Fighting for Control (Against the Cage Book 3)

by Melynda Price

  “Goddammit, Nikko,” the man growled.

  There was a subtle shift of the guy’s free arm, and then Nikko felt the cold hard press of steel into his ribs, followed by the distinct snick of back the fuck up. Wait a minute . . . He knew that voice. That pissed-off snarl resonated somewhere deep in his subconscious, bringing back a flashback too painful to let his mind play out. It couldn’t be . . . No fucking way . . .

  “Asher?”

  “Yeah, asshole, it’s me. You mind getting your arm off my neck, or am I going to have to put a hole in your side?”

  The blast from Nikko’s past hit him like a cheap shot to the groin. If the bastard weren’t standing in front of him now, staring him down with that eerie hazel-colored stare of his, he wouldn’t have believed his eyes. Asher fucking Tate . . . commander of MARSOC Team Six.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  “Nice to see you, too,” he grumbled, shoving away from the wall and stepping out into the alley. “I can see civilian life hasn’t done shit for your people skills.”

  He wished he could say it was nice to see the guy, but looking at the soldier he’d gone through recon training with did nothing but dredge up a lot of memories he’d rather stay buried. They had been close once—he, Asher, and Remmy. Once they’d completed the MARSOC program, they’d been pissed to discover Asher wasn’t going to be assigned to Nikko’s team. In hindsight, it was a damn good thing he hadn’t been, or he’d be in the fucking ground with the rest of MARSOC Seven.

  Nikko took a moment to study the soldier, wondering how in the hell he was keeping the judgment out of his eyes, or the shadows of condemnation from drawing his brow tight. What Nikko really wanted to know was how this fucking guy could even stand being here breathing the same air as him.

  Guilt rose up inside him, the shame of failure snaking around his chest, squeezing the air from his lungs. “What do you want?” Nikko barked, his tone sharp with self-contempt. If Asher was expecting bro hugs and backslaps, he was going to be sorely disappointed. That shit just wasn’t him—not anymore.

  His old friend studied him another moment, not seeming to care that he was making shit real fucking uncomfortable, and Nikko swore to God if pity flashed in the man’s eyes he was going to punch him in the face.

  “They really fucked you up, didn’t they?” It was an observation more than a question, and one Nikko wouldn’t have answered either way. “I came here to offer you a job.”

  “I’m not MARSOC anymore.”

  “I know. Neither am I.”

  Now that surprised him. Asher lived and breathed Marines Special Forces. If anyone was going to be a lifer, it was this guy. Nikko wanted to ask him what had happened to change his career path but then that would open up a conversation and he’d have to start answering questions of his own.

  “I’ve started up a private military consulting agency, and I want you to come work for me.”

  He eyed his old friend, giving him time to continue. When he didn’t, Nikko’s brow rose in question. “You asking me to be a mercenary for you?”

  “Not a mercenary per se, a private military officer.”

  Nikko let out a sharp bark of laughter. “Who the hell are you trying to kid? You’re a fucking mercenary.”

  “A mercenary making a lot of fucking money. We’re about to head overseas to do some field protection service the government doesn’t want on the books. I’m a man short. Thought you might like getting your feet back on foreign soil again. It’s a three-month gig—pays sixty grand.”

  Not bad for three months’ work. “First of all, I don’t think you want me watching your back. You know how well that worked out for Remmy.”

  Asher grabbed Nikko by his shirt and put him up against the wall, getting right in his face. “What happened to Remmy wasn’t your fucking fault! I don’t ever want to hear you say that again!”

  “You don’t know that!” Nikko snarled, breaking Asher’s hold on him and knocking his friend back a step. “You weren’t fucking there!”

  “No, I wasn’t. But I know you, Del Toro, and if there was any way to get him out of there alive, you would have done it. There’s no one I’d rather be stuck in a foxhole with than you.”

  Nikko looked at the guy he hadn’t seen in years. The trust in his eyes, the blind faith he saw reflecting back at him, was just like Remmy’s, and it was too fucking painful to take. “I’m sorry, Ash. I’m not your guy.” And if he thought the faith was hard to see, the disappointment was a sucker punch that made his knees wobble.

  “Sorry to hear that.” Asher pulled a business card out of his wallet and handed it to him. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me. We’re leaving in three weeks.”

  Even if Nikko wanted to go, he couldn’t. Once he would have jumped at the opportunity to get sand in his boots again, but that time had passed. The thought of leaving Ray and Violet to head back to the desert, or wherever the hell they were going, made his chest ache. Had Asher shown up three months ago with this offer, he might have said fuck it and walked away from the CFA. But he didn’t think he could put Ray through that again. And the God’s honest truth of it was that Violet owned a part of him now and he wasn’t willing to let her go. Those girls were his second chance at happiness, and he was damn determined not to fuck it up by repeating the mistakes of his past.

  “I won’t keep you any longer. It’s good to see you, man.” Asher clasped Nikko’s shoulder and squeezed. “Keep in touch, huh?”

  Nikko watched his friend walk away, disappearing into the shadows from which he’d arrived. Growling a curse, he shoved the card into his pocket and headed back toward his car.

  As he exited the alley, Nikko spotted movement across the parking lot. He might not have paid the stranger any notice among the other activity of people coming and going from the club, except this guy was weaving in and out of the parked cars and going out of his way to avoid the lights. And he was heading right for Nikko’s car.

  His steps quickened as he rushed to intercept the man, but before Nikko could get across the lot, a truck pulled up and parked beside his Challenger and the figure stopped. As the doors opened and people climbed out, the guy did an about-face, veered right, and then disappeared into the darkness. What the fuck was that about? If Pen hadn’t been in the car waiting for him, he might have given pursuit. Then again, the guy hadn’t technically done anything wrong, and you couldn’t very well chase someone down for walking across the parking lot and looking suspicious.

  He rapped his knuckles against the window for Pen to unlock the door. After he heard the electronic chink, he opened the driver’s-side door and climbed inside, getting hit with an icy blast of Pen’s temper. “Took you long enough,” she grumbled. “I’m practically sober now.”

  “I highly doubt that.”

  She grumbled something under her breath about him being an asshole. He wouldn’t refute the claim. Ignoring her snark, he shifted his hips, digging his cell out of his pocket. “You got anyone to stay with you?”

  “Nope.” She lolled her head to the side and gave him a cold, appraising look that made his balls shrivel up like raisins. “Nice shirt. You still stink like guilt, though. You can’t wash that shit off,” she slurred, her head rolling the other direction to stare out the passenger window as she muttered, “Believe me, I’ve tried . . .”

  Shit. It looked like he was going to have to go to Clover’s, after all.

  Vi’s heart leapt at the familiar low growl of the engine as Nikko’s muscle car came down the street. She glanced at the clock. It was almost ten. The gym had closed four hours ago. Where had he been all night? At the sound of a shutting car door, she stepped onto the porch and watched as he rounded the Challenger and opened the passenger door. What in the hell was he doing?

  And then she heard a feminine voice; it was too soft to distinguish what she said, but there was definitely someone in there with him. Nikko replied, his answer terse and impatient. She knew that tone. He was piss
ed. What was he doing with another woman in his car, and why was he bringing her here? He bent down and, when he stood, the woman was in his arms, but the lighting was too dim to make out any details. Jealousy churned in her gut, along with a healthy dose of nausea, her mind going to all sorts of bad places.

  “I can walk,” the woman snapped.

  Wait, was that Pen’s voice? Vi squinted, trying to see into the darkness.

  “Not with that ankle, you’re not,” he growled back. “You’ll be lucky if you didn’t tear a ligament.”

  He kicked the car door shut and headed toward the house. They stepped into a beam of light and she saw her friend draped across Nikko’s arms. “Pen? What happened?”

  Vi opened the door and held it for Nikko to enter. “She’s drunk,” he told her as they passed by.

  “At least I’m not a two-timing piece-of-shit asshole,” Pen snapped back.

  “That’s enough, Penelope,” he growled, a deep warning in his voice.

  Vi’s gut clenched so hard that bile rose up her throat. What was Pen talking about? Surely she didn’t mean Nikko? But obviously she had. That familiar feeling of falling returned with a vengeance, only this time it was so much worse—falling faster, harder . . . Déjà vu slammed into her, and her world tilted. Vi’s hand shot to the wall to steady herself. Oh, no . . . The last time she’d experienced this she was standing in her bedroom in New York staring at Barry and his secretary in her bed.

  What was going on? Why were Pen and Nikko together? What happened to make her friend so furious?

  Nikko carried Pen into the living room and dumped her none too gently onto the couch.

  “Ouch!” Pen complained.

  Nikko turned toward Vi. He looked exhausted, but there was something else in the shadows of those eyes. Guilt? Regret? Or was she just feeding off her insecurities?—imagining something that wasn’t there?

  “She needs some ice on that ankle,” he grumbled. “And a wrap if you have it.” Brushing past her, he said, “I’m going to go take a shower.”

  That’s it? That’s all he was going to give her? No explanation? Nikko was down the hall before her brain could force the words from her mouth. Vi numbly went to the kitchen and pulled a bag of peas from the freezer. She brought them over to Pen and sat beside her, placing them on her horribly swollen ankle. “What happened?”

  Pen flopped her forearm over her face, shielding her eyes from the light of the lamp. “I twisted my ankle.”

  “You’re drunk. Pen, this is getting out of hand. You have to slow down.”

  “I don’t think I’m the one you need to be worrying about, Vi.”

  Her stomach lurched. There had to be some kind of mistake. Nikko wouldn’t do this to her. Would he? Her gut told her no, but then again, how well could she trust that? She would have said the same thing about Barry once, too, and look how that had turned out.

  “Nikko was there tonight? At the club?”

  She nodded. “He was there with some brunette. She was hanging all over him, and he wasn’t shoving her off, Vi.”

  “What did you do?”

  “He left right after he saw me, the fucking coward. I chased after him into the parking lot. That’s when I rolled my ankle.”

  “Did he tell you who she was?”

  “Nope. Just shoved me into his car and brought me here.”

  She needed to talk to Nikko. Pulling a blanket off the back of the couch, she draped it over Pen and tucked her in. “Why don’t you get some rest. Sleep it off and we’ll check out your ankle in the morning.” Patting Pen’s hip, Vi stood and headed for her bedroom. Nikko Del Toro had some serious explaining to do.

  Nikko stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist. He’d left a pair of sweats here somewhere. Hopefully, Clover would know where they were. He walked into the bedroom and froze. His chest tightened, squeezing until his heart ached, his lungs refusing to draw air. She was so beautiful . . . All he wanted to do right now was bury himself inside her and pretend the rest of the world didn’t exist. She could make him forget. She could always make him forget . . . the screams, the recoil of his M16 kicking into his shoulder, the explosion of skull fragments and gray matter littering the sand . . .

  Red-rimmed eyes stared up at him from where she sat on the bed, her small hands clutched tightly in her lap as she struggled to hold herself together. His feet were in motion and he was crossing the room before he even realized he’d moved. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt this woman. “Clover . . .” He dropped to his knees in front of her. When she averted her head, he hooked his fingers under her chin and gently turned her face back to meet his.

  “You talked to Pen?”

  She nodded. A tear broke free of her wet, spiky lashes and rolled down her cheek. The sight of her pain gutted him. “It’s not what you think. I wasn’t there with anyone.”

  “Then who is she, and why was she all over you?”

  “She’s the woman my publicist hired. I didn’t even know she was going to be there when Easton asked me to stop and have a beer with him and Tommy after practice. Sweetheart, do you really think I would fight this hard for you, just to throw it all away on some cage banger? I would think you would know me better than that by now.”

  She stared at him as if considering the legitimacy of his words.

  “You just say the word and I’ll march into Dean’s office and tell him about us. Don’t you think I’d rather have you by my side than some hired arm candy?” He rested his hands on her thighs and slowly slid them up to her hips. Hooking his fingers in her waistband, he pulled down her pajama pants. Her eyes flared in surprise as he undressed her, but she didn’t protest—thank God.

  Sliding his hands under her bottom, he tugged her closer to the edge of the bed, hooking her slender, silky legs over his shoulders. Tipping his head, he kissed the inside of her knee and drew in a long, slow breath, dragging her scent deep into his lungs, banishing any remnant of heavy perfume. “I thought of you all night,” he whispered against her thigh, smiling when little goose bumps rose to kiss his lips. He pressed his mouth to the soft, fragrant skin, sucking against the flesh and feeling a sense of deep satisfaction at the mark he left behind. “I imagined coming home and stripping you bare—just like this . . .”

  Working his way up her thigh, he growled, “You’re the only one I’d get on my knees for. The only one I want . . .”

  Her legs fell open and his breath stalled in his lungs at the unadulterated beauty splayed before him. His chest tightened, warmth flooding him along with a healthy dose of testosterone-fueled possession—bare pink skin, the seam of her folds moist with her desire. He swallowed, his mouth watering at the sight of the feast set before him. “You’re so beautiful . . .” he rasped, not even recognizing his own voice through the need choking him.

  Slipping his hands to the apex of her thighs, he used his thumbs to part her folds, opening her to his devouring gaze—her small, glistening entrance bid him welcome, the hood of her sex an irresistible beauty, begging for his touch, his kiss . . .

  His cock jerked impatiently, eager to claim his prize, but Nikko would not be denied this luscious feast. He dipped his head and pressed a chaste, worshipful kiss to her core. She flinched at the contact, her little broken gasp sending a bolt of white-hot lust shooting into his cock. A hungry growl chortled in his throat, fingers digging into her ass, dragging her closer.

  His tongue breeched her entrance, his mouth claiming her sex. Her back bowed, a startled cry filling the air. His cock bucked in response, pre-cum wetting his tip. By the time he was finished with her, there would be no doubt in her mind who he wanted—who she belonged to.

  She attempted to resist another minute with her halfhearted struggles, perhaps not ready to forgive him, but after a few moments of mercilessly teasing her clit, she melted against his mouth. A soft moan escaped her throat and her fingers slipped into his hair, knotting, twisting, tugging him closer. The heels of her bare feet skated down his sp
ine as she began to writhe. Her toes slipped beneath the towel knotted at his hips. The coarse fibers of the cotton were an erotic irritant to his sensitive head as his erection strained to be free of its terry-cloth prison.

  Hell, he was going to come just tasting her. Her sweet ambrosia was burning through his veins like whiskey fire, sharpening his senses to the sight, the sounds, the flavor of her, yet dulling them to the rest of the world around him.

  Nothing mattered but her next gasp of pleasure, her next broken plea for “no more,” yet her grip on his hair begged him not to stop. She’d never come for him like this before—he suspected she’d never come like this period. She was too wily—too skittish at the initial intimacy of his touch. He could sense her fighting it as her release bore down on her. He could feel her resistance in the clenched muscles of her bottom, the bowing of her slender back as the pressure built inside her, waiting to erupt . . .

  He could cheat it and tear her orgasm from her easily enough. All he’d have to do was slip his fingers inside her and stroke that firm, sensitive ridge of nerves close to her core. She’d come in a heartbeat, spiraling out of control. But he wanted her to give it up—to submit her release to him. He wanted to feel that perfect moment when she decided to surrender herself to him and the pleasure he offered her. There was no question in his mind she was going to lose this fight—it was only a matter of when . . .

  He could sense she was struggling to hold herself back from him, physically and emotionally. That would never do. He wanted her—all of her—and he refused to allow her to deny herself the intimate experience of coming against his tongue as he consumed her release. It was a heady experience, opening oneself up to that kind of vulnerability—that kind of passion.

  “Nikko . . .” His name was a breathy plea on her lips.

  A tortured groan escaped his throat as he tore the towel off his hips and grabbed his cock, squeezing tight to stymie his own release. There was no way in hell he was coming before she did. She was close. Her breathing came in short, ragged pants, her muscles strung tight as bowstrings.