Raw

by Katy Evans

  I nod. “I can be your partner,” I blurt. “Tomorrow.”

  Sable eyebrows go up. “You spar?”

  I raise my chin a little tauntingly and nod. “I’ll learn.”

  Suddenly I feel really energetic.

  I sweep Racer up in my arms. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say, and turn back to the stroller and our stuff, walking quietly. I think I feel his gaze on my back, so I distract myself with Racer and fish the dried fruit from the stroller seat. “Do you want more of these?” I ask Racer, showing him the bag.

  He shoves my hand away and tries to run off again. “I want to find the dog.”

  I sweep him up with effort. “Okay, but hop in here and I’ll push you real fast.”

  He stops squirming to get free and obeys and lets me sit him down, grinning over my shoulders at something.

  Or someone.

  I turn back to Cage, who’s watching us with a half smile on his face that does more for me than anything halfway should do, and I smile wanly and feel his eyes on my back as I push Racer down the path.

  “That’s not fast, Wee! Fastew!” Racer says.

  Shit. Really? My ass is going to bounce like crazy.

  I lean over to him. “When we round the corner, please, enough embarrassing Reese in front of a boy for a day.” I ruffle his hair and then look ahead in search of the Labrador.

  FOUR

  KNOCKING

  Maverick

  The hotel business center has a dozen dormant computers save for the one I’m using. Surfing the net for trainers in the Seattle area. Writing a new list. I started at the top and am at the lower tiers now as I write down the second name, then scan for another half hour. Fuck, I’m quickly running out of options.

  I log out, tear the page off the hotel notepad, and stare at the two names I’ve got on the list. I rub my jaw and reread the addresses and locations.

  I fold the page, shove it into my jeans pocket, grab my bottle of water, and head out to the bus stop.

  I make two stops.

  Two more doors closed in my face.

  I plant my hand flat on the last one, gritting my teeth and slamming my palm into it.

  “Come the fuck on, man!” I yell.

  No response.

  Jesus.

  Motherfuckers.

  I drop down on the sidewalk and lean my head back against the wall, scowling.

  I’ve got three days to find a coach. Three days to make fighting even possible.

  I dig into the front pocket of my jeans and pull out the penny I found outside Hennesy’s. I curl my palm around it, willing it for a change of luck or something even better—a goddamn chance.

  ♥ ♥ ♥

  I GREW UP with my mother in Pensacola. Near the beach. She wanted me to enlist in the army. Turns out, I was never good at being disciplined. “When I named you Maverick, I didn’t know you’d take it so to heart,” my mother playfully chastised when I left the corps.

  We’d agreed when I turned twenty-one, I could see him. My father. “He travels due to his work, Mav. I don’t know if you should see him.”

  “I’ll travel with him. I want to learn. I’m his son, aren’t I?” I think I imagined a connection between us. I couldn’t wait to get out of Florida.

  My dad used to send me a pair of boxing gloves every birthday.

  “He was a good man,” my mother would say when I asked about him.

  “I want to see him.”

  “He was. A good man.” She emphasized the “was.”

  I didn’t get it. You weren’t good, and then bad, that couldn’t be. Could it? I was too young and too fucking stupid.

  On my twenty-first birthday, she gave me his contact information, and when he never answered his phone, I went looking for him on my own.

  My father—the one I envisioned as big, powerful, and one who had noble reasons to leave my mom and me—was helpless in a hospital bed too small for his body. There was no warning. Nothing to tell my mother and me that his life was going to change ours forever. It was pure daylight, a day like any other. But I was in a city I’d never been in. Alone.

  So I sat there with no tears to cry.

  Just him and me.

  A stranger whose blood I share.

  The doctors said they were trying to get his brain to cool down after the accident. They induced a coma. He hasn’t wanted to wake up. His coma is real now. It all depends on his will to live, they say.

  “My father fights; that’s what he does,” I told the doctors. It’s all I know about him.

  “He may not have any fight left in him.”

  I looked at my father; he was scarred, banged-up, beat-up. Not the guy my mother has a picture of.

  Don’t stop fighting, I wanted to say.

  But I didn’t say it. He’s never heard my voice. I still don’t know if I should call him Dad, Father, or the nickname they gave him as a fighter.

  Instead, I said, “I’m going to make you proud.”

  I flew back home, showered, and changed, remembering the doctors when they told me it didn’t look good as I took out my boxing gloves. I found my mother in the kitchen.

  “I’m not coming back home.”

  She cried softly. I put my arms around her and I held her. Six years before, I outgrew her in height and she felt small in my arms and fragile.

  “I love you, Mav.” She grabbed my jaw and kissed my cheek. “Let me know where you go. Stay in touch.”

  “I will.”

  “Maverick. You’re not your father. You don’t have to do this.”

  “No. But I’m half of him. And half of you.” I looked at her. “I want more than what I have here.” I opened the door with nothing but a duffel bag, my saved money, and my backpack. “I’m going to prove him wrong to believe I was never worth a moment.”

  On the bus, I pulled out the last gloves my father sent me a birthday ago. He didn’t send me new ones, he sent me old ones with a message: Since you never use the ones I sent and clearly don’t plan to, sending ones a real fighter’s used.

  The gloves are so old, they’re taped at the wrist with silver duct tape. I slipped my hand into one glove, and then the other, and realized they fit me.

  They fit me.

  FIVE

  SPAR WITH ME

  Reese

  How’s the high life?

  Miles finally texted last night. I was already in bed when my phone buzzed. I peered at the screen and jolted upright.

  I should’ve probably waited a minute to answer. It’s not good to seem anxious or anything, and to be honest, I haven’t been. But he’s one of my closest friends and one of the few people who knows everything about me and likes me anyway.

  Good! I texted back.

  Thinking of visiting and meeting your new friends.

  Was he using that as an excuse? I frowned and wondered. But we’re friends. He doesn’t need an excuse; he could say he misses me and that’s it. Maybe? Hesitantly, I typed, Sure. When do you want to visit?

  Not certain yet, maybe to semifinals? Can you introduce me and the guys to RIP then?

  I read the message, then eased out of bed and looked at myself in the mirror. By the time he comes I’ll look amazing, be exuding so much self-confidence, and have a clear direction in my life. So I wrote: I’ll see what I can do but I’m sure it’d be fine.

  ♥ ♥ ♥

  I DON’T HAVE that many friends; I value the ones I have because it’s always been a struggle to make any and keep them.

  I show Brooke the text in the morning. “Hmm. I don’t know,” she says thoughtfully. She shows my phone to Pete since we all have breakfast at the Tates’ large kitchen table.

  “Nope.”

  Riley looks at it next. “Definitely friend-zoned.”

  Remy stares at the phone before passing it back to me. He lifts his gaze and looks at me with beautiful blue eyes, just like Racer’s, and shakes his head somberly. “Get a man with balls, Reese.”

  I tuck my phone away. “Men wi
th balls scare me.”

  “Not a real man. A real man hands them over.” He leans to the side of the table with a dimpled smile, chucks Brooke’s chin, and kisses her on the mouth. My ears grow hot, yet I can’t stop staring at that dry but hard, possessive peck on the lips they give each other.

  Once I’ve got Racer’s picnic bag from Diane, we head out to day care in one of the SUVs. I start getting nervous as we drop off Racer and I walk to the gym.

  What possessed me to tell Cage I’d spar with him? I can barely trot on the treadmill with my head held high for an hour.

  But it’s a boot camp, a physical and spiritual and mental one—a whole lot of new Reese to discover and nurture—so I’m giving myself the boot. Or letting Cage do it.

  Disappointment hits me when I don’t see him outside the gym. I scan the block to see if he’s late, but there’s no sign of him.

  The doors open halfway and one of the admission ladies calls me inside. “Reese?” She waves me forward. “We let your friend in; we know he’s with you.” She grins at me, sheepishly and knowingly.

  I want to explain that it’s not what it seems. That we’re just friends. But I spot Cage through the glass doors of the gym and I feel helplessly tongue-tied.

  I keep my eyes on the jet-black hair on the back of his head as I wander into the bustling gym area, the sound of weights slamming down and padding footsteps and background music around me. My eyes trail the suntanned skin on the back of his neck. Add to that sweatpants that hang low on his narrow hips and give new meaning to sexy.

  Why is he so damn intriguing?

  He’s taller than I am. At eye level, I’m staring at the middle of his chest; his defined pectorals, to be exact. His nipples that are sometimes hugged by his damp-with-sweat shirt. His impressive muscles. His body is lean and corded but muscular, like fighters’ bodies usually are, and a dangerous rebel vibe radiates off him.

  He’s jumping rope, with his earbuds in.

  “Hey.”

  I’m about to tap his shoulder when he stops jumping and turns. Eyes that are quiet and remote fix on me. My gaze drops, just a little, admiring his beautiful lips and the angle of his jaw. . . .

  I take in his neck, the fit of his shirt on his tapered torso, and by the time I take an impulsive, reckless visual trek down the rest of him and back up to his gorgeous face, his brows quirk up. Those electric steel eyes pierce me, sending a strange buzz through my body.

  His entire attention and focus is on me now, not on the gym. His eyes are not moving, and my heart strains as he takes one step forward with predatory grace, closing the distance between us. This guy would be a panther in the fighting ring. . . .

  My eyes widen in surprise when I suddenly realize he heard me greet him.

  He’s wearing his earbuds, but I said hey and he spun around, and now he continues staring unabashedly at me. He most definitely heard me.

  I realize he’s not listening to music.

  That he uses the earbuds to keep people away.

  I have an odd understanding of that too.

  He pulls out the earbuds and shoves them into the pocket of his sweatpants—and yes, he didn’t stop the music at all. Because he wasn’t listening to music. He was, like a predator, paying attention to his surroundings without alerting the prey.

  “Hey,” he says, and the muscles rippling under his shirt quicken my pulse when he starts coiling the rope around his wrist.

  “You’re not listening to music,” I say. “You’re using those earbuds so people don’t talk to you.”

  He shoots me a skeptical look along with an amused twitch of his lips as we both start to glove up. “I’m not here to make friends.” He scans the crowd dismissively. “Way I see it, one day I’m going to face them in the ring. Easier to smash their faces in if I don’t know them.”

  Holy god, the look in his eyes.

  I’ve read novels with vampires, where the terms “bloodthirsty” and “bloodlust” are used. I have never, ever seen bloodlust in anyone’s eyes. Until this heartbeat, this second, this crowded gymnasium. When this guy’s eyes glow red with it.

  “You can’t smash my face in, I’ll have headgear,” I tell him as I reach for the headgear.

  He frowns, then there’s an exasperated clench of his jaw. “Look. You said spar, not chat.”

  “I don’t like talking or hearing myself speak either, but you make me want to talk.” I frown at him. “I don’t even know why I offered to spar when I don’t know anything about you.”

  He sighs and leans on the ropes as we both climb into the ring.

  Sending him a wary look, I drop down on the edge of the ring and slide my legs under the ropes to let them hang to the side. I won’t gain much, sparring with this guy. I know for a fact he’ll spar like a pro. I’ll gain more from talking—I’d gain information.

  And I’m intensely curious.

  He sits beside me reluctantly. He’s tall and strong and wide-shouldered. A person shouldn’t occupy more space than their body actually occupies—but this one person does. I’ve never felt a presence as strongly as I do his.

  I’m uncomfortable, too acutely conscious of this male, extremely attractive person sitting warmly next to me, his body so hot from the exercise and exuding such powerful warmth and energy, I feel the strangest urge to edge away.

  I don’t though.

  I stand my ground, or rather, park my ass on it, and try to act chill.

  “What’s your name? Is it Cage?” I ask him.

  He seems to consider the question as he looks at me, almost as if he’s deciding whether to tell me.

  “Maverick,” he finally says, frowning a little and staring out at the room as he seems to consider some complicated puzzle.

  “Maverick? Like Top Gun?”

  “Minus a Goose.” He grins and it’s irresistible. I can’t help a feeling of losing hold of myself.

  “So what’s your story?”

  He’s quiet. As if there’s no story to tell, and there’s no way there’s no story behind those steel eyes.

  “You from around here?” he asks me instead, leaning back to look at me. I get a squeeze somewhere. I don’t even know where it’s at, it’s so alien. I clear my throat and try to use the same tone I’d use when talking to my girlfriends.

  “I’m traveling for the summer. For the season. With my cousin.” I don’t tell him that I’m trying to push myself, trying to better myself, even trying to find myself. “Are you fighting?” I ask him.

  “Not yet.”

  “But you will?”

  “Yeah, I will.”

  “You’re good?”

  “We’ll see.” He bites the Velcro wrap of the glove around his wrist and then pulls it off with the opposite elbow, and when he does the same with the other glove, I notice his hands, long-fingered and strong. His knuckles are impossibly bruised.

  “I need a coach for the Underground to accept me,” he says.

  “So get one.”

  “They’re booked. They suspect I’m not good at taking direction.”

  “You’re a bit of a rebel, Maverick? Who would’ve guessed ? ” I grin.

  He almost smiles back at me.

  His muscular arms are bare and flex again as he sets his gloves aside and reaches out to remove mine.

  “So get a coach who doesn’t coach.”

  He laughs. A pleasant laugh that surprises me. When he tugs off each glove, I wrap my arms around my midriff. “I’m serious.”

  “Someone to just sit in my corner?” he asks.

  “I guess.”

  “You available?”

  Oh.

  Is he serious?

  I don’t know a lot about him—Maverick, god, I love his name—but even when Maverick is near, I want him nearer.

  There’s a low hum in my body now and it’s impossible to shake off.

  I shake my head ruefully. “No, I can’t go to the fights.”

  “You travel for the season but don’t go to the fights
.”

  Now he’s teasing me. And it’s making me smile.

  “Because I’m working. I don’t get to go on a soul-searching vacation without earning my keep for it too.”

  “If I get into the Underground, will you come watch me fight?”

  “Can’t, I’m working.”

  Something like hope dies in his eyes. He clenches his jaw. “Yeah.”

  “You can try Oz.”

  “What?”

  “Not what. Who,” I specify. “Oz Molino. He’s retired. I heard . . . nobody wanted to use him ’cause he just sits there, drinking or hungover. His wife left him.”

  He nods then. “I’ll look him up.”

  We run out of things to say. I’m reluctant to leave because, with him, it feels as if I’ve known his voice and him for more than the few days it’s actually been. I like this feeling so much but I can’t even determine its source.

  His gaze feels so probing all of a sudden; he looks at me as if he’s been waiting for me for a long time. I feel like I too have been waiting for him for a long time.

  It makes no sense. It’s just a look, and just a feeling.

  You never know what really lies under a look and you can’t apply reason to every feeling. But it’s all there. Tangible, palpable. As though there’s a string between us, one end in him, and the other end in me.

  As we settle into a long silence, there’s a shuffle behind us. We glance simultaneously over our shoulders to realize the ring is being taken.

  “Oh, drat,” I say, mock-scowling at him. “I’m going to have to show off my awful sparring abilities some other time.”

  I’m not sure, but I think I detect a flash of disappointment in Maverick’s eyes.

  Unexpected warmth floods me to the marrow of my bones.

  “I’ll go get Racer early, I guess.”

  I slide under the ropes and hop onto the floor, and he slides from under the ropes and smoothly stands as I shoot him a smile and start to leave.

  “Hey, thanks,” he calls back at me.

  Our eyes hold for the most intimate pair of seconds I’ve ever lived. Inside my sneakers, I swear my toes are curling.

  “’Bye, Maverick.” I hurry away.

  Then I join the day care pickup line and try to regroup, but my brain isn’t in the game. It keeps replaying our talk. Him in the park. Him piggybacking into the gym with me.