Fearless For Love (Lovelly #3)

by Clara Stone

  “Well, then, I think I know just the thing.” Fisher grins wide, leaving me and Jess standing in awkward silence.

  “SUP, HOMIES?” FISHER bellows as we walk into Stamos’s approved training gym.

  “What’s up, fuckface?” the guy standing toward the back corner of the elevated boxing ring says. He’s fit and short—short being a few inches smaller than me, so about five-eleven—and his teeth are bright against his dark skin when he smiles. There’s a gaping hole on the lower right hand side of his mouth where a tooth is supposed to be.

  My hand automatically goes to my own mouth. Ouch.

  The group of guys standing around outside the ring give us varied noncommittal greetings and continue about their business. But one, sporting a head full of bleached highlights and a full sleeve of tats on his left arms, ducks under the rope of the boxing ring and jogs toward us.

  “Sup, Fisher?” He clasps Fisher’s hand and pulls him into a manly hug. The first guy, the one with the missing tooth, soon follows, joining us with another friendly grin.

  Fisher turns to me. “Boys, meet Killshot. Newest addition to Stamos’s prized collection of fighters. Killshot . . . meet Lincoln, and Krish.”

  “Sup.” Lincoln reaches out with a fist.

  I punch mine against his. “Sup, man.”

  “Welcome to the crew, dawg,” Krish says, giving me a fist bump. “When’s your first fight?”

  “Tomorrow night,” I answer.

  “Damn, bro,” Lincoln quips.

  “You think you’re ready?” Krish asks.

  “Why don’t you get in the ring with me and find out?” I say, because I’m an all around fantastic guy.

  “All right,” he says, and hops up into the ring with a wide grin, far too eager to get his ass kicked.

  Fisher steps aside as I set down my bag, pull out my tape, and quickly bind up my hands. Krish bounces on the balls of his feet, staying loose as he waits for me to join him.

  “So, how do you want to go down?” I ask, smirking as I strip off my shirt and climb into the ring.

  “You’re a cocky one, aren’t you?” he asks, as we dance around each other.

  “So I’ve been told.”

  He comes at me, sending a quick jab in my direction.

  I sidestep and laugh. “You’re fast, I’ll give you that.”

  “Heh. You haven’t seen fast until you’ve met Whiplash.”

  “Who the hell is Whip—” He throws two more punches at me; I block one and side step the other. “—lash?”

  “Me, of course.” He grins.

  “I don’t know . . .” I throw a jab-roundhouse kick combo, getting him in the chest. He doubles over, stumbling back, and groans.

  “You seem more like Jabbermouth,” I finish.

  For the next fifteen minutes, we go at each other, trading hits and throwing insults where appropriate. Fisher and Lincoln goad us on, yelling instructions and advice from the sidelines. I tune them out for the most part.

  Finally, I send Krish flying when my back kick catches him in the stomach, and he falls to the ground.

  He taps the floor three times. “I’m done.”

  I walk over to him and extend my hand. “You got game, man.”

  “Dude.” He slips his hand into mine and I help him to his feet. “Where did you learn to fight like that?”

  “When you have a little brother to protect, you learn,” I say, which is half true.

  He nods, understanding.

  “You aren’t so bad yourself.” I slap his back.

  He grins wide with pride.

  “It was fun watching you get your ass whipped by someone else for a change,” Lincoln says as we walk out of the ring.

  “You, sir, are an asshole,” Krish replies, nursing his injury.

  “Ah, so polite,” Lincoln says, laughing.

  “What do you boys say, wanna grab some drinks?” Fisher asks. “Initiate this turd here into our way of life?”

  “Drinks on a Thursday? Hell to the fuck yeah!” Krish says as he finishes unwrapping his hands. He cracks his knuckles, grinning.

  “Oh, sorry!” Lincoln says, turning as some guy bumps into him from behind.

  The guy—Tony—turns around and cracks his knuckles. He shoves at Lincoln’s chest. “Not as sorry as you’re going to be.”

  “Listen, man.” Lincoln raises his hands. “You ran into me.”

  I notice others coming over to stand with Tony as I finish pulling on my shirt, and feel my jaw twitch. I’ve never liked the guy. He always looks like a lost puppy, just waiting for his master to tell him what a good boy he is.

  “I said I was sorry, all right? So chill.” Lincoln continues to defend himself.

  I’m wrapping a kerchief around my hand as I watch it unfold, waiting to see whether or not I’m going to have to intervene, when some guy bumps into me. I straighten and look at him. He smirks. He raises his hands and mouths, “Sorry.”

  My hands turn to fists. Sorry, my ass. I’m up for a fight any day, but not without a need or cause, so I take a deep breath and ignore it. Then someone else bumps into my shoulder, and then again from another side.

  You know, there’s only so much shit a guy like me will take from fucktards like them before he snaps. I tried to stay out of this, but . . . I guess they asked for it.

  Before the next one “accidentally” bumps into me, I turn and throw a punch at his shoulder, catching him off guard. Then I go on to punch him in the gut before kicking him behind his knees and taking him to the floor.

  “Asshole,” he wheezes, coughing.

  “You better believe it.” I unwrap the kerchief from my hand and place it around my neck, letting it rest on my shoulders. “Anyone else?”

  Some of the guys hurriedly go to their friend, attempting to help him up. Tony sneers at me, but he has two guys holding him back.

  “You’re fucking dead.” He spits venom.

  “Come on, man. Let’s go.” Fisher pulls at my arm. I want to end this right now, but I comply when he nudges me to get moving. Lincoln and Krish are already making their way to the door.

  “You better watch it, Killshot,” Tony calls at me as I turn away.

  I look over my shoulder as Fisher continues to push me forward. I might be a hothead, but I’m definitely not stupid. I’d never pick a fight I can’t win. Hudson always says that I’m the most dangerous when I’m bat-shit scared. Heath used to call it “crazy-monkey” before he learned man words. I prefer to think of it as going nuclear on their ass, but regardless, taking out Stamos’s favored henchman of the moment isn’t going to do me any favors. No matter how much he might deserve it.

  Fisher gives me a pointed look as he hustles me out of the gym, and I nod slightly, knowing he was thinking the same thing I just did. We can’t compromise our mission over a group of morons. Tony will get what’s coming to him. I just have to be patient.

  The guys are laughing and hollering as we spill out onto the sidewalk outside, Fisher and I join in, half-heartedly.

  “You know, I think we should let the champion pay for our drinks,” Krish says, practically skipping down the street.

  “I second that,” Lincoln agrees.

  Fisher finally grins and winks at me. But I can’t bring myself to smile. I turn to look over my shoulder, only to catch Tony glaring at me through the gym’s window, his fists at his side and his jaw clenched.

  Yup. This fight is far from over.

  THE BOOM SOUNDS just beyond these doors in front of me—the fight’s about to start in less than two minutes. My first fight under Stamos’s scrutiny. My chance to give him a fight he’ll never forget.

  I roll my shoulders and exhale deeply, making an “Oof, oof” sound.

  I sound like a fucking pregnant woman.

  But pregnant woman or not, I only have one goal tonight: find my way into Stamos’s inner circle and hammer the last nail into his coffin so he can’t hurt any more innocent people. People like Fisher’s parents. People like Fisher
and Anna. People like . . . Jess.

  Jess. Jess. Jess.

  Her name echoes through my head as her image swirls behind my eyes. God, when I did I go and become my brothers? Pining after a girl I shouldn’t want. I’ve wondered how her mouth would feel against mine at least a dozen times since our almost kiss last week. How her tongue would taste. The way her soft curves would feel in my hands . . .

  Maybe that’s why I can’t get her out of my head. Attaining the unattainable and all that shit.

  I laugh at my weak attempt to explain this madness. And this is a madness, this need to stay close to her, to watch her like a freak, to punch faces when needed. I have to wonder if possessiveness is a family trait. I’ve seen it in both Hudson and Heath. And now me.

  “You ready?” Fisher’s hand presses down on my shoulder.

  I turn around and pull on my game face. “Are your balls intact?”

  He chuckles. “Last I checked.”

  Shaking my head, I adjust my taped hands and crack my knuckles. “Then you bet your ass I’m ready. Let’s do this.”

  I shove the doors away from me and they fly open, hitting the walls behind with a thud. White, blinding light hits me square in the face, but I don’t flinch. Rolling my shoulders, I head toward the destination at the end of the path.

  A rustic metal cage stares back at me; the people in the stands beyond are waving their hands in the air, screaming things I don’t waste time deciphering.

  Something soft hits my shoulder.

  Black lace panties.

  I smirk, looking at Fisher as I pull them off me. He gives me a knowing smile. In college, this would have been a guaranteed ticket to getting laid, but tonight, for some reason, I just don’t feel it. So I toss them to Fisher. Maybe he can find a better use for them. As suspected, he pockets the black-lace invitation with a wink.

  Dude. I shake my head and turn my attention back to the task at hand.

  I look out into the crowd, and all I see are screaming people of all ages and shapes. I hadn’t expected it to be such a huge spectacle. So different from all the previous fights. For one, people are roped off along the path to the cage. And they’re dressed up like like they’re attending a red carpet movie premiere, glistening in suits and black dresses.

  “Ladiesss and gentlemen, put your hands together and welcome our newest, boldest, toughest opponent yet . . . Killllshhhhot!”

  The crowd roars, and the announcer continues to detail my specs like a car salesman trying to close a deal: six foot three inches, one hundred eighty five pounds of pure muscle, some fake knock-out statistics. Fisher opens the gate to the cage for me and I step inside.

  “Kick some ass, man.” Fisher fist bumps me before closing the gate and retreating to the stands.

  I guess it’s just me, the announcer, and—holy mother of all things sane, what is that thing? He can’t seriously be human, can he?

  There, on the opposite side of the cage, stands a guy ripped muscle, the size of a fifty pound dumb bell.

  Are they shitting me? This isn’t a fucking fight. This is a fucking death match.

  The human behemoth turns his attention toward me and the crowd goes silent. He stares me down, his menacing eyes honed in on me as he chews on something. Is he pretending to eat me alive? What the fuck? The muscles on his arms constrict, showing off a tattoo of a snake eating its own head.

  I raise a quizzical eyebrow. Well, okay then. Oral fixation much?

  A few seconds later, a low hum-like chanting begins:

  “Hugger . . . Hugger . . . Hugger . . .”

  “Seriously, man? Hugger? What’s next? Snuggies?”

  Wait, did I say that out loud?

  “What was that, punk?” Hugger takes a threatening step in my direction. I can’t help but notice the missing teeth.

  “Ah . . .” I look from side to side, getting a glimpse of the crowd and stalling as I scramble for a cover story. “That you’ve got amazing biceps—soft, like a baby’s butt.”

  He lunges for me, but I bob out of the way and laugh as he collides with the cage wall, making it rattle. I guess I can cross brains and speed off his list of talents.

  He’s up and on his feet in no time, ready for round two. “Why, you little—”

  “Okay, okay.” The announcer steps between us.

  I gotta say, that’s quite brave of him.

  “There’s only one rule, boys: fight until one of you taps out. No killing tonight, ya hear? Though, a full body cast is perfectly acceptable.” He grins, like he’s made the world’s best joke ever.

  Not.

  Hugger’s mood suddenly lightens.

  I grin back. Because there’s nothing worse than letting your opponents know that you’ve just shit from looking at them.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer cries, turning to the audience. “Place your bets, keep the money rolling, and find your luck. The bidding begins now!” Our referee, so to speak, then turns back and addresses the two of us. “You start the moment I step outside. Remember, if your opponent taps three times, you’re done.” His eyes glisten with excitement. Or greed. I can never tell which. “Give them a good show, boys.”

  Hugger cracks his knuckles and gives me the universal “I’ll cut your throat” gesture. And I tell him exactly where to shove that sentiment. Non-verbally, of course.

  The moment the gate closes behind the announcer with a final clank of the chains, Hugger throws a punch at my chest.

  I wasn’t fucking ready for that and it sends me flying backward. I hit the cage before I roll to the floor, coughing. Man, that hurt like a bitch. My fingers roll into fists as I gather my strength. I shake my head.

  I really gotta learn to throw the first punch.

  The crowd’s gone even wilder than before. I look up to find Hugger walking around, his fists raised high into the air.

  Loud chanting begins to echo through the room.

  “Hugger. Hugger. Hugger.”

  I slowly push up to my feet, using the cage as my leverage. I wipe my hand across my chin and spit to the side.

  Someone in the crowd yells, “He’s up! Look! Killshot is up!”

  Hugger stops and turns around, his arms falling to his sides. “You just made my day, little fucker.”

  Oh, he has nooo idea.

  Time for Plan B. Introduce the big lug to some cardio.

  I grin and charge.

  “I CAN’T BELIEVE you made us late,” Cat says, as we run toward the entrance of Dragon Core, a very well-known Chinese-themed night club in Cape Coral, an equally well-known crime-ridden part of Florida that I’d much rather avoid.

  I adjust the front of my blood red crop top so my boobs don’t spill out as I try to keep up with her. Worse still are the leather pants that sit low on my hips and are a size too small for my comfort. My ankle twists when I step up onto the curb and I grab onto Cat’s arm. “Please tell me again why I had to dress up like I’m about to get freaky in a dark alley with a bunch of dudes?”

  “Because you love me . . .” She throws a sideways glance at me and snorts.

  “And why did we have to come all the way to Cape Coral? I mean, what happened to Blue Tango and free drinks?”

  Black and red lights flash, big and huge, at the front of the entrance: an image of a dragon spitting fire at a bunch of humans emblazoned beneath the club’s name I pause to look up at it.

  “Because tonight, I have a surprise for you.” Cat turns around, a sly look on her face. It’s one I’ve seen before, right before John usually starts yelling and swearing.

  I swallow. “Cat, I know that look and whatever—”

  “Please! For me! I’ve been dying to go since Fisher gave me—”

  “I thought you and Fisher weren’t on speaking terms . . . ?”

  She holds both of my hands, her eyes both mischievous and pleading. “That doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy the fruits of all that sex—”

  “Too much information, Cat.”

  “Just . . . p
leaseeeeeee!” Jeez, her eyes are so incredibly pouty. I’ve never seen anyone pout with their eyes like she does. Puss in Boots has nothing on her.

  She sees me say yes before the word ever comes out of my mouth and she takes my hand, dragging me behind her. “This will be amazing. Promise.”

  She squeals, grabbing my arm as she speed walks toward the entrance. The line in front of the club is long, disappearing around the side of the building and I wince at the angry looks being cast our way.

  “Sorry.” The bouncer puts his hand up, stopping us from going inside. He’s wide-chested and a whole lot taller than we are. A scar runs down the side of his cheek to the middle of his neck. I shudder, not wanting to think about how he managed to get it. I wonder if it’s part of the official bouncer uniform to look so intimidating. Of course, to my five foot five inches, almost everyone looks like a giant.

  “The end of the line is that way.”

  “Line, my ass,” Cat says. “We have an invitation for your special party.” She hands him two tickets.

  He raises his eyebrow, taking them from her. He checks them out and then shines UV light against them. They must have been clean, because the next moment, he sidesteps, unhinging the red rope and letting us through. “Head left to the end of the room and take the exit door, down the stairs. Don’t worry about the alarm, it’s disabled for tonight. And here, use these for entrance,” he instructs, handing us two plastic keycards, one to each of us.

  Cat smiles brightly at me, grabbing my arm again as she leads us inside the strobe-light filled club. We shove and push through the sea of bodies dancing to some sort of trance music and make our way to the specified door.

  Cat swipes her card under the scanner and pushes the door open. I do the same, stepping inside. The narrow hall is dark, with only a slight blue hue lighting the way. Two bodyguards stand just inside the door, on either side of the hallway, dressed in black right up to their dark glasses. How do they see anything in this gloom?

  And where the hell are we going? “I swear to God, Cat, if this is some sort of kinky sex club—”

  She shushes me, and then adds, “It’s so much better than that. Now, come on. We’re almost there.”