by Quinn, Cari
“Probably.” Feeling daring, I spread my legs and got another bruise on my shin for the trouble. “It gets worse.”
“Doesn’t it always?”
“The woman I’m going to fight… I want her to meet you.”
“For what?”
“Her gym’s decent, but I think you could help her. She’s really good,” I added when he continued to stare at me like I’d grown a third eye. “She has experience with the martial arts from Muay Thai to Karate. She boxes. Wrestles. She even knows how to fence.” Good enough to nearly cut my heart out, but we didn’t need to discuss that right now.
“Let me get this straight. You’re going to fight a woman.”
“Yes.” Under extreme duress, but yes.
“A woman you want me to train to beat you.”
I nodded. “Essentially. How soon can you fit her in?”
He shook his head like I was patently insane. Since I was, I didn’t take offense. Then he muttered, “have her call me,” and waved me out of his office.
I couldn’t stop the grin as I walked out. That had gone way better than expected. Now I’d just have to hope like hell curiosity prompted her to call.
On the way home, I stopped at a leather shop. The sheepskin-lined gloves were an impulse purchase. Now I just had to figure out a way to get them to Mia without talking to her. Or kissing her.
Or pressing my mouth between her legs, something I couldn’t wait to do.
Maybe I’d better stop at the post office tomorrow. Shipping them was safer all the way around.
Once I was home again, I took a nap before firing up my laptop to do some research on sports medicine and physical therapy. Starting with online courses seemed like my best bet, so I contacted Cornell and had my transcript sent to two potential schools where I could get my basic requirements out of the way. Then I ordered a pizza and fed half the pepperonis to my pup while I watched a couple of action movies.
The entire time I kept one eye on the clock. Each minute that passed felt like another lost year of my life.
She would be fine. Fighting was her routine just as it was mine. After a while, it didn’t require thought. You went through the motions and your body took over.
I’d briefly considered going to the match before deciding she didn’t need to see me pacing and fretting like a jittery grandma.
And honestly? I didn’t think I could hack it. The first time Cross touched my girl, I’d be over the ropes and hauling her out of the cage. Probably by the hair.
Yeah, I had it bad. I was slowly coming to terms with it.
What I couldn’t come to terms with was the possibility of losing her before I’d even had a chance to really step into the ring.
The phone rang at a quarter to eleven, and I grabbed it with tense fingers. Most unsanctioned fights were over by this time, unless they got a late start. I didn’t know if female fights were different. Didn’t want to know. I wanted her out of that life and behind a desk somewhere. Or a counter. Anywhere but where she was now.
Slater’s name on my Caller ID had me stifling a groan. I loved the dude, but I wasn’t in the mood to hear about who he’d banged last and who he wanted to bang next. My headspace had changed so drastically in a week that I wasn’t sure he’d recognize my voice.
“How were the waves?” I asked instead of what I really wanted to say.
Let me worry in peace.
Christ, if I wasn’t careful I’d need to knit a pair of booties for my balls.
“Eh, kinda shitty. It rained almost the entire fuckin’ time. In Malibu, man. What’s up with that?”
I grunted in support and checked my watch.
“But I met someone. She’s…” Slater trailed off without using any of his usual descriptive language, namely tits, ass, or pussy. “Unreal.”
“Gonna try the long distance thing?”
He laughed in his usual throaty Slater way. He always sounded like he’d just smoked a pack of cigarettes embalmed with beer. “Nah, she came back with me. She’s taking a shower right now.”
“Define ‘came back with you.’”
“She’s sort of moving in with me.”
“Oh. Good luck then.” From this angle, I had trouble seeing the numbers on the TV. I’d developed a routine. Look at the TV, look at my phone, look at my watch. I’d have to be a rebel and break the order.
“Yeah. We’ll see how it goes. We’re just getting to know each other.”
A week ago, that probably would’ve sounded more illogical to me than it did right now. Tonight, it only rated another grunt and check of my watch.
Eleven on the dot. As soon as I got Slater off the phone, I was calling. Fuck it.
“What about you?”
Ah, what the hell. Might as well tell someone my sordid secret. “I met someone too.”
“No shit? It’s been one hell of a week, huh?” Slater laughed. “You didn’t move her in, did ya?”
“No. I’m going to fight her.”
That statement garnered the silence I was expecting. Who needed flowers and chocolates when you had a cage and gloves?
“You for real?”
“Yeah.”
Blowing out a breath, I told him an abridged version of the story. Leaving out the aborted sidewalk handjob, alley sex, bathtub fingering and post-fencing fuck, of course.
Since we were guys, telling the whole thing would’ve normally taken about a minute. I didn’t have time to embellish as I might have, so the shortened episode ate up approximately thirty seconds interrupted by Slater’s muttered, “dude.”
We hung up after agreeing to meet for lunch tomorrow at KY Burger. It was really called Kool Yum Burger, but that was the dumbest name ever.
It seemed appropriate since I was the dumbest guy ever. Why else would I be calling a woman who hated me to ask about the safety of the woman I’d walked away from?
Using a number I’d sneak-memorized from Mia’s phone the night before and had to try five times to get right, no less.
Kizzy took so long to answer I was about to hang up and try a sixth time. Fuck voicemail. I’d ring right through the side of that bowling bag purse of hers if that was what it took to get her to answer me.
I wasn’t waiting until morning. I’d show up at Mia’s door first.
“Fox Knox?” she shouted into my ear, sounding like she was in the center of Times Square. Must be still at the fight then.
“Kathleen Cavanaugh?” I shot back.
She made a sound of disgust. “I’ve broken bones for less than calling me that. How did you get this number?”
“A little birdie told me before I ate her for dinner.” I ran a hand over my scalp. “Mia?”
“Don’t you mean Spyder?”
“Don’t fuck with me right now. Is she okay? Did she win?”
She jostled the phone before silence descended over the line. She must’ve moved to a quieter place. My heartbeat pounding in my ears made up the difference.
“What do you think happened?” she asked after a moment. “She skipped training yesterday. Skipped it again today. She’s a mess and you’re the reason. I hope you’re happy.”
Happy? No, I was the exact opposite. So opposite that my chest caved in on itself just imagining Mia hurt.
Hurt more. Because of me.
I ground my forehead into my palm. I needed the pain to keep me focused or else I’d tear through the city until I found her. “How bad?” When Kizzy didn’t answer, I growled. “Goddammit, you tell me how bad or I’ll come down there myself. And I fucking guarantee you won’t like it.”
“Wow.” She whistled. “That was some speech. Does your hand know you’re seeing someone else?”
For the first time in current memory, I had no response. Absolutely none.
“She won, you fuckhole. She’s fine. A little roughed up, but no worse than I’ve done to her during a sparring session. No thanks to you.”
Relief poured through me, sweet and heady. I sagged into the couch, my free
arm falling bonelessly to my side. I could breathe again.
What I couldn’t do was speak. My vocal cords were still paralyzed.
“She won’t tell me what happened with you two last night,” Kizzy continued. “First, I heard the swords going, then it switched to the adult version. Damn, I usually hear fewer grunts and groans in the gym. Less swearing and begging God too.”
Only wusses flushed. And me. “She’s really okay?”
Kizzy didn’t answer my question. “Carly didn’t need to hear you ramming her sister’s bed through the wall so I turned the music back on. Then you take off, and Mia comes out with sex hair, looking all dejected. What’s the deal, Foxy? Couldn’t find her clit?”
I’m not having this conversation. I’d keep repeating it in my head until I believed it.
“I gotta go,” I muttered. “Uh, thanks.”
The smile came after I’d hung up and grabbed my laptop. Mia had won. Of course she had. That was my girl, kicking ass. She could take care of herself. I just wanted the chance to help.
That didn’t sound the least bit like I was whipped.
No, sir.
I closed the browser window that still contained school stuff and opened another. The blank search line mocked me, daring me to type her name. Why was I nervous? It wouldn’t pick up anything. Besides, doing this was a violation of her trust.
But since she didn’t trust me anyway, what did I have to lose?
I typed in her name and hit enter. Steeling myself, I read through the first couple pages of entries.
Relief bloomed in me for the second time that night. See? Nothing but a couple of random entries in a few fighting blogs. Completely minor. I’d just do a bit more checking around to make sure, then I’d close down the computer and try to get some sleep.
For the hell of it, I typed in Georgia and her name. Carly had mentioned that was their home, plus Mia spoke in a southern accent sometimes, particularly when she got…excited. Narrowing down the location would eliminate the chance I’d missed something, as unlikely as that was.
So she had issues and clearly bad shit in her past. Who didn’t? I wasn’t going to find anything on the web. That niggle along my spine that always saved my ass was wrong this time. It wasn’t intuition. This was just a waste of—
Her picture snagged me and stopped me dead.
Strong fingers wrapped around my throat, squeezing tighter until I had to shut my eyes against the wavering pattern of dots in my vision. Only after I opened my eyes again did I realize the pressure around my neck came from my own hands.
I unclenched my fingers, mesmerized by the image of long dark hair, bright lively eyes, and a disarming smile. I didn’t know that Mia, but she’d existed once.
Until some motherfucking bastard had killed her and left the shell behind.
Amelia Anderson. Her name wasn’t Mia at all, which explained why Carly kept calling her “Ame” the other night.
The grainy photo I came across in an old Georgia newspaper with the headline—Local Girl Rescued From Basement Prison—stole a piece of me and cast it into an abyss that only existed for other people. I’d been born privileged. Even now that I’d entered the sometimes dangerous world of underground fighting, I was just a visitor. Just a trespasser out on a day pass from my real life, one that existed behind spired gates and came with monogrammed shirts and vanity license plates.
I spent time in a cage by choice. She’d been given none.
I made myself keep reading. The location of my hands revealed the progress I made with the article. At first, they gripped the top of my laptop, holding it in place so I didn’t rear up from the sofa and send it smashing into the wall. As I scrolled through the circumstances of Mia’s life retold in dry, subtly judgmental catchphrases, my hands fisted by my hips. By the end, they were holding on to the computer again, knuckles white with tension.
When I finished that article, I immediately sought another, despite the bile coating my throat. I didn’t understand why her name had been in the paper at all. She’d been a minor and usually the names of underage trauma victims—I couldn’t bring myself to use the term rape—were protected. But she’d been missing for months, and the story had broken so hugely that perhaps they hadn’t been able to keep a lid on it.
A memory teased the back of my mind. Watching the nightly news with my arm wrapped around the shoulders of the latest girl I’d brought home. I’d already been counting down the hours until my parents went to bed. Even now, I remembered her name. Sami, the purest girl in our class. Hooking up with virgins usually meant the act played out in stages, but I enjoyed the challenge.
Rich boy thrills came in safe, perfectly-groomed packages. And Magnum condoms.
I’d been so hyped on that night’s imminent deflowering that I recalled too many details about the evening. How I’d skipped out on lamb for dinner, and the bottle of wine secreted in my trunk for our pre-bed toast. Oh, yeah, I was a sophisticated bastard. Nothing but the best for Sami.
And when I’d glimpsed the picture of the missing girl too close to my own age on the newscast, she’d stuck in my head because I’d felt a momentary pity that she had died so young.
Because she had to be dead. She’d been gone for weeks.
Such a pretty smile. Just like Sami. Wide-eyed, innocent.
So fucking innocent.
The girl’s disappearance was a big story, similar to so many others that filled the news reels before fading into obscurity. My mom had commented on it, since a branch of our family lived in a neighboring Georgia town. Isn’t that a shame, blah, blah.
Then I returned to flirting with Sami, the missing girl forgotten.
Until now.
She’d lodged herself in my consciousness, buried so deep that I hadn’t been able to excavate the recollection until this moment. Her face and her name. Amelia. Old-fashioned, lovely. But it didn’t matter, because I’d known she had to be dead. Even by sixteen, I’d been jaded as hell.
Seven years ago, I’d been hoping Sami would give me a blowjob and/or her virginity. Mia had been hoping to survive the night.
Three months. Almost ninety days, she’d been in captivity, imprisoned by a disturbingly normal-looking guy in his mid-thirties. He could’ve been a teacher or a doctor. His eyes weren’t filled with madness, unlike how mine probably looked like right then. He’d given her a ride home after cheerleading practice one day—or so the cops had surmised. She hadn’t been seen since.
Eventually, she’d gotten free from that lunatic, taking advantage of him being away from home to sneak out a basement window. He’d returned early and caught her on the way out and she’d stabbed him with a piece of glass from the window she’d broken. He died later at the hospital.
I gripped my throbbing head. That was what that stupid paper considered a rescue? Mia hadn’t been rescued. She’d fought her way clear. She was still fighting. Still using her smarts to survive.
Fourteen years old and she’d killed a man to save her own life. And I thought I had problems because I didn’t want to be compared to my daddy? Jesus Christ.
Sick to my stomach, I pushed the computer off my lap and ground the heels of my hands into my eyes. They weren’t wet. They’d burned dry, all of the moisture in my body evaporating and leaving only hard, brittle resolve in its place.
I’d thought I brought all I had into the ring every night. That I’d tested the limits of my determination and will.
I was wrong.
This was the biggest test I’d ever faced. I didn’t know how to comfort someone. I broke bodies. I didn’t stitch them back together. But every part of me ached to go to her side. To protect her. No one would touch her again.
Not while I had anything to say about it.
She’d become so much more to me than just a woman I’d had sex with. Somehow she’d changed me in a few days, and the man I was now couldn’t turn away. For the first time ever, I had a real reason to fight.
Maybe she didn’t trust me to be a g
ood guy—maybe I hadn’t been one before—but I could keep her safe.
If only she’d let me.
Instinct told me to spell out how I felt. If she didn’t like it, too bad. She needed me, and by fuck, I needed her. No, I didn’t know why. Yes, it had happened fast. So what? I’d lived by my wits for so long that I wasn’t about to start questioning my gut feelings. She had to feel what I did, didn’t she? Had to feel something. We could have even more than this. But not if I tried to strong-arm her into understanding that I wasn’t like the other men she’d known.
Which meant I had to learn how to not be like those men.
Groaning in frustration, I laced my fingers behind my neck and stared up at the ceiling. I liked the idea of romancing Mia, even if I wasn’t entirely sure how. It just didn’t seem like the right approach. What if I spent my time sending her flowers and candy or whatever guys did to show they were interested, and she kept fighting until she got seriously hurt? Or worse?
And God, I’d talked so dirty to her. Hell, I’d been so dirty. She seemed onboard with all of it, but maybe I’d taken the wrong path. I was no longer the wine-and-woo type, but if she craved that, I’d do my best to give her what she wanted.
No matter what, I wouldn’t treat her like a victim. She was a survivor. If a little of my dirty talk sneaked out, I’d have to trust that she could deal. I wouldn’t dishonor her by putting on kid gloves. Not when she’d asked for fists.
God, in under a month, I was due to face her in the cage unless I could change her mind. I didn’t have time to seduce her slowly. This required a different plan. What, I had no clue.
While I was figuring it out, I had to see her and make sure she was okay. Not only from tonight’s fight, but in general. She wouldn’t ever truly heal from the hell she’d lived through—one I hadn’t been able to fully stomach reading about, and that was the sanitized version—but she was so incredibly strong. I needed another dose of that strength to feed my own. Maybe then I could do this. I had to become more than I’d ever been to help her.
She would never be alone again.
I went to take a shower then pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt. I stuffed the gloves I’d bought in the front pocket of my hoodie and, out of habit, turned to grab my coat off its usual peg.
