Caged Warrior: Underground Fighters #1

by Aislinn Kearns

“Take some cash from my wallet to pay,” he said to her back. “Since you got breakfast.”

  “Sure.” She bent down to his partially-opened bag on the ground and snagged his wallet off the top. He frowned. Hadn’t he buried that under his clothes? He usually did, since he couldn’t risk his wallet getting stolen. He remembered her digging through his duffel earlier, suspicion nagging at him.

  But as she sashayed towards him with the delicious-smelling pizza in her hand and an open smile on her face, he dismissed his suspicions. His wallet had probably shifted to the top when she’d gone looking for the tape for his chest.

  They sat on the bed again to eat the pizza, a box in each of their laps. “You really need to get a table,” he muttered as crumbs rolled down his chest. Not that he could talk, since he often ate his meals in his truck.

  She shrugged. “I had one, but I only ever used it to put stuff on. I like to watch TV as I eat, so this is the best spot. Unless I sit at my desk, which is also common enough. I wash my sheets a lot instead.”

  “Is that where you work?” he asked, gesturing to the desk. “I never asked what you did.”

  She swallowed and looked down at the slice of pizza in her hands, moving a mushroom so it didn’t fall onto the sheets.

  “Yeah. I write blog posts. Mostly about stuff I’ve never done, or places I’ve never been to.” She glanced up with a wistful smile. “But they don’t need to know that. I mean, I’d love to do those things eventually, but they aren’t exactly feasible right now.” She glanced around her tiny apartment with a wry smile.

  He chuckled. “So, you’re a kind of journalist?” he pressed, eyeing her carefully.

  “Sometimes,” she murmured. “Freelance, that kind of thing. I write the society page puff pieces in the Journal, too.”

  Nothing he needed to worry about, then. But the way she was so focused on her food made suspicion tug at the corner of his mind.

  She moved on to questioning him again about his life and he forgot what he’d been thinking. She asked about his early years with his mother, the fights for McCready, and everything in between. He side-stepped as many of those questions as he could, but in the end he discovered he didn’t mind revealing things he’d never told anyone.

  “When my mother got sick, we needed money to get her treatment. I was only a teen, and there weren’t that many options available to me—and even less good options.”

  “So what did you do?” she asked, face a mask of sympathy.

  “I fell in with a bad crowd. A gang. I did…things for them, and they helped me with my mother.”

  She swallowed. “What kind of things?”

  He shrugged. “I roughed people up, threatened people so they’d pay Victor—that was the leader’s name. It didn’t start off too bad, but he kept asking me to do more and more things. By the time I realised what I was really doing I was in too deep.”

  “What happened?”

  He shrugged. “I got caught. Went to prison. The worst of it was that my girlfriend at the time, Radha, she’d stuck with me through all of it. We were dating before my mother’s diagnosis. And she kept trying to convince me to stop, to get away from Victor. One night she insisted on coming with me on a job—I guess she thought she could talk me out of it. Instead, it all went wrong and we both ended up arrested.”

  His fists clenched as he remembered that night.

  “I felt awful. And it confirmed all her parents’ worst suspicions about me, about how I was bad for their daughter. I went to prison. The judge took pity on her and she got off easy enough, but she still has a criminal record, because of me.”

  Rosalyn ran a hand down his arm. “She made her choices.”

  He scoffed. “Yeah. It’s still my fault. I should have…well, so many things, but it’s too late to regret it now.” A cloud hung over him at the remembrances. Those were dark days, the ones that had set him on the path he was now following.

  “Did you ever see her again?”

  He hummed. “Not until about a year ago. She actually got into some trouble with Victor.”

  “What did you do?”

  Diego shrugged. “Nothing, at first. But eventually some speck of my humanity surfaced and I helped her escape him. By turning my back on Victor, that’s how I ended up here.”

  “That’s what you’re hiding from?” she asked.

  “Something like that.” He didn’t tell her Victor was dead, and as far as Diego knew his gang was decimated. That would lead to questions he didn’t want to answer.

  “Wow, that’s quite a story.”

  He shrugged. “Yeah. I’ll never see Radha again, but she’s responsible for awakening enough of a conscience in me that I left my old life completely behind with only the clothes on my back.”

  “And that’s why you fight?”

  He nodded. “I have to earn a living, but I can’t let the gang find out where I am, or they’ll come after me as a traitor.” If they were still operational, that was. He suspected Mickey—one of Victor’s most trusted men—would have tried to take over. Whether he would have succeeded was another question entirely. But Diego was certain that even if the gang was gone, the individual members would still hold a grudge against him for what he did. They’d come after him regardless.

  The conversation drifted away again. He tried to steer it to her life, and she let drop a few hints as to what she’d been through in the foster system. It made his heart ache to think of all the pain and misery she must have gone through.

  It was close to dawn before they finally stopped talking. With barely a discussion, they readied themselves for bed and slipped beneath the covers.

  He tugged her towards him, unable to resist her. She came willingly into his arms, as if she belonged there. His lips brushed tenderly over hers. He cradled her face as their kiss deepened, but they didn’t touch anywhere else. Just sunk into the pleasure of kissing each other.

  The kiss deepened, but he kept it unhurried, leisurely, as if he had all the time in the world. The bittersweet ache in his chest told him that he didn’t—that he should claim her immediately before he had to leave, or before she found out who he really was and left him. But he wanted to revel in every part of her, imprint her on his memories.

  This woman, this moment. The way she kissed him as if were a normal man, not one with bloodstained hands.

  His cock grew heavy with desire, and his hand trembled where it cradled her face, but he kept himself under ruthless control. Now was not a time for rough desire. It was a time to prove to Rosalyn—and himself—that he wasn’t a brute.

  But eventually Rosalyn became insistent, shuffling forward until she was laying half on top of him. She broke their kiss so she could press her lips against his neck, his pecs, his abs. She held his gaze the whole time, and Diego couldn’t imagine anything hotter than the fire in her eyes. He stilled as he understood her intent, frozen in anticipation.

  She didn’t disappoint, tugging the waistband of his boxers down to reveal him to her hungry gaze. She worked him gently with her hand, then slowly bent over to draw him into her mouth.

  His hips bucked at the first touch of her mouth, pleasure spearing through him. He stilled, afraid he might have hurt her, but she smiled around his cock and drew him deeper.

  Sweat beaded his skin as she worked him. He clutched the sheets instead of her hair, twisting them in his effort to keep himself under control. She felt so good. So hot and wet, like a tropical heaven. He groaned as she teased the tip of his aching erection with her tongue, locking her gaze with his as she did so.

  Her confidence was so fucking sexy. It brought him right to the edge.

  “I’m close. Your turn.” This time he did tangle his fist in her hair, tugging to draw her up. He didn’t stop until she knelt over his face, presenting her perfect pussy to his view. He gripped her hips and lowered her until she was in position. Then, he devoured her.

  She tasted so fucking good. He slid his tongue into her channel, then flattened it to draw
up and tease her clit. She moaned and tilted her hips, fucking his tongue. It was the hottest experience of his life.

  She came hard, gripping the headboard so hard he swore he heard it crack.

  He slipped out from beneath her and knelt on the bed. Rosalyn flopped down, boneless, and Diego couldn’t help a grin of pure male satisfaction at the expression on her face. She was pliant, face still glazed with bliss. Her legs fell open in invitation and he groaned, tempted to dive back in. But his cock throbbed insistently. Next time. If there was a next time.

  Diego yanked open the drawer of the nightstand and found a condom. He tore open the packet, but before he could put it on, Rosalyn’s hand settled over his.

  “Let me.”

  She rolled it on slowly, taking her time to stroke him, please him. Tease him.

  “Enough,” he ground out. He hovered over her, but winced as he ribs protested. Frustrated, he gripped her hips and propped her up again in her former position. He put his hands over hers, curling her fingers around the headboard.

  Then, he moved in behind her and entered with one swift thrust.

  She gasped. He groaned. She was so perfect, so right, fitting his cock like a glove. He gripped her hips and thrust again, the headboard rattling at the force of his movements.

  He tried to keep his thrusts slow, controlled, but it was no use.

  “Harder,” she gasped, bracing herself against the headboard.

  Unable to hold back, Diego let loose, slamming into her again and again. Rosalyn’s cries of pleasure echoed in his ears as he took what he wanted from her—needed from her. Lost himself in the feel of her.

  She came with a cry, but he didn’t stop, just rode her through it as she contracted around him. As her muscles sagged, he held her hips, keeping her upright as he pounded into her.

  The base of his spine tingled, but Diego needed Rosalyn to come this time, too. He reached around and found her clit, rubbing it in time to his thrusts.

  “Yes,” she gasped. “I’m close.” He increased his pace, rocking the headboard into the low wall behind it with a rhythmic bang.

  And then she was coming again, legs shaking as she squirmed on his cock. He kept thrusting, until her orgasm finished, then he finally loosened his control, slamming deep into her and coming hard.

  He collapsed over her, still deep inside her, panting hard.

  “That was incredible,” she whispered as she got her breath back.

  Yeah, it was. And that presented a whole hell of a problem, because now he wasn’t sure he could ever give Rosalyn up.

  Chapter 11

  Somehow, Rosalyn completely failed to research Diego’s name. Her article was left forgotten. Instead, they drifted off to sleep in each other’s arms. And when they woke the next day, the two of them talked and explored each other. Learning, growing closer.

  She did managed to ask about his fights again, as much for her own curiosity as her need to write the article. This time, he scowled at her with suspicion and her heart sank.

  “Why do you want to know so much about this?” His scowl deepened. “And why were you even at the fights in the first place?”

  Rosalyn swallowed. Now or never, she had to be honest with him. It might mean she couldn’t write the article, if he refused her. But maybe being honest with him, instead of jeopardising what they were building between them, had suddenly become of the utmost importance.

  “You know how I said I wrote blog posts and articles?” she asked carefully. He eyed her, then gave a slight nod. “Well, what would you say if I wanted to write an article about you and the other fighters?”

  She held her breath.

  “No,” he said immediately, the sound as final as a tolling bell.

  She frowned. “Why not? It would make a great story. And it would get the word out there about how these guys are being exploited. Maybe it would help.”

  He shook his head. “The fights would get closed down.”

  “But wouldn’t that be a good thing?”

  “And take away the only source of income for these guys?” He laughed bitterly. “Like me, they’re all hiding something. You’d expose us. Expose me.” His jaw was locked, his eyes blazing in fury.

  Rosalyn swallowed. “Okay.” She’d try again later once he had time to come around to the idea. She still thought it would be the best way to help those guys. Diego was too deep into the world, and he couldn’t see how dangerous and brutal it was. He thought it was normal to have people die in a cage and their bodies dumped God knows where. He’d barely reacted as he’d told her that.

  She knew what it was like to be too deep into a world and not see a way out. These men deserved to have their stories told, so they weren’t forgotten and left behind.

  And for her? This article, if done right, could make her career. So she was no longer forgotten and left behind. The hard work and sacrifices would have been worth it, and she could become a real investigative journalist telling stories that mattered. Like this one.

  Sensing Diego’s residual tension, Rosalyn leaned over him and trailed her hands over his bare chest. “What will we do tonight?” she asked.

  He relaxed almost instantly. “More of this, I hope,” he replied, squeezing her hip with a grin.

  She laughed, but then she swallowed, catching his eye so he’d know she was serious. “I mean, will you stay? Once the forty-eight hour window is up?”

  He stared at her for a long moment, his gaze intense. It seemed like he was waging some kind of private battle within himself, or maybe against himself.

  Eventually, he gave a sharp nod. “Yeah. I’ll stay.”

  But the hesitation had stuck with her. Her journalist mind was too curious about what he was hiding, and her heart—well, she needed to know before she got in too deep.

  As Diego dozed in a post-coital haze that afternoon, Rosalyn crept from the bed and tugged on her clothes. She opened her sorely-neglected laptop, guilt spearing her as she remembered she’d barely done any work the last two days.

  The wheels of her desk chair scraped faintly on the hardwood floor as she twisted it around, keeping Diego in her peripheral vision and her computer on her legs. Despite her justifications to herself, she still felt like she was invading his privacy.

  She typed Diego’s name into Google as a starting point. A bunch of Facebook and LinkedIn profiles, none of which appeared to be him. She dug a little deeper, idly scrolling through the results and not really expecting to find much.

  A news article sat about halfway down the page, with the name Diego Johnson in the preview. Something about a fire in Portsboro.

  Rosalyn clicked through in curiosity, reading the article without much interest. But as she got further down, words and names jumped out at her—like Victor, the man who Diego had claimed was his boss. But none of it quite clicked together. Until she got right to the end. ‘The other body was burned beyond recognition in the fire, but is thought to be one of Victor’s associates by the name of Diego Johnson.’

  She gasped softly. Diego was dead? If so, who was the man currently sleeping in her bed? And if it wasn’t Diego in the fire, then who had died? The dull pounding of impending horror sounded at the edge of her consciousness. She scrolled back up, rereading the article with her new knowledge. Now, another line caught her eye: ‘One of the victims is being identified as Victor Garrera, who has been investigated for many crimes, but never charged. Police have released the cause of death as a gunshot wound, and is being treated as suspicious.’

  Rosalyn swallowed, her mouth dry, and opened up a new tab. She searched for more news articles about the fire, but there was never a follow up, never confirmation of who the second body was—or how Victor Garrera had received his gunshot wound.

  Had she let a killer into her home—her bed?

  “What are you doing?” Diego asked sleepily from the bed. Or maybe it wasn’t Diego. Who had she let into her house?

  Rosalyn licked her lips, then carefully took her laptop from her
legs and placed it on the desk. Her hands shook, and she squeezed them into fists to keep control. She held herself still, afraid that if she moved wrong she’d crumble to pieces.

  “Who are you?” she asked on a whisper.

  The sleep instantly cleared from his face and he bolted upright. “What did you find?” he demanded.

  Rosalyn let out a shaky breath. “Why are you on the run?” she tried, her voice small. The fierceness of his expression made her skin go clammy with fear. What would he do to protect his secrets? He traded in violence for a living. Would she just be another statistic?

  He leapt out of the bed and strode towards her. Rosalyn stumbled to her feet, the chair tilting precariously as she backed away from him.

  “I asked you a question,” he growled.

  Rosalyn straightened her spine. “And I asked you one! I knew you had your secrets, but you’ve been dancing around the truth this whole time. Is your name even Diego?”

  He closed in on her, backing her into the wall. But he didn’t touch her. Not like the last time they were in this position. This time he balled his hands into fists, keeping them close by his side. Was it a threat? Or couldn’t he trust himself not to touch her? Ten minutes ago she would have said with certainty it was the latter. But now he radiated violence and anger.

  Rosalyn’s heart thundered but she forced herself to meet his gaze. His eyes burned, fury and passion mingling in a turbulent maelstrom.

  “My name is Diego,” he bit out.

  She nodded, some of the starch leaving her spine. She believed him. “And did you kill a man?” she asked, her voice steadier now. Please say no.

  He stiffened, then he stared at her for a long moment, his gaze communicating his agony at the question. He didn’t reply, giving Rosalyn an answer she hadn’t want to hear.

  She pushed off the wall, coming further into Diego’s space. He backed off, only taking one step when she took two. Their chests brushed as she analysed his face. “Were you the one who killed Victor?” she tried again, voice almost a whisper.

  “He was a bad man, Rosalyn. He killed a lot of people.”