Raw

by Katy Evans

  FORTY

  THE PHOENIX AND THE SCORPION

  Maverick

  It’s pitch-black when my cell wakes me. Reese stirs beside me, and I blink to focus. I smile when I see her curled up to me, warm and soft, her hair tangled up somehow around my arm. I ease it from beneath her, hearing her mumble, “No,” and I smile.

  The Tates’ hotel was fully booked, but I’m staying just down the block.

  I want her close.

  I ease off the bed, snap on some boxers, and head out to the living room to take the call.

  “Maverick Cage?” a female voice asks.

  “Yeah.”

  Fuck, it’s 3:00 a.m.

  I pull the phone away to scan the number. I’m frowning as I put the phone back to my ear and peer out the massive window at the blinking lights of New York and the long, shadowed rectangle of the park. “It’s about your father.”

  I hear the word “father” and I’m immediately transported to the moment I first saw him; the broken man I last saw in the hospital bed.

  My body engages like it does before a fight. “He’s awake?”

  There’s hope, stupid hope, in my guts when I ask that.

  Hope that for the first time in my life, my father will look at my face.

  For the first time in my life I can stare at his eyes and say, I’m fighting, Dad.

  “Unfortunately, he didn’t make it. They tried to ease him out of the induced coma and . . .” She trails off when I inhale sharply. “The doctors want to speak with you about what’s next.”

  Disbelief.

  Denial.

  Anger.

  I grit my teeth as I lift my free hand and stare at my bruised knuckles in the dark.

  “Sir?”

  I turn my hand and glare at my palm.

  Is it bigger than his? Wider than his? Does he have all the calluses I have? Does my strength come from him or from his denial of me?

  “Sir?”

  I glance at Reese as she stands at the bedroom door with the crisp bedsheet wrapped around her shoulders, so fucking lovely my eyes hurt, and I gruff into the speaker, “I’ll take the next flight out.”

  “Maverick? What’s wrong?”

  I scrape my hand down my face and end the call, then I toss my phone aside, go and scoop her up, and take her back to bed. I set her down, look at her face, and just want to bury myself inside her again, all night. The rest of my life.

  “My dad’s dead. I’m taking a flight out. Get some rest.” I reach for my jeans and a clean T-shirt.

  “I want to go with you, Maverick.” She reaches for her clothes.

  “No. I don’t want you near him.”

  “Why?” She halts, then drops her clothes and stares at me in question.

  I shove my legs into my jeans, zip up and snap them, and then stare at her for a moment, and slowly shake my head. “I just don’t.”

  I’m ashamed for Reese to know my father. I’m ashamed for her to see where I come from. You’re the good in my life, all of it. My lucky charm. I don’t want you near the bad.

  Not even my own mother wanted to be near him again, a woman who once loved him. I don’t want my girl near him either.

  “I’ll be back for the fight,” I say, shoving into my T-shirt and quickly grabbing my stuff.

  Reese clutches the sheet to her chest, her eyes loving and tender and full as she comes to me.

  Comes to me and lovingly kisses my lips.

  I’m slayed by her.

  Everything she does touches me.

  Everything she does pleases me.

  Everything she does cuts me.

  “For luck?” I ask thickly, probing into her eyes, desperately searching for the measure of peace I crave to find.

  She calms me; but there’s no calm for me now.

  She shakes her head, smiling with more liquid emotion in her eyes. “For love.”

  ♥ ♥ ♥

  THEY NEEDED SOMEONE to claim the body—and nobody had. He died alone. In a fucking hospital bed. Never knowing his son. Leaving . . . nothing but his old fucking gloves.

  Next was a burial, a service, and no one seemed to want one. Not him, and to be honest, not me.

  I still buried him. Just me, standing there among thousands of other headstones, with a priest I’m sure he would’ve cussed at.

  My eyes are dry. I’ve got cuts and scrapes from the fight, and my ribs still hurt like a bitch when I move to open my backpack.

  I shift and grit my teeth, forcing my body to take the pain as I pull out the old gloves my dad sent me and toss them into the grave.

  All my hopes follow those worn, torn black gloves.

  I will never look into his eyes. Will never know if what they said about him was true. Will never know if there was something good in him or if all I’m spawned from is pure, undiluted asshole.

  I feel no pain. Only frustration. Frustration and anger.

  When the priest leaves, I speak to him for only the second but last time in my life.

  I say, harsh, low, angry, “Goodbye, Dad.”

  FORTY-ONE

  LEGEND

  Maverick

  I feel poisoned just from looking at my dad in a casket. Just being near him and reliving all the years of waiting for him, waiting to prove myself to him.

  I’ve run until my lungs are on fire, quads, calves, abs burning like firestones, my brain flaming with flashes of him in a coffin.

  Flashes of Tate in the ring.

  Flashes of me putting on my boxing gloves.

  Flashes of Reese, saying, Love me hard.

  Flashes of Oz, drinking.

  Flashes of my mom, getting a check from me.

  I hit the hotel and spend an hour under the shower spray, shutting my eyes. My phone has been buzzing, but I don’t pay attention to it.

  Oz has been calling.

  The final is in three days. I get back to New York tomorrow.

  That’s all I know. I fight my fight in three days.

  And I fight Tate—more father than I’ve ever had. It won’t feel good to beat him. It won’t feel good to lose, either.

  While my real father died, I was training with Tate.

  His greatest enemy. Who took me under his wing.

  I got close to them. I got weak, thinking I was getting stronger. I’ve got more muscles but less walls around me. I can’t be weak, I can’t laugh with them, talk with them.

  Fuck, I can’t believe I was so careless.

  I dropped my guard. Like they’ll accept me? Fucking nobody does. They’re watching me, guarding what I learn. Like the saying “Keep your enemies closer. . . .”

  And I fell like a love-starved puppy begging for a damn bone.

  Because of Reese.

  And He’s with me.

  And blue eyes and six freckles now.

  And smiles that fire me up.

  Fingers that feel soft.

  A cheek on my chest.

  And secrets about her dark days and her new ones.

  And my favorite ass in the world.

  I don’t want to have anyone.

  I don’t want to need anyone.

  I don’t want to feel anything.

  I don’t want to feel like this.

  I want to be alone.

  Me, Tate, the ring.

  But even with Reese miles away, she’s with me more than ever. When I fight the fight, she’ll be in my head more than ever.

  And chances are, I won’t be the guy she’s rooting for to win.

  I turn off the water and towel off, pull on a pair of sweatpants, grab a jump rope, and take it on with a vengeance.

  ♥ ♥ ♥

  IT’S PAST MIDNIGHT and I crave her voice like I crave nothing else. I dial her phone, get the voice mail. And listen to it like a junkie, Hi, this is Reese. I can’t come to the phone but leave a message. . . .

  I leave no message. But I text:

  He’s gone.

  I toss my phone aside and shove my rope back into my duffel and
drop on the bed, then punch my pillow and plop to my stomach, hating that all that’s left of him is in me.

  FORTY-TWO

  THE DARK AVENGER

  Maverick

  New York is rainy today. I’ve been back since noon, and I’ve spent the afternoon tossing the stupid tennis ball against the bathroom wall of my room until I catch it, crush it until it’s flat, then toss it away. I head to my phone, go online, and spend a half hour on the airline sites. Then I text my mom a message. The only woman I’m sure roots for me, since I’m not sure whose side the woman I love is on.

  Fighting the champion tomorrow

  I just emailed you an airline reservation

  If I win, I’ll always regret you not being there to see it

  And I’m going to win, Mom

  Come to my fight

  I look up Reese’s number, and my finger pauses. The thought of her takes pieces of my brain. I’m simmering inside. I sigh and drag a hand down my face. I won’t back down. I can’t lose.

  I won’t lose.

  I have one chance to see if I’ve got it. One chance to bring it to this one fight.

  But what if winning means hurting her?

  Who’s my girl rooting for?

  The Tates are her family. They treat her well—give her love, support, and acceptance.

  My dad did none of that, and I was still with him. How can I expect less of her and the Tates?

  I’m still going to prove that I deserved the Black Scorpion’s time, his attention, his respect.

  I’m still going to prove to myself that I am good fucking enough.

  I’m going to be accepted by the whole goddamned world even if I wasn’t accepted by my own dad.

  I’m going to be a legend.

  And a legend will never be gone, even when six feet under.

  And a legend gets the girl.

  A legend wins the girl.

  I’m a fighter and I’m fighting tomorrow night.

  But fuck my life, I don’t feel like fighting when I think of my girl not backing me up.

  I grab the tennis ball again and try to give it shape, frustrated that I can’t, when there’s a knock on the door.

  I set it down and open, and Riptide stands out in the hall.

  I stalk back in the room and leave the door open behind me, then watch him from across the room as he shuts the door and follows me inside.

  “I’m sorry about your father.”

  I shrug. “Yeah, me too.”

  He seems to feel the need to specify: “I’m sorry for you.”

  I lean on the wall and cross my arms. “I’ve been alone my whole life. I don’t need anyone to win.”

  “Yes you do, and you have her. Reese let us know the day you left whose side she’s on. And it sure as fuck ain’t mine. She’ll be in her seat on the front fucking row on your left. Right next to the woman I love, who will be cheering for me.”

  I clench my jaw, my chest expanding painfully as I process this. “She said that?”

  “Crystal clear. And I respect that.” He nods, then shoots me a warning look. “I won’t make it easy for you tomorrow, Maverick. I’m bringing my A game.”

  My fighter instinct engages, and I push away from the wall and brace my feet apart. “I’m bringing all the game I’ve got.”

  He grins then, and we’re back—our competitive juices flowing. He raises his fist, and I instinctively take a step forward and raise mine. We bump knuckles. And it’s on.

  It’s. Fucking. On.

  “I’m still bringing it home, Tate,” I warn.

  “Bring it home, Maverick. I’m still gonna lay it harder on you than anyone.” He steps closer and raises his brows warningly. “And just so you know, whatever it is you think you’re fighting for—Avenger is my legacy. Not your father’s. Mine.” He grabs me by the back of the neck and looks me in the eye, squeezing in some sort of combined threat and encouragement. “You’re a good kid, Maverick. If you’re going to take the ring, you’re going to need to fight to the teeth for it. And if you best me tomorrow, fair and square like your father never did, I’m going to be proud. I’m going to give something back to this ring before I go. I’m going to leave them you.”

  He walks to the door, and I growl, “I’m game.”

  He grabs the doorknob but waits a moment. “You’re in an identity crisis. Who you think you are and where you come from versus who you can be and where you’re going. I can relate.”

  I laugh. “How can you ever relate to that?”

  “I’m bipolar.” He looks me in the eye, unflinching. “So yeah, I can relate with the monsters inside. Mine’s in my head. Yours is in your blood. Don’t let it win.”

  He jerks the door open, and adds, “That’s our real fight. The one that lasts a lifetime. The hardest to win. You win that, a fight like tomorrow’s is a piece of cake.”

  ♥ ♥ ♥

  I HAD TO call her. I had to see her face. I had to know that what Tate said was true.

  As soon as she says she can come over, I open the door of my suite and wait for her. I hear the elevator ting, and see her step out. She stops when she sees me, and I watch her come to me, every step just a little faster, until she throws herself into my arms.

  “You’ve been in New York for a while and you didn’t call me?” she asks, hurt, clutching me closer as she whispers against my neck.

  I breathe in her hair and speak against the top of her head, stroking a hand down the back of her head. “I’m sorry, I needed to be alone. I’m so used to being alone.”

  “But I’m on your side,” she protests, chiding me with a scowl.

  I nod and scoop her up, bring her in, and shut the door. She’s in my corner. And all I want to do is hold her to my chest tonight.

  FORTY-THREE

  THAT MORNING

  Reese

  I peel my eyes open early, at around 4:30 a.m., when I hear the shower running.

  I open the bathroom door a little bit and peer into the stall. He’s soaping himself up in all the glory of glory itself. I am so very addicted to this man.

  My mouth waters as I take in his wet, golden muscles. “Are you going to let me soap you up?” I hear myself ask, sex vixen that I woke up being today. “Because I have never, ever done that in my life and I just added it to my bucket list of things to do before I die.”

  His eyes go dark and look a little possessive as he reaches out and takes my hand, urging me inside. “What else is on that list?”

  “I just made it up.” I smile as I take a few steps toward him and the water spray. He’s so beautiful. One touch of my fingers on his wet skin and the cock that started hardening when I peered inside fills up completely.

  I start to blush when he looks at me naked. Have I ever stood naked before him for so long, completely naked, with this much light? “What is this? Are you blushing?” He lifts my face by the chin. “I appreciate looking at you like this,” he assures me tenderly, running his wet hands over my body.

  “I’m realizing.” I laugh a little.

  I’m hot with embarrassment and trembling in excitement as he reaches out and runs a bar of soap down my arm. He soaps me up, every spot possible except between my legs until, point blank, weak with anticipation, I hold on to his shoulders and bite down on his wet tendon as I part my legs a little.

  He laughs softly in my ear. “Did I miss here?” he teases me, running the bar over my sex.

  I blush and nod, wrapping my arm tighter around his broad shoulders. “I’m so reckless with you,” I whisper in his ear.

  “I thought you didn’t like it,” he says, lifting an eyebrow as he turns me to the spray.

  “I kind of do.” I reach out to stroke him as I kiss his neck and soap him up next.

  We end up transferring the soap between each other until we’re both lathered, until I don’t know who’s soaping who, where my hands are, where his hands are, but the sensations are coming from all over the place as we fool around in the shower.

  When
he finally brings us out of the shower, he grabs a towel and wraps it around my shoulders, then he grabs me by the hips and lifts me.

  He stands in the middle of the bathroom, lowering me down on him as he kisses me. I catch the reflection of us in the mirror on the side—unexpectedly. His every muscle cut and flexing. His powerful legs, his abs and ass as he thrusts, his arms and chest and shoulders as he lifts me and lowers me. And me, so pale, my blonde hair wet and streaking down my back, the towel sliding down my body—his cock submerging into the pink, shiny, swollen lips between my legs.

  I’m eroticized by the sight of us together because I’ve seen movies, I’ve seen porn, I’ve seen pictures and art, but I have never responded to the sight of a couple making love the way I respond to seeing Maverick spreading me open as he lowers me down on him.

  I see myself, and I don’t look like the girl I saw in the mirror several months ago. I’m not self-conscious. I’m sexy. I’m woman. I’m wanted. I’m made perfectly for him.

  Gasping his name, aware of the intensity of my feelings, I’m the first to come, but he comes as hard as always, buttocks flexing, body pumping as he nibbles my neck.

  I’m shy when I notice he catches my gaze in the mirror, and I whisper, smiling, “Aside from being for my purely selfish purposes . . . that was for luck.”

  He mock-frowns at me, as if terribly disappointed. “And for love?”

  I nod, grinning happily.

  He still holds me aloft with one arm and cups the back of my head with the other, looking at me as if I’m the eighth wonder of the world. “You’re a shot of pure fucking heaven in my veins.”

  FORTY-FOUR

  IT’S TIME

  Maverick

  It’s a half hour to the match and Oz won’t open the door to his room. “Oz!” I bang the door. I jerk on the doorknob and bang harder, resisting the urge to crash through with my shoulder.

  Three minutes later, I come back with a member of the hotel staff, who unlocks the door.

  He’s in the small sitting area of his room, bottles all over the place.

  “Oz, Jesus.” I grab the bottles and start tossing them away, then I go and stand before him. He won’t even look me in the eye, his bloodshot eyes staring past my shoulder.