Fighting for It

by Jennifer Fusco

  Budweiser. Then he took out a second.

  Training plan, his ass. He didn’t deserve a training plan. He’d learned to train and box from the best manager there was, and how did he repay him? He lost.

  Popping a top, he winced. Damn. He’d forgotten to grab his car keys. Daniella would probably leave them at the gym on her way out of town. He’d pick them up later. Walking over to the living room, he dropped into his leather recliner, pushed the handle, and lay back in the chair to consider his next move.

  Go to Mike’s? Nah. That dumbass would be somewhere between seasons four and five of Breaking Bad by now. If he showed up they’d spend the afternoon reciting quotes like “Or fight me and die” or “Say my name,” and laugh their asses off, which, while fun, wasn’t a good use of time.

  He turned his head toward the kitchen to read the clock on the microwave. Texting Trevor could be an option, but he’d have to wait another half hour. Dude woke up at four. Boxing couldn’t pay his bills yet, so he slept most of his days away after long nights working as a bouncer at one of the gentlemen’s clubs off the Strip. Problem with it, according to Trevor, was that no gentlemen actually showed up at the club, and he spent his nights throwing drunks out on their asses, especially the ones who couldn’t keep their hands to themselves.

  It was harder to make a living at boxing now than when Jack started out. Sure, his childhood was no Hallmark card. Sometimes when he didn’t work bagging groceries, he’d hit the gym simply to avoid going home. The gym looked better, felt better; hell, it even smelled better than the house he shared with his stepdad, Gary and his mother, Adele.

  Back in the day, he lived off ninety-nine cent tacos and Slim Jims. He gave the money he made at the grocery store to his mother and told her to spend it on anything, as long as it wasn’t another six-pack for Gary. In Jack’s younger years, money was more easy come, easy go, not like how hard-earned and easily spent cash was today.

  He remembered the last day he worked at the grocery store. He’d told everyone how R. L. Chambers, owner of Stamina Boxing Gym, was going to pay him to train. And how leaving the store would be the very last job he’d ever work. Boxing wasn’t a job.

  Boxing was his life.

  Until now.

  What would he do without it?

  He could walk down to the closest liquor store and try to find Bulldog. He paused for a beat. No, he didn’t have the patience for Bulldog’s shit, nor did he have his keys. Problem solved. He’d sit right here until one of the guys called him.

  A knock rapped on the door and Jack released the lever of the recliner and the motion propelled him from his seat. He walked over to the door and opened it.

  What’d she want?

  He took two steps backward and let Daniella come in. Her sexy lips were pursed tight and her dark eyes held a kind of hatred reserved only for him. With her purse strapped over her shoulder like a weapon, she let out a long sigh like she was already sick of him, and moved to the middle of the room. “I’d really like to know who you think you’re dealing with.”

  “Excuse me?” He lifted his chin, affronted.

  “What? Do you think I’m so stupid that I can’t read a contract? Or maybe you’ve been caught in a time warp. Did you go back ten years? Do you still think I’ll let you do anything you want, including walk all over me like you used to?”

  “I never walked all over you.”

  She lifted her arms and crossed them over her chest protectively. “I disagree. The way I remember it, I came to you and told you I got accepted to college. I asked you if you wanted me to stay. Switch schools. Stay with you here in Vegas.”

  His teeth clenched. He knew what was coming.

  “You said no. You told me it was time to move on. For me to go my own way, and that you wanted to see other people. And then you did. Right in front of me.”

  His forehead tightened. Damn, she was sexy when she was mad.

  “But I’m not here to talk about the past.” She uncrossed her arms and handed him several pieces of paper. “You might want to sit for this.”

  “I’ll stand.”

  “Sit,” she demanded.

  He sat.

  Daniella dropped down on the sofa beside him, not close enough to touch him, but close enough that her perfume made his brain recall the many naked nights they’d spent together. He remembered the perfect curves of her breasts, the way she threw her head back when he drove himself inside her, and the wicked smile that rose on her face when she came.

  Her face, still beautiful with eyes shaped like almonds (and just as dark), had thinned over the years, and she’d gone from a pretty young thing to a fucking knockout. He shook off the memories and fixed his gaze on the paperwork. “What’s this?”

  “Aside from a copy of your contract, which does revert to me upon the death of my father, you’ll also find a copy of the agreement for your fight in four weeks.” She slid a finger down the page. “That’s your fine if you don’t make weight, and there’s your fine”—his eyes widened at the number of zeroes on the page—“should you decide not to fight at all.”

  He started to speak, but she lifted a hand; clearly she wasn’t done. “Maybe you don’t give a shit. I mean, you’ve hung me out to dry before.”

  Her words hit him like a left hook to the chin. “Daniella . . .”

  She lifted her hand, stopping him again. “But that was then, and this is now.” She pulled out a paper from the bottom of the pile and placed it on top. “Read it.”

  He lowered his gaze to the page.

  Las Vegas Bank. Account number. Beginning balance. Ending balance.

  “Sixty-seven cents?” he asked.

  She nodded. “So you can strut around here and play Billy Badass and bail on me, but Stamina’s not covering this for you. It can’t and I won’t.”

  He never claimed to be a math whiz, but he could add and subtract. “Where’d the money go?”

  She sighed and scooted her body closer to him. “It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that you do what you agreed to do in these contracts.” Her voice softened. She sounded almost pleading.

  “And what if I don’t win?” he asked.

  She turned the pages, back to the one with the details of his upcoming bout. “You have to, if you want Stamina to be around for Mike, Trevor, and Bulldog. Otherwise it’s done, it’s all over.”

  He allowed his eyes to fix on hers. “And you are going to stay?”

  She gave a decisive nod. “For the next four weeks, I am.”

  Jack felt his jaw tighten. His plan to send her back to her happy little life had shit the bed. Tables had turned. Like it or not, Daniella was in charge. And she was right. He had obligations. He couldn’t limp-dick out of this situation as much as he thought it best that she leave now. Him flaking out would only hurt the other guys, his brothers, and the gym that was their home. “So what do you want me to do?”

  She removed her purse from her shoulder, opened it, and started digging around. After a few moments she pulled out his car keys. Placing them on the coffee table she said, “Do you remember my dad’s cabin, the one at Lake Tahoe? The one we . . .”

  She didn’t have to go any further. He knew. The one they snuck into as kids, where they skinny-dipped in the lake at night and fucked like rabbits all day. Yeah, he remembered.

  “I know it.”

  “Good.” She zipped up her purse. “I thought we’d stay there for the next few weeks. Focus on your sobriety and your training.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not going to Tahoe. I train in Vegas.”

  “I’m talking about actual training, Jack. Running and lifting weights, not fucking showgirls and spending your free time at Jimmie’s. This town’s no good for you. Vegas is an adult Disneyland on ecstasy. It’s not a training ground. We both know it’s time for you to start over and train in Tahoe.”

  “You may hold the contract, but I know what’s best for me.”

  “I hold the contract and you’ll go where I
say to go.”

  Yeah, he had a few ideas of where she could go. “Stamina’s here. Other fighters are here. Why do I have to drag my ass north to train when everything I need is right here?”

  “You need to get sober. Tahoe is a good place to dry out.”

  Meh. She did have a point, and after all, he was her investment.

  “Can I bring the blonde?” he blurted out. Of course he didn’t want to bring the blonde. The blonde was nothing compared to Daniella, but he wanted to see the look on her face when he said it just to see if she had any feeling left for him at all.

  She stared at him, cold. “Whatever you think is best for your training, Jack. If stress relief is what you need, by all means, bring the blonde.” A tiny wave of water covered her eyes. They looked glassy and that told him all he needed to know.

  Something was still there between them. God, he knew he felt it. And whether or not she wanted to admit it, she felt it, too.

  Daniella stood. Straightening her skirt, she lifted her purse, returning it to its perch on her shoulder. “It’s about a seven-hour drive. I’m going there now. I’ll expect to see you sometime tomorrow.”

  She moved toward the door and he followed her. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, and closed the door when she crossed the threshold and didn’t look back.

  Four weeks alone with the Ice Queen in the cabin where they used to play house as kids. The thought settled on him like a heavy weight. Four weeks. Alone. With Daniella. He wanted her. He needed her. And for four weeks he was going to have her. All to himself.

  She might not like him. Hell, she might even hate him. But in the time they’d be together, maybe it would give him a chance to make up for how he acted all those years ago. He knew he missed her. He couldn’t count how many times he’d wanted to dial her number just to make sure she was okay. But he never did because he knew he failed her every time he thought about her. Maybe in four weeks he’d find a way to tell her how much he regretted that.

  Who was he kidding? She didn’t want to hear his lame-ass apologies. At least she was back, and no matter how Daniella felt, they’d be together for the next four weeks.

  There was no way in hell he was calling the blonde.

  Chapter Seven

  Jack’s red Dodge Charger rolled to a stop in front of the cabin. Twigs and rocks crunched under the tires, and he did his best to pull his baby under the shade, parking his sweet ride in a nest of pine needles. He made good time, arriving just before dinner, and all he wanted was to gulp down his fast food, walk off the last seven hours of sitting, and shower away the road grime.

  He pushed the car door open, grabbed his McDonald’s bag, and spied Daniella sitting on the porch swing. She wore jeans, a tight-knit white shirt, and a pair of flip-flops. Her hair tied at the base of her neck threw him back to the days when he hung with the prettiest girl in town. She’d looked as relaxed as he’d ever seen her, but the moment he stepped from the car, she crossed her arms in front of her chest and her expression hardened.

  His gut tightened, anticipating another round of bitchery.

  She kept her eyes fixed on the car long after he shut the door, as if she expected someone else to crawl out.

  “The blonde stand you up?” she asked, once he was within earshot.

  “Something like that.”

  He took in the view from the cabin and drew in a deep breath. The air was definitely cleaner up here, and cooler, too. Good for his mind and his training. Daniella was right. Tahoe was way better than Vegas. Hell, anything was better than Vegas. Vegas reminded him of why he kept fighting. He hoped one day to say good-bye to the underbelly he called home. A shithole that was nothing but society’s most desperate, coated with a gloss of pretty girls and luxury hotels. Vegas was the epitome of lipstick on a pig.

  But Tahoe? Lake Tahoe rocked.

  Gazing out across the landscape, green combined with blue. The lake. The trees. And the sky. Brilliant and clear and fresh. The drive to the cabin was a little reminder of how good life could be. And this, here with her, was all good.

  If only she didn’t look like she hated him.

  His shoes crunched over the mix of grass and fallen pine needles and he walked up the steps to the cabin where Daniella stood waiting.

  “I’ll take that,” she said, taking the fast-food bag from his hands before he’d reached the porch. She’d better give the bag back when they got inside and not steal his fries. They were still hot.

  Daniella opened the screen door and he followed her inside. The place was just as he remembered. The inside, floor to ceiling, was cased in knotty pine, and the living room and kitchen combined together to make one large room. Her father’s old, red leather sofa sat in the middle of the floor. The sectional took up most of the space to walk around, but if he remembered correctly, the last time they were here, he and Daniella didn’t do much walking.

  The smells of roasting chicken permeated the air, and Daniella opened the refrigerator and took out a green salad. Then she opened the door under the kitchen sink and put his dinner in the trash.

  “I was going to eat that.”

  She smirked. “No, you thought you were going to eat that. There are nine hundred and sixty grams of sodium in a Big Mac, not to mention one heart attack. I need you fit, not fat.”

  He looked down at his stomach. “I’m not fat.”

  “Not yet.” She set the salad bowl on the counter. “Keep eating that crap and see what happens.”

  The rabbit food in the bowl must’ve had his name on it. Damn. Without burgers and fries, it was going to be a long four weeks.

  “Go ahead and wash up. Dinner’s almost ready,” she told him.

  She fussed with the vegetables while he walked through the rest of the cabin. To the right was her father’s old room, filled with a king-size bed, television, and not much else. Her suitcases were neatly placed in the corner, and a few extra pairs of shoes sat beside the bed. He placed either hand against the doorframe, leaning the top of his body across the threshold, and took notice of the boxing magazines and folders from Stamina that were strewn all over the bed.

  He didn’t go farther, not because he wasn’t curious about what she’d been reading, but because entering her room violated her privacy. And he’d only go in there if he were invited. But since she’d only spoken a few words to him since he got to the house, he didn’t see an invitation coming his way anytime soon.

  Before he turned away, his eyes grazed over the far wall, the entry to the bathroom that he remembered joined both bedrooms.

  “It’s okay, you can go in.” Her voice trailed over his shoulder.

  How could he have forgotten? The only way to her old room was through her father’s, the reason why they always came to the cabin when he was out of town. Memories flashed in his mind. He turned around. “My gear is in the car.”

  Daniella continued cutting tomatoes.

  Passing back through the room, he allowed his eyes to move over the dining table, which Daniella had set for three. He knew he’d killed her trust, but damn. She really thought he’d bring the blonde. His stomach dropped, seeing the extra plate. He didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything, and walked outside to grab his stuff.

  Sticks and gravel rolled out from under his feet on the way to the car. He must’ve been an idiot to think she’d want him. Clearly she felt nothing for him, simply tolerating him. A means to an end.

  He gave himself a mental jab. Snap out of it. She’s over you. You blew it. Dumbass.

  Walking around the side of his car, he popped the trunk and unloaded his bags. The boxing equipment he’d brought from his house he placed carefully on the ground. Then he took out the stash of jump ropes, dumbbells, and a medicine ball, just in case. If she was going through the trouble of making sure he ate right and slept right, the least he could do was train right.

  He loaded up what he could and carried it back to the cabin.

  It took him a couple trips, but he got all his
gear inside and dropped it in her old room in the cabin. Her room was sparse, too. A king-size bed, television, dresser, chair, and a lamp. But now that he thought about it, it was a damn palace compared to the room she stayed in.

  On his way back to the kitchen, he stopped in the bathroom.

  “You didn’t want your old room?” He yelled through the house, washing his hands. Did she give him the nicer room because she thought he was bringing company? Maybe.

  He dried his hands and walked into the kitchen. Daniella sat at the table, pouring herself a glass of white wine. She looked relaxed again, just as she had looked when he pulled up, before he’d gotten out of the car. A gentle smile touched her lips, and her skin glowed. She was beautiful without even trying to be. The meal of chicken, potatoes, salad, and bread was laid out before him like she’d spent all day on it.

  “Jesus,” he muttered.

  The spread looked like a dream, and she a fantasy. Something he’d wake up in the middle of the night to find. The woman he’d always craved, there, waiting for him, making him feel at home.

  Wanted.

  “Probably too much food,” she said regretfully.

  He sat down beside her. “There’s never too much food.”

  She smiled.

  “Looks good,” he said, surveying the meal. “Just so you know, I was never bringing the blonde.”

  She gave a silent nod.

  They ate in companionable silence. He knew he didn’t want to ruin the mood by saying the wrong fucking thing, that’s for sure. And she seemed to be enjoying the silence, so he left her to it. The meal was the best he’d tasted in a good, long while, so he ate more than usual. He expected Daniella to give him the stink eye on his third helping of potatoes, but she didn’t say a word.

  Carbs were good, especially considering how much she was going to make him run.

  They ate nearly every bite, and when dinner was over, Jack helped her with the dishes. She washed, he dried. He ignored the rush of blood through his body each time his hand touched her soapy one. He tried to forget the way her slick, wet skin slid against his. It was almost too much for him to contain. Good food. Beautiful woman. Secluded cabin. A history. And they both knew how good they were together . . . and naked.