Shadowboxer: Tapped Out Book 1

by Quinn, Cari

  I didn’t reply. What could I say? That he was right? That it didn’t matter even if he was?

  “I’m going to be in damn knots until I see you again. Do you get that, Mia?” He grabbed hold of my shoulders and flinched, probably from his torn-up hand. Resignation drifted over his features. “And you’re still going to go.”

  Desperate for space, for air, I elbowed him away and pulled on my hoodie. I yanked on the zipper and the piece of crap broke off in my hand. The worn silver plating mocked me as I stared at it in my palm. Tarnished and cheap. Not worth saving.

  I turned, pushing past Tray’s sweet dog and my own inadequacies. Shoving them back into the box they’d been in all these years. If I could just force the lid down, I’d be okay. I’d survive this too.

  Something soft fell out of my pocket onto my bare feet. The gloves. Without looking, I bent to gather them up and clutched them to my chest. I knew them by feel, by smell. I’d torture myself by wearing them, by pretending I understood even for a moment what it was like to have someone care about me. All of me, even the dented, damaged beyond repair parts. I’d sleep in his jacket and remember his reverence and his eyes and the way I’d felt cherished before the truth of what I held inside had rejected it all.

  In one week’s time, he’d pulled the best and the worst out of me. This torturous back and forth had to end. The price wasn’t my body, but my psyche. My physical form could withstand way more damage than my mind. Once it shattered completely, I wouldn’t come back from it.

  The irony was that what had nearly sent me over the edge wasn’t hate or rage or pain. Those I understood. It was love.

  Eyes blurring with tears again, I went back to the couch to get my socks. I’d almost walked out barefoot. I tucked them in the pocket of my raggedy hoodie and burrowed my bare, bleeding feet into my sneakers. I’d probably have to throw those out too.

  “Mia.”

  I stopped at the door without looking back. We’d had so many goodbyes in such a short time. So much drama and angst, so little laughter. But what we had, I’d hold close for the rest of my life. Maybe someday I’d even find the strength to be grateful.

  So why the next words left my mouth, I’ll never understand. I knew what had to be done. He was right about choices. It was him or me—that simple.

  “That’s not my name,” I whispered, aching to turn around and run right back into his arms. He’d catch and hold me, despite everything. That lingerie weirded me out and brought back memories that tormented me in my sleep, that I cried when I came, that I was frigging insane.

  “The fuck it isn’t,” he rasped. “You’re Mia. Mine.”

  Twenty-Three

  Fight night. Again. I was trapped in a real life Groundhog Day. Blood and bruises not optional.

  Bouncing on my heels, I crossed the jump rope in front of me, going through the reps methodically. In reverse, crisscross, side swing. By two hundred jumps, I was suitably winded, and my still raw hand was screaming its displeasure at its latest abuse.

  It had suffered a lot in the past week. So had the rest of me, my chest most of all. And I wasn’t talking about my pecs.

  I dropped the jump rope and peeled off the fresh bandage around my palm. Well, it had been fresh an hour ago. Now it was turning a charming shade of pink.

  “Still running yourself through the grinder?” Slater swaggered across the locker room in a pair of super tight bike shorts that basically put his dick and nuts on parade. The guy had no shame. And no stomach for blood, which was kind of funny considering our profession. He paled the instant his gaze dropped to my oozing hand. “Jesus, speaking of meat…”

  “Pussy.”

  “Masochist.”

  “Your point?”

  I dug through my bag until I found the antibacterial cream. After squeezing out roughly a third of the tube on my mangled palm, I slapped on a thin gauze pad that wouldn’t inhibit my range of motion too much and tried to unwind the bandage roll against my thigh.

  Slater appeared at my side and sighed. “Give me that.”

  “Since you ask so nice.” I tossed the roll at his chest and grinned when he flinched. Slater was more suited to his preferred sport of surfing than our sanctioned bloodletting, but he hung in because of me. And when I left—soon, so fucking soon—he’d go with me.

  He’d probably end up on a beach in Cali with his new live-in babe, and I’d get smiley postcards every few months that would make me want to go back to knocking skulls.

  And I’d…what? Stay in New York while I researched sports medicine and talked myself out of every damn thing that involved taking a risk?

  This indecisive streak I’d developed lately was fucking depressing.

  “Now who’s a pussy?” Slater arched a brow. “Stop tensing up. The bandage won’t lay right. Though I don’t know why I’m bothering, since you’ll need a new one after the pool.”

  “It’s not nice to bleed all over, I’ve heard.”

  “Since when are you nice?”

  “Shove it.”

  “Ah, your sunny personality lights up my life, Fox.” He sobered at my growl. “You really in that much pain from this? Or is it the jaw?”

  “Nah. I’m good. Just do me up already so I can get my laps in.”

  I’d gotten lucky that tonight’s match was just down the street from a gym with walk-in privileges, making my pre-fight routine a lot easier than commuting from The Cage. Chlorine and my injured hand weren’t necessarily a good mix, since the concept of a waterproof bandage had turned out to be a giant sham, but I needed the stress relief. Either I jacked off in the shower or I took my chances in the pool.

  Since jacking off hadn’t worked the other four times I’d tried it this week, the pool it was.

  Finally finished wrapping me up, Slater pressed his fingers to my jaw. I feinted as if he’d taken a swing. “Hurts, huh?” He shook his head slowly. “Look, man, I’d never try to tell you what to do, but maybe you should call off the fight, reschedule for—”

  “No. Don’t start that shit. I’m fine.” I flexed my fingers, impressed as always by Slater’s way around a wrap. He could handle blood and guts in the ring, but out of it, he paled every time he had to bandage my injuries. Didn’t mean he didn’t do an incredible job, though. “How does Costas look?” He’d already been whaling on a bag when I came in. It looked like he’d been at it for a while.

  “Cocky motherfucker. He’s out there crowing that he could kick your ass blindfolded.”

  I shrugged. “He’s a kid.”

  “He’s a dick, Fox. Don’t kid yourself. The dude wants to use your face to polish his bright whites.” Slater blew out a breath. “I don’t have a good feeling about this, man.”

  Along with all his other quirks, Slater fancied himself as a spiritual type. He believed in crystals and spells and voodoo and all that crap. He also claimed to have psychic tendencies, which I could not confirm or deny because fundamentally I thought he was on the pipe.

  Still, Slater had never said that to me on fight night before.

  Rolling my shoulders, I forced out a laugh. “Stop worrying and take out your knitting. I’ll be fine. I’m indestructible, remember?” That cockiness was all I had left, especially now. I’d been stripped bare, as raw and exposed as my hand.

  For the first time, I’d met a girl I would have done anything for. Fought any fight, moved any mountain. And she didn’t know how to accept that or didn’t feel she was worth it or hell if I knew. I didn’t know what to say to reach her.

  I got that we’d just met, and I had to take it slow. Trauma like Mia had experienced didn’t heal quickly.

  Sometimes it didn’t heal at all.

  But how could we take it slow or fast or anything in between when days passed and I didn’t see her? When I didn’t hear her husky voice or smell that clean scent clinging to her hair or feel her skin against mine?

  I’d glimpsed her once at Vinnie’s this week, when I was leaving and she was coming in. She’d stopped,
looked at me, and then looked right through me.

  I hadn’t finished pulling the knife out of my heart yet.

  “Maybe you were indestructible once, but not anymore. That chick of yours has done a number on you.”

  I laughed, though it wasn’t particularly funny. He didn’t know the half. I’d told him briefly what had happened—leaving out the tongue lashing on my bar, of course—and I still didn’t think he believed me that a woman could’ve bruised my jaw like she had. Mia had one hell of a pair of hands. I’d better swap my cup protector for a brass cage before we fought.

  God, I’d even started looking forward to our match. At least I’d get to see her. Not having her in my line of sight created a hole in my vision. No matter how I squinted, I never got the full picture.

  I missed her so fucking much.

  “You need to snap out of it, man. I’m serious. This isn’t just about hearts and flowers shit. If you walk out there with your head as messed up as your body, you’re going down. And it might not just be for the count of three. Costas wants to take you out for good, Fox.”

  Saying nothing, I turned away.

  Slater spun me right back and got in my face. “Look, you brainless fuck, you’re my family. I’m not watching your skull get turned into banana puree because some hot piece of ass screwed you up. If you’re not sure you can make him tap out, you tell me now.”

  I had to dig down deep to summon the strength to meet his gaze. “I’ve got this. Really. And she’s not a hot piece of ass.” I considered. “Well, she is, but she’s so much more.”

  Slater’s smirk injected a rare moment of normalcy into the unusually tense night. He was right. Something was off. The charge of anticipation in the air seemed almost…ominous.

  “Keep your mind on pinning Costas and not pinning your cute little fighter babe.”

  “Little? She’s five-nine.” Maybe five-ten. She wasn’t little by any stretch.

  “Metaphorically. Now shut up and go swim. I’ll meet you by the ring in sixty. Don’t forget to listen to the tape. It’s cued up and ready to go.”

  I rolled my eyes and stuck my head in my locker, waiting until the door clanged shut behind Slater before I tugged out my bottle of pills. Not only did Slater rely too much on woowoo nonsense, he also refused to catch up with technology and insisted on spoon-feeding me meditation tapes on an old school cassette player. The tapes usually weren’t half bad, but that didn’t mean I wouldn’t razz his ass. It was one of my few pleasures in life.

  I popped off the cap, poured my mixture of ibuprofen and acetaminophen in my palm, and threw them back without water. My jaw hurt, my hand stung, and I’d messed up my back at Vinnie’s unloading some boxes.

  Mentally and physically, I was in rough shape. If I won tonight, I’d know Slater was right about that karma shit being real. Good thing I always donated to charity.

  I strutted into the ring an hour later. Tonight’s crowd filled the old converted warehouse, and the smoke machine and booming music made it feel like what I imagined a big time fight would. We had the tinny PA system, the roped cage, and the groups of men huddled at either end advising their guys—Costas in red, me in blue.

  Impossibly young girls in bright pink hot pants and tiny tops hip-swayed around the ring, tossing their hair and juggling their cards. They got to call out the rounds in their 900-line voices, and most of them pretended pursing collagen lips and shouting out a number counted as a real skill.

  I wasn’t bitter. Not one bit.

  “You ready, boss?”

  I looked over the side of the rope at Timmins and guzzled more water rather than answer. I could lie to Slater, mainly because he let me. He understood I had my pride.

  Lying to my coach wasn’t nearly so easy. My pride meant less than nothing to Timmins, and he’d call me on my bullshit right quick.

  “Knox. I asked you a question. You ready?”

  The typical anthems from back in the day blasted over the speaker as the announcer took the podium on the makeshift stage. Time for some asskissing with the crowd before my ass kissed the floor.

  I rubbed the cherry blossoms on my side, feeling uncharacteristically sentimental. I wasn’t going to war. This was my choice, and I could back away at any time.

  Then I glanced up and saw Costas smiling at me, insolence carved into every line of his face, and my shoulders stiffened. He was an old school fighter in a lot of ways, usually going for the straight ground and pound while mixing it up just enough to keep his opponent off-guard. I didn’t have a set style, relying more on my mood and what I’d had the most success with in training that week. If I fell back on the same combinations more often than not, so what? My method of selecting my moves based on what I was feeling had always worked before.

  Right now, I wasn’t feeling anything. Not fucking good.

  “Yeah.” I gulped the rest of my water and clenched the bottle in my good fist. Slater appeared at my side, ready to wrap my hands. He had my gloves under his arm. I hated wearing them, preferring to fight without, but I also wasn’t in the mood to take shit from Timmins. “I’m ready, Coach.”

  If only that had been true.

  The first round went quickly. I circled Costas, taking his measure, and he did the same, taking mine. I landed the first strike, a swift, high roundhouse to his right side. I had no choice but to start hard, because my tank was running dangerously low. If I got into a position where he had a clear shot at my hand or face, I’d be in trouble.

  A couple more kicks battled him back. I had strong legs and I was fast. My speed hadn’t deserted me at least. But Costas had a couple of years on me and he looked fresh and well-rested. Every move I made he countered easily, making me think he was biding his time. I tried to up the stakes and he pretended to let me lead. He could afford to wait me out.

  I wasn’t stupid. I could tell I was outgunned. Getting in the ring tonight with this guy had been a huge, potentially deadly mistake.

  I had nothing to lose…literally. He had everything to prove.

  Near the end of the first round, he began demonstrating that fact on my jaw, precisely where Mia had given me her little love tap earlier in the week. Then he started kicking my ribs, alternating that with a couple of jabs near my right eye. I had a hard head, but I couldn’t block enough of his hits. He seemed to be everywhere at once. My back kept spasming, and I was having trouble compensating for the ridiculously athletic combinations he kept pulling off. The guy kicked higher than a fucking cheerleader. Every time his foot collided with my ribs, I swore they’d shatter.

  Even so, I gave back almost as good as I got, avoiding the illegal strikes that Costas had no problem dishing out. I was moving through mud. My kicks and punches weren’t having any effect. Either he was a fucking ninja or I was losing ground, quickly.

  He knocked me back and I stumbled, going down hard. I could hear the crowd screaming, aghast that I was on my knees so soon. I rarely even fell. Now here I was, sweat stinging my eyes and my sore hand, my jaw contracting with pain so severe that I almost wished he’d knock me out to end it.

  Almost done. Let it fucking be done.

  My spine hit the canvas. I tried to scissor my legs to get leverage to pull him down with me long enough to switch our positions, but I couldn’t move.

  Game over.

  My eyelids fluttered, railing against the oblivion trying to claim me. I struggled for clarity, latching on to the only thing that could sustain me through the punishing blows.

  Mia had wanted to fight me because Fox Knox was the guy to beat. What a joke. But if I went out like this, even that small use she had for me would be gone. And that thought was the fuel I used to drag my shoulder off the mat.

  Mia. Always fucking Mia. But I knew I wouldn’t manage the feat twice.

  Somehow I made it to my corner. A strong arm banded around my back, propping me up. And I needed the help, since my spine had apparently turned to liquid when I wasn’t looking.

  “Goddammit, Fox, you c
an’t do this. You’re hurt. You can’t go out there again.” Slater sounded almost frantic against my ear, though I could barely hear him through my wheezy pants. Was that really me? I sounded like an aging diesel engine about to cough out a few miles from the station.

  My head lolled to the side and a montage of images scrolled through my mind. My dad hitting my mom with an open hand, the slaps ringing through the floorboards of my bedroom. Me lying in my bed with the pillow crammed over my head so I wouldn’t hear. Hearing it, anyway.

  The first time I’d walked into a MMA gym, strolling around like I owned the place. The first fight I’d won. The blowjob some anonymous ring girl had given me in the hallway after.

  Mia in my tub, her thighs closed around my hand, her mouth soft on mine. “Tray.”

  My eyes sprung open and I looked up, disoriented by the sights and sounds. Dozens of anonymous faces swarmed around me in my ringed trap. The hum of voices grew louder, as distracting as the drone of cicadas in the summer.

  I didn’t know these people. They’d come to watch me fail. Maybe even to die. They’d point and laugh, then they’d say nice things at my funeral and forget who I was in a year. If that.

  What the hell was I doing? Fighting wasn’t the point. Fighting for the right thing was.

  I’d taken too damn long to finally figure that out.

  “Fox.” Slater tugged out my mouth guard and shoved an opened bottle to my lips. My tongue was so dry that I moaned at the first drop of water. “Drink, you bastard.”

  I finished one bottle and immediately demanded more. Slater obliged me and waited until I’d finished before speaking near my ear again. “Why are you doing this? You’re going to end up seriously injured. This doesn’t even matter to you that much.”

  The smile I tried to give him cracked my cheeks and set off a wicked throb in my jaw. “What…does?” I reached for another water out of the cooler and he brushed me off, gripping my chin in tense fingers and staring hard.