Kaleigh rolled her eyes. “Didn’t we have a long discussion about taking chances? How Huntley Rey Wittaker was in dire need of a fun night out? Besides, this new regular of mine, who has been coming in on Monday nights, knows the perfect trainer. Talks about him all the time. You’ll be able to cancel that advertisement. Come out and I’ll fill you in.”
“My final is on Monday.”
“God, do you have to be so rational?” Her friend popped an olive into her mouth and raised an eyebrow. “Well?”
“Uh...it’s called studying.”
“It’s Friday freakin’ night. You have the entire weekend to study. And besides, you’re quitting the program, so who cares if you bomb your finals?”
“I care. I need to finish up before I move on.”
“You sure about tonight?”
Huntley pocketed the singles strewn across the noisy bar as a new crowd nudged their way forward. No rest for the weary. “Yes. Only small doses of heat are allowed into my life at one time or my inner wild child will be scorched to death before she even sees the light of day.”
“Yeah, I get it.” Kaleigh’s eyes grew wide. “Hey, Hank told me something just before our shift that will definitely add sizzle to your night.”
“What? That he’s coming out clubbing with you?”
They both laughed. With his thick bifocal glasses and the thin ties he wore along with his suits, their ultra-conservative boss was as much out of place at the Warehouse as the biker down yonder. Hank was oblivious to most of the shadier stuff that went down, especially inside the Hall. Call it poor eyesight, whatever.
The Warehouse was a legitimate bar. The legal “face of the place.” But what went on inside the adjacent room, the Hall, was anything but. An underground fight club—the real reason why the Warehouse was always packed. Where all the action happened, shady or otherwise. Rife with ample money-making opportunities.
Hank’s lame decision to put a second bar inside the Hall was a death sentence to Huntley’s take-home pay. Once that second bell rang and the double doors were opened, the Warehouse grew quieter than a teardrop hitting the cement floor. The life was sucked straight out of the place, fighters and spectators alike crowding into the Hall. No one wanted to miss the action inside, despite the long lines. Many an unscheduled fight had erupted due to the wait.
Nope. Gullible Hank played at being a manager, when everyone knew his latest girlfriend was behind the scenes, managing him. The pub tables had been her idea, not that anyone—except the biker it seemed—actually sat at them. Bottle magnets, that’s all they were.
“You’re up for a promotion into the Hall.”
Huntley’s heart accelerated. “You sure?”
“Yep. He asked me if I thought you could handle it—the bartending, that is. I told him how you sacked Desmond last week for grabbing your boobs, which is why I’m surprised to see him hanging around tonight. Anyway, Hank was impressed a sweet Southern belle like you could be so cold-hearted. I can’t wait to see his face when you work your way into the cage.”
“He’ll have to wait. I’m not ready for that just yet.”
But bartending in the Hall? Her heart was pulling high kicks at the good news. Working in the Hall meant great tips, yeah, but even better, it was a place to observe her craft, firsthand. Study the techniques she was weakest at and really see this thing through. For as long as she could remember, Huntley hadn’t wanted anything as much as she wanted this. Heck, she’d been training her whole life for the opportunity. Aside from moving from Savannah to Reno, this was the first major decision she’d made whole-heartedly. Without being sidelined by her family. Or the past, recent and long-standing. Times were a-changing.
Jeez, she was so tempted to take Kaleigh up on her offer. Celebrate the terrific news. Grab hold of a better outlet for the adrenaline rush taking hold of her than the stack of notes on her final exam.
She wiped her hands on the bar towel. Was it asking too much to give logic a kick in the ass? Give in to a small taste of crazy, do something to soothe her itch and tide her over until next weekend, when life really began. For tonight, drinking was out of the question.
So what?
“You know, with a brain like yours, your fixation with getting your face smashed in is pathetic. Shouldn’t you be in a lab somewhere, discovering a cure for Alzheimer’s?”
“Eliminating carbon emissions, maybe. My masters was in chemical physics, not biological chemistry.”
Kaleigh raised an eyebrow. “That’s why we call you Witt, the clever one.” She helped Huntley with a few mixed drinks, before softly adding, “I know you’re tough but the Hall isn’t exactly tame. Things can go from stellar to downright dangerous in a snap. Are you up for this, Huntley?”
She couldn’t look at Kaleigh, didn’t want to show her how her words had hit an already pinched nerve. Her whole life she’d been underestimated. Judged by her classic good looks, her doe-colored eyes and rosy cheeks. Naturally social and good natured, people gravitated to her. She was the nice girl. The girl people—her father and brothers in particular—protected.
She ground her teeth together. There was a hell of a lot more to her than that. Even her family had missed discovering the woman she’d become.
“I think the biker needs a refill,” Huntley replied, catching sight of his empty glass.
Her friend sighed. “Tips well, which makes up for his rudeness. You know he hasn’t looked at me once? I flashed him an eyeful of skin, just for fun.” She ran a hand across her abs. “The brute didn’t even lift his head, just glared at his glass with this big ol’ scowl on his lips. See how the tables next to him are vacant? No one dares stand there, that’s what I think. His piss-poor attitude is what scares them away, even more than the size of him—which says a hell of a lot about this crowd.”
Her eyes shifted to the scruffy stranger. The word untamed sprang to mind. His dark, unruly hair needed a good cut, given the way it fell in his face. His shaggy beard ran the length of his jaw, across his chin, around tightly pressed lips, and down along the softer skin of his neck. Total chick repellant. But he wasn’t here looking for a woman, right? Anyone who was would have shaved his damned neck. This man didn’t give a rat’s ass about appearances. Heck, he’d even managed to get beneath Kaleigh’s skin.
Maybe that’s what kept drawing Huntley’s attention to him?
“I’ll tell you what,” Kaleigh said with a wicked smirk that could only mean trouble, “if you can tell me what color his eyes are, you’re off the hook for tonight.” Without missing a beat, she grabbed a fresh glass and, with a quick tilt of the tequila bottle, poured his drink. She set the glass on the bar in front of Huntley.
A prime opportunity, that’s what he was. Proof that she could handle him, and any of the fighters in the place. Proof she could handle wild. Plus, it’d be foolish to deny the mini adrenaline rush that had her pulse racing at the thought of what she was about to do.
“You’re on.”
Huntley straightened in her sandals, grabbed the biker’s drink, and resisted throwing her arms around Kaleigh. The cocky woman she was trying to be didn’t give hugs.
Squaring her shoulders, she headed around the bar, toward his spot in the shadows beneath the broken recessed light overhead. As she grew closer, she realized a few things at once.
He was not only big, but muscular, filling both the seat and the black leather jacket he wore, despite the warm May temperature outside. The soft leather sleeves hugged his muscles like a fitted glove. Nothing was more of a turn on than amply defined biceps, and she’d bet tonight’s tips his were the size of her thigh. The few other bikers she’d encountered in Reno had supple, rounded beer bellies—but not this one. His simple black T-shirt stretched over his taut abdomen perfectly, not a single roll of flesh evident, not even one caused by the way he sat, leaning back on the b
arstool with his legs spread out long before him.
No one maintained that kind of physical shape by being a barfly. She should know, with the hours she’d logged in at the gym.
His nose was crooked. Notched high up on the bone at the thinnest section on the bridge, a few inches below his eyes, interrupting an otherwise aquiline profile. Like a cool glass of water on a steamy day, she drank him in. The nose. Beard. Leather. And, as she drew closer...that scowl.
Anger radiated off him.
She hesitated. He was breathtaking, in a violent, all-male, scary kind of way.
Biting her lip, she put his drink down and pushed it forward. No way was she backing down. Get in for the punch, then back out quickly, her instincts told her. “It’s on the house,” she informed him.
He grunted, tossed a five on the table, and grabbed the glass, taking a long sip. Without saying thank you or acknowledging her at all.
With a shake of her head, she scooped up the tip and tucked it into her skinny-jeaned pocket. “Thanks,” she mumbled, giving herself a mental kick for turning away before making eye contact.
She’d barely taken five steps when two hands grabbed hold of her ass.
Relentless jerk. Happy Hands was about to learn the hard way why you never mess with a featherweight. For his sake, she hoped Reno Sporting Goods had a metal-plated cup to protect his jewels—that is, after she finished with him.
She heard a murmured curse from behind her. “Fuck.” Wood scratching along the concrete floor. Then, quicker than she could process what was happening, faster than Desmond’s groping hands, her bottom was liberated.
And Desmond was bellowing in pain.
Pivoting on her heels, she gasped, spotting Happy Hands sprawled on the floor, his mouth red and bloodied. Was that a broken tooth lying next to him?
Her gaze lifted to the biker towering over him, and then to his shaking hand, which he flexed, fisting and un-fisting it. He shifted abruptly and, without a word, without so much as a glance her way, stalked the few feet back to his table.
She opened her mouth to speak, to thank him for landing what seemed to be the perfect punch. But the chiming of the bell cut her off. One long ring this time, courtesy of Kaleigh.
All at once, the crowd began moving toward the double doorway connecting the Warehouse to the Hall. Things were about to get real quiet on this side. Desmond pulled himself up on unsteady feet. “You don’t have what it takes. A woman belongs in the kitchen. A woman like you, the bedroom.” He stopped, spit out another tooth, then froze as he looked behind her. “This is the last you’ll see of me, bitch.” He mercifully limped away.
A shame. What she’d give to bring his head down onto her raised knee, and knock out the last of his teeth.
You’ll be fighting soon enough, she promised herself. Once you find a new trainer.
Her gaze shifted back to the bruiser. She blinked.
His eyes were blue. A startling, stunning, rich shade of aquamarine, like the tide rolling into Tybee Island on a perfect summer day. The vibrant color drew her in, causing a very feminine tingle to wash over her skin. His striking baby blue irises were ringed by darker navy. His pupils—windows to the soul, right?—seemed to dilate beneath her regard. No doubt his soul was blacker than hell.
Everything about him was dark, except those eyes, which were now narrowed on her, pinning her in place. Beautiful eyes, surrounded by long, black lashes. But his glare—that was downright ugly. Her knees felt weak. Brought on by her early morning run, or him?
The air thinned around her. It took a second for her to speak. “How can I thank you? A drink on me?”
Seconds passed, until an uncomfortable silence filled the short space between them.
“A simple yes or no would do,” she prompted.
“I’m looking for someone,” he growled without preamble, his tone low and deep. “A fighter.”
For a second, her breath stuck in her throat. “Well, you’re in the right place.” She nodded toward the Hall. “But you’re in the wrong room.”
“That so?”
He sounded bored. Or tired? She tilted her head, and paused. Yeah, judging by the dark circles around his eyes, exhausted was more like it. He hid it well. Guess the undercurrent of savagery about him kept everyone from looking too closely. Or caring. Wouldn’t he rather have been home sleeping? Bad move, if he was trying to pick up a bout.
“You’ve probably been in a fight or two,” she murmured, frowning, unintentionally giving voice to her thoughts.
He grunted. “A few.”
“Like just now. One punch, right?”
“Barely. Like I said, I’m looking for a guy.” His eyes raked over her, slowly, starting at her feet and ending at her head. Making her think that maybe he was looking for a woman, as well as a fight.
Her pulse quickened. In that conflicted moment, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to be that woman or not. Talk about a wild night in Reno—this biker was wildness personified. Better to part company now. No ifs, ands, or buts about it, this man was trouble wrapped up in black leather. “I think you’d better head into the Hall. Once the bouts begins, it’ll be tough finding your guy.”
He reached for his drink, his eyes narrowing on the glass shaking in his hand before he flicked his wrist and threw back the tequila. The empty glass rang out on the wood tabletop as he set it down. Man-handled, then disregarded by this hard-ass—like everything else he touched. Oh yeah, this guy was dangerous. Alarming. Titillating. Exactly the type of guy she should avoid.
“Thanks,” he said in a deep throaty voice, turning away.
The surprising thank you felt like an axe kick, the kind you never saw coming. That’s what you get for judging a book by its cover, her conscience reminded her. Ironic, given how she’d been battling stereotypes her entire life. “Wait,” she cried out, suddenly wanting to help him. “What’s the fighter’s name? I know everyone...”
His body angled her way. She’d caught his interest. And wished that it had been sparked by something besides his trying to locate someone. Silly, wild thinking.
“Hunter.”
“Pardon?”
“The guy I’m looking for, his name is Hunter.” He flexed his fingers and looked away, clearly scratching her off the “in-the-know” checklist.
Unfortunately, she knew oh too well. What? “No it’s not. It’s Huntley.” She bit down hard on her lip, stopping herself from saying anything further. Not until she knew what he was about.
“Huntley. Jesus...that Numbnuts.” His lips curled under, and she heard him mutter beneath his breath, “Forget it. Not important.”
“What do you want with Huntley?” Bad enough she was always looking over her shoulder, waiting for some boogeyman to show up one day. Or was this Robert’s doing? Had he sent this broken-nosed bruiser after her to do his dirty work? Silent alarms sent her heart racing into overdrive.
“None of your business, Creampuff.” He stalked off in the direction of the Hall.
Dismissing her. Man oh man, how she detested that feeling. Nearly as much as she hated the one that came from being underestimated. Overlooked.
She tugged her damned sweater back onto her shoulder. Creampuff? Had she heard him correctly?
No matter how big or how buff the biker was, how he’d neatly taken care of Desmond, a swift kidney kick low on his side was bound to hurt.
A shame.
He’d moved away before she could properly introduce herself.
Chapter Two
His fucking babysitter had bailed.
Bracken Kelly folded his arms across his chest, leaned against the back wall of the Hall, and took in the two lame assholes rolling around inside the Octagon cage. This fuckfest couldn’t even be called grappling. More like a pair of boys fighting over a toy fire truck or a
G.I. Joe. Clear as day these two amateurs had never been in a real fight. Not the kind you either survived, or died trying to.
Another Friday night wasted at the Warehouse, a popular underground fight club located in an industrial park on a seedy side of Reno. The place was an actual warehouse split into two sections. The main area was mostly open space with a rectangular-shaped, fully licensed bar in the center of the room. Someone had even set up freakin’ pub tables, like those found in some trendy yuppy hangout. A lame ass, failed attempt to give the place an air of legitimacy, with the illegal, off-the-books organized fighting going on in the other room. The Hall.
But busting up an unsanctioned fight club was not why Bracken was here. He gazed around nonchalantly, feeling anything but relaxed. He noticed a fighter wearing a light pink wife-beater sporting the words “guillotine me” on it. Bracken shook his head. That wuss ass probably punched like a two-year-old, and had Huntley written all over him. But it wasn’t the fighter Bracken was tempted to strangle tonight, pussy pink T-shirt or not.
Where was that undependable Numbnuts? Or did Bracken have to do Stefan’s job as well?
It rubbed his nerves raw taking orders from a man who couldn’t bust himself out of a paper bag, let alone direct an assignment. His babysitter was Internal Affairs’ watchdog. A snitch. A kiss ass. Assigned to rat out Bracken for the slightest breach of protocol.
And when it came to bending the rules, Bracken was notorious.
So he went through the motions. Doing enough to make it seem like he was trying. Biding his time until the fog lifted from his exhausted brain and he could make sense of what had gone wrong back in Flagstaff. Like it or not, this case kept him out on the streets instead of locked up while the geniuses at headquarters finally figured out they had the wrong guy.
Numbnuts had found a sure way in. A fighter who’d run an ad in a local fitness flyer, someone searching for a trainer. Bracken would teach the guy how to punch, gain his trust, quickly earn some street credibility with the other fighters at the Hall. Get in fast and tight and get in position to make the biggest bust in Nevada history.
Out for the Count Page 2