Fighting for Control (Against the Cage Book 3)

by Melynda Price

  His heart dropped into his stomach, and that panicked feeling one experiences right before one falls crashed into him. He didn’t want to leave her like this, but something told him that, if he stayed, he’d only be making it worse. He’d hurt her with his carelessly spoken words—badly. And just like with all his other mistakes, he couldn’t take them back.

  It wasn’t until faced with the very real possibility of losing his connection to her that he realized just how much he didn’t want to let her go—personally or professionally—because there was something about Violet that touched a part of him no one else had been able to reach. He wanted to talk to her, wanted to open up to her, but that part of him had been locked away for so long, he didn’t know how to let her in. Unable to speak past the lump of regret in his throat, he nodded his acquiescence and headed toward the door, feeling every bit the asshole those tear-filled eyes accused him of being.

  Hey, Nikko, what’s up?” Kyle asked, finally picking up his phone.

  “I need to spar. You up for going a few rounds?”

  Silence.

  “That a no?”

  His friend sighed. “Fuck, man, you know you’re not supposed to be sparring. If Dean or Coach finds out—”

  “They’re not going to find out. Listen, man, if I don’t hit someone, I’m going to hit someone.”

  “Shit . . . All right, I tell ya what. Will is just getting ready to pull some lasagna out of the oven. How about you come over, have supper with us, and we’ll head to the gym and go a few rounds after that?”

  “I don’t know, man . . .” Nikko wanted to fight. He wasn’t looking for a dinner date. “I’m not the best company right now.”

  The fighter chuckled. “As opposed to when? Dude, I hate to break it to ya, but you’re no picnic any day. Come have supper with us. Regan found out Will was cooking and already wrangled himself an invite. It won’t be weird, I swear. You know Will won’t mind.”

  Nikko knew she wouldn’t care, but that wasn’t the point. He was in a bad fucking mood and didn’t want to subject anyone else to the unpleasantness of his company. He’d already made a big enough ass of himself today, and being banned from sparring only made things worse. At least then he had a way to exorcise his demons. Now that shit was just building up and he had no outlet.

  “Listen, if you want me to put my ass on the line for you, you can at least have dinner with me. That’s the deal.”

  Nikko sighed. Right now, his mind was a sea of tumultuous thoughts stirred by the wind of his emotions and the undercurrent of his past. The storm raging inside him could only be quieted one way: he needed to get in that cage—bad. If eating supper at Kyle’s place and pretending he was a normal human being for the next hour or two was what it took to make that happen, then so be it. “I’ll be over . . .”

  “Great.”

  The guy didn’t have to sound so damn pleased with himself. “I’ll see you in a few minutes,” Nikko grumbled.

  Turning his car around, Nikko headed back into the city and shot up a quick prayer that he could keep his shit together. Since leaving Violet’s office, he’d been driving around, too restless to go home and too edgy to be safe out in public. He felt like a pressure cooker with no release valve. Out of desperation, he’d called Kyle, figuring if there was anyone who’d be willing to break the rules, it was that guy. Kill had his own issues, struggled with his own temper control, so he of all people would understand Nikko’s need to fight.

  When he pulled up to their modest, yellow-and-cream-colored two-story, the lacy curtains in the kitchen window were brushed aside before falling back into place. Parking his Challenger in the turnaround of their driveway, Nikko cut the engine and headed up to the house. Before he reached the door, Willow had it open and was waiting for him with a big welcoming grin on her face. “Nikko, come in. Glad you could make it.”

  “Thanks, Willow.” He stepped inside and tensed, knowing the inevitable was coming. She wasted no time throwing her arms around his neck and giving him a big hug. Some people were huggers, and those who weren’t had to learn to live with it if they planned on spending any time with Willow. It didn’t escape Nikko’s notice that last night he’d been a lot closer to Clover than this. Yet that trapped, suffocating feeling hadn’t come over him. In fact, he’d wanted to get closer, a hell of a lot closer.

  “I’m glad you decided to come for supper,” she said.

  “Thanks for letting me crash it.”

  “It’s no problem. You know you boys are always welcome.”

  And that was one of the many reasons the guys in Coach’s camp adored Kill’s sister. She treated all the fighters like they were family. Admittedly, it’d been hard to get used to at first, but little by little, their comrade was starting to grow on him and, damn, that girl could cook.

  As they stepped into the entryway, the unexpected report of gunfire echoed from the living room. Nikko flinched. Shots rang out—then tense curses and yelling for backup and to take cover. And just like that, Nikko felt the grip on his sanity begin to slip. Darkness edged around him, his head buzzing with that familiar hum of a hornet’s nest.

  No! He gave himself the mental command to shut down his thoughts before they got away from him. Not here. Not now.

  Willow must have noticed he wasn’t following her anymore because she stopped. Glancing over her shoulder, she shot him a concerned frown. “You all right?”

  No. “Yeah . . . What’s going on in there?” He nodded toward the living room. The phantom scent of blood stung his nostrils, the coppery tang assaulting his senses, and mental images flashed in his mind like a slow-motion movie reel, churning faster as the projector warmed up.

  Keep your shit together, soldier. That’s an order!

  “The boys are playing Call of Duty. You want to join them? We have another controller.”

  Nikko shook his head, forcing one foot in front of the other and stepping into the hall.

  “Cover me, dammit! They’re closing in!” Regan shouted. The report of automatic fire filled the room.

  “I’m trying, but I’m getting flanked! I’m hit!”

  “That’s all right,” Nikko mumbled, as he fought through the haze of memories rapidly closing in on him. “It’s not so much fun once you’ve played the real thing. Too bad life doesn’t have a Restart button like those damn games.”

  “Yeah . . .” she agreed, smiling sadly as the shadows he was all too familiar with touched her eyes. No doubt, she was thinking of her own loss—another senseless tragedy.

  Shit, was he a killjoy or what? He hadn’t been here five minutes and Willow looked like she wanted to cry. Explaining that one to Kill oughta be a real treat. But that woman was good at hiding her emotions, missing only a beat before painting that bright, beautiful smile on her face again and yelling, “Hey, guys, Nikko’s here. It’s time to eat. How about you shut off the Xbox and join us?” Then to Nikko, she said, “If you don’t mind, I could use your help in the kitchen opening a bottle of wine.”

  Was he that transparent? Had she seen how close he was to slipping off the edge, and was she taking pity on him by trying to distract him? Hell, did it really matter at this point? He’d take any help he could get to cling to the present and prevent another scene like the one that went down last week. “Sure, Willow, whatever you need.” Did his voice sound as wooden and hollow to her as it did to him? He hated being like this—feeling like a ticking time bomb just waiting to go off.

  Out of the blue, Violet’s words returned to haunt him. If you’d let me, I think I could help you. Yeah, that offer was made before he’d lost his shit in her office today and gotten himself permanently booted. But still, he couldn’t help but wonder if there had been some truth to her offer. The question hovered in his mind, a painful temptation daring him to reach out and take the help she was offering.

  But what if he were right? If it didn’t work, all hope would be lost. It was one thing to be like this because he chose to be. Refusing help still left the
possibility of healing hovering on the horizon. But if he accepted what Violet was offering—granted she would still see him, that is—and took the risk of letting her in, letting her try to help him, and she failed, it would be his end. He’d have no chance of ever recovering, and Nikko wasn’t sure he could live with that kind of finality—wasn’t sure he could pin that kind of hope on another person.

  It wasn’t fair to do that to her, because if Violet failed, and she more than likely would, he knew she would blame herself, as well. Yet the thought of spending the rest of his life wondering when the next rage blackout would come, or what his next trigger would be, seemed an equally unbearable proposition as living without hope. He was damned if he did and damned if he didn’t.

  Willow handed him the bottle of wine and the opener. “Hope you like Merlot. I personally think it goes great with Italian food.”

  “Anything is fine.” Nikko took a deep breath, savoring the scent of freshly baked bread and rich, buttery garlic, banishing the remnant of the metallic tang from his senses. The smells wafting from the oven helped clear his mind, giving him something tangible to cling to. It helped that the sounds in the living room didn’t carry into the kitchen. “The lasagna looks great,” he commented, unwrapping the foil from the bottle as she pulled the pan from the oven.

  “Thanks. It’s my mom’s recipe. She always made it for Kyle. It’s his favorite.” Her voice softened with a touch of nostalgic sadness.

  “How do you do it, Willow?” The question came out before he could bite it back. It wasn’t like him to ask anything so personal, but she knew loss, and, on that level, he felt a connection to her. Kill knew loss, too, though, like Nikko, the guy had his own unhealthy ways of dealing with grief. But Willow seemed so . . . balanced, so put together. If you didn’t know it, you’d never guess the heartbreak she’d endured.

  She didn’t ask him what it meant. To keep from having to look at her, he focused his attention on opening the bottle. He made it a habit not to engage in serious conversation and was uncomfortable doing so now, but he was also desperate for answers, tired of feeling this restlessness inside him, tired of craving a peace that seemed unattainable—except for when he was with Clover. And that caused a whole other set of issues. It was unexplainable, and he didn’t understand it, but somehow, for some reason, that woman seemed to be his calm in the storm—his oasis. When he was with her, that empty ache in his heart didn’t hurt quite so much, that void—that hollowness—seemed to disappear, even if only for a little while.

  “I’m not going to lie to you, Nikko. It wasn’t easy. It still isn’t. I have to make a conscious decision every day not to let my grief control me. When Kyle moved back home after the accident, he didn’t know what to do with me. I was a fourteen-year-old girl who’d just lost her parents. I was a wreck. He was a wreck. But one of the best things he did was put me in counseling. I didn’t want to go, but he made me do it, anyway. He didn’t know how to help me, so he made sure I had someone in my life who did. It didn’t work overnight, but my psychologist gave me the tools I needed to help myself, and eventually it got a little better. And I have people in my life who love me. Don’t underestimate the healing power of love—whether it’s from friends or family or someone . . . closer.” Her gaze darted away and he ignored the slight blush coloring her cheeks. “I know you don’t like talking about what happened to you, Nikko, so I won’t ask. But maybe you should, you know, let someone in.”

  Pop! The cork came free of the bottle just as Kyle and Regan entered the kitchen.

  “Hey, Nikko, glad you made it. Wow, Will, this smells amazing! Totally worth covering your ass . . .”

  “Thanks,” she laughed, carrying the lasagna pan over to the table.

  Kyle took the seat with his back to the stove, and Regan sat across from him, no doubt ensuring whichever of the two chairs Willow ended up in, he’d be sitting beside her.

  “I’ll just grab the garlic bread, go ahead and start dishing up.” She set the Caesar salad beside the pan and gave her brother the spatula before heading back to the stove. Nikko carried the wine over and sat down.

  “So, Regan,” Kill asked, piling his plate full of lasagna while his friend dug into the salad. “You coming down to the gym with us after supper?”

  Willow turned her attention toward the table as she pulled out the garlic bread, shooting a questioning glance Regan’s way. His eyes briefly darted toward her, then back to his task. Before the guy could respond, Willow yelped and the pan clattered inside the oven. They all jumped to their feet, but Regan was the first one there, ushering Willow to the sink.

  “Get the first-aid kit,” he told Kyle, turning on the faucet. Her brother veered left, heading out of the room. Regan crowded in behind her, his arm coming around her back and grabbing her wrist to hold her hand beneath the stream of water. With his free hand he inspected her burn.

  “Regan, it’s fine,” she protested.

  “The hell it is,” he growled, his voice low and seemingly meant for her ears only. “Baby, the top of your hand is burned.”

  “I’ll be okay,” she whispered. “It’s my fault. I wasn’t paying attention to what I was doing. Nikko,” she called for him, craning her head and trying to see him over Regan’s shoulder, but there was no way Regan was letting her go. “Will you please pull that bread out of the oven before it burns?”

  “Sure.” He grabbed the pan from the middle rack and turned the oven off as Kill came into the kitchen carrying the medical kit. He wasted no time displacing Regan, who had no choice but to stand down. But by the tight clench of his jaw, Nikko could tell the guy wasn’t happy about it.

  “You guys, I’m fine. It’s just a little burn. Start eating before the food gets cold.”

  “Let me see your hand, Will.”

  “Kyle . . .”

  “Now, Willow.”

  She huffed and pulled it out of the water, holding it up for his inspection.

  The pattern of the grate was burned across the top of her hand. It had to hurt, but Willow only looked irritated at all the attention she was getting.

  “If you three don’t sit down and enjoy this freaking meal I just slaved over for two hours, I’m going to get pissed.”

  Hmm . . . so the sweet little lamb had a bit of her brother’s temper in her, after all.

  “I mean it,” she barked, tugging her hand out of Kyle’s. “All of you, sit down and eat, right now.”

  And at the command of that little half-pint, all three hardass MMA fighters sat their asses down rather than risk the wrath of one Miss Willow Scott.

  Wham! Kill’s open-mitt fist connected with Nikko’s face, the explosion of pain in his cheek a welcome distraction to the torment in his head. He nodded to Kyle, complimenting his strike. The fighter was quick, deftly-skilled, and heavy-handed just like Nikko wanted it. He kept the pace fast and the energy high. Kill advanced, growing confident in finding his range. Nikko weathered the assault, taking the punishing blows as penance that could never be repaid.

  It felt good to be in the cage again. Every hit, given and received, released a little more of his pent-up aggression. The voices in his head died to a dull roar, the screams quieted—the echoing report of gunfire retreated to the background of his mind. It never completely went away. The ghosts that haunted him would never give him peace, not until they got theirs—and that was something that would never happen. The USMC had made sure of that.

  Kyle shot in, clipping Nikko’s jaw and sending him stumbling back a step. He used the momentum to his advantage, turning it into a hook kick that landed a solid body shot to Kill’s ribs, taking the fighter’s air with it.

  “Goddammit,” Kill barked, spitting out his mouth guard and taking a step back. “Are we sparring or are we brawling, because if you don’t start pulling your punches, you’re going to have to explain to Coach and Dean how my rib got broke and why I can’t fight Matthews next month.”

  Ah, hell . . .

  “Don’t get me wrong,
now I know why Disco loved sparring with you so much. You’re fun as shit to whale on, but don’t forget you’re two weight classes above me, bro.”

  “Right. Sorry, man . . .” The mention of Disco was an unwelcome reminder of the absent fighter. He missed his friend and sparring partner more than he wanted to admit. And that was precisely why Nikko made it a habit not to get close to people. For the most part, he genuinely preferred to be alone. That way it didn’t hurt so much when they left—and they always did . . .

  Sure, there were a few who’d managed to worm their way in over the years, some deeper than others. Unbidden, the image of a gorgeous pale-haired, violet-eyed woman came to mind, and something cramped inside his chest—regret was a damn uncomfortable emotion. He shouldn’t have said what he did to her. His words had been sharp and cutting, and he’d had no right to be jealous. Just because he thought of her as his didn’t make it so. And as long as he was being real with himself, maybe he was just a little spooked by the intensity of his emotions where she was concerned.

  By thinking he’d never see Violet again after their first meeting, he’d felt the freedom to create a mental refuge around her. What if, by making her his emotional safe haven, he’d actually been falling for her this whole time? Which would have been fine, if he’d indeed never seen her again, but now that she’d turned back up in his life, all those budding emotions erupted into full bloom, and he was having a hell of a time dealing with them.

  That had to be it. It was the only explanation he could come up with for how he could feel so strongly for someone he hardly knew. Nikko didn’t believe in love at first sight. He didn’t much believe in love at all, but he sure liked the shit out of that woman, and he was definitely in lust with her. And now he’d gone and ruined the chance of having any sort of a relationship with the beauty. Fuck . . . the unwelcome thought occurred to him that perhaps the people in his life didn’t leave him as much as he pushed them away, and the ones who hung in there were just more tenacious than the others. He wasn’t sure his clover was much of a fighter. After today, she seemed pretty intent on writing him off—not that he could blame her. Who in their right mind would want to take on a rancorous MMA fighter with serious trust issues who was haunted by demons and plagued by secrets he’d take to his grave?