Killer

by Heather C. Leigh

  After a quick bite to eat, we’re ready to go into the ring to try out some of Britt’s modifications. Gabriel stands to one side while I torque my body into each requested position.

  “Okay, see here?” Britt taps the inside of my left knee. “You need to be like this.” Her small hand wraps around my thigh to manipulate my leg where she wants it. Electricity from her touch burns from my leg up and over my entire body, scorching me from the inside out. I say a prayer of thanks for my athletic cup. Without it, my cock would be jutting right into Britt’s face since she’s on her knees in front of me.

  It’s near impossible to concentrate without my brain going to thoughts of those thick lips wrapping around my dick, but years of exerting near obsessive control over my body helps to mask the urge. Helps, but doesn’t stop it completely. Britt is my weakness, my kryptonite. If I’m not careful, she’ll burrow under my skin, break down my meticulously crafted defenses, and reduce me to a weak, emotional mess.

  Britt releases my leg and stands up, her face flushed. Is it possible she feels it too? This thread between us? One that keeps tugging me in as I fight to get free. Even if she feels it, I doubt Britt is feeling the same level of desire as me. It’s as if before we met I was suffocating, and now, when I’m near her, my lungs are filled with precious oxygen, allowing me to breathe easy for the first time in a decade.

  “Try a few kicks,” Gabriel says, stepping aside so the camera can catch my new form. I execute a few downward roundhouse kicks, slamming my foot into Gabriel’s padded hands. “Well?” They both wait for me to say something.

  What the hell do they want me to say?

  I shrug. “It’s good.”

  Britt smiles, her full lips pulling back to reveal brilliant white teeth. Her bright blue eyes and sweet face send another bolt of lightning to my blackened heart, this sweet, innocent angel trying to resuscitate a soul that died a long time ago. I don’t do angelic. I don’t do sweet. And I sure as fuck don’t do innocent. I can’t ruin her. And if I touched her, that’s what would happen. She’d be ruined. Dragged down into the blackness of my life, to never be the same.

  I turn away from Britt’s smile, unable to continue looking at something I can’t ever have.

  As we’re packing up at the end of the day, I catch that asswipe Max out of the corner of my eye. He’s lingering by the front desk all creepy as fuck. Britt locks up her office and heads toward the door where the two of them exchange a few words. I grind my teeth in aggravation as I watch. The urge to hit something is nearly overwhelming when Britt follows Max out to the parking lot where she climbs into his car.

  Son of a bitch!

  I’m not a good guy, not by any stretch of the imagination, and I don’t deserve a woman like Britt, but I’m positive Max might be the worst thing for the naive sports therapist, even when compared to me.

  4

  Britt

  After dodging Max’s offers to drive me home the last few days, he traps me by the front desk. “Britt, you headed out?” His smile is forced, likely a result of my recent avoidance tactics. He’s been acting strange lately, especially around K, and it has me on edge. More so than usual. Work is my sanctuary and Max is ruining it with his bizarre behavior.

  “Yes,” I respond as cheerily as I can manage seeing as I’m going to my parents’ house for dinner tonight. It’s hung over me all day. I’m dreading dinner more than a trip to the dentist’s chair.

  “I’m about to leave myself. It’s pretty hot out so I figured you wouldn’t want to walk.”

  It’s hot every damn day from May through October, I think. Instead of voicing my sarcastic response, I accept his offer, unable to come up with a reason to decline except the fact that Max makes me nervous lately.

  “Sure. Thanks, Max.”

  He grins, the smile more natural now that I agreed to the ride, which allows me to relax a little.

  Max cranks up the A/C, letting the blazing hot car cool off a little before pulling out of the parking lot. “So,” he begins, his eyes never leaving the congested streets. “What’s up with the new guy?”

  “Who?” I play dumb, knowing exactly who Max is asking about.

  I catch Max rolling his eyes. “Killer. What a stupid name.”

  Although I agree on the name thing, I’m not going to give Max the satisfaction of knowing he’s right. Plus, the way he’s always putting down K makes me defensive for some reason.

  “He’s doing well. Once he hits the circuit, he’ll be unstoppable.”

  Why I want to rub K’s success in Max’s face is a mystery. I guess it’s the fact that no one else here bothers to look past the tough exterior K projects. No one else sees or understands the similarities we share and hide from the world. Despite his attempt to cover it up, I see him. Inside, he’s damaged. Like me. And that makes him even more attractive in my eyes.

  Max scowls. “We’ll see about that.”

  “We will,” I agree.

  Max pulls into my apartment complex and stops in front of my building. I grab my purse and when my hand reaches for the door, Max speaks. “Did you maybe want to get something to eat tonight?”

  My head whips around in shock, wondering if I heard correctly since he’s on my left. “Are you asking me out?” I blurt without thinking. Max turns bright red and drops his gaze to the steering wheel. His thumbs rub back and forth over the worn leather on the wheel.

  “Yeah, I think I am.” Nervous eyes flick over to my face.

  Crap. I don’t think of Max that way. How are we supposed to work together if I turn him down?

  “Ummmm, I’m having dinner with my parents tonight,” I stammer.

  “Oh.” He looks crestfallen, biting on his lower lip. “Okay. I’ll see you Monday, Britt.”

  Nodding, I hurry out of the car, eager to be away from such an uncomfortable situation. Once inside, I lock the door behind me and sag. Jesus, I need Max asking me out like I need a hole in my head.

  I hunch over and start giggling uncontrollably. I did have a hole in my head. It shouldn’t be funny, but for some reason I can’t stop. After fifteen minutes of ridiculous, near-hysteric laughter, I wipe my eyes and check the clock.

  Crap.

  Now there really will be something for my mother to be mad at. I’m going to be late.

  * * *

  I park my cherry red BMW coupe and hurry up the fancy paved stone stairs leading up to my parents’ front door. I don’t drive much, but I didn’t want to be at my parents’ mercy when it’s time to leave. The house hasn’t changed much over the years. It’s still massive, pretentious, and way too big for three people, let alone two.

  I raise a hand, feeling for the amethyst pendant under my shirt. My finger hovers over the doorbell, and I realize I’m being ridiculous. This is, or was, my house until two years ago when I moved out. I open the door, stepping inside the two-story foyer.

  “Britton?” My mom’s voice echoes in the large space. Her heels clack on the hardwood floor as she makes her way toward me.

  “Hey, Mom.”

  “You’re late, dear,” she chastises before I can even take a single step off of the expensive imported rug in front of the door.

  “Sorry, Mom. I came as soon as I got out of work.”

  “Well, dinner is ready. Come. Your father is waiting.”

  I follow her into the ridiculously huge dining room, lit by two crystal chandeliers hanging over the twelve-person table.

  “Britton, you’re looking lovely tonight.” My dad stands up and gives me a hug. I sink into the embrace. He’s not around much, having worked a lot over the years. Heck, he still works a lot. But I know my dad always loves me no matter what I do or say.

  “Hi Daddy.” I lay my head on his chest and accept the comfort. It reminds me of a time before “the incident,” when I was a normal kid and not someone damaged who needed to be taken care of and told how to run my life.

  “If you’re ready, Lina is bringing out dinner.” My mom’s voice snaps me back t
o the present.

  Daddy pats my arm and releases me. He holds out my chair, pushing it in for me as I sit.

  “Thank you, Daddy.”

  My dad smiles, his blue eyes sparkling. “You’re welcome, sweetheart.”

  My parents’ housekeeper brings in dinner, setting plates in front of each of us before scurrying away. I pick at the dish, eating a few bites. For some reason, my appetite always vanishes when I eat here. My mother opens her mouth and I remember exactly why that is.

  “So, Britton. The tenth anniversary of ‘the incident’ is coming up in September,” she mentions calmly, as if bringing it up it isn’t the equivalent of dropping a nuclear bomb on the table.

  I continue focusing on my plate, not giving her the satisfaction of a response.

  “Anyway,” she continues. “The school is doing a memorial service with the help of SASS, and I think you need to be there to speak.”

  And there it is.

  That’s why she wanted me here tonight. To guilt and bully me into speaking at her event. The exact type of event I’ve insisted over and over I want nothing to do with.

  “No.” I clench my hands under the table, away from my mother’s prying eyes.

  The single harsh word hits its mark. Mom’s eyes go wide a split second before she can control her face. Then her mask of cold disapproval slides into place, turning her into the mother I’ve known for most of the last ten years.

  “Britton, don’t be so selfish. The families of the victims need you there,” she insists, her mouth turned down in the corners.

  Heat floods my face and I swear, if I were a cartoon character, smoke would be billowing out of my ears. “Selfish?” I reply, my voice rising. “I’m selfish?” I push back my chair, shaking with anger, my half-eaten dinner going cold between us.

  “Britt,” my dad interjects, attempting to coax me into calming down. He’s got to be as tired of the fighting as I am.

  “No!” I swing my gaze from my dad over to my mom. “I will not be made to feel guilty for not wanting to revisit the worst day of my life! I repeatedly tell you I need to move on with my life, and yet you ignore my wishes again and again!”

  “Now wait a minute, young lady,” Mom lectures. “I gave up my career to help you recover, to keep you up to date with your peers by homeschooling you so you wouldn’t fall behind or have to feel unsafe at school. I thought you’d come around—”

  “And I appreciate what you did for me, Mom. I do. But I didn’t ask you to give anything up. Just like I didn’t ask for a bullet to be put through my skull.” My breath hitches as I try to hold in a sob. “It’s infuriating that you refuse to acknowledge my need to put all of this crap behind me. I don’t remember any of it and I won’t let it define my life.”

  “I’m only trying to—”

  I cut her off again. “I don’t want excuses, Mom. You don’t get to decide for me. Whether you mean well or not, I’m not doing those speeches or attending any events. Ever.”

  Spinning on my heel, I march toward the front door. As I leave the room, I hear my dad trying to calm my mother down. “Let her be, Rose.”

  Thankful for his intervention, I slam the front door and hurry outside, the oppressive humidity of Atlanta in June smacking into me like a wet blanket to the face. Tears burn at the backs of my eyes and I have to calm down before driving home. Before I can sort myself out, the door opens behind me. I tense up, waiting for the angry scolding to continue.

  “Britt, do you need me to take you home, sweetheart?”

  “Daddy?” I peek over my shoulder, finding my father holding his keys. He stares at me with an odd expression on his handsome but tired face. Not pity, it’s more than that. Respect?

  “No, I’m okay. Thank you, Daddy.”

  My dad steps forward and engulfs me in a hug, wrapping his strong arms around my small frame. It’s been so long since I experienced loving human contact of any kind. My parents aren’t the touchy-feely types and my last, my only boyfriend, was back when I was an undergrad, and because he knew about “the incident” he treated me like an untouchable porcelain doll.

  My dad kisses the top of my head. “Anytime, sweetheart. Anytime.”

  Killer

  Jackson Wolfe might just be the biggest prick I ever met. And I’ve met a lot of fucking pricks.

  “Come on, Killer,” he taunts from across the cage. “Who cares what Gabriel says? Let loose so we can find out what you’re made of.”

  A small crowd of trainers and fighters has gathered outside the octagon. We’re supposed to be practicing speed and agility, light hits only. This idiot apparently feels the need to prove his alpha status amongst the other men by egging me on in front of everyone.

  It infuriates him when I don’t answer. In fact, I refuse to speak a single word to the jackass. I reviewed his FLA fights. He’s sloppy and too cocky for his own good. He wins because his reach is long and luck is on his side… so far.

  I continue training as instructed, swinging at half-strength, dodging his blows when they manage to get anywhere close to me, which isn’t often.

  “What’s wrong with you, man? You’re creepy as fuck.” Wolfe grins, his face looking more like a caricature of the Joker than anything remotely attractive. His mouth is too big, his eyes too small, and his attitude might even be worse than mine. Silent and brooding beats cocky motherfucker any day.

  I survived six months in prison by ignoring the barbs and taunts thrown my way. In my first week I learned what happens if you let emotions take over when another inmate gets under your skin. Nine days in the infirmary taught me a lesson and shut me up damn quick.

  Maybe Wolfe needs that experience.

  He comes at me again with every intention of landing a hard jab to my ribs. Using only a fraction of the power I normally put behind my punches, I easily deflect his fist, pivot on my back foot, fake a right jab, and hit him with a perfect left cross to the jaw, following up with a flying knee strike to the chest. The moron goes down like a house of cards.

  “Fuck! You motherfucker!” Wolfe lets loose a string of curse words as he rolls around on the ground, gasping and whining like a baby. “Fucking asshole! We’re only sparring.”

  I duck my head to hide my smirk, struggling to keep my face neutral and uninterested as he loudly blames me for giving him exactly what he asked for. The cage door opens and a trainer rushes in to help the poor diva patch up his boo-boos. I use the distraction to slip out unseen. With a backdrop of Wolfe’s cursing and complaining, I pull off my gloves and slip on my hoodie.

  No way did I hit the asshole hard enough for him to put on such a display. Once my hood is up over my head, I allow myself a smile at my victory, which slides right off my face when I realize Wolfe’s endgame. Britt hurries across the gym in a tiny blonde streak and hops into the cage, kneeling at Wolfe’s side.

  That sly motherfucker.

  He might not have been expecting my hits to be that hard, but he sure is milking it for everything he can—such as garnering plenty of personal attention from the pretty blonde therapist. Anger and possessiveness surge, boiling my blood until it’s pumping hot lava through my veins.

  One of the trainers helps Wolfe to his feet. It was a simple punch kick combo, for fuck’s sake! He’s acting like I collapsed one of his lungs! Wolfe and Britt cross to her office and the door shuts behind them. Watching him touching her nearly drives me to grab his hair and punch him in his stupid face. That’s when I discover my fingernails are digging into my palms hard enough to draw blood and my jaw is so tight the muscles are beginning to ache.

  Fuck! I don’t give a shit what Wolfe does with Britt. It’s none of my business. Pissed off for letting it get to me, I throw all of my stuff into my bag and head for the door. I’m angry at Wolfe and his scheming bullshit. I’m angry at Britt for falling for his act. But most of all, I’m furious with myself because I handed Britt to Wolfe on a silver fucking platter.

  I shouldn’t care, but goddamn it, I do.

&
nbsp; * * *

  Gabriel stares at me from behind his desk, his dark eyes steady. It makes me nervous, how he can look right at me and not turn away or freak out like everyone else. The man has to see the monster inside. He’s not stupid or naive.

  “You’re almost ready for your first fight, Killer. Are you going to be able to handle this?” I scowl, and my face must answer his question. Gabriel laughs. “I know you can handle the fighting, meu filho. It’s everything else that goes with it I worry about with you.”

  I sit back in my chair. “Like what?”

  “You can’t go into the ring, fight, and be done. There are interviews, parties, fan meet and greets, all kinds of social activities you will be expected to take part in.” I cross my arms over my chest and let my hood fall over my eyes. “You can keep up the silent, brooding act if you like.” I glance up, about to interrupt when Gabriel holds up a hand. “But, you will take part in league events. It’s in the contract.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah, shit,” he replies, laughing. “You can do it, Killer. I see past this cold façade you display for everyone.” He waves his hand in my direction. “There’s a good guy in there somewhere. You just need to give him a chance.”

  I narrow my eyes at Gabriel. “I’m a lot of things, Gabriel, but one thing I’m not, is a good guy.”

  He folds his hands on top of his desk and shrugs. “You say that, but I don’t believe it.”

  Familiar defensiveness and hostility flare up in my chest, sizzling, burning until they work their way into every cell in my body. Rage and self-loathing swirl inside, churning and clawing their way out, begging to be released in a flurry of violence. Seething, I hold back the urges, speaking through clenched teeth.

  “It doesn’t matter what you believe. I know what I am.”

  “Oh, but it does. It very much matters. I wouldn’t train you if I didn’t believe in you. This would be a waste of my time, no?” Before I can respond to his bullshit psychobabble, he continues. “Britt is waiting for you in her office. She wants to talk to you about one of your takedowns.” The dismissal isn’t harsh, but it’s clear.