Sandy’s gaze flicks to someone behind me, and she jumps to her feet. “Torment just came in.” And then her eyes widen. “He’s got the MEFC recruiter with him. Oh my Lord. Look who it is.”
Taking advantage of her lack of focus, I lunge forward and wrap my arm around her neck in a choke hold. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Torment walking toward us with the recruiter by his side. Sandy manages to spit out his name before my brain registers what I am seeing.
“Zack Grayson.”
My breath catches, and the world freezes around me. Zack? My gaze locks on the man talking to Torment, and memories of the past breach the walls that have kept me safe for the last seven years. The day he found me at the bottom of Devil’s Hill. The touch that woke our souls. The strange friendship between a thirteen-year-old boy and an eight-year-old girl that no one understood. The easy conversations. Our first kiss when I turned sixteen. Cuddles under the stars. Sexual exploration. And then the night we came together and broke apart.
He’d wanted to make something of himself, and he had. Three-time winner of the MEFC middleweight title belt, Zack is an MMA legend. He is a master of five different martial arts and once won a title fight despite having a broken arm. He is his ring name personified, a “Slayer” in every sense of the word. Fiercely aggressive in the cage, he was feared and admired when he was fighting, revered and respected since he retired. But I know what kind of man he really is. A slayer of the heart.
My grip loosens. Sandy spins out of the hold and clips me a good one in the chin.
I stumble back and lose my balance. My head thunks against a metal pole, and I go down hard. Taste blood. See stars. Or are they hearts? For a long moment, I don’t move. Lights twinkle above me. Fade to black. I am lost in a sea of pain.
“Wake up.”
I open my eyes and blink away the blur. People are murmuring around me. Sandy is talking to someone named God and apologizing over and over. A male voice calls for Makayla, and I hear the pounding of feet. Drawing in a deep breath, I inhale the scents of stale sweat and disinfectant. The smell of home.
“Shayla?” Sadist’s usually gruff rumble of a voice is surprisingly soft and gentle. “Talk to me.”
Of course Sadist is the first one in the ring. And he must be worried. No one calls me Shayla at Redemption. Torment has decreed that we must use ring names only in the gym, and the team gave me the worst ring name ever. Shilla the Killa I was named, and Shilla the Killa I will be unless I can break out of the middle of the amateur pack and earn the right to a better name.
“I thought I’d take a little rest,” I mumble. “I’m still tired from Saturday’s fight.”
“Good idea.” Makayla says, joining Sadist on the mat beside me, her hazel eyes dark with concern. “I’ll just check you over. Doctor Death is in the first aid room dealing with a sprain.”
“Thank goodness.” Doctor Death, a heart surgeon, amateur fighter, and Redemption’s official ring doctor is too gorgeous for his own good, and the last thing I want is to succumb to the touch of his beautiful surgeon’s hands.
Sadist unlaces my gloves while Makayla does her thing, poking and prodding and patting me all over. Sandy kneels beside me. “I am so, so sorry. I didn’t mean to hit you like that. Well, I did, but I thought you’d move your face out of the way.”
“I was…distracted.” Although I’ve tried to avoid local and live stream events where Zack has fought, it has been impossible over the years to avoid seeing pictures of him online and in magazines where he has endorsed everything from gloves to protein shakes. But nothing could have prepared me for the in-person, breathtaking visual feast he has become in the seven years since we were together.
With that long, dark, rock-star hair; the lean, powerful body; hard planes of muscles concealed beneath a tight MEFC T-shirt; and three days’ worth of groomed stubble on a firm, cleft chin, he has the kind of tear-off-the-clothes, jump-into-bed, fuck-me-till-I-die good looks that make women do stupid things. Like celebrating their eighteenth birthday by having sex for the first time with him at the Lucky Dollar Motel.
Why did age have to make him even more breathtaking than I remember? Why, why, why did he have to come to Redemption of all the gyms in all the states in the country?
Why did he walk away and leave me?
“He is yummy, isn’t he?” Sandy whispers, glancing up. “I’m going to invite him out with the team tonight, maybe take him back to my place. I know he’s got a reputation as the sport’s biggest man whore, but how often do you get a chance to sleep with an MMA legend?”
Just once. And then he’ll walk away. His well-earned reputation started with me.
Desperate to get away in case Zack recognizes me, I push myself to sit.
“Don’t get up yet,” Makayla says, frowning. “Just give it a minute. You hit your head pretty hard.”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine,” she says when I stand, my gloves hanging loose on my hands. “You’re very pale.”
“It’s the black eyes. They make my skin look paler.”
“I’d really like to take you to the first aid office for a proper check.” Makayla helps me climb out of the ring. “Sandy said you blacked out for a few seconds. I want to make sure you don’t have a concussion.”
“Really. I’m good.” I take a step forward, and the mat swirls below me.
“Whoa. Easy there.” Strong hands steady me, pull me into a broad, hard chest.
Disoriented, I fall into brown eyes flecked with gold. Warm, like the hands around my waist. Steady, like the touch on my skin bared between my shorts and sports top. Unyielding. Betraying. Painfully familiar.
Pain.
I fight my body’s response, the tug deep in my soul, reminding myself why I’m here. Zack left. Damian picked up the pieces. And then I was destroyed all over again.
“Let me go, Zack.”
3
Zack
“Shayla?”
For the longest moment, Zack’s brain couldn’t process the sight in front of him.
Seven years, ten months, and twenty-seven days. That was how long it had been since he’d seen her. That was how long it had been since he’d lived a life without regret.
He felt a dangerous heating of his blood as he stared at the woman in his arms. Her slim, lean, graceful dancer’s body was now powerful and strong, but the classic beauty of her oval face shone through the mask of bruises. Her eyes were still the dark blue of the violets he’d picked for her when she turned thirteen, and her beautiful long hair was shorter and tied into a ponytail that swung behind her.
His gaze dropped to her ripped shirt and torn, black leggings. No wonder he hadn’t recognized her right away. She was supposed to be fangirling Nureyev, not Nirvana.
“What are you doing here?” His hands tightened around her waist as he tried to control his emotions. He hadn’t ripped his heart out of his chest and walked away so Shayla could wind up bruised and beaten in an MMA gym in the worst part of Oakland.
And married. He had almost forgotten that only a year after they’d split up, she had married another man.
“I train here.”
She tried to pull away, but Zack firmed his grip. He’d let her go once, and he’d regretted it every single day of his life. He wanted answers, and he wanted them now.
“Why aren’t you dancing?” he demanded. He’d followed her ballet career until he’d won his first amateur title belt and MEFC had come calling with an invitation to the pros. With his belt in one hand, a contract in the other, and his worth now splashed on screens and magazines across the globe, he’d gone to New York to find her, only to discover she was with someone else.
Shayla bristled. “Because I’m not.”
“That’s not an answer.” He instantly regretted his abrupt tone. Although he’d thought nothing could hurt more than d
iscovering he had been so quickly and easily replaced, the death of Tadashi “the Mountain” Okami not long after had utterly destroyed him, leaving him emotionally scarred and quick to anger.
“That’s all you’re going to get.” She twisted away and he released her, caught in a maelstrom of emotion. It was almost too much to take in. Shayla. Redemption. Her drastic career change. And the hostility he had never expected to face. He had given her everything. Sacrificed everything. He had left her to make himself worthy. He had set her free so she could fly.
“Shay…” He breathed in a lungful of her scent, his stomach doing a strange twist at the familiar fragrance of wildflowers.
“Leave me alone.”
“I just want to talk.”
Pain flickered across her beautiful face. “You’re seven years too late.”
“Give me a chance to explain.”
“I don’t care, Zack. It’s all in the past. I’ve moved on and so have you.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“Don’t tell me what I mean.” Her eyes glittered, brittle and hard. “You don’t know me. Not anymore.”
He felt her words like a knife in the chest. He had known Shay better than he had known himself. He knew what moved her and what made her smile. He knew it was harder for her to give up candy than it was to dance until her feet bled. He knew she was strong, brave, compassionate, and fearless. He knew she loved him so much, she would never leave him, even if it meant giving up her dreams.
“Shay…” He trailed off, suddenly aware of all the eyes on them, the slight sway of bodies as people leaned in to hear. If he could just get her alone… “Let’s take this somewhere private.” He grasped her hand, intending to lead her away.
“Don’t touch me.” She slapped him, the sound of her hand striking his cheek echoing through the gym.
“What the hell was that?” He didn’t feel physical pain from her blow—he’d suffered much worse in the ring—but her very public show of anger stung both his pride and his hope that after so many years, he might be forgiven.
She looked back over her shoulder as she walked toward the door. “That’s the ‘fuck off’ I never got to say.”
4
Shayla
“What’s going on?”
Torment fixes me with his deep, dark gaze. After a terrible night in which Damian haunted my dreams and Zack tormented my waking moments, I am ill prepared for a meeting with Torment. When he called me to his office this morning, I had to fight the urge to run and hide. I broke the rule against fighting outside the practice ring when I slapped Zack yesterday, and I can only pray Torment will let me go in one piece.
“I’m sorry.” I figure Torment will appreciate the straightforward approach. And it’s not like I can lie. Redemption is worse than high school for gossip, and given the number of people who were at the gym last night, guaranteed everyone knows I slapped Zack Grayson.
What the hell was I thinking?
“Unsatisfactory,” Torment says. “Try again.”
“Well…” I twist my hands in my lap, supremely uncomfortable with having to discuss my personal life with Torment. Although I respect him as a fighter and a coach, we’ve never really had a personal conversation. Torment isn’t really a chatty kind of guy. How Makayla gets along with him, I’ll never know.
“Zack and I have a history. We grew up together. Dated. It ended badly. I guess I still have unresolved feelings.” I’m not embarrassed about slapping Zack. It was the goodbye I never got to say.
“I’m not interested in your relationship issues.” Torment cuts me off with an irritated wave of his hand. “I’m talking about the fight on Saturday night.”
Burn, cheeks, burn. Can this entire situation get even more humiliating? Of course he doesn’t care about relationship issues. He’s running a gym, and training fighters. All he cares about is making good fighters better. “Right. The fight. Well, I don’t know what happened. I started strong—”
Torment cuts me off again. I’m not sure why he even needs me here, since he’s not really interested in my answers to any of his questions. “I was there. I saw the fight. Your opponent is known as a grappler. She works best rolling on the mat because she lacks the stamina of a striker. That was obvious when she dropped her hands and exposed her chin over and over again. You needed to use defensive wrestling and striking to get a knockout.” He leans forward and scowls. “Just like we planned.”
I slump down in my seat like I’m in middle school and being told off by the principal. Except this time, Zack isn’t going to be waiting outside, threatening to beat anyone who makes me cry. “I thought it would be too risky.”
My heart pounds wildly as Torment drums his fingers on his desk. I knew this talk was coming. This is the fourth fight in a row I’ve lost over the last few months, and Torment doesn’t like losers.
“I never had any doubts you were ready to step up to the next level,” he says. “You have the skills, the fitness, and the strength. You decimated the entire lower tier of amateurs. But last year when we moved you up to fight a different class of fighters, you started holding back. Is it a matter of confidence? Do you not think you’re as good as them? Or are you afraid of more experienced opponents?”
“I’m not afraid.” I hum a few bars of Masterplan’s “I’m Not Afraid,” trailing off when Torment’s scowl deepens. So much for lightening the mood. The power metal song is a little slick for my taste anyway. After I left New York, I purged all my playlists of classical music and dance pop, replacing them with the angst-filled, angry, frustrated lyrics, dirty guitar sounds, and heavy drumming of lighter grunge bands like Stone Temple Pilots, Pearl Jam, and Queens of the Stone Age. Only they understood my pain.
“I’ve talked to Fuzzy,” Torment says after my brief musical interlude. “We think it might be better if you pulled out of competition until we can find out what’s holding you back.”
“I’ll lose my shot at the amateur title belt and my chance to go pro. It will be another year before I can try again.” I want this more than I want anything else. I want to prove to myself that no one can destroy me. That no matter how far I fall, I can get up again.
Determined to empower myself after my career and marriage imploded in New York, I moved to San Francisco and trained as a security guard. Now, as a senior security consultant for Symbian Cloud Computing, I have a gun, Taser, and nightstick, and I know how to use them. But success as a fighter has eluded me. I am good, but not good enough. I want to be a pro. Not because of the fame and fortune, but because I need to know in my heart that if anyone ever tries to hurt me the way Damian did, I will be able to defend myself. My biggest fear is to be a victim all over again.
“You would need to win your next three fights to get into the finals,” Torment says. “And right now, that doesn’t even look like a possibility.”
Torment doesn’t pull his punches in the ring or out.
My hands clench into fists in my lap. I’ve been through far worse. The two most important men in my life left me—my dad when he died in a car accident just after my seventh birthday and Zack when he walked out on me—and the third, Damian, betrayed me, morphing from caring friend and gentle lover to violent, alcoholic, abusive spouse. I lost my marriage, my friends, and my career because of him, and I almost lost my life.
In the big scheme of things, taking a step back from the competitive circuit is not a big deal, and yet I feel sick inside. For four years, I’ve trained and sweated through pain and blood and bruises for a chance to show the world that I’m a survivor, that I could come back stronger than ever, that I’m worthy of being the role model the young girls in my classes think I am.
Maybe I was wrong.
For the first time since I sat down, concern flickers across Torment’s face. “I know what you’re capable of. I’ve seen you grow as a fighter, and I know you can grow more. We’
ll put our heads together and come up with a plan.”
“Okay. Thanks.” I feign enthusiasm, but I’m dying inside. Fuzzy, Torment, and my personal trainer, Stan Roberts, have already put in hours of their personal time to help me get to where I am. I can’t possibly ask for more. Stan only charges me half his normal rate, and Fuzzy pretends he hasn’t raised his coaching fee during the time I’ve been at Redemption. I offered to pay Torment once and almost lost an arm.
After I leave Torment’s office, I head into the gym and take a quick look around for any sign of Zack. Still reeling from the huge setback, I can’t bear the thought of seeing him right now. Zack made it to the pros faster than any other amateur on the circuit, winning his title belt only a year after he moved to Seattle. Unlike me, he brought no baggage into the ring when he decided to become a fighter. He didn’t have a body shattered by a fall down two flights of stairs, a heart destroyed by betrayal, or a mind twisted by fear. He had no one and nothing to hold him back.
And yet, for all the hurt in my heart, my body still responded to his touch. It was always that way with Zack. We had a connection from the moment we met. All the more reason to stay away.
For the rest of the afternoon, I manage to avoid Zack as he scouts out potential recruits, flirts outrageously with his female fans, signs autographs, and talks with the pro fighters while ambitious amateurs swoon in his wake. Although he retired four years ago, everyone fully expects him to make a big comeback. So, of course, they all want to be his new BFF.
“Hey, Zack, can I get you a protein shake?”
“Can you sign my gloves?”
“Will you pose for a picture?”
“It must get lonely traveling all the time, sleeping alone in your hotel…” Sandy, of course, doesn’t waste any time. She knows what she wants, and for her, Zack is triple A–grade fresh meat.
I tell myself I don’t care. Zack is nothing to me. Like I told Torment, we had a history, but now we’ve moved on. So why does my stomach clench when I hear the deep rumble of his voice? Why am I hyperaware of his presence when I’m trying to ignore him?
Strong Hold Page 2