I’m toweling off an hour later when I hear Cage call my name.
“Yeah?” I holler back.
“Can you give me a hand hanging this new bag?” he yells from the other side of the studio.
Recently, he acquired another portion of the strip of old buildings the studio resides in. It’s a great set-up. He and Tempest have turned the upstairs into great living quarters, and everything below is nothing but mats and bags with mirrors lining most of the walls. Eventually, Cage plans to build a ring in the middle of the new building, amping up his arsenal of training equipment.
Fuck, before he’s done, this place will be better equipped than Erickson’s. He’ll have enough space to host his own events. Being in the backwoods of Tennessee, there’s nothing like this for miles. You’d have to go into Knoxville to find something even close, but all of those gyms lack one thing.
Cage Erickson.
I might be biased seeing as how he’s my older brother and I’ve always looked up to him, putting him on a pedestal, but it’s true. Before his injury, he dominated the sport. Everyone wanted a piece of him even though they knew they couldn’t beat him. They just wanted the bragging rights: I fought Cage Erickson—The Fighting Viking.
I want that.
I want to be everything he was . . . but better. I’m going to fight smarter and be in it for the long haul. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. Now that I’ve paid my penance and finished college—something Cage never did—I’m going for my real goals.
“On my way,” I finally call back, tossing my towel down and jogging over to where he’s standing on a tall ladder, marking where to drill bolts into a beam that’s attached to the ceiling.
“Hold the ladder,” he instructs when I walk in. “This thing is shaky as fuck and if I don’t get this in, I’m going to Hulk smash this place.” He mutters continuously as he positions the bolt and begins to drill.
Hanging bags is something my brothers and I have done together for years and we usually make quick work of it. This time, though, is proving to be more difficult.
Cage has managed to strip a couple of bolts trying to drill them into the old steel beam and he’s getting more pissed by the second.
Meanwhile, I’m trying not to laugh and piss him off even more.
“You got a good grip on the bag?” he asks when he finally gets the bolt in and attaches the hook.
“Got it,” I tell him, ready to get this shit over with so we can go back to training.
As I’m holding the bag, I feel the tension give way. Instinctively, I look up just in time to see the chain whip through the air.
I try to drop the bag and guard my face, but I’m not fast enough. The impact of the chain hitting my face knocks me off balance and I fall to the floor with a thud.
“Oh, shit, man! Are you okay?” I hear Cage jump down off the ladder and the next second he’s kneeling down beside me, hovering. “Let me look at your face.”
“I’m all right, just a little stunned.” I hiss, pressing my hand to the skin and feeling a sting. “I might have a shiner, but those are a dime a dozen around here.” Sitting up slowly, I try to get my bearings.
Cage curses under his breath before rushing off. Seconds later, he tosses a towel at me with instructions to hold it to my cheek then grabs his phone and calls Tempest.
“Hey, baby. Look, we’ve had a bit of an accident in the studio and I have to take Gunnar to the ER.” His eyes grow concerned and he draws his brows together when I bring the towel away from my face and we both see all the blood. “No, I’m sure he’ll be fine, but I’d rather a professional check him out just to be safe.”
My stomach rolls as I register how the once-white towel is now bright fucking red. You’d think being a fighter, I would be good with blood, but this is more than I’m used to. Besides that, typically when I see blood, it’s usually coming from someone else. Not to be overly cocky, but I'm a damn good fighter.
“Keep that towel on your face, dammit,” Cage orders.
“Where the fuck is it coming from?”
Come to think of it, my face feels a little numb.
Cage grabs me by the arm and helps me stand, then quickly guides me outside to his truck.
Once I’m seated and buckled in, he jumps behind the wheel and takes off, tires screeching as we leave.
“You have to talk to me, man. What’s going on?” I’m practically begging for answers because all I know is my face is bleeding and we’re headed to a hospital somewhere. My brother’s silence, while probably soothing for him, is only causing more panic to rise in me.
“I think the chain that hit you must’ve had a jagged edge because it sliced the shit out of your cheek. I’m sorry, man . . . that’s on me.”
Hearing the worry in his voice is concerning.
I’ve always looked up to Cage, idolized him probably more than I should, but he’s always taken care of me. I can see it all over his face that he feels like he’s failed me somehow because of a stupid accident that could’ve happened to anyone.
“Shit, bro. I know you hate me being better looking than you, but you didn’t have to fuck my face up,” I say, trying to diffuse the tension with some humor. When he takes his eyes off the road for a second to look at me, I give him a wink and the best grin I can manage, but he doesn’t take the bait.
“It’s not funny, G. You could’ve been seriously hurt. It could’ve sliced your fucking eye or something . . .”
I hear the unspoken truth. It could’ve sliced my eye and taken me out of the ring—and ended my career before it ever got started. But it didn’t.
“It’s just a flesh wound,” I joke, quoting our favorite Monty Python movie. This gets a smirk out of him and I see his shoulders relax some.
“Where the hell is this hospital you’re taking me to?” I ask as Green Valley fades into the rearview mirror and nothing but trees frame the road.
“The closest hospital is in Maryville, about thirty minutes away.” He glances over once more, giving me a furtive stare. “Keep that towel pressed on your face . . . we don’t need you losing too much blood.”
I can’t help the laugh that escapes me, but I quickly shut that shit down. The splitting pain from my face moving is enough to make my stomach roll again. The initial numbness I was feeling is fading and now, I have to admit, I’m kind of nervous.
Put me in the ring with someone twice my size and I’m good.
Stick me with a needle and I’m the biggest pussy you’ve ever seen.
“Think I’m gonna need stitches?” I ask, sounding more like a kid than I’ve felt in years.
Cage sighs, his right hand leaving the steering wheel and settling on my shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “You’re going to be fine.”
Just like always, I believe what Cage tells me—because in all my twenty-two years, he’s never steered me wrong. For my entire existence, he’s always been there to back me up and right my wrongs. When our other brothers would give me shit as a kid, Cage would come to my defense.
Maybe it’s our difference in age? Him being seven years older than me might’ve put enough years between us that I didn’t annoy the shit out of him like I did Viggo, Vali, and Ozzi. Or maybe it’s our similarities? When I say I’ve always looked up to Cage, I mean it. It’s been from day one.
My first memory of him is in a ring. I was probably four and we were watching one of his early fights. It was in a dingy, rundown gym and the kid he was fighting was taller and bigger, but my big brother didn’t let that scare him. He fought that giant with everything in him, leaving it all on the mat.
I remember the roar of the small crowd when everyone cheered for him. It was the first time I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, he was awesome and I wanted to be just like him.
When we pull up at the hospital, Cage parks the truck in front of the emergency room. Walking inside, I see the lady at the window and watch as her eyes go wide at our approach. I’m pretty sure it has nothing to do with my injury and everything to
do with the beast at my side. Plus, I’m no small cookie.
Together, we probably look very menacing. If you didn’t know Cage, you’d probably think he’s some kind of assassin. He’s a scary looking mother fucker. I’m not as big as he is, but we’re built the same and look a lot alike—same ice blue eyes, same blond hair.
“He’s got a nasty cut,” Cage offers. “We’re going to need to see a doctor right away.” His tone is direct, leaving no room for discussion.
Her eyes snap from Cage to me and then back to Cage. “Yes, sir . . .”
There’s a buzzing sound and the doors to our left open and she meets us there. “Follow me. You can fill out the paperwork while you wait for the doctor.”
Once we’re in one of the curtained-off areas, I have a seat on the edge of the bed while Cage paces the small space, making it feel even smaller and making my anxiety spike.
“Sit the fuck down,” I tell him once the lady leaves. “I told you, it’s a flesh wound . . . I’m fine.”
He stops, turning and running a hand down his face. “Sorry . . . I’m just thinking of what Mom’s gonna say when she sees your face.”
I roll my eyes. “Like she hasn’t seen worse.”
Our mother is married to a fighter and has raised five boys who all spend time in the ring, if not professionally, then recreationally. She’s no stranger to injuries. Over the years, she’s seen us all beaten to a bloody pulp. That can’t be easy, which is why she’s probably so strong—hardened, even. She can’t help it. It’s the only way to survive living with people who throw themselves in front of a punch for the love of a sport. Definitely not for the faint of heart.
Cage occupies himself with filling out the paperwork the lady brings back, which is helpful because the blood still hasn’t stopped flowing from my face. I’ve had my fair share of split lips and cheeks over the years, but nothing that’s bled quite this bad, which leads me to believe it’s deeper than I thought.
After a few more minutes the lady from the front desk comes back and takes the paperwork and my insurance card and driver’s license. “Someone will be in shortly to take a look at that.” She winces when I pull the towel back. “Might want to keep that there until the nurse gets here.”
As the minutes tick by, I feel Cage getting antsier and antsier.
“What the fuck is taking so long?” he growls, running a hand through his hair, which is way longer than it’s ever been. So is the beard he’s sporting nowadays. I’ve always been the only one who kept my hair longer. I like the way it looks and it’s something that sets me apart from every other Erickson. In a family as large as mine, you’ve gotta work to find your niche.
The hair is mine.
The ladies love it.
“You really look like a fucking Viking now,” I muse, lifting my legs up onto the bed and reclining back. If I’m going to be here a while, I might as well make myself comfortable.
Cage gives me a smirk. “You’re just jealous of my manliness.”
I laugh at that and then wince. “Shut the fuck up.”
A few seconds later, the curtain pulls back and my heart stutters. Not from fear or anxiety, but from . . . attraction—pure, unadulterated attraction.
The woman standing at the foot of the bed staring at me has the most gorgeous brown eyes I’ve ever seen. They’re dark and intense, standing out against her pale skin.
She’s completely feminine without being overtly so. Her short hair gives her an edge I find alluring . . . I literally can’t take my eyes off her.
“Mr. . . . uh, Erickson,” she questions, eyes flitting from my brother to the chart and then up to me.
That’s when the creamy skin of her cheeks turns a light shade of pink.
Clearing her throat, she immediately looks back down at the paper. “I . . . I’m . . .” She stumbles over her words for a brief second before she straightens her spine and clears her throat, obviously gaining full composure before looking back up at me. “I’m Frankie.”
Her voice is a bit raspy and low for someone as small as she is. The majority of the population seems small in comparison to Cage, or even to me, but she’s maybe a smidge over five feet and couldn’t weigh more than a buck-twenty-five soaking wet.
“I’m Cage,” my brother says, rising from his seat to shake her hand. “This is my brother Gunnar.”
Apparently, I’ve forgotten my good manners and have been reduced to a heap of blood and bones, just staring at her, because Cage walks over and gives my leg a nudge.
“Uh, let me get you a gown. I’ll be right back.”
When she turns on her heel and pushes through the curtain, it flutters behind her in her haste. I look up at Cage, obviously appearing just as confused as I feel because he huffs out an incredulous laugh and runs a hand through his hair. “For fuck’s sake,” he mutters.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
But it’s obviously not nothing because he continues to smirk, shaking his head.
“Did I say something?”
Barking out another laugh, he turns to me. “No, dipshit. You didn’t say anything. Actually, I was wondering if perhaps the injury is worse than I thought and we should have your head examined.” He leans over the bed, putting himself right in my line of sight. “What’s my name? What day is it? How many fingers am I holding up?”
He flips me off and I swat it down.
“Here.” Frankie is back with a hospital gown that she tosses into my lap. “Put that on and let’s get a good look at what we’re dealing with.”
Glancing down to the gown I realize, for the first time, I’m not wearing a shirt.
So, that’s why she blushed. Mentally I give myself a fist bump. I’ve worked damn hard on this eight pack I tote around and I’m not ashamed of it or any other part of my body, for that matter. And this chick has elicited more of a visceral reaction out of me than any girl has in a long time, if ever, so I’m glad to know I have an effect on her as well.
Smirking down at the flimsy piece of fabric, I pick it up and set it at the end of the bed as I pull myself into a sitting position and toss my legs off the edge, bringing my body closer to hers and getting my first up-close encounter with Frankie.
Her scent is a bit sterile, like this hospital, but there’s also a hint of something citrusy under all of that. I’d love to go in for a closer inspection . . . right behind her ear, where her pulse point is—heart beating wildly, pumping blood to the surface—and inhale.
“Let’s just get to work,” I tell her with a wink, hoping my dick stays put and doesn’t make this even more uncomfortable than it already is . . . for her, of course.
“Lie back,” she snaps, her eyes darting up to mine. A new no-nonsense air floats around her, walls of steel firmly in place, as her gaze turns cold and aloof. “This is probably going to hurt.”
Have I mentioned I’m a perfectionist? When I get something—or someone—in my sights, I can’t stop until I reach the top.
Ace the test.
Make the grade.
Get the degree.
Graduate with honors.
Win all the rounds.
Be the best.
And in this case, get the girl.
Chapter 2
Frankie
I was having a perfectly normal day. A pedestrian who ran out in front of traffic and got hit by a vehicle turning into the gas station came in earlier with a broken femur. Then, there was a man who was out shooting—for target practice, thankfully—and a buckshot ricocheted back at him and caught him right under the eye. Two flu cases, even though it’s early in the season, and an appendicitis attack rounded out my day.
Until him.
Gunnar Elias Erickson.
Twenty-Two.
Six-foot-three.
Two hundred and thirty pounds.
A fighter with the most piercing, translucent blue-green eyes I’ve ever seen.
Growling out my frustration, I try to shake away his memory as I scrub my
hands in the sink, getting ready to take my break and find something to eat. When you work in an environment like this, there are no normal time schedules or meal titles, like breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I just call them what they are—sustenance. You eat when you get a chance. You sleep when you get a chance. You pee when you get a chance.
Sometimes, people even fuck when they get the chance.
Not me.
I’m not into relationships. They’re too complicated and take up too much time. I’ve never been one to need a man to complete myself. I feel complete all on my own, thank you very much. However, that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate the opposite sex.
One time, a fellow nurse asked if I’m asexual. I’m not. I notice. I lust. I just don’t act on it; not because the desire isn’t there, but because my discipline is greater than the desire. Maybe I owe that to my mother. She’s always made it perfectly clear that men bring complications.
According to her, safety is found in solitude.
I’m not the recluse she is, but I do see the reasoning in her irrational thoughts.
“Who was that beefcake?” Marie asks, saddling up beside me at the sink. My hands are now missing the top layer of skin. I’ve been scrubbing for long past the prescribed time, lost in my thoughts, all thanks to the beefcake.
Marie says the term like an endearment.
I, on the other hand, decide it’s my polite southern way of calling him what I really want to call him: cocky, arrogant . . . violent. As I stitched him up, small talk led us to what caused the injury, which led to what he does for a living—or rather, what he’d like to do for a living. He’s training to be a fighter. I don’t like people who fight.
Maybe that’s the nurse in me, unable to understand anyone who’d want to counteract what I do for a living. I’m in the business of making people well; healing their wounds, not giving them.
I’ve never understood violence.
That’s another thing I can credit to my mother. She’s always drilled into me to steer clear of it. Not just turn the other cheek, but run. When I was little, we played a game where she’d tell me the bad men were there and I had to run to my room and hide under the bed, pulling the boxes in front of me so I was basically invisible.
Beef Cake Page 2
