Student Bodyguard for Hire

by Callie James

  Christmas. Great timing, but I couldn’t wait. I had to find out if she’d meant what she said tonight. The rest of my life couldn’t start until I did.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Peyton

  “I still can’t believe you’re making me hit you on Christmas,” I said. Blowing a loose curl out of my eyes, I watched him in one of the gym’s wall-length mirrors as he approached me from behind.

  “Well, you’re not hitting me. You’re hitting an attacker.” He looped his arms around me, locking my elbows to my sides. “I’m five seconds from assaulting you. What are you going to do about it?”

  His arms flexed around mine like steel bands and my gaze met his in the mirror. He was such a handsome attacker. I wanted to do other things with him that didn’t include practicing eye gouges.

  “Why are you thinking?” he said, looking irked. “Do you know how many things I could have done to you already while you stand there thinking? Speed is essential, Peyton, especially for someone your size.”

  “I know.”

  “Then don’t think. React. The point of all this practice is for muscle memory to take over. You shouldn’t have to think about what you’re going to do. Now defend yourself and attack me.” He dragged me backward then, holding me tight to him.

  I lifted my right foot, using his leg to aim my heel against the joint where his foot met his shin. I was determined to make him happy, to execute the move perfectly this time, but when I brought my foot down, my overzealousness kept my adrenalin pumping and I didn’t pull back fast enough. I kicked him hard and he released me abruptly.

  Stumbling out of his arms, I pivoted to watch him limp backward as I cupped my hands over my mouth. “¡Hay, Dios mío! Sam!”

  His limp was profound as he walked in a circle, looking pained even as he smiled proudly, the way he often did whenever I spoke Spanish in the right context. He’d been teaching me a little and I didn’t always get it right.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, the words muffled into my palms before I pulled my hands from my mouth. “Are you okay?”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  “Really?” My boyfriend was made of steel. Surely, he wasn’t serious.

  “It hurts like hell,” he said, “which was the entire point of the exercise. Imagine what you could have done to me had you used full force. Believe me, I wouldn’t be chasing after you. That was good, Peyton. Seriously.”

  I kept a hand over my mouth as he walked toward me, still favoring a leg. “Can we stop now?” I dropped my hands. “We’ve been doing this for two hours.”

  “You have to admit all this practice is paying off. Look how quickly you incapacitated me,” he said with a grin as he pulled me to him. “It makes me feel better knowing you can.”

  “Knowing I can incapacitate you?” He lowered his head and nuzzled my neck until I giggled. “That’s really twisted, Sam.” I curled my hands against his sides, thankful we had the gym to ourselves tonight. “Sparring is one thing. Practically disabling you is another. We need to work on your romancing skills.”

  He backed me up to the mirror, his hands smoothing down my tank top to slide over my sweats and down my hips. “That comes next,” he whispered, kissing my neck.

  Goose bumps traveled across my back and I closed my eyes. He had a good handle on those moves already. “Does that mean I get to take a shower? We only have a few more hours before my parents expect us back.”

  “Soon. Just a few more questions,” he said, stepping back enough to lean both palms behind me, trapping me between his arms.

  “You are not quizzing me on Christmas, Sam.” I moaned. “For petesake. You’re relentless.”

  “Consider it your Christmas present to me.”

  “I already bought that.”

  “Please? For me? It’ll make me feel better.”

  I could never say no to him. “Okay.”

  “Name two of the most vulnerable areas you should consider in a close quarter attack?”

  “The eyes and windpipe.”

  “Two effective ways to hit the windpipe?”

  I slow punched my fist to his throat, touching his Adam’s apple. Then pulled back and opened my hand, bringing it back to his throat slowly in a side strike.

  He nodded. “Other vulnerable areas on the head?”

  “Temple and base of the nose because of the—” I swallowed my revulsion, “—potential vibrations to the brain.”

  He started to smile. “Strongest body points to use when in a close-quarter attack?”

  “Elbow or knee. Depends on the situation.”

  “Things to remember when attacking the knee.”

  “Four striking angles, down, up and the sides. Or five if I kick directly into the knee. My foot position depends on the striking angle. Extend my leg. Break the knee.”

  “Did you mean what you said last night?”

  I blinked. “What?”

  Looking tense and vulnerable, he framed my face with his hands. “Did you. Mean. What you said last night? At dinner. That if I could train and fight professionally, you’d be supportive?”

  “Um …” I searched his eyes. “Yes. Why?”

  “Last night, my mother gave me her blessing to train. To really do this. She said you talked to her. That you convinced her.”

  “I did?” I swallowed hard. “She doesn’t care if you finish school?”

  “Well, there’s that caveat. But my other teachers gave me passing grades, so I only need two classes to meet Oregon graduation requirements. It’s doable.”

  “But—” At first, I had no idea how I truly felt, “—you already have two jobs. Two classes. How would you find time to train?”

  “I’ll make the time. Work harder. Are you kidding? I’d work my ass off twenty-three hours a day for a shot at this.”

  I lifted my hands to my cheeks. “Um, okay. Let me think.” What did this mean exactly?

  He studied my expression and dropped his hands from my face. Stared another long moment before pivoting away. “You can’t do this after all, can you?”

  I crossed my arms over my chest and dropped my gaze, staring at my shoes as I voiced the one thing that bothered me the most about it. “I know it’s selfish to say, but how will you find time to see me?”

  He turned to me from pacing, incredulous. “How could you ask me that? I’m already so damn crazy in love with you I can barely go twenty-four hours without seeing you. Seriously? Was that a real question? Or are you just checking to see if I’m listening?”

  My eyes watered. I uncrossed my arms and folded my hands behind my back. Shifted my weight side to side. Tried to pretend I wasn’t about to cry. “You’re in love with me?”

  “Peyton.” He stared at me, his hands moving to his hips. “Come on. I know I never said it in so many words, but you had to know.”

  I shrugged, unable to get past the lump in my throat to say anything. When tears formed, I wiped under my eyes and looked down, embarrassed.

  “Peyton.” Within seconds, he’d moved in front of me, his fingertips brushing along my cheek before he leaned down and kissed me. “Hermosa, don’t. I know I should have said something before, but I’m a—”

  “Big, tough fighter who won’t say things like I love you to his girlfriend?” I said, gripping his wrists as he cupped my face. “I get it, Sam. No need to explain.”

  “No, I was going to say I’m an idiot. Because I do love you. And I can say it. And I will. As many times as you want me to.”

  “It sounds really nice,” I said, wiping my eyes and giggling when he hugged me to him. “So you might be saying it all the time.”

  He hugged me harder, as if it was a relief for him to say as much as it was for me to hear. “Sam,” I whispered, as it all sank in slowly. “I can’t believe you can finally do this. I wasn’t certain your mother was listening to me. I’m …I’m kind of stunned.”

  He pulled from the hug. “Imagine how I felt.”

  “Does Jonas know?”
>
  “I wanted to talk to you first.”

  I searched his eyes. “Why?”

  “Because I want your support. I need it. And I’m worried once I start this that—” He searched my eyes. “You know I’m going to get hurt, right? It’s a certainty. I’ll lose fights.” His hands gripped my shoulders tighter. “There’ll be times when you’ll wonder what the hell I’m doing in that cage. But I can’t talk about quitting once I commit to this. I have to give it a hundred and fifty percent. Can you do that? Can you see me broken and banged up, and still support me instead of asking me to quit?”

  I’d been biting my lip. “Depends.”

  A smile pulled at his sexy mouth. “On?”

  “I want you to promise me something first.”

  “What?”

  “Three things, actually.”

  His eyebrows arched. “Three? Wow, Ryan was right. I shouldn’t let you think too long. Even seconds, apparently.”

  “Ryan said what?” My mouth parted with several retorts ready on my tongue. Instead, I tried to look superior. “Well, if you can’t manage three teensy-weensy promises to the girlfriend you supposedly love then you should just say so.”

  He grinned and pulled me to him, lifting me against him and kissing me. I wrapped my legs around his waist until he slid me onto a table full of towels and leaned over me, trapping me between his arms. “Alright. What do you want?”

  I lost my smile and got serious, brushing my fingertips through the hair at his temple. “I can’t watch you fight. I couldn’t take seeing you get hurt. I think it would kill me to watch someone hitting you again.”

  His immediate frown told me his real feelings. “You know more than anything I’d want you there. All of this is happening because of you. But I get it’s hard to watch. I can live with it.”

  “You can?”

  “I’ll learn to,” he said. “What else?”

  I poked his chest. “No goofing off in the first round. You have to get serious immediately.”

  “Have you been talking to Bobby and Jonas?”

  “I’m serious,” I said, my ferocious stare negated the second he grabbed my hips and pulled me against his waist. “Quit kidding around, Sam. Look what happened to Anderson Silva against Chris Weidman. He lost a championship belt horsing around.”

  He let go of a huge, incredulous grin. “Are you watching MMA now?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Don’t go getting all revved up. Headlines only. Well, usually. This was an older clip.”

  “Silva didn’t lose the fight goofing around,” he said.

  “That seems to be the big debate. You have to admit, he wasn’t taking Weidman seriously. He let his guard down.”

  “You totally watched that fight, didn’t you?”

  “A small portion only.”

  His smile broadened. “Silva’s antics were part of his strategy. He gets into his opponents’ heads. He also knows what pleases a crowd. Fighting is entertainment, you know.”

  I gripped his shirt and pulled his face close to mine. “But you won’t be entertaining. You’ll be fighting. Promise me you’ll be serious!”

  He laughed. “I promise.”

  I pressed my forehead to his and closed my eyes, chin trembling to think he might be humoring me. “I mean it, Sam. Really.”

  He pulled back and lost the smile. “No more joking around. Got it. What else? Your last demand of me, Princess Peyton.”

  “Don’t be so cocky. You might have trouble with this last one.”

  “Whatever it is,” he murmured, kissing me. “I’ll do it. For you.”

  “Promise?”

  “Yeah. For you. Anything.” His hand moved under my shirt. “What is it?”

  “Simple.” I smiled. “You have to win.”

  EPILOGUE

  Peyton

  I pushed my way past people as I headed down the aisle toward the ominous octagon-shaped cage. Thankfully, I hadn’t arrived too late. Spotting Sam’s second biggest fan in the front row, I eased between two men arguing and plopped into the empty seat next to Ryan. Savanna’s seat.

  He turned to me, eyes popping. “Holy shit! Sis! What the hell are you doing here? I thought Vanna was running late.”

  For Sam’s first fight, Ryan and Savanna had found themselves sitting next to each other. By the second round, the two most negative people alive had quickly become friends. They hadn’t missed one of Sam’s local fights since.

  “I couldn’t do it,” I confessed, setting my laptop case between us. “I had to be here.” He stared at me. “All right, if you must know. I begged her for her ticket. Cost me a hundred bucks.”

  “Sounds like Vanna.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Yes, she loves to be smug and superior, just like you.”

  “Too bad you didn’t tell me your plans,” he said. “We could have driven together. I don’t want you driving by yourself on such a long day trip.”

  “I was up all night with the database and had a test first thing this morning, so I wasn’t sure I’d make it. Plus, my supervisor wouldn’t let me take the day off. Two other people have been out sick,” I explained. “But he had a change of heart and approved the time off this morning.”

  “You’re working way too hard,” he said. “Even Sam says so. When are you going to give up the website?”

  “Never.”

  “Then when are you going to recruit someone to help you?”

  “If that’s an offer, you’re hired.”

  He smirked. “It wasn’t an offer. But if you think it would help, I guess I could start pitching in a bit. It is still my school, after all.”

  “Good,” I said, grinning as my stomach knotted with nerves. “Then we’re partners.”

  People settled into their seats while several announcements played overhead. Ryan kept checking me, as if I had some medical condition. “Does he know you’re here? He’d flip, you know.”

  I shook my head. “I didn’t want to jinx it.” Sam hadn’t lost a fight, although he assured me it would still happen. I wasn’t the superstitious type, but I didn’t want Sam losing his first championship fight because I couldn’t stay away.

  “You gonna be okay?”

  “I have to get through five rounds without throwing up,” I said. “So no.”

  They announced Sam’s name and all heads turned to where he came out. Jonas, his main cornerman who shouted instructions, and Bobby, his second chief who took care of Sam’s cuts and bruises during the breaks, both followed him.

  Samuel “Stonefish” Guerra—a nickname the media had given him due to the mysterious scars marring his torso and his reputation for quick and merciless knockouts in the first round—was the challenger and underdog. Some referred to Sam as the Sleeper Fighter, not because the audience found him boring to watch—he’d often proven the opposite—but due to his tendency to take out his opponents with a rear naked choke, a sleeper hold, when forced to the platform by a better jiu-jitsu fighter.

  The champion tonight happened to be brown belt instructor in jiu-jitsu and an accomplished boxer. Jonas and Bobby had assured me not to worry, that Sam was one of those rare fighters who often performed better when he started to lose.

  Did that mean I needed to watch him lose first?

  Once Jonas had learned Sam could train, he’d hired him fulltime as a boxing coach, which forced Sam to quit his other job. True to his word, Sam had taken the two junior college classes and received his high school diploma while honing his boxing, kickboxing, and Brazilian jiu-jitsu skills. Still, Jonas had thought something still lacking and quickly added Taekwondo to Sam’s repertoire, hoping to discipline his mind, spirit and body to work better together.

  When Sam’s training began, I thought Jonas and Bobby had no idea what they were doing. The grueling regimen pushed Sam to his limits. I worried it might kill him, until I talked to several other fighters at the gym and learned this was the norm for anyone serious about a fighting career. Sam’s mother’s health had improved some, and b
eyond those three nights he stayed with Vanna when his mother had to work, Sam lived at the gym. He came to me some nights, but most nights I went to him.

  In eight months’ time, Sam had gone from a lean one hundred seventy-five pounds to the top of his middleweight class at one-eighty-five. Between the defined muscle and scars, he looked more like a killing machine than a twenty-year-old mixed martial arts prodigy.

  I watched Sam, deeply focused as he moved closer and removed his shirt. He went through a quick inspection by the officials before they allowed him into the cage. Still flush after his warm-up, he held up his hand and gave a brief wave to the crowd as they cheered. I wondered if he was thinking about his late papá. No doubt, his father would have had several things to say to his son about a fight that could potentially launch him toward sponsors and a UFC career.

  The announcer sounded overhead, and everybody turned to see the champion and his corner team strolling down the aisle to the center of the auditorium. The man had tattoos from neck to wrist and he’d streaked his blond hair with red lines. They resembled bloody claw marks along the sides of his head.

  “Hey,” Ryan said, glancing at me. “It’s okay. Sam can take this guy.”

  I nodded, knowing he had to be right.

  The ref talked to them while I measured Sam against the champion. A head taller, Sam looked lean and serious. His opponent looked bulkier and meaner.

  The round began and the two immediately collided, trading blow for blow. Each vicious and brutal hit made the crowd nuts, cheering to a nearly deafening level. When Sam’s head snapped a little too far to the left, I covered my eyes, unable to take it. Ryan yelled for him to “get out of there” and “move back,” followed by several whoops and cheers. Time passed in slow motion, but eventually the horn blew and I opened my eyes to watch Sam walking to his corner.

  Jonas and Bobby had one minute to clear the cobwebs, fix Sam, and come up with a strategy.