“Agreed. Were it up to me, Easton would be fronting this organization and representing my camp. No offense, but you clearly couldn’t care less, and he knows how to play the game. He draws in a big crowd, which means bigger money. But his shoulder is still healing after getting shot to hell, and he doesn’t have medical clearance to fight, so, tag, you’re it, asshole.” Coach saluted him and tossed back a shot.
“Old man, you better slow it down with those shooters or you’re going to be flat on your ass in no time. Maybe you should take a—” Flashing lights exploded around him, the click, click, click of cameras seeming to come out of nowhere. Nikko flinched at the blinding brightness. He couldn’t see, the burst of lights sparking a flashback of memories that hijacked his consciousness. And just like that, he was another man, from another time, in another place, living someone else’s nightmare—no, his nightmare, the one that played on an endless loop, haunting him day and night. He knew how the story ended, and yet he was helpless to stop it.
Darkness descended, the sharp pop of semiautomatic gunfire echoing all around him. The hot graphite smell of gunpowder permeated the air, mixing with the dust of countless spent rounds, burning his lungs and making it difficult to breathe. The muzzle flashes around them gave away his enemy’s position—they were outnumbered—and the Tali were closing in fast. The ping of metal ricocheted off rocks, which were the only protection between his squad and the enemy. This was his mission, his recon team, and it was his responsibility to get them out alive. They needed to ghost before these ragheads pinned them down and flanked them.
His grip tightened on the base of his weapon, his mind racing through their limited options, scenarios flashing through his brain like a reel of movie clips—all ending in disaster. Fuck . . . Alice-Gahn was supposed to be deserted. This wasn’t the first time he’d gotten shitty intel, and if they made it out of here alive, someone’s nuts were going to be on the chopping block.
“Hey, Bull, lay some cover fire for me, will ya? I’m going to try to flank this fucker.”
Remington, the recon team’s sniper and his best friend since boot camp, was gunning for the raghead, firing the majority of the rounds northwest of them. Dammit, something didn’t feel right about all of this. Nikko’s instincts were lighting up like the Fourth of July, and there wasn’t a goddamn thing he could do about it. He grabbed for Remmy to stop him, but the cowboy was already gone, blitzing straight west at a dead run. Nikko snarled a foul curse and flipped the switch to Auto on his M4A1 and squeezed the trigger, raining a hailstorm of lead on Remmy’s target. Pop!
Something sharp bit into his hand. He hardly felt the slicing pain or the warm liquid running down his palm. But the slew of blasphemies rioting beside him grabbed his attention.
He glanced right—no one was there—then left—nope, still alone. So who in the hell was grabbing him?
The grip on his arm was like a vise, clamping down on his wrist and refusing to let him go.
He couldn’t pull the trigger! Remmy was on his own, a good thirty meters from the burned-out hut that would serve as his sanctuary. Nikko tried to yank his arm free once, twice—still stuck. “Fuck!”
He saw the Tali’s muzzle flash a second before the bullet’s report echoed through the air, and the full metal jacket slammed into Remmy’s shoulder, knocking him to the ground. “Noooo!”
Reacting on reflex, Nikko threw a wild punch, trying to get loose from the invisible hold. His fist connected with something solid and he gained his freedom, but the victory was short-lived. A second later, something slammed into him from behind—hard—and he was on the ground. Wham! Something collided with his face, and it was lights out.
What the hell happened?
Nikko sat on the edge of the narrow cot, springs poking him in the ass through the thin, broken-down mattress. Elbows braced against his knees, he sat there, staring at his bandaged hand, trying to remember how in the hell he got here. Yeah, there wasn’t much coming to him. Then again, sometimes it took a little while for his head to clear and his memories to realign with reality. Curling his fingers into a fist, he tested his bandaged hand and then cursed at the tug of stitches in his palm. What in the hell happened to his hand, and how was he going to fight like this tomorrow?
The energy in the air shifted, and Nikko sensed he was no longer alone well before he heard the heavy footsteps echoing down the hall. He didn’t bother lifting his head. He had no interest in seeing whoever would appear on the other side of those bars. Thanks to the knot on his temple, his head was pounding in time with his heartbeat, much like the cadence his drill sergeant used to bellow at his squadron.
Like it was yesterday, the words echoed through his mind, put to the tune of his hammering pulse.
Runnin’ through the desert with my M16
I’m a mean motor scooter
I’m a US Marine
If ya see me comin’, you better step aside
’Cause many men didn’t and many men died . . .
When he paid no attention to the Doc Martens stepping into his periphery, the man cleared his throat, making his presence known. Slowly, Nikko lifted his head and locked eyes with the coldest pair of ice blues he’d ever seen. He didn’t know Cole Easton, aka “The Beast of the East,” very well, but he knew the legend. Best damn fighter in the CFA and champion of the light-heavyweight division—Coach’s golden boy. A year ago, Easton had taken an illegal kick to the spine during a title fight that nearly ended his career.
Just when things were starting to come back together for him, he’d taken a bullet that was meant for his girl and it had shattered his shoulder. Thirteen months and still counting, the guy had been out of the octagon, but there were whispered rumors about a grudge match in the making between Easton and Crazy Dan DeGrasse.
So, yeah, other than being an MMA god, who happened to be Disco Stick Kruze’s good friend and old sparring partner, he didn’t really know a whole lot about the guy. But by the way he was staring Nikko down right now, it was easy to see there wasn’t going to be any love lost between them.
“They stitch your hand up?”
Nikko nodded, flexing it again to test his range of motion. “Must have. I don’t really remember what happened.”
Easton glared daggers at him. No doubt it was deserved. “Well, let me refresh your memory. The media came around, started snapping a few pictures of you. You lost your shit, broke a glass in your hand, and hit Coach. The press is having a field day with this, the CFA is pissed, and I’m fucking furious. All I can say is you’re lucky you’re behind bars right now.”
No . . . It couldn’t be true. Did he . . . did he seriously hit Coach?—and at a CFA publicity party? Maybe they should just lock his ass up and throw away the key. It’d been so long since he’d had a rage blackout, he’d thought that shit was behind him. And here he’d thought he was handling this so well. Well being a relative term here. He was doing “well” when he wasn’t drinking himself to sleep, because passing out was just about the only way he could escape the nightmares.
He hadn’t realized how fine a line he was walking until it was too late. If he’d only known those lights were going to set him off. The hell of it was he never knew what would be his next trigger. His mental breaks were completely unpredictable and totally random.
“I think it goes without saying that, as of immediately, you’ve been suspended from the CFA pending a psychological evaluation. If you want to avoid legal charges, you’re going to have to start going to therapy twice a week for no less than six months. The only thing that’s saving your ass, and possibly your career right now, is your military service, but that’s only going to buy you so much rope—don’t hang yourself with it. As long as you’re punching a clock with a shrink, the CFA has agreed to let you use the gym to lift and weight train, but you are not to get back in that cage until you’ve been medically cleared.”
Nikko dropped his face in his hands and dragged his fingers through his hair. After over two years of run
ning, his ghosts had finally caught up with him. “Is he . . .” Nikko cleared his throat when it tightened up on him and tried again. “Is Coach all right?”
Cole stared at him a moment, as if he couldn’t decide whether or not to answer. Whatever he saw in Nikko’s eyes must have convinced him of his bone-deep regret, because the hard-ass fighter nodded his head. “Yeah, he’s fine. You’re lucky. Listen, I’m only going to tell you this once, Del Toro. That man is like a fucking father to me. If you ever touch him again, I’ll do more than knock you out.”
With that final warning, Easton flicked a square of paper between the bars. The business card landed on the floor near his feet. “Monday morning, bright and early,” Easton grumbled, then turned and walked away, leaving Nikko to rot behind bars. It was no worse than he deserved.
So . . . how was your date last night?”
Violet glanced up from the file she was reading to find Penelope hovering in the doorway of her office. She didn’t have time for this right now. The CFA was sending a fighter in for a psych eval in twenty minutes, and she was busy getting up to speed on what had transpired this weekend to prompt the referral.
This wasn’t the first time they’d sent her a client. The CFA required mental health evaluations on all their fighters, as well as background checks, before offering contracts. But this was the first time Vi was concerned one of them wasn’t going to pass it. What guy in his right mind knocks out his coach at a CFA press party? Whoever would do something so impulsive and just plain stupid was either looking to commit professional suicide or something wasn’t firing right upstairs.
“Well . . . ?” Pen prompted when Vi didn’t respond.
She pulled off her cheaters and dropped them onto the desk. “Not now, Pen. I have a new patient coming in at eight thirty and I’m trying to finish reading his file.”
“If you would have returned my multiple phone calls last night, we could have kept the sex talk out of the office. You don’t technically start work until eight thirty, which means you’re not on the clock yet. So, spill it, sister.”
Vi exhaled a sigh, casting another glance at the clock, and grumbled, “Remind me why I like you again.”
“Because I’m the fun version of you—except my tits are bigger and my hair is darker.”
She scowled at her friend’s impish grin, trying like hell to look serious. “Your tits are not bigger than mine, Pen.”
“I know.” She shrugged. “I just wanted to make you say tits at work.”
And this was the problem with having your best friend as your secretary. Perhaps it was because Pen reminded her so much of her sister that they’d become friends so fast. Working together every day had quickly built a bond that would normally have taken Vi years to develop. Pen’s loyalty and support and overall hatred for Barry had solidified what might have otherwise been an unlikely friendship. Despite herself, Vi cracked a smile. “You’re really horrible, you know that?”
“No, I’m not,” she said, strolling into Vi’s office, looking 100 percent business with her updo, light-blue button-up blouse, and navy skirt.
But looks were deceiving when it came to Pen. What you saw was not what you got. Only Violet knew what a reckless wild child she really was. So essentially, yeah, she was the fun version of herself.
“I just wanted to see you smile. It’s been too long, Vi. Maybe if that assclown Barry would stop calling you . . . I swear, if you take him back—” She dropped into the chair opposite Vi, crossing her legs and propping her spike heels on the edge of her desk.
“Nice shoes.”
“Thanks. Clearance at Macy’s. You didn’t answer my question.”
“That wasn’t a question, it was a threat. And no, I’m not taking Barry back.”
“That’s good, because I’d hate to have to kill him. Then there’d be a body, and those things are heavy, let me tell you. I’m not as strong as I look.”
Vi laughed, a burst of belly-splitting giggles letting loose from somewhere deep inside her—a place buried beneath a pile of yuck for so long, she’d almost forgotten it existed. It felt good to laugh, so good she didn’t notice the man standing in the doorway—correction, filling her doorway—until his knuckles rapped against the wooden frame.
Vi’s laughter was abruptly cut off by her startled gasp, and Pen leapt from the chair, shooting her an oh, shit, sorry grimace before turning to face the man.
“Can I help you?” Pen asked, painting on her patented Saturday-night grin. Only problem was, it was Monday freaking morning! And what was with that voice? Not even three minutes ago they were cackling like a couple of hens.
Turning her attention from her friend to the man in the doorway, Violet got a good look at the guy and was pretty sure her heart stopped. There was definitely a moment of pulselessness before it kicked into some other rhythm that rioted inside her chest. Oh, no! It can’t be . . . The guy from the plane was standing in her office! This had to be some sort of mistake.
This was the fighter the CFA was sending her? This was Nikko “The Bull” Del Toro? No freaking way! Fate couldn’t be so cruel. But even as her mind desperately clung to denial, there was no denying it. She’d recognize that face anywhere, and not because of the white scar slashing down his cheek. Not a day had gone by since she stepped off that plane six months ago that she hadn’t thought of the man who’d rocked her world, and hadn’t regretted letting him go without at least discovering his name.
“I have an eight-thirty appointment with Dr. Summers,” he told Pen, pulling a business card from his pocket and handing it to her. His attention was solely focused on her secretary, and why wouldn’t it be? Penelope was gorgeous. Nikko had yet to tear his eyes away from her long enough to glance at Violet. Then the thought occurred to her, What if he doesn’t remember me? What if he doesn’t recognize me? How utterly humiliating would it be to discover the man who’d played a starring role in many of her late-night fantasies didn’t even remember who she was? Maybe she was just that forgettable. What would she tell him when she had to explain that he needed to find another psychologist?
“You’re early,” Pen pointed out, a teasing lilt to her soft, airy voice.
You’ve got to be kidding me. His brow arched at Pen’s flirty tone. Apparently, he couldn’t believe it was happening, either.
“If you’ll come with me, I have some paperwork for you to fill out.”
She walked toward the man, who had yet to budge from the doorway. It took Vi a moment to find her voice. “Um . . . that won’t be necessary, Penelope.” There was no point in doing paperwork when he wouldn’t be staying.
When Vi spoke, that slate-gray gaze darted over, locking on to her like an acquired target. He flinched in surprise, and if she had any doubt that he would recognize her, there was none now.
Holy. Shit.
Ho-ly shit! Clover? He’d know that soft melodic voice anywhere, heard it echoed in his dreams more times than he cared to admit. This was sooo not happening. How could he have not realized it was her the moment he stepped through the door? Other than she now looked every bit the professional who had earned the PhD-titled nameplate sitting on her mahogany desk.
Damn, he couldn’t believe it. He’d found his four-leaf clover. What were the fucking odds? Nikko couldn’t decide if he was the luckiest bastard in the world or if the universe was playing a sick joke on him. Unable to take his eyes off her, Nikko stood there staring at the woman who’d occupied his thoughts too fucking much over the last six months.
Shit . . . he hadn’t thought it possible, but she was even more gorgeous than he remembered. Wow—Vegas certainly agreed with her. Her blonde hair was a shade paler, and the sun-kissed tan of her once alabaster skin now glowed golden, setting off those amazing violet eyes.
“Clover . . . ?” Her name left his lips in an utterance of shocked disbelief. Unbidden, the memory of her in his arms, his cock buried deep inside her, sent the blood in his veins rushing south so fast he felt lightheaded. Something in his che
st tightened, the uncomfortable cramp hitting him with a sucker punch of reality. This woman is my fucking shrink? No way. No way in hell is this happening.
“Her name’s not Clover, it’s Violet,” her secretary supplied as she tried to squeeze past him.
Violet? Seriously?—just like her eyes.
Realizing that the woman wasn’t getting by until he got the hell out of her way, Nikko stepped inside the office and let the secretary pass while he scrambled to get his shit together before he said or did something to make a bad situation worse. A small part of him was glad to see Clover again. It’d been a long time since he’d felt . . . well, anything. But there was a larger part that couldn’t believe God would have such a sick sense of humor.
“Penelope, please close the door,” Clover called to her secretary.
Once it shut, the tension in the room went from high alert to critical, really fucking fast.
“Hi,” she said softly, looking very uncomfortable and so damn pretty it made his chest ache. She broke his stare, focusing her attention anywhere but on him.
“Hey . . .” So, yeah, this was super awkward.
“I umm . . . I was reading your file the CFA sent over.”
That’s it? She wasn’t even going to bring it up? No how are you doing? How’ve you been since we banged? Was she seriously going to sit there and act like that shit on the plane didn’t happen?
“I can’t believe you’re a goddamn psychologist!” he exploded, marching toward her desk. A flicker of fear flashed in her eyes, which instantly pissed him off. “What kind of a shrink fucks some random guy in an airplane bathroom?”
She flinched at his verbal assault, and a stab of guilt arrowed into his gut. Who in the hell turned off the filter from his mouth to his brain? This wasn’t her fault. He knew that, and he had no right taking his problems out on her. If his head weren’t so jacked up, he wouldn’t be here in the first place. He had no one to blame but himself for this mess.
Fighting for Control (Against the Cage Book 3) Page 2