Fighting for Flight

by J. B. Salsbury

  Exhaling, he throws his hand in his hair and drops his chin. Bringing his head back up, his eyes lock with mine. “Yes. I have sponsors that I’ve modeled for. Happy?”

  I’m still smiling.

  “You think that’s funny, huh?”

  “Well, yeah, I do. Don’t get me wrong. It’s not the modeling I think is funny. It’s the look on your face when I talk about you modeling that’s funny.”

  Tilting his head, I see something working behind his eyes. Then, to my surprise, he dips his finger in black grease and swipes my cheek. “There. You think that’s funny?”

  I stare silently, glaring in his direction. I snag the tin of grease, dip four fingers into it, and hold them up. “You’re going down, Slade”

  I lunge at him and make a swipe on his neck. My instincts tell me to be careful, reminding me that this is a trained fighter and that I’m a lanky, twenty-year-old girl. But a comfort that defies explanation has me trusting him.

  Dipping both sets of fingers into the grease, he gives me a look that says I better run or else. I turn to bolt just as I feel two strong hands wrap around my biceps from behind. With a girlish squeal, I’m pulled, my back forced to the firm heat of his chest. I swallow a moan that almost escapes my lips at the feeling of his hard body pressed to the length of mine. His strong hands grasp my arms, rubbing the oil with one long stroke from elbow to shoulder, and igniting the blood beneath my skin.

  “You’re going to have to tap out. No way you’re going to win this one.” His words are spoken into my ear, making me shiver and practically sag in his arms.

  “Oh yeah?” My question sounds weak in my own ears. Darn it.

  “Mmm-hmm.” The vibration of his low voice rumbles against my back.

  If I don’t get out of this hold soon, I may end up doing something stupid like rub up against him and purr.

  I twist hard and he releases me. Darting around the Impala, back to the grease tin, I lather my hands up with ammo and slink towards him, hands held forward in warning.

  He crooks his finger at me and lifts an eyebrow. I lunge again.

  We chase and dodge, while laughing and throwing threats at each other, until we’re out of grease and forced to call a truce. Our clothes and skin are covered in the oily evidence of our horseplay. Against a wall, I slide down to sit and catch my breath. He tosses me a stack of shop towels and goes to work cleaning off his neck and face.

  “Okay, all fun aside, whose booty do you have to kick to get this belt?” I wipe grease from my shoulder.

  He sits next to me, cleaning the muck from his fingers. “Victor Del Toro. He’s the current heavyweight champion. No one’s been able to knock him off the throne—until now, of course.” The confidence in his voice makes it a statement of fact rather than a prediction.

  “Hm. Well, good luck.” A quick glance has me locked in his stare, fiery hazel pulling me in. “Not that you’ll need it.”

  His eyes roam my face and neck. My defenses try to push my gaze to the floor, but I’m captivated by his allure. Awareness, like a silent confession, passes between us igniting my blood. I suck in air and roll my bottom lip between my teeth to avoid saying something I’ll regret like kiss me.

  A slow grin pulls at his mouth, his eyes sparkling. “You should come to the fight.”

  The way he’s looking at me wakes the butterflies in my stomach. Come to the fight? I’d say yes to anything he asks. “Sure, yeah.”

  He’s still staring, but his smile grows, his dimples forming bookends to his radiant smile. “It’s September fourteenth at—”

  “Shut. Up.” My powerful response surprises even me.

  “What? Why?” He’s genuinely confused which only endears me to him more.

  “Oh, no, I just mean . . . shut up . . . like . . . no way . . . My twenty-first birthday is September fifteenth.”

  “Wow, twenty-first. That’s a big one. I remember my twenty-first.” His eyes search the rafters, concentrating. “Actually, I don’t.” Shrugging one shoulder, he smirks. “I heard it was great though.” He runs a hand through his hair with a shy grimace that I find completely sexy.

  I fold the greasy shop towel. “How long ago was your twenty-first?”

  His eyes narrow on mine. “Raven, are you trying to ask me how old I am?”

  Heat warms my neck, rising up to color my cheeks.

  “Five years ago. I’m twenty-six.” Comfortable silence fills the air. “Anyway, you should come to the fight. I’ll get you a ticket. Call it an early birthday present.”

  “I’d love that. Thanks.”

  ~*~

  Jonah

  Thirty minutes with the heavy bag didn’t make a dent in my attempt to exorcise Raven from my head. I thought for sure that spending time with her this morning would work in my favor. Figured if I got to know her better, I’d realize she’s just like other girls. I was wrong.

  From the moment she walked into my house to the moment she walked out, she held my rapt attention. Usually when women start talking I zone out, but this girl said things I wanted to hear. She talked about cars like they were family. It was captivating. If that weren’t enough, working together was a breeze. We fell into easy conversation and comfortable silences, as if she were one of the guys—well, one of the guys in a supermodel package. Damn. What a package. Even the garage, with its twenty-foot ceilings, felt small with her in it. No matter how far away I would move, her perfect body seemed too close. Thank God I had to get to training or I’d probably fallen to my knees and begged her to have dinner with me.

  This isn’t good. With the title fight coming up, I can’t afford any distractions. Maybe I should put the restoration on hold until after the fight. That should give me time to forget about her. Or maybe I should pull my shit together and stop acting like some teenager with perma-wood.

  I can’t blow her off now. I promised her tickets to my fight, and I can’t go back on a promise. Comfort washes over me at the thought of looking out from the octagon on the biggest fight of my life and seeing Raven standing in my corner. This shit is not cool. I’ll get one of the guys to give me a thorough ass kicking before I leave for being such a pansy.

  But pansy or not, I’m drawn to her by some unseen force. Everything from my thoughts to my dick gravitates in her direction. Like getting caught in a rip tide, one minute I’m swimming, free to go in any direction, and then I feel a tug. I’m kicking and flailing my arms and legs toward shore while the invisible pull takes me in the opposite direction. No matter how hard I swim, I keep going further and further out to sea.

  Yeah, that’s how it is with Raven. One minute I’m free, navigating the waters of my life, and, now, I feel a tug.

  “What’s up, man? Where is everyone?” Rex calls as he makes his way to the mats to warm up.

  “They should be here.” I answer absently, still trying to pull my head out of my ass. “Yo, T-Rex. You missed a couple.” I motion to my eyebrow and lip.

  “Shit, man. Thanks.” Rex removes the small barbell from his eyebrow and ring from his lip and places them on the bench.

  I stretch my arms and roll my neck. “Where’s Caleb?”

  “He’s here, just wrapping his ankle in the locker room.” Rex motions over his shoulder where I see Caleb making his way to the mats.

  “Y’all talkin’ about me?” Caleb’s telltale, country-boy accent echoes off the walls. Owen sneaks up behind him, and smacks the back of his head. “Ow, dick!”

  Owen ignores Caleb’s pained remark. “You done wrapping your ankle, sweetheart?”

  Caleb rubs the back of his head.

  “You guys get warmed up, and we’ll break into teams for grappling.” Owen’s order is all business. He’s one of the best coaches in MMA, and when he gets down to it, he doesn’t fuck around.

  “You bitches ready to get your asses handed to you?” Blake strolls toward the mats. Late.

  The group grumbles and throws back a number of different taunts and insults before we pair off and take o
ur places. This title fight is an accumulation of everything I’ve been working for since I started fighting. It’s the single biggest accomplishment of my life. And I’ll be damned if a girl is going to rob me of my goal. Never.

  A few hours into training and I’m breathing deep. Sweat coats my skin, proving without question that I worked hard. I welcome the burn of my muscles and the flood of endorphins that blur the thoughts of a certain female.

  Owen calls time. “Take five and we’ll hit the bags.”

  We all grab our waters and stretch on the floor.

  Caleb flops down next to me lying flat on his back. “Where are we watching the game this weekend?”

  “Not my place.” I swig from my water bottle.

  “Jonah’s it is.” Owen decides for the group.

  I scowl at him and contemplate sweeping his legs. “The fuck you say?”

  He shrugs in my direction.

  Blake’s standing, grabbing his ankle to stretch his quad. “Sweet. I’ll bring the pizza.”

  “I’ll get the beer.” Rex’s voice calls out from behind me.

  “Shit, no. I said not at my place.”

  Caleb nods to Rex. “Game starts at three so we should be there by two.”

  “Fucking assholes.” It’s like I’m not even here.

  Rex’s dumb ass looks right past me. “Don’t forget, I have a show that night. Sound check’s at seven. Ghost Bar. We can all head over to the club after the game.”

  “You guys want me to bring the Wii?” Caleb puts on his gloves, his eyes darting from dickhead to dickhead, overlooking me.

  “No. No fucking Wii.” What started as watching a game at my house has turned into a party, and knowing these guys, they’ll stay all weekend.

  “Oh come on, Vajonah.” Blake’s cocky smile makes me clench my fist. “You worried we might dirty your kitchen?” He lifts one eyebrow.

  I spear him with a glare. As if one douche bag giving me shit isn’t enough, I don’t need the group giving me a hard time.

  “All right, fine. But no pizza. I’ll throw something on the grill. I can’t eat that shit this close to the fight.” Defeated and pissed as hell, I strap on my gloves.

  “If you’re going to grill, I’ll bring Nikki. She can whip up some healthy shit in the kitchen and sit by the pool.”

  Owen’s wife Nikki is a nutritionist and kicks all kinds of ass in the kitchen. That alone makes this worth it.

  “Sounds like a plan. I’ll bring some girls so Nik will have chicks to hang out with.” The group goes still, staring at Blake. “What?”

  Everyone knows the kind of girls Blake keeps company with. I’m not interested in having a bunch of jock-sniffing groupies around, and Blake travels with a fucking harem.

  Owen looks at Blake, a grin pulling at his lips. “This should be interesting.”

  Blake glares at Owen. “That was a long time ago, man. You two weren’t married yet.”

  “Nah, but Nikki sure didn’t appreciate your bitches rubbing up on my shit.” Owen laughs and shrugs.

  “How can you laugh?” Blake throws his arms out to his sides. “Nik broke that chick’s nose.”

  Owen’s laughter answers Blake’s question.

  I cross my arms at my chest. “I don’t want a house full of your knob polishers.”

  “Hey, a player needs lovin’ too.”

  “No more than two, Blake. I’m serious,” I warn.

  “Yeah, I got it.” He dismisses me with a wave of his hand.

  He doesn’t get it.

  I tilt my head, feeling the side of my lip curl into a smile. “Say it, Blake. Say, ‘I promise, Jonah, I won’t bring more than two chicks to your barbeque’.”

  Blake’s eyes narrow. “Are you fucking serious? I said I got it.”

  “Say it.”

  “Shit. Fine. I won’t bring more than two chicks to your barbeque.” Blake’s jaw is so tight I’m surprised he doesn’t bust a tooth. This guy is so easy to mess with.

  “You forgot, ‘I promise, Jonah’.”

  Umpf!

  My breath is knocked from my lungs as Blake tries to take me down to the mat . . . unsuccessfully.

  Four

  Raven

  It’s day three working on the Impala: seventeen hours and thirty-eight minutes to be exact. I keep track of the hours spent at Jonah’s for my time card, not because I mark every minute with him, committing it to memory so that when my work here is done I have something to remind me of our time together.

  I’ve got the engine out and apart. Going through it piece by piece, I set aside the things that can be salvaged while Jonah disassembles the inside. Perched at a workbench, I sort through the motor brackets.

  Out of the few restorations I’ve done over the years, this one is by far the best: high-end tools at my disposal, clean working environment, great company . . . and the view. Like the one I have right now.

  Jonah is lying on his back across the front seat of the car, his head underneath the dashboard. His t-shirt slid up, exposing a few inches of his firm stomach. A strip of dark hair trails from his belly button and disappears beneath his saggy jeans. His strong legs are open in a V to brace his weight against the floor.

  “Ouch, gosh dang it!” I grab my bloody finger, more worried about bleeding on Jonah’s stuff than the extent of my injury.

  “You okay?” Jonah rises from his sexy pose and stands across the workbench from me, worry etched on his perfect face.

  “Yeah, it’s fine. Stupid rusty bracket.” I move to stick my finger in my mouth when he grabs my hand.

  “No, don’t do that. Germs.”

  Heat rises up my neck and into my face. “Oh, you’re right.” I rub my forehead, hoping that I can cover my embarrassment with my free hand. “Mouths are dirty.”

  He lifts his gaze from my wound, but I avoid his eyes. “Not germs from your mouth. Germs from your hand. Who knows what kind of shit is living on that thing.” He motions to the offending bracket. I peek up at him and watch a smile tug at his lips. “From what I can tell, you have a very clean mouth.” He flashes one dimple, before his gaze drops to my lips.

  I roll them together, wetting them with my tongue. My chest rises and falls in erratic bursts and heat floods my body.

  “I’ve got something for that.” The deep timbre of his voice draws me closer until I’m leaning toward him over the workbench.

  I swear the man could bed any woman with one look. He releases my hand to walk to the nearby cabinets. I slump forward, bolstering myself against the tabletop to keep upright.

  I’m no idiot when it comes to lust. I’ve seen it in men before. But I’ve never felt it: The burning need pushing against my chest; the building tension that coils in my belly; my blood racing in my veins, flooding my head with visions of his hands on my body. Desire fires my skin, flushing my cheeks. I look around for something to use to fan myself.

  “Here ya go.” His voice is right at my side, and I push back the urge to rub up against him as Dog does when I’m holding his food.

  He lifts my hand sending delicious tingles down my arm. With a quick squeeze of ointment, he wraps my finger in a Band-Aid. His hands are surprisingly gentle for their size, and I wonder how many women have felt their tenderness in better places than their hands. Thousands would be my guess. My stomach twists with painful jealousy.

  “You’re good at this. I guess you’d have to be in your profession.”

  “Yeah, I get a lot of practice.” He finishes with my hand and throws out the wrappers.

  I want to thank him for taking care of my wound. I’ve been on my own for so long I don’t remember the last time someone took such care with me. The gratitude I feel for his kindness makes me want to throw myself into his arms and kiss him. Gratitude, yeah right, that’s what I’m feeling. Instead, I change the subject.

  “What got you into fighting? Were you a wrestler in high school?”

  He clears his throat. “No, I started street fighting first.”

 
; With his knuckles on the workbench, he drops his head for a moment before bringing his eyes back to mine. For the first time, there’s sadness there.

  “My dad died when I was twelve.” The words come out forced, like he’s not used to the feeling of them on his lips. “I became the man of the house way before I was ready. I started getting in fights at school, getting in trouble all the time. My mom,” he pauses to run both hands through his hair, “she was destroyed when my Dad died. I just made things worse.”

  His dark eyebrows furrow over his deep-set eyes as he looks past me.

  “At fifteen, I got busted while kicking some kid’s ass at a park by my house. The cop pulled me aside and said that if I didn’t get my shit together I’d end up in jail. He told me I could use my anger to better my life.” He shakes his head with a wistful smile. “It didn’t make sense at the time.” His last words are said under his breath.

  He’s next to me physically, but his eyes are far away. “He gave me the address of a Boys’ Club, told me they taught karate, jiu-jitsu, boxing—stuff like that. The way I saw it, beating the shit out of people wasn’t doing anything but making my mom cry. May as well take his advice.”

  He shrugs and his eyes meet mine, no longer troubled. He studies my face

  “I’m sorry about your dad. You must really miss him.” I know the feeling. Although, how can I miss what I never had? I banish the thought as soon as it forms.

  “Yeah, he was cool. He worked hard, but found time to throw the ball with me or get down on the floor with my sister and play Barbies.” His lips upturn warmly and his eyes go soft. “He was a big guy as you can imagine, so that was no small task.”

  My heart swells with appreciation that Jonah was able to experience a good dad, even if only for twelve years. The fact that he has good memories to carry with him is more than I could hope for. “He sounds amazing.”

  “He was.”

  “How did he die?” The question is airborne before I realize the boldness of my intrusion. I drop my gaze, immediately wanting to take it back.

  Silence fills the space between us, sucking the oxygen from my lungs. I shouldn’t have asked such a personal question. Knowing someone for three days hardly constitutes this type of soul exposing confession.