “Oh, man.”
Used to the reaction, Dante smiled. “Sorry about that.”
“N-no worries.” He turned around, still staring at Dante as if he weren’t real. “I knew there’d be fighters here, but you, wow.”
“Just got into town tonight. Thought I’d check the place out.”
“John Smith,” the man said, thrusting out his hand. “I’m a huge fan, Mr. Jones.”
Dante shook the outstretched hand. “No need for formalities. Call me Dante.”
John grinned. “So what brings you to Georgia? You’re a long way from Connecticut.”
Dante blinked then shook his head. It always surprised him when complete strangers knew facts about him, not that a simple Google search wouldn’t bring up a variety of “Inferno” fan sites with some of the stupidest things about him listed. It was the way fans said those facts so conversationally, as though they had been buddies for years, that always startled him. “I’m training here for the next couple of months.”
“With whom?”
“Mike Cannon.”
John’s mouth dropped open. “He’s one of the toughest coaches out there. He doesn’t put up with any bullshit.”
The line moved and they stepped closer to the bar. “That he doesn’t.”
“Look at what he did to Sentori! I mean, wow! That breakup shocked the hell out of me. With Sentori’s record, I thought he could get away with anything. It goes to show you Mike’s not in it for a paycheck.”
“No, he’s not.” Dante had never met the man he’d hired to coach him, but word had spread quickly in the industry about Mike’s rep. The top dog of coaches, Mike Cannon was fierce and extremely picky about the fighters he trained.
“You focused and ready to jump in?” John Smith asked.
“I’m always focused.”
Egotistical sounding, perhaps, but the God-given truth.
Over the last ten years, he’d worked hard as he fought his way up the MMA ladder, prided himself on being driven—nothing distracted him. Those qualities as a fighter had landed Mike as his coach. The man hadn’t even hesitated when Dante called him, just told him the date and time they’d start.
The person in front of them left and opened up a space at the bar. John squeezed in and placed an order. While he waited for the bartender to return, he turned back to Dante. “It’s a huge fight coming up for you.”
“The biggest of my career.”
The bartender returned with the drinks. John took them. “I hope you kick Sentori’s ass. I can’t stand the bastard.”
Dante stifled a laugh. “You and everyone else I talk to.”
Sentori also had a reputation, a bad one. Dante hadn’t been subjected yet to the other fighter’s idea of games. Time was running out, though. It would happen. Soon.
And Dante was ready.
“Good luck with the fight, man.”
“Thanks.”
The man nodded then walked off. Dante took his place at the bar and ordered. Thoughts of his upcoming match clouded his mind—Sentori, the cage, and a belt on the line.
He shoved the thoughts aside. Tonight was about relaxing. Tomorrow would be here soon enough and with it, two months of intense training.
The bartender slid a couple of bottles of Select toward him. Dante smiled; he knew exactly who he wanted to relax with. With the beers in hand, he returned to his group and frowned. Caitlyn still hadn’t returned. Something wasn’t right. Almost twenty minutes had passed. Even for the line to the women’s restroom, that was a long time.
He surveyed the area and found her sitting at a table, sipping from a glass. So she was huddled in a corner by herself. This might play to his advantage—alone in a dark nook, a perfect setting for getting to know her. Dante made his way over.
She glanced at him and blinked. “Um. Hey.”
“What are you doing over here?”
She blinked again. “It’s a little crowded tonight. Just getting out of the way.”
“I don’t think you could ever be in anyone’s way.”
She remained silent, brows knitted together. Dante grimaced. She was supposed to respond with some kind of lame answer, like “I’d like to get in your way.” To which he would respond with his own lame line. And the ball would start rolling.
Not this woman. She stared at him, then looked away, and it made him feel like an idiot. He cleared his throat. “Er… I brought you a beer.” He held out a bottle.
Caitlyn peered down at her full glass, then back at him.
Well, shit.
He set the beer on the table next to her and shrugged. “Well, you can have this after you finish that one.”
“Thank you.”
Dante pulled a chair up beside her. Her blinking increased tenfold and her gaze traveled frantically around the bar. She seemed panicked, but he planned to stay. He studied her, trying to see behind her stiff posture. Something felt off.
His eyes narrowed on the glass wobbling gently in her hand. Definitely not a sign of someone who was unaffected by him. He heard her take a shaky breath, then release it slowly. She couldn’t possibly be nervous, could she?
The woman was simply too gorgeous to be nervous around a man.
Caitlyn continued to avoid his gaze, so he took the time to soak her in. She’d captured his attention immediately. Straight, red hair fell slightly below her chin, framing her oval face with full lips. Kissable lips. The pink top hugged her lush breasts and cinched the curves at her waist. He liked what he saw. Liked what he’d held as they danced.
He leaned in closer. “So, do you watch MMA?”
She tensed. “No.”
“Oh. Okay.” Strike one. “Did you enjoy the fights tonight?”
“No.”
Strike two. He breathed deeply. “What about you, then? Anything you’d like to talk about?”
Her fingers traced the glass. “Not really.”
And you’re out. He glanced heavenward. Throw me a bone, please. He wracked his brain searching for a topic to talk about. He’d never had this much trouble striking up a conversation with a woman before.
Hell, he normally didn’t have to strike up a conversation at all. They came to him, even if he warned them off. The groupies didn’t do anything for him, which seemed to only increase their interest.
Fate sucked, man. Here sat a woman he’d actually want hanging all over him and she was being difficult as hell.
The longer the silence stretched, the more he felt as if he was royally screwing up. He took a long swig from his beer. Finally, she sighed and her shoulders slumped. He would have said in defeat, but he had no idea what would’ve defeated her.
Her green eyes made contact with his before she went back to studying her hands. The same jolt from when they’d been introduced hit his crotch. Shifting on his stool, he released a long breath.
“How did you get the name ‘Inferno’?” Her voice was soft.
He tried to concentrate on the question when all he really wanted her to do was look at him, but she kept her attention on her glass as her finger slowly circled the rim. The movement captivated him. Images of her making the exact motion on certain parts of his body made him gulp as his body tightened.
He shook his head. Stay on track. Keep to the conversation. “I got the title when I was fighting amateur. I had a match against one of my buddies.”
Her head jerked up, and she once again graced him with eye contact. His mouth went dry as his gaze dipped to her lips.
“You had to fight a friend? How do you do that?”
With her attention on him, he took a chance and slid his arm around the back of her chair, bringing himself closer to her shoulder. Her eyes widened.
Okay. Trying to get close was a big no-no right now.
He sat back and rolled his shoulders. What were they talking about? Oh, yeah. Fighting
friends. “Fighting can’t be personal. You lose focus that way.”
Caitlyn frowned and sipped her beer. “With what you do, there has to be hostility.”
“Between some, yes. I haven’t had that happen yet. I’ve respected every fighter I’ve fought.”
“But it does happen.”
Where was she going with this? “Rivalry matches do happen. I have a friend who has a rival.” He chuckled. “God, anytime they have a matchup, everything heats up. The tension, the slandering, the bitch talk. Brian, my friend, trains as though he’s possessed.”
“Then fighting is personal.”
He laughed and held up his hands. “I concede. In some cases, yes, looking at it that way, I guess the added hostility does help focus.”
“I would say so.” Caitlyn shook her head. “So your title?”
“The match lasted three minutes. I pretty much beat on him the entire time and finally knocked him out. For days afterward, he talked about the raging inferno who was Dante Jones. And the name just stuck.”
“So you didn’t pick it to make yourself sound cool?”
A startled laugh escaped his mouth. This woman held nothing back. “I didn’t. Some fighters do, though. I’m proud I earned mine.”
“As you should be.” He thought he heard sincerity in her voice, but she was looking in the opposite direction as she took a swallow of her beer, so he wasn’t certain.
Had he impressed her? He wanted to, but he couldn’t tell one way or the other if she liked what she heard. He had no idea if he was on the right track or headed for shutdown.
Even if she was trying to brush him off, he really wanted to get to know this chick. He didn’t know why; he usually didn’t waste his time on someone who appeared uninterested. But his body responded to her in a way it hadn’t to a woman in a long time, probably because everything was offered to him freely nowadays. He was damned tired of it.
“Inferno!” Mac, his temporary roommate, waved him over.
She sighed, and Dante frowned. That wasn’t a good sigh. She shouldn’t be relieved to see him leave. He grabbed a napkin off the table and pulled out the pen he always kept handy for autographs, then jotted down his number. He folded the paper and handed it to her. “Call me.”
She stared at it before hesitantly taking it, pushing him to ask, “Can I have your number?”
Caitlyn’s mouth popped open. “Umm…sure.”
She took the pen from him and wrote down a number on another napkin. He tucked it into his back pocket. “My roommate is ready to leave. I’ll call you, okay?”
“Okay.”
He walked away from table, hoping she hadn’t done the classic give-the-man-the-wrong-number move. He’d soon find out.
…
Later the same night in her bedroom, Cait scowled at her image in the oval mirror. What was it about her that sparked his interest? Yes, she’d lost eighty pounds, a feat she was immensely proud of, but she still wasn’t the typical kind of girl these fighters hung around. And she knew the type; one glance around the club confirmed the blond Barbie was the preferred woman.
And she was far from the blond Barbie.
Well…she was closer than she’d ever been to being one, but she still had thirty pounds to lose. Turning to the side, she sucked in her gut and pressed the oversized navy shirt close to her stomach. She’d worked so hard. It’d taken her a year to lose that much, but even with the extra weight gone, the mirror refused to get any friendlier. She still felt like the chunky girl all the guys loved to hang out with, but never thought to date. With a disgusted sigh, she yanked the material away from her body.
Dante’s attention didn’t make any sense.
On rare occasions, a guy would ask her out—guys completely unlike Dante Jones.
Inferno.
Cait still cringed at her remark to his name. But being surrounded by such muscle, such perfection, in hell had been exactly how she’d felt.
She turned from the mirror and picked up the folded napkin on her vanity. Opening it, she studied the masculine scrawl. Underneath his number, he’d written his name in sharp block letters. The writing matched the man—strong and commanding.
Two traits she didn’t know how to deal with when it came to her limited experience with men. Two traits she didn’t want to deal with. So she’d tried being aloof with her one-word answers. Anything to give him the impression she wasn’t interested. It hadn’t worked.
Crumbling the napkin in her fist, Cait walked to her wastebasket. She stood over it and held out her hand. But her fingers refused to cooperate.
Open, damn it.
But they remained firmly locked around the paper. Groaning, she tossed it back on her vanity and slumped onto her bed.
What if he called?
It wouldn’t matter if he did. They were not suited for each other. He was a cage fighter. And Caitlyn Moore and violence did not mix.
Chapter Two
Dante slung his heavy gym bag into the corner and studied the facility he’d call home for the next two months. The sheer size of the training center impressed him. It was at least four times larger than the one in Connecticut.
A traditional boxing ring in the center captured his attention. Two men, one wearing red headgear, the other in blue, squared off as they sparred. Dante itched to join them. He wanted to feel the energy course through his body as he calculated his opponent’s next move—while formulating the countermove that would shock his foe and lead Dante to victory.
He forced his gaze from the ring. On the left, numerous red punching bags hung unused before bleached white walls. Contrary to his reaction to the ring, the bags sent nervous anticipation traveling through him. The sand-filled canvas bags appeared innocent enough, but Dante knew better. Hours upon hours of grueling, painful torture would take place before them, testing his strength of mind. He dreaded the encounters.
In the right corner, a blue mat was on the floor. Dante sighed and stared at the grappling pad. His biggest challenge. The one weakness that could cause him to lose the most important fight of his life. He shook his head. He wouldn’t think like that. Negative thoughts only brought negative energy. That he wouldn’t allow.
He swept the facility with one final glance. The only thing missing was the cage.
He’d save the cage for Vegas, when he’d rip Sentori a new one.
A door closing echoed through the quiet room. He turned to see a bald boulder of a man headed his way. Dante recognized the former heavyweight champion immediately and smiled. “Mike.”
The man returned the smile and offered his hand. “Damned pleased to meet you, Dante. I’m excited to have a fighter of your caliber under my roof.”
“Only the best to help me beat the best.” In two months, Dante would have the toughest fight of his career. He would need every advantage he could get, and a coach who’d once trained his opponent would help lead him to victory.
“You said it. Defeating Richard Sentori won’t be easy. You’re going to have to train your ass off. I’ve watched your fights. You’re good, real good, but Sentori is better. Unless you improve your ground game, you don’t stand a chance in hell.”
Dante respected Mike’s bluntness. This was what he had come for. A kick in the butt, one that would push him into the next realm of fighting, which would end with the championship belt wrapped around his waist. Of course, there was the bonus of being the first to crush the unstoppable Richard Sentori.
Mike leveled him with a stony stare. “Battling Sentori won’t happen just in the octagon. He trained here until his attitude got out of control. Quite frankly, he’s an asshole. Mind games are his weapon of choice outside the cage.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard of his reputation.” “Asshole” didn’t begin to cover how the other fighters described the man. “He’s pissed a lot of fighters off before their match. How he keeps winning is beyond me.”
“Because he’s good. But he does enjoy getting under his opponent’s skin before a fight.”
“I know his game and I’m prepared for it. He won’t get the better of me.”
Seeing the sparring partners finish their drills, Dante climbed onto the side of the boxing ring, hooked his hand around the ropes, and entered the square. Hopping from foot to foot, he shadowboxed along the perimeter of the stretched canvas floor.
Blood pumped through his body. Adrenaline raced through his veins. He threw his head back, relishing the feeling that always accompanied his entry into the ropes, fight or not. Increasing the momentum of his punches, he exhaled in measured breaths as he pictured Sentori’s face before him.
Mike jumped onto the side of the ring and leaned against the ropes. “Those punches aren’t going to help you, you know.”
Dante lowered his arms. “Yeah, I know. I like to stand up and fight, which will be a problem with Sentori.”
“Damned straight it’ll be a problem. If luck is with you, you might catch him with a punch.”
Dante grimaced. No fighter wanted to win by luck. They wanted a solid no-questions-asked win.
Mike sighed. “I know Sentori. He’s studying your fights, looking for all your weaknesses. As it stands, he’ll have you on the ground within seconds. A ground game is what we’ll have to work on. We have to make sure he won’t catch you in his signature hold once he takes you down.”
Dante nodded and resumed his shadow boxing. Sentori’s rear naked chokehold was lethal. He was able to snake his arm around an opponent’s neck like a python: strong, methodical, and unbreakable. Once he had it locked in, well, his record spoke for itself. Out of twenty fights, fifteen had been won by submission.
Dante, on the other hand, had twelve wins by knockout. Improving his jujitsu was crucial to handling Sentori on the ground.
“We have a lot of work to do, but with dedication and focus, I think you can win this. And I will get my own personal satisfaction at training the man who finally takes down Richard Sentori.”
Dante had every intention of delivering. Sentori was the last fighter standing in his way to achieve the one thing he had beaten countless men senseless for: the welterweight championship title.
And he would have it.
