Tap Out

by Michele Mannon

  “Damn it, Caden. Move!” she heard her own hoarse cry, wiping his blood from her arm with the hem of her cotton blouse. Darn, the stain was never going to come out. She didn’t care. All she cared about was Caden fighting for his life in that cage.

  He moved, shifting sideways so she could see his profile. See the vicious cut on his arm. See the look of utter rage he shot her in a single glance.

  “Get the fuck outta here,” he shouted. “Now.”

  Baldy laughed sadistically. “What? The handsome pussy wants me to leave his pretty boy face alone? Got news for you. I’m not going nowhere. And, the only way you’re leaving is by the ambulancia. Dǒng mᾱ?”

  Caden rolled his shoulders, then his neck. Warming up. Jeez, now? Or was he too hurt to know that the time for preparation had long since passed?

  He glared at her. With so much fury, it was like someone sucker punched her, stealing her breath.

  Then, his face became completely void of expression. He shifted on his feet. Relaxed and composed, or so it seemed. Contrary in every way to Baldy, who was all huff and puff, with steam blowing out of his flaring nostrils.

  Seconds passed. Despite all the noises coming from Baldy, Sophie’s gaze rested on Caden. He looked ready for a nap. Or the beach. Or...bed. He didn’t look her way again, and hopefully he’d forgotten her. What did he expect anyway? She had a job to do. She...needed him in one piece.

  The warm summer night had turned sweaty with crowds of men packed in shoulder to shoulder. Still, the camera humming against her side felt cold. She felt chilled to the bone.

  Baldy raised his knife again. Then, everything became one crazy blur.

  Caden kicked his wrist, sending the knife flying across the cage. Pivoting and raising his uninjured arm, he elbowed Baldy squarely in the nose, surely breaking it. His fist followed, swinging up and hitting Baldy underneath the chin. The brute was literally lifted off his feet by the impact.

  Baldy landed on his feet, and stepped backward. His eyes popped out of his head, surprised as hell. His crooked nose spewed blood down his chin.

  Sophie could relate. Awestruck, she was speechless as she focused on the stranger in front of her. A fine sheen of sweat coated his taut chest. His jaw clenched tightly but his hands hung loosely at his sides. So different than what she’d thought. So incredibly virile. Deep inside her, something stirred. A primal feminine reaction to his pure, unadulterated masculinity.

  The crowd was eerily quiet. Waiting with bated breath for Caden to go in for the kill.

  Caden smirked briefly, a reassuring glimpse of his sarcastic self hidden within the vicious fighter standing nonchalantly before her.

  Nonchalant. No way, she thought, just before Caden sprang forward. His fists pounded both of Baldy’s sides, then his face. Rapidly. Repeatedly. Viciously.

  It wasn’t the brutal punches that made her cry out, though. It was the look that fell across Caden’s features. A look so fierce it caused her to want to hug herself protectively.

  Never in a million years would she have guess that behind that lazy smile, breathtaking good looks, and sharp, sarcastic wit, lurked such a brutal man. A warrior. The kind of guy you wouldn’t want to get involved with if you valued your life. Gone was the man who’d made her knees tremble from his kisses, her heart do a jig at his touch.

  And to make matters worse, he liked this, wanted it, gave up a safe, comfortable career for this...the beatings and bloodshed.

  Sophie shuddered. Clearly, she wasn’t the good judge of character she’d credited herself with being.

  The EMT crew sprinted past her for the stairs.

  Caden swung his leg high, connecting with Baldy’s thigh, and the man crumbled to the ground. Caden was on him a second later, pinning him to the mat.

  Blood poured out of his cut. His bruised cheek had swelled up. Yet his relentless fists pounded his opponent’s side again and again.

  Baldy raised his hand and tapped the mat.

  “Tap out! He fucking tapped out,” chorused the stunned spectators.

  The camera nestled against her side was still rolling, right in unison with her heartbeat. Her documentary had taken a surprising turn, and had the makings of being something spectacular. She’d heard he had mad skills but this model/playboy had a down-and-dirty side. A brutality you’d expect to find in a back alley brawler, not America’s favorite loverboy. One thing was clear, though. Caden was a champion no matter the cage he fought in. Viewers were in for a wake-up call.

  “Killer Kelly, Killer,” the crowd chanted. Holy crapola.

  Sophie looked on in horror as it took three EMTs to pull Caden off his opponent.

  That sexy smile, the light-hearted playboy appeal depicted on his billboard, had been a lie. The man she knew—or thought she’d known—was an illusion.

  Chapter Nine

  LAY AND PRAY: When a fighter plays dead, and prays his opponent will fall for it and stop beating the hell out of him. Seems like the best way to get out of the cage alive

  The fists pounding on his motel room door echoed loudly around the bathroom. Or was that his pounding headache beating in time with whoever the fuck was out there? Whoever it was clearly hadn’t seen the fight. A rational person, or even someone with a smidgeon of common sense, would know enough to leave him alone. Give him time to recover and work through the second battle playing out in his head.

  Rage. No other word described what had happened back there in the cage. A killing rage. The crowed picked up on it, alright, chanting Killer Kelly like they’d been cheering for their favorite baseball player up at bat.

  He’d lost control. Allowed the demons to resurface, and along with them, anger and hurt. His daddy’s fists. Bracken beaten to near death, with cracked ribs and a broken nose. Child Protective Services, who did more harm than good by separating the brothers. Foster homes suitable for tough, hardcore, mean-looking kids, not an attractive boy looking for someone to love him. Life afterward, in the backstreets of Nashville, fighting for food. Fighting to survive.

  Since he sobered up, he’d gotten good at redirecting his pain, using it as motivation to rise above it all. Win Tetnus. Prove once and for all that he mattered.

  Tonight, that pain had eaten him whole.

  A quick, hot shower hadn’t been enough comfort. He needed a hiatus from the promise he’d made to himself. A bottle of booze was just what he had in mind.

  His mind flashed full of Sophie. Her hair fanning out on the mattress, her lips swollen from his kisses, her eyes shimmering with pleasure. The image was all wrong. She was officially off limits. Tonight, she’d pissed him off like nobody’s business.

  “Knock if you need me,” he muttered. She’d promised to stay put, then had blatantly ignored it, putting herself in unnecessary danger. Man, he should have expected it from her. Typical woman—couldn’t be trusted. Caden wore two belts, figurative ones. The first notched with all the women he’d fucked, and another with the women who’d outright lied to him. The latter was beginning to catch up to the first.

  Promises were something he didn’t take lightly because, in spite of the endless let downs he’d experienced over the years, Caden had never made an idle one. His word was his word.

  That is, except for the promises made to himself. Breaking them were the biggest let downs of all.

  He hurled the damp towel clenched in his fist onto the bathroom countertop. Tugging on a clean pair of sweats, he scowled at the sharp pain from the wound on his arm. The EMTs had looked at it and given him some antiseptic and bandages to bind it with after he’d showered the stench from his body.

  The pounding continued. Relentless and unmerciful. One more ballbuster to be dealt with. “Just a fucking second,” he shouted at the door.

  The combination of somebody’s blaring television and whoever was beating the hell out of
his motel room door only worsened his headache. Just like the woman in the adjacent room—the one that had better be in there, and not banging away outside.

  Fuck. One more reason not to answer it.

  Shit. And double shit. Was she in trouble? His head throbbed at the thought, knowing he’d promised her his protection and hadn’t exactly hurried to the door.

  Without further thought, Caden stalked over and yanked it open.

  “Boy-oh-boy, that was something,” Sal murmured, stepping past him into the room. The man was as annoying as hell, and just as oblivious. “Jerry’s mad as the dickens, too. Thought you were a no-show—he didn’t see your car out front, you didn’t check in to the room he’d reserved. So he put his mouth and money on Jaysin. Lost big time.”

  The news wasn’t surprising. Caden had dealt with his share of Jerrys in his lifetime, sure. Guys who were slaves to the dollar, who’d use fighters any way necessary to fill up their bank accounts. Fuck, for the better part of the evening he’d been watching the man, waiting to catch him red-handed. But a guy who traded in human flesh and sold dope? That took the cake...

  Sal stood with his hands on his hips, his gaze searching the room. “I bet you didn’t expect Caden to put a licking on that felon?” he loudly asked. Dried blood had formed beneath a nostril, signs that the old timer had seen some trouble. Knocked loose some marbles within that head of his, with the way was talking—like there was another guy named Caden in the room.

  “Holy tarnation,” Sal continued, eyes searching, then widening. “She’s not here. Thought she followed you back. I’ve been waiting for her to...eh...finish up in here.”

  Fucking tarnation.

  “That was you in Sophie’s room, with the television amped up to 100 decibels?” he demanded, knowing full well the answer. He stalked over to the chair, grabbed his black T-shirt off the back, and slid it over his head. The cut on his arm smarted but he ignored it as he slid on his sneakers.

  The room fell silent, drawing attention to the fact that the commotion outside had died down. No news to be had out there. Bad news for Sophie, any way you looked at it. He had to find her, and fast.

  Sal was already at the door. “I’m going to get her,” he announced, drawing the same conclusion.

  Caden scowled. Shit on a brick. Lord knew what Sophie had gotten herself into out there. He moved past Sal, jerked the door open, and strode out into the parking lot.

  Light from a full moon illuminated the area enough for him to spot the huddle of thugs lurking over by the deconstructed cage. No one else was around. The thought that Sophie might be held against her will by those shitheads, or worse...

  He headed toward the group, lengthening his strides. Sal’s loafers sounded on the pavement behind him, hustling to keep up.

  Caden heard her voice, coming from deep within the circle, but he had to see her. Had to see for himself that she was okay. The fact that her voice sounded polished and professional, calm even—that it was the voice she used while interviewing celebrities—was lost on him.

  “What else do you want to say to the MMA fans out there?”

  “Uh...”

  Caden elbowed his way into the thick of them, guided by the sound of her. He paused once to glance over his shoulder and make sure the old timer was close by.

  “Come on. Don’t be camera shy. Let me remind you: Live on KAN. Anyone else care to comment?”

  He pushed through the front line of bodies and stopped short. His gaze landed first on her, then on the camcorder.

  Sal drew up next to him and sucked in a breath. “Holy Toledo.”

  Sophie stood on the second step of what remained of the stairs. Her blouse was wrinkled and her pants creased, but despite the worse for wear, she seemed unharmed. Dead serious, with her camera held high. Holding court to all of the thugs, riff raff, and street punks who lingered about after a fight, looking for trouble.

  Guess they found it. All five foot seven of her.

  Except, they hadn’t figured it out yet. That she was pure trouble. That the Pittsburgh Pirates cap on her head was a dead giveaway that she wasn’t from these parts. That she wasn’t a reporter for a local news channel.

  That the fucking camcorder wasn’t even on.

  “Please, somebody speak up. Remember, we’re on air.”

  He wanted to punch the three assholes closest to her, all of them smiling manically. Gullible as shit, but built like tanks.

  She hadn’t noticed him.

  Her gaze darted toward the three thugs, nervously. A sign that common sense hadn’t entirely vanished.

  “Okay guys, a little change in topic, here. Any comment on the illegal betting taking place tonight?”

  A rumble of angry curses came out of his lips, overshadowed by the louder rumble of voices rolling through the crowd. Like a dark, ominous cloud over an already torrential downpour of bad losers. Caden was willing to bet they’d bet against him.

  “How many of you gave Jerry money?” Sophie continued, unaware that it was about to rain on her parade. Damn. Given her profession, you’d think she’d know when danger surrounded her. The tension had grown so thick, a chainsaw wouldn’t slice through it.

  Sophie shifted her weight and tucked a hand into her pants pocket, with the dark lens of the camcorder held steadfast on the crowd.

  “That weasel got me for a hundred bucks. Told me that fucking fighter of his, the one with the scorpion on his head, was un-fuckin’-beatable. If he hadn’t been hauled out on a stretcher, I’d beat the shit outta him myself.” The fan’s face grew redder as he ground the words out from between clenched teeth.

  The guy next to him chimed in. “Got me for a hundred, too. I want my money back. The fights were fixed.”

  Silence fell, and then the men’s eyes swung Caden’s way, finally noticing him.

  Caden ground his teeth together, readying himself to have at it.

  “Don’t do it,” Sal said, surprising him.

  He grunted, his gaze shifting off the trio and onto Sal.

  The old timer was shaking his head at Sophie.

  Hell. His gaze quickly fell back onto her. Man, this woman drew trouble to her like honey drew butterflies.

  He let out a healthy stream of curses as she stepped down off the makeshift stairs, drew out a small notepad from somewhere beneath her camera, and stepped closer to the trio.

  It was too late to stop her.

  “Tell me, how much does Jerry charge amateurs to fight professionals? And, how does he get the word out and find the hardest guys? Does he cull from local prisons? Detention Centers?”

  “Cull? Like seacull? Honey, do I look like some damned bird?” The red-faced fan growled. “You’re the reporter. You get stuff done. So, go get my money.”

  “You know, KAN sucks. How about—”

  “Woo, bitch, is that thing even on?”

  It wasn’t their words, or the fact that she’d been made that sprung Caden into action. It was the look on the faces of the three thugs, staring at Sophie as if they’d been interviewed by the devil in high heels.

  Great, he was going to have to fight his way back out of here, with a headache that felt like an iron vice squeezing his temples.

  In three long strides, he stalked up to her and grabbed her beneath the elbow.

  Sophie jumped, yanking her arm from beneath his grasp, but he held on firm. Turning, her eyes widened on his face a second before her arm relaxed beneath his fingers.

  “Show’s over,” he stated, loud enough for the crew around them to know he meant business. “Let’s go,” he added in a softer voice, tugging her arm and leading her back through the crowd.

  “Hey, what time can we watch our interview?” the guy who’d been crowding Sophie as he approached the ring. Clueless as crap.

  “Eleven
o’clock news,” Sophie calmly lied through her teeth. “Run home and turn your televisions on.”

  It was well past midnight. Good thing this crew wasn’t the watch-wearing sort.

  “Sophie, sweetheart, I hate to rustle your feathers but do you know that your camera isn’t even—”

  “Zip it, Sal,” he growled, shooting him a clear look of warning.

  Man alive, no way was he making it outta here without a battle.

  His temples throbbed along with his splitting headache. The sharp pain in his arm matched his sore cheek. He ignored it all. Fuck, he’d fought through worse situations, before he’d even learned how to defend himself.

  The biggest guy decided to play hardball by blocking his path. Showing off for the crowd more than anything else. Large-oaf syndrome.

  Caden shot him a warning look. For a second, the guy looked nervous enough to step aside. He shuffled around on his feet, his movements hesitant before stupidity had him holding ground. He felt sorry for the man. Now it was about saving face.

  Before any chants of encouragement could begin, Caden balled up his fist and sucker punched the guy in the stomach. A shame, but he had to make his point clear.

  Sophie’s arm jerked beneath his grasp. He heard her gasp.

  What the fuck did she expect? His fingers tightened around her arm as they made their way without further incident back to his room.

  He released her arm, and she rubbed the spot with her hand, as if to wipe away his repulsive touch.

  “Inside.”

  She didn’t hesitate, stepping around his body in the doorway. Careful not to brush up against him as she passed.

  He studied her face.

  She tucked her chin and avoided eye contact.

  “Hell,” he murmured, exasperated.

  She shied away from him and hurried into the room.

  Letting out another stream of curses, he followed her inside. Her reaction pissed him off.

  She’d been cool as a cucumber surrounded by street punks and ex-cons. Resourceful and hell-bent on getting the goods on Jerry. Nervous yes, but fearless nevertheless. And unbelievably stupid—any number of things could have happened to her tonight, if he hadn’t interfered.