In the Ring (BOXER Book 1)

by Rie Warren

  I lost Michael.

  Probably deserved it, too.

  #

  The following months without Michael were the most miserable I’d ever endured. I thought growing up a vision-impaired nerd-boy in the Cincinnati hood had been hard. That shit had nothing on this fucking endless pain.

  I’d been adamant about not hiring another trainer. No one could fill Michael’s shoes, not in my bed and not in the gym. Part of my decree was sheer delusion—or hopeful thinking. Every day for the first week I thought he’d come back. I imagined him walking through my door. I expected to find him in the locker room. I checked my phone for messages all day long and half the night.

  During the second week, I redoubled my training efforts, with or without Michael. Being sleepless had one added bonus: I could work out at all hours of the night and day. Fatigue didn’t hit me as hard as the heartache of sleeping in a bed by myself. When I did manage to catch some shut-eye, it was on the couch, with the pillow that still smelled like Michael.

  By the fourth, I knew it was over. I’d never see him again. Sean did the honors of taping and untaping my hands. I hired an orthopedic massage specialist for my daily doses. I took down Gideon’s painting and turned it away from me so it faced the wall where it sat, unlooked at, behind the couch.

  Washing and changing all the sheets on my bed was the last sign I’d thrown in the towel. I still couldn’t sleep in my bedroom though, images of Michael haunted me—laughing, moaning, fucking me, making love to me . . .

  I couldn’t jerk off anymore because the last time I’d done that had been for Michael’s pleasure when I’d done the dildo show for him. Even my cock was a fucking traitor.

  Only Devlin finally rejoiced about Michael’s resignation, realizing it for the Hail Mary save to my career—my secret sexuality—he thought it was. As I threw myself into training for my fight with the Tornado from Toronto, my festering hate for Dev reached new heights.

  “This is exactly why I told you to stay away from Mikey. Now you’re acting like a prized chump, not a champ, and we don’t have time for this emo shit.” He was so happy with my renewed dedication—as if it’d ever flagged—he used my breakup with Michael like a red cape in front of a charging bull.

  He taunted me with it. Gloated about it.

  That particular afternoon the gym was empty except for the two of us, and he kept riling me up.

  Ignoring him, I performed another fifty old-school punches on the speed bag.

  “So Michael knows you’re gay. Who else?” Devlin’s head, with the slicked back hair and the twitchy little mustache, came up behind the quivering bag.

  I had half a mind to knock out the rows of his bleached white teeth with the speeding leather bag.

  “Wade,” I spat his name and double-punched the swinging bag with both fists until it pinged from the chain.

  “Great. Angry ex-boyfriend. Way to fuck up, Shaughnessy. And?”

  “Anya. Obviously.”

  “Well she’s a card-carrying member of the rug-muncher club, so I don’t think we gotta worry about buying her off.”

  I growled, moving to the heavy hanging bag, relishing the larger striking surface.

  Apparently unaware he walked a very fine line between firing me up and getting his face fucked up, Dev slapped me on the back. “By the way. Keep up this torturous routine you’ve got yourself on, and you just might win against Delacroix in Vegas. Nice work.”

  Gee, thanks for the pep talk, Devil.

  All that self-hate and pain and anger and the loneliness—the sheer, terrible, stomach-turning ache of missing Michael—got channeled into training.

  This was what I was good at.

  In busting my ass to become the biggest, baddest, meanest motherfucking fighting machine there ever was, I had little time for anything else. That included no more crying myself to sleep over Michael, worrying about whether I was a loser—because I for damn sure wasn’t going to lose the title match—or biting my nails about how I could’ve been better boyfriend material.

  Only a few things cut into my strenuous schedule, and nope, those didn’t include more whiny, mopey, sad-ass moments about Michael either. I made sure the deposits went into Mary-Kate’s and my bank account, and the kids got to school on time this year by hiring a driver to pick them up.

  I checked in with my mom, if only to assure myself she wasn’t taking any hits from Da. I made sure Mary-Kate filled out her college applications for the culinary arts schools because someone in the family was gonna get a higher education, and it started with her.

  I still woke up toward the early hours of dawn, gripped inside nightmares about Michael, wondering if he’d gone back to Wade.

  #

  Anya was back in town one week in late August. She took up my spare room as well as half my sofa. We watched GoT reruns with a bowl of popcorn propped between us. Her short dark hair was always tousled, unlike the high-gloss, high-towering wig she wore in the ring. The hair made her nearly black eyes, Slavic cheekbones, and full lips even more pronounced. If we were both straight we’d probably make some pretty cute babies. As it was, we two dateless gays slopped out on the sofa.

  During the show, Anya’s sharp gaze landed on me more often than the gory mishaps on-screen. I had a hard time concentrating on the goings-on, too.

  Even Tyrion, the crippled trickster bedding a whore, and Jon Snow’s trek to the supernatural realm of the Wall didn’t cut it for me anymore. Fuck, I couldn’t even watch Guy Fieri without thinking about Michael getting on my case about my junk food habits. I’d cut him from my life, my memories, my every waking thought any way I could, and still he haunted me.

  “You’re becoming walking cartoon.” Reclined against the arm of the couch, Anya dug her heels into my thigh.

  “What?”

  She threw a handful of popcorn at me. “A character. Argh.” She flapped her hands around. “I don’t know how to say . . . Annoying. Lame. Taka durnytsya!” She huffed in frustration.

  “What you mean is I’m a pathetic loser?” Heard that before.

  “Yes, but that ees not eet.” Her beautiful face brightened. “A cliché! First with sad, brokenhearted man thing. Boo hoo. Now with I am Incredible Bulk—”

  “The Incredible Hulk?”

  “Da.” Anya nodded. “I vill beat people into dust because I feel nothing. You are not sad man, you are not uncaring man. Do something about it already.”

  I doubled over, laughing so hard my gut cramped. Jesus, she’s so right.

  She flicked two fingers against my forehead, bringing me up from my laughing bout. “You see? Cold case.”

  “Probably more like sad case or, as I’ve been reminded, closet case.”

  “Yes, both. At least I have hot date tonight, bucko.”

  Well, shit. I was the last lonely gay left on the couch.

  Anya left twenty minutes later, not in a flurry of lace and perfume, but in leather and/or maybe it was pleather?

  Her last words? “Get off yourself already.”

  “You mean get over myself?”

  “Da. That’s vhat I say.”

  #

  A week later, I performed my ritual don’t-care-about-Mikey-not-one-bit stalker routine on his apartment downstairs. A crew of moving men came and went with cardboard boxes stacked to the ceiling.

  My gut clamped. My palms grew clammy. My eyesight swam.

  Wiping blindly at my eyes, I kept walking. I ran down the stairwell, out of the lobby. I just kept walking. I swerved past the bakery where I’d bought his breakfast, the restaurant I’d taken him to, the Iron Fists gym we’d worked out in. I kept my unseeing gaze aimed at the pavement as my heart crushed beneath my feet one last time.

  I missed Michael so much my body craved him. My fucking heart ached for him. I wanted his touch on me, his taste in my mouth. I wanted to tease him until he couldn’t help but laugh, and for him to watch me in action with that prideful grin on his lips.

  I wanted all the things I never let
myself have with him a million times over.

  Stopping in Hudson River Park, I sat my ass on a bench. I inhaled the hot summer air. Muggy heat saturated my lungs. Thousands of people survived this sort of setback. Hundreds more found new love. Why couldn’t I? I refused to become a walking-talking-boyfriend-break-up cliché.

  All it took was one call.

  Gideon and I hadn’t hooked up since Michael’s return from Chicago in June. Not that I planned on hooking up with Gideon tonight. I wanted to explore other options, seek out possibilities. Figure out if my cock had any interest in anyone else, ever. Fuck me. I sported a blush even before Gideon met me at the elevator that opened to his warehouse.

  “Wow. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a perfect male specimen look so damn scared.” Opening his arms, he beckoned me inside. “Don’t worry, I don’t bite unless you want me to.”

  “I think I might want you to bite tonight.” My voice rushed out in a hoarse whisper.

  One of his dark eyebrows arched.

  “Dessert first or the main course?” His voice low and silky, Gideon stepped behind me. He didn’t touch me, but his heat warmed my back and his words rustled my hair. “Are you hungry, Liam?”

  Whimpering low in my throat, I turned to him. “Starving.”

  His gaze dropped to my mouth, which parted as if he kissed me already. “Want a taste?”

  “Please.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Yes, Yes, No?

  GIDEON’S LIPS PURSED TOWARD mine, otherwise he didn’t move. At the softest, lightest brush of his mouth, I exhaled and leaned into him. He pulled back, a grin slipping across his very pink lips. Those kisses continued, teases of touch that made me pant and my belly quiver.

  “Are you scared, Liam?”

  I groaned, shutting my eyes. “Yes.”

  “Of me?”

  “No. I’m not sure I’m gonna feel anything.” I looked at him as he licked his delicious lips. “I just want to feel something tonight.”

  “I think I can help.” Grasping my hand, he led me to a far corner of the cavernous room, an area I’d had no reason to explore before.

  The bed lay low to the floor and, like the rest of his living space, the platform was a hedonistic blend of cushions and fabrics and drapes.

  Beside the bed, he tugged me against him. Tall and slim, he was so different from Michael. I’m not gonna think about Michael. Not now.

  I focused on Gideon, his smell—earthy with a hint of tobacco—his body pressed to mine. His erection thickening against my hip. He took me in a deeper kiss, his tongue dividing my lips and coiling around mine.

  I clutched his shoulders, willing myself to remain here in this moment with him.

  “You want me to undress you?” The tone of his voice dropped.

  “Not yet.”

  “You want me to undress?”

  “Yes.” I wet my lips, and his eyes darted to the motion.

  His irises were a darker green when he met my gaze again.

  As he slowly took off his clothes, I imagined the feel of his skin beneath my hands. I could almost tell how he’d make love, in a sensual, languid manner. He peeled off his shirt, baring his long torso. The muscles were chiseled, lean, and dusted with a smattering of black hair.

  When his hands dropped to his pants, my thighs tensed. My fingers curled into my palms.

  He grinned at me from behind the fall of his long straight hair. “Are you sure?”

  I swallowed past the roughness in my throat and nodded.

  He slipped down the threadbare jeans and stood before me.

  “You’re incredible.” I stared transfixed, warring with desire and need, and unnamed pain at the thought of being with someone other than Michael.

  Gideon was the second man I’d personally seen fully naked in real life—outside of a locker room. With his gleaming swarthy skin, his long rigid pole with the purplish helmet, the slender hips and broad shoulders, he looked nothing like Michael.

  This would be nothing like Michael.

  I wanted to feel relieved. I couldn’t deny Gideon turned me on.

  Approaching me with panther-like grace, he stopped one pace away. My hard-on thumped in my pants.

  “You can touch. I still won’t bite.” He smiled seductively, and I moaned.

  I pulled him into my arms. My mouth settled on the strong column of his long neck. Surrounded in male heat, hard muscles, the soft hair on his chest, I groaned. I tried to get closer to him.

  Tugging Gideon to me by his hair, I found his lips. Finally, his arms strained around me. He moaned and trembled.

  “Can I see you? I need to see you. Purely for professional purposes, of course.” He gave me a slow wink.

  I let him strip me down. Every part of my revealed body met the same sexual attention. His hands then his parted lips coasted down my chest. I jerked against him when he kneeled at my feet, his hands at the front of my jeans. The button fly opened with nimble twists of his fingers, then my cock swung free. Gideon yanked my pants down and off. He slid against me on the way up to his feet, his hand circling my cock.

  I felt something, oh God I did. I felt sexy and wanted.

  And it was good.

  After stroking me a few times, Gideon waggled my cock in his fist, slapping it against his with a moan. “Oh, you’ve been holding out, baby.”

  Only it wasn’t Michael’s rough voice calling me baby or his firm lips bathing the hollow of my throat.

  ABORT! ABORT!

  Suddenly this seduction wasn’t right. It didn’t feel good. I felt like I was cheating on Michael.

  This is so wrong.

  “Fuck!” I pushed Gideon off me.

  He landed on the edge of the bed with a bounce.

  I dragged on my jeans, raked a hand through my hair. “I’m sorry, Gideon. I didn’t mean to use you.”

  “Oh, honey.” He moved backward onto the bed. Stretching out, he displayed the rack of his abs and the long lean legs that led to his long hard cock. “If you were using me you’d be on top of me right now.”

  That definitely got a reaction from me. So my dick still works. Yay.

  He rose off the bed. Sauntering toward me, totally nude, he handed me my shirt.

  “Sexy Liam, your ego might be deflated, but one part of you definitely isn’t.” He patted my ass, prodding me to the elevator. “Go home. Stroke one out. Think about who you really want. I’m your friend either way, but the fun we could’ve had . . . Hmm.”

  I pulled on my shirt then stood awkwardly in front of him. Something cunning shined in his green eyes.

  “Did you know I’d react like this?”

  “I had a feeling.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “I’d hoped to get to suck your cock first, though.”

  “Gideon . . .”

  “Hey, I don’t ring your bell. I get it. Go on, now.”

  I walked into the cage of the elevator.

  “Liam? I’ll be watching your fight next week. Good luck, my friend.”

  Taking a deep breath, I raised my hand in thanks.

  Outside on the street, I beat my head against the wall as guilt gnawed at me.

  I’m sorry, Michael.

  #

  That night with Gideon was a wake-up call. I was still single-minded about the upcoming match. Determined to fight to win. Now, I wanted to fight with the last of my honor and show Michael I could be the man he needed me to be.

  The next Thursday, my entire entourage and I flew to Las Vegas for the mega-fight between Tristan the Tornado and me at the MGM Grand. It was full circle since my last Vegas KO against El León Hernandez. This time everything was different.

  My beefy bodyguards, Devlin, Sean, and Anya—who was part of the bandwagon—hopped on the private jet amid a swarming press of . . . well . . . press. I gave a few rehearsed one-liners about the title match that could only be watched live in person or on HBO PPV. I deflected all questions about the . . . well . . . defection of my trainer, Michael Fairweath
er.

  All of a sudden it hit me. I was almost as big a pull as Game of Thrones. Maybe Peter Dinklage would be there. I’d like to shake his hand for being awesome and maybe get his autograph, too.

  All of a sudden I landed back on earth as the wind knocked out of me, and I realized I was doing this without the man I loved.

  The fanfare was louder and larger when we landed in Vegas. People shoved camera lenses in my face. They shouted questions at me above the overwhelming rumbling roar of voices. Fans pushed photos at me to sign and hands at me to shake. We worked our way against the surging crowd.

  I donned my public persona, popping poses with anyone who asked, letting Devlin handle the flak-talk from the sports newshounds. Anya had put on her fake hair and high heels. She threw Everlast Bonny Bruiser sweatbands and T-shirts at the hundreds-strong onslaught of people.

  “Hey, do you think Peter Dinklage is a boxing fan?” I murmured to her.

  “Ve can Google.”

  “Do you think I can get him tickets?”

  With her hand on my face and a smile on her lips, she swiftly kissed me on the cheek. “I think you can do anything.”

  FLASH FLASH FLASH.

  I guessed the cameras caught that one. Unwittingly Anya and I had just added more fuel to our fake romance fire. Wouldn’t Michael be pleased? Not. At least Devlin gave me two thumbs up. Urgh.

  Eventually we made it to the waiting parade of Cadillac SUVs and then our hotel suites. Not at the MGM where they would’ve put us up, but at the Mandarin Oriental because I needed to put some space between the upcoming fight and me. I took pictures on my phone, messaging Conor, Sash, and M-K. They were suitably impressed, and I promised to take them on vacation next month, anywhere they wanted, whether I won or not.

  The plane trip, the head-trip of all those people cheering for me, the long months of training and the longer nights of missing Michael got to me. I sank into a luxurious bed with some sort of fluffy pillow mattress after scarfing down my daily dose of protein plus green stuff plus thick shake stuff.

  In the morning, Devlin joined me for breakfast in my rooms. He entered in a sleekly cut suit and his trademark mustache, bearing armfuls of the dailies and another stack of gossip rags. Me? I still wore my sweats and was armed with my one mug of coffee for the day, rumpled with bed head.