Fight For Her (MMA Fighter Romance Book 1)

by Vanessa Vale

  Stepping back, she let her hand drop and the spot felt cold. She looked away. “Did I overstep?”

  I reached out, tugged her back so she bumped into me. “No. I’m…it just sounded like you were including me in your family and it was…nice.”

  She offered me a smile, a soft one, filled with what looked a whole lot like…love. “Good.”

  Was that what this was? Was that what I felt for her? Love? Did she feel the same way? She was the most important thing in the fucking world to me, but love? I had no clue what love was. It was like trying on a suit and seeing if it fit. With Emory, she fit—we fit—perfectly. “Emory, I—”

  Her cell rang, then mine only a few seconds later.

  “Shit,” I muttered.

  “I bet that’s Christy.”

  “Which means that’s Paul on my phone.” I didn’t hide the irritation from my voice. Emory was kissing me. She was kissing me. She was being the pursuer and I liked it. A lot.

  “They don’t know we’re together. Together as in you and me.” She pointed between us. “And also as in the same room.”

  I knew what she was saying. Did we want to keep this a secret, or tell? I angled my chin. “Go. Answer it. I’ll take my call in the other room.”

  ***

  Two hours later, I was pushing the speed limit on the highway, not wasting any time getting to Atlantic City. When Emory told Christy what had happened, she'd pulled Paul into the conversation. Emory had made me sit down beside her on the bed and we talked to the couple together by speakerphone. If they were surprised we were together, they didn't let on.

  Yes, someone had been in her house.

  Yes, she was fine.

  Yes, it could be my dad who was behind it all.

  I had to face him. Emory agreed, but there was no fucking way I was letting her anywhere near him. This was an old score I needed to settle and she’d only distract me. She understood, but Paul had even more, and offered to have Emory hang with them for the day. Until we knew exactly what was going on, I wasn't leaving her alone.

  I passed an eighteen-wheeler when my cell rang. I pushed the button for the handheld. “Green.”

  “They’re painting their toenails.” Paul. “She’s safe here.”

  “Thanks. I’m almost out of Delaware. Once I find him, it won’t take long.” I gripped the steering wheel. Hard. “I should be back before dinner.”

  “Do what you have to. We’ll be waiting.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “You’d do the same.”

  I would. I might just be Paul's trainer, but we were friends, too. Friends who watched out for each other. In the MMA world, it went unsaid, everyone knew no one messed with family. There was always a rivalry, shit talk, some fighters who fought dirty. That shit stayed at the gym, stayed in the ring. No man took it home with him. Fights could be resolved with fists, with words, but no one fucked with our women. Kids. My dad might have crossed the line and I needed to shut that shit down.

  Now I knew what Paul had been telling me all along while he trained with me. Between sparring rounds or miles on the treadmill, he'd told me more and more about Christy and I’d seen him change. He became…more. He wasn’t pussy whipped either. Christy was perfect for Paul and I knew she was everything to him. Everything.

  Just like Thor. He would do anything for Laura, even buy a toilet brush. I understood now. Emory was everything to me and I’d even go buy a fucking toilet brush for her. If that wasn’t a sign I was in love, I didn’t know what was.

  EMORY

  I had cotton balls wedged between my toes as I sat on Christy’s couch. Paul worked at the kitchen table, papers spread out before him and he had his phone set to mute as he listened in on a conference call. I was being babysat and I knew it. A pedicure was just something to do to wile away the time. I didn’t think I needed to stay indoors and under supervision until this whole house break in thing was resolved, but if it eased Gray’s mind, I’d do it until he got back from Atlantic City. At least if he was watching me, we could be busy doing more…enjoyable things.

  I could feel my cheeks flush just thinking about what we’d done together and I darted a glance at Christy, who was fortunately leaning forward and putting a top coat of polish on her right foot. I was sore in places I forgot even got sore. I wasn’t a virgin, but the way my body ached—in good and bad ways, mostly good—I had probably reverted back to one. The way I felt with Gray was nothing, nothing, like it had been with Jack. If I’d known what I’d been missing, I’d have divorced him years earlier. But then I wouldn’t have met Gray. It seemed that he appeared just when I was ready for him. Was I ready for him? Was one ever ready for love?

  “You must have been so scared,” Christy whispered. Paul could be heard talking about some kind of brief from the other room. I could talk medical emergencies and the science behind a specific drug, but torts and legalese was over my head.

  I propped my feet on the coffee table. “Yeah. Very.” I didn’t want to go into details about what happened. I didn’t really want to think about it ever again and perhaps Christy could sense it, because she switched topics.

  “Gray thinks his dad’s behind it?” She dipped her nail polish brush into the bottle. “He sounds like a complete ass.”

  I didn’t want to tell her that the guy was well known in the business community, to have her impressed with him. It didn’t matter what his job was, how much power or money he had. A child beater was a child beater.

  “Mmm,” I replied, trying to remain neutral. If Gray wasn’t telling people about his past, I wasn’t going to do so. It was something for him to share in his own way, in his own time. The fact that he told me was…huge. His dad affected him so deeply, so painfully, I knew it had been hard to share. I wondered if he'd shared it with anyone. Thor, perhaps. The fact that he'd gifted me with the knowledge, that he'd made himself vulnerable, was telling. Overwhelming.

  “I don’t know much, but it’s possible.”

  Christy must have picked up my vague responses. “So you and Gray?” She waggled her eyebrows as she grinned.

  I flushed just like a schoolgirl.

  “Yeah,” I said on a sigh. “I… I like him. A lot.” Perhaps more than that. A lot.

  She turned to look at me, eyed me carefully. “This isn’t some fling, is it?”

  I shook my head and she grinned. “Is he good?”

  Oh yeah, he was good.

  My cell rang in my bag, saving me from answering. I didn't want to kiss and tell. My heart skipped a beat at the thought that it was Gray, but I quickly squelched it. It was too soon. The drive to Atlantic City was about three hours, depending on traffic, so he was most likely driving, focused on dealing with his dad. He needed to work on that, not me, and I understood. I wanted him to be able to let go of the crap with his dad, to put it all behind him. If going to New Jersey could do that, I'd support him. Wait for him, just as he'd been waiting for me.

  I didn’t recognize the number on the display. “Hello?”

  “Hello, Emory, this is Angelo Casale.”

  I relaxed, thinking of the man who had given me the delicious dinner. “Hi, Mr. Casale. I've been meaning to call and thank you for the meal. It was excellent.”

  “I'm pleased.” He didn’t seem interested in lingering on small talk. “I have heard that your home was broken into last night. Are you all right?”

  Concern laced his words. I had to wonder how he'd heard about the break in. It wasn't newsworthy.

  “Yes, thank you for checking. It was scary, but it’s over.” I wasn't going to go into details with him either.

  Christy eyed me as she continued to do her nails.

  “I would like to invite you and your friend, Mr. Green, for dinner at Casale’s tonight. I have some things I would like to talk with you about, but not over the phone.”

  “Oh.” I paused. “That’s very kind of you. Gray is in Atlantic City today visiting his father, but should be back by dinner.”

&nb
sp; “You are alone?” He sounded concerned. “I will have Frank come and stay with you, wherever you are.”

  I frowned. Why would he want Frank to stay with me? Were all the new men I met overly protective or had the ones in my past just been slackers? “I am with my friends. I promise I am well supervised.”

  I heard his laugh through the phone. “You can’t trick a mother,” he said. “I am glad you are with others, for it is not safe for you right now on your own. Have your friends join you for dinner as well.”

  Christy glanced my way as she screwed the top back on the nail polish bottle. I pasted a fake smile in the hopes to hide that I was worried by Mr. Casale’s words. What did he know that I didn’t? He obviously thought I was still in danger if he would send Frank to watch over me.

  “You’re sure it’s all right to come?” I didn’t mean about eating, but about showing up at the restaurant and remaining safe, not that Christy would know that.

  “Yes, my restaurant, I assure you, is quite safe. You, as well, if you are with Mr. Green or your friends. As I said before, you took care of Marco, so I will take care of you.”

  “Then there will be four of us. What time?”

  “Good. Seven then,” he replied, then hung up.

  I tossed my phone back in the bag.

  “What are we doing tonight?” Christy asked.

  “We’re going to dinner at Casale’s.”

  “Casale’s? I’ve always wanted to eat there.” She pulled the cotton balls from her toes. “That’s right, you said you met the owner.”

  “Who’s going to Casale’s?” Paul asked as he came in from the kitchen. He tilted his head from side to side, trying to release a crick. “I hate conference calls,” he muttered.

  “We are. With Emory,” Christy told him.

  Paul’s brow went up. I told him about Marco's scraped knees and the thank you meal.

  “Gray will come to dinner, too, hopefully. I should have asked you if you had plans. I hope it was okay to accept,” I said. “Mr. Casale wants to talk with me about something.”

  Paul shrugged. “Sure. We've wanted to eat there for a while now. You know who Angelo Casale is, don’t you?” he asked, dropping down into an overstuffed chair that sat perpendicular to the sofa. He grabbed Christy's ankles and propped them up on his knees.

  “Watch the toes!” she said, wiggling her feet.

  “Sure,” I replied.

  “I don’t mean restaurant owner,” Paul said.

  I frowned and Paul leaned forward, resting his forearms over Christy's lower legs.

  “He’s a made man.”

  “You mean the mafia?” Christy asked, her voice full of awe.

  Paul looked to Christy, then me. “He’s connected, that’s for sure. He keeps his nose clean, so the cops aren’t interested in him.”

  “You know this because…?” I prodded. The idea seemed preposterous. The older man who'd come visit me with his grandson, a made man?

  “Because I work for the District Attorney’s office.”

  That made sense. Paul would know more about Mr. Casale’s underworld affairs more than most.

  “Is he dangerous?” I asked, worried I was going from one dangerous situation to another. Had I just accepted an invitation to something… bad? God, it was easy to kill someone if they showed up exactly when and where you wanted them.

  “To you?” Paul shook his head. “You helped his grandson, right?”

  I nodded. “As I said, Marco was hurt and I gave him Band-Aids. Plus Chris’ old bike helmet.”

  “Frank Casale personally fixed your front lights and brought you food,” Paul added. “It was a nice thing to do, but I’d say you’re under his protection.”

  “His protection?” When his expression didn’t change, I went on. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  Paul nodded.

  “I had no idea there was the mafia in Baltimore. Gangs I’m very familiar with, but mafia?”

  The ER was filled with gang bangers who’d been shot or beat up and I was becoming well versed in the tattoos and colors to know there was a war on the streets of the city, but I’d never once heard of any kind of organized crime.

  “It’s not exactly what you’re thinking, it’s not like The Godfather or anything. Casale’s connected to Chicago and New York, but is on a lower, much smaller branch of that family tree. Still, no one messes with him around town.”

  The man did have a sense of authority about him, and his son Frank did whatever the man said, but I related that more to Old World custom than do-as-I-say-or-you’ll-be-wearing-concrete-shoes type power.

  “Hang on.” I remembered the card Frank gave me and went back to my purse and dug through it. “Here. I was given this.”

  Paul took it, flipped it over. “Jesus, you have Angelo Casale’s cell phone number. You’re definitely under his protection.”

  “What does that mean exactly?” I sat back down and finished tugging off the cotton balls from between my toes, added them to the pile of Christy's to throw out.

  “It means Gray’s not the only one watching out for you. What time tonight?”

  I told him.

  “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

  GRAY

  My dad wasn’t too hard to find since I knew where to look. Atlantic City meant gambling, and to my dad, gambling meant horses. When he needed a break from work, he didn’t go for the shabbier hotels on the boardwalk, but the newest and nicest. So I hit the latest build first. Once inside, even with the powerful ventilation systems, smoke hung thick in the air and the sound of the slot machines—the digital music, the pinging of the game and the clinking of coins falling into little plastic cups—was quickly going to give me a headache.

  He sat in a plush chair with about thirty flat screens on the wall in front of him, broadcasting races from all over the country, stats and race information a ticker tape across the bottom of it all.

  I dropped down in the chair beside him and stared blindly at one of the screens.

  “I figured you’d show up.”

  The man was in his late sixties, his hair long ago gone to white. His skin was overly tan and had the weathered appearance of a three-pack-a-day smoker. Even now, a cigarette rested in an ashtray on a side table by his right elbow, a glass of what I knew to be whiskey and water beside it. It was early to drink, but this was Atlantic City and this was dear old Dad.

  “What do you want this time?”

  I’d never given him money. He’d never needed a dime from me, he had enough of it, even with his gambling habit. Instead, he always wanted me to fix a fight or take a fall in one of my own so he could win. I never did anything he requested. Never. In retribution, he fucked with me, calling me—I’d ditched one phone number for another more times than I could count—and even sent people to my gym to make trouble. It had all worked; I’d wasted time and energy thinking about the guy, dealing with his shit.

  “Nothing.”

  I shook my head slightly, wishing I had a drink of my own so that I could dull the feelings this meeting brought out. My jaw clenched. “Nothing? Since when have you wanted nothing?”

  My cell vibrated in my pocket. Worried it was Emory, I glanced at the screen, then, when it wasn’t her number, or Paul or Christy’s, I tucked it away.

  “Don’t worry, your guy’s going to lose on his own poor skills, your own fuck-all training, and then I’ll win.”

  I slapped the armrests of the chair and stood. “Great.” I looked down at him. His eyes held no warmth, no love, nothing. He wasn’t a father. He was just some fucking loser who’d somehow spawned me. “Then leave me alone.”

  “And your girlfriend, too?”

  My phone vibrated again, but I ignored it. The fact that he mentioned Emory had my fists clenching. I knew how to fight with fists and was used to a verbal sparring match with my dad, but that was over inconsequential shit, not Emory. I wanted to beat the shit out of him, kill him with my bare hands—that’s how much I hate
d him, but this was a casino. There were cameras everywhere, and he knew it. This was his sanctuary and he was safe here.

  If I made Emory out to be something important, he’d pick at the very idea of her like a scab. So I shrugged it off. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”

  “Oh? She wasn’t any good between the sheets?”

  My eyes narrowed, but I kept my cool. Barely. “If you want to fuck with me, fine, but let’s leave everyone else out of it.”

  His cell rang. Neither of us would have noticed it in the loud casino noise if it hadn’t vibrated across the small table beside his drink.

  He picked it up and glanced at the screen. I swear his skin paled beneath the fake tan.

  My cell vibrated once more but I just watched my dad. He actually looked…afraid.

  “Answer your phone,” he said, without looking up from the screen of his.

  I sighed, pulling mine from my pocket. “Green.”

  “Hello, Gray, this is Angelo Casale. I believe you’ve met my son and grandson. I apologize for reaching out to your father while you’re visiting, but you wouldn’t answer your phone.”

  What the fuck? Angelo Casale had Dad’s number and had texted him. What the hell did the message say because it looked as if my dad just pissed himself. Besides that, how the hell did Casale know I was with my dad right now? How did he know my number? I looked around. There were people all around, but too self-involved to be interested in either my father or me. It was a casino with cameras everywhere. How far was this man’s reach? Did I really want to know?

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I’ve spoken with Emory and invited both of you to dinner tonight at Casale’s. She’s accepted and will bring two friends. I believe they are spending the day together. Very smart of you to keep her protected.”

  I was trying to keep up. I'd heard about Casale, knew of his dealings, for it was more than just lasagna. From the way my dad was reacting, he knew about them, too.

  “If she’s accepted, then it will be my pleasure,” I replied. I didn’t want to say Emory’s name in front of my dad, so I kept it neutral. I didn’t want him to know anything more about her.