Out for the Count

by Michele Mannon

  She flexed a leg, limbering up for a swift kick to the kidney, to end this ridiculous tirade. Why did he dislike her so much? It’s not like she hadn’t tried to be helpful earlier by offering to find his fighter, way before he let his true colors fly. Yeah, the joke was on her all right. And worse, he dared make a joke of her with that ridiculous nickname.

  She thought about Stefan’s words, about having to prove herself. Well, there was no time like the present, right? Drawing herself up to her full height, she waited until she had their undivided attention. Her eyes met the biker’s. “Follow me, handsome.” With a toss of her ponytail, she marched off toward the Hall.

  The other fighters had been riding her hard about sparring with them, never really taking her seriously. She didn’t want an opponent who’d pull his punches, as if they had the skills to whoop her ass, which they didn’t. Though she’d dismissed the bunch of them as potential trainers, they’d told her the cage was hers “anytime.” Well, nothing like the present to prove them wrong—and Handsome too, while she was at it.

  Stefan grumbled beneath his breath but both men followed. Surprising, given the bearded brute’s earlier impatience.

  As usual, the Hall was packed. Funny how the air inside smelled different than in the Warehouse, a bit more acidic, a tad pungent from testosterone-laced sweat, a lot more violent. There wasn’t much to the rectangular space itself; it was a large section of warehouse converted into a fight club. The bar she’d soon be working at was set up on a platform placed against the left wall. High enough for her to get a bird’s eye view of the Octagon cage situated in the center of the room. Behind that, on the opposite wall, Hank had set up a warm-up area, with mats, a boxing bag hanging from the rafters, weights and ropes. Off to the left was the obligatory emergency exit. But Huntley wasn’t going anywhere except over to the warm-up area across from the stairs leading into the cage.

  Stairs she hadn’t planned on climbing so soon.

  She didn’t want to do this. Her goal had been simple. Get promoted to bartend in the Hall, and then begin her new studies at what she’d privately dubbed “The School of Hard Knocks.” Analyze the bouts. The fighters. Just like studying for a physics exam, she’d observe the technical skills mixed martial arts fighters employed, evaluate what worked and what didn’t, and god willing, see a few decent punches that she might be able to simulate. Typically, each fighter had a specialty, a kick-ass move that they broke out on a regular basis. Though, to excel in this sport, you needed to mix things up. Chemistry in motion.

  It was foolish to count on a signature throw or kick because once your opponent had it pegged, you were done. Like anything in life, diversity was the name of the game when you had something to prove.

  A week ago, she’d registered for her first professional MMA fight, in Vegas next January. Female fighters from around the world were signing up for what was being billed as New Year’s Belles Brawl. Dumb name—clearly some lame male organizer was trying to be cute. But there’d be nothing cute about the bouts, which would be as brutally skillful as any male MMA fight. A purse for each weight class was being given out, two-hundred fifty thousand dollars. Nothing to complain about there.

  Nope. Her goal had been to bartend, soak it all in, improve her skill set before she set her mind on the cage. Not participate. Not genuinely fight. Not yet, anyway.

  She marched up to the bout coordinator, a guy who’d been trying to get her to spar with him since she took the job a few months back. “You sure?” he commented. Jeez, one more person doubting her ability. Nodding, she scooped up a mouth guard and some tape to wrap her fists, and without glancing at the two men who’d accompanied her into the Hall, headed around the Octagon cage to the warm-up area.

  She was tired of being underestimated.

  Time to set the record straight.

  * * *

  “You almost blew it,” Stefan murmured, rattling the metal cage of the Octagon ring with his fingers. Bracken fought hard not to mimic the action—instead of the cage, it’d be Stefan who garnered a good shaking. His partner had sure given in to his “little man” syndrome this year. The prick was outraged at him, after the stunt he’d just pulled?

  “She’s the ‘in’?” Bracken growled, his gaze unwillingly falling on Huntley, who was jogging in place over by the steps leading into the cage. Shit, she wasn’t even dressed appropriately, in a loose-fitted T-shirt notched high on her waist, showing off a healthy expanse of her taut abdomen. Girl’s Got Game was written in sequins across her chest. And her pale pink cargo pants had goddamn flowers on the pockets. Her clothing spoke volumes—she was about as intimidating as a blossom in a bullpen.

  “You met her. Everyone loves her. Trusts her.”

  “She’s got ammy written all over her.” His eyes narrowed as she bit down on her mouth guard and fit it into place. Amateur, all right. But at least she had some common sense.

  “Which makes her the perfect connection. She posted an ad for one-on-one training with a boxing expert. You’re the king of knock outs. She’s in tight with the guys. Big time. Probably got good and fucked by a few of them. You know how manageable a guy is after dipping his wick in some fine pussy. You’ll have some competition.”

  “I didn’t say I was going to train her.”

  “Train her, fuck her, whatever it takes to gain her trust, get inside quick.”

  “Man, you are a womanizing prick, you know that?” Jesus. What was Numbnuts proposing now?

  Stefan whistled. “A beautiful, wholesome, all-American girl like her...”

  “If she’s your type, man, why don’t you handle this assignment?” The minute Bracken said it, he regretted it. You bet Stefan wants to handle her.

  “Maybe I will. Tell you what, we’ll switch roles. You deal with Internal Affairs. You call the shots. I’ll get all the perks outta this. I’ll get my hands dirty, work things on the inside instead of you, be the stud who’s got to sweet talk the babe into bed. Just like I should have been doing with the Mayhem.”

  Bracken grunted. “Wake the hell up, man. You wouldn’t have lasted a week. The Mayhem would have a knife in your kidney the second you opened your trap.” Hell, was Numbnuts freakin’ clueless? Stefan had been Bracken’s only real-world connection for most of the time he’d been undercover. Had the asshole been out to lunch while Bracken had been cracking skulls with a crew of murderous, thieving bikers?

  Stefan bristled. “Well, shooting the MC president in the leg was a dumb-ass move. The guy turning up dead afterward...can you blame I.A. for investigating you?”

  “I didn’t kill him.”

  His partner fucking smirked. Man the little fucker loved toying with him.

  Instead of reacting and giving Stefan what he wanted, along with a mouth full of teeth, Bracken ignored him. His attention turned toward Huntley, his gaze tracking her as she entered the cage.

  Train her? God knew, his sparring mates could barely take his punches, even when he pulled them. And that was before his fists had become weapons, before he’d had to battle his way through a brutal Mayhem initiation.

  “Instead of N.V.P.D. on your badge, they should have put C.U.B.O. Get it? Conduct Unbecoming an Officer.”

  “I know what it means, Numbnuts. Better that then what they’d put on yours—H.U.A. Head Up Ass. Don’t think I missed how far yours is up the chief’s.

  “If it wasn’t for me agreeing to work this case with you...” The tiny vein in Stefan’s forehead pulsed. “You deserve what’s coming to you.” His partner’s focus shifted back to the cage and he fell quiet for a few blessed seconds. “She’s something,” he added, a note of raw lust in his tone. For whatever reason, the thought of Huntley getting manhandled by this prick pissed Bracken off.

  Fuckin’ A. “Let’s see if this Playboy bunny knows what she’s doing.”

  Bracken studied the way Huntley wa
rmed up her shoulders, arching her breasts forward with each roll while jogging in place. Moves he was all too familiar with, though coming from her, they were an entirely new experience. “Jesus,” he muttered and rubbed his jaw. Love tap or no love tap, the woman had a better upper cut than many guys he’d fought. She needed to throw her whole body into that punch for it to count. Use her weight and momentum to her advantage. That would have made him sit up and take notice. Although with some training... Damn it.

  “Go tell her corner she has to warm up her knuckles. Wrapping them helps but they’ve got to be loose. Limber like her shoulders.”

  Stefan smirked. “I knew you couldn’t resist her once you got a load of her.”

  “She’s gonna get hurt.” Teasing Huntley was one thing, watching someone put a hurting on her was an entirely different matter. Women, ammies, professional fighters, he wasn’t into spilling blood. Fuck, he’d learned early on to control his power, just like he’d learned how to take a mean punch. The problem was, even half-cocked, his opponents got a sound beating.

  “Now, you need to make nice with Huntley. Show her your sweet side by giving her a sweet ride.”

  “You gonna stand there spouting bullshit? Time’s wasting. The referee is about to climb into the cage. Do it, man.”

  “Shit. You better fuck her good and hard so she’s either too tired or too sexed up to notice what a tyrant you are. But something tells me you won’t mind doing the deed. Not at all.”

  Bracken flexed his fingers, wanting to wipe the smirk off his partner’s face. The man had serious issues which probably stemmed from his mother. Or father. Yeah, you couldn’t dismiss how a father’s love—fist-kisses, whippings, you name it—might leave a man scarred for life. Yet the reality was, as much as he hesitated, Stefan’s plan was the only one in town. Bracken was too late, too damned tired to stop the wheels that had been set in motion. “Let’s see what she’s got, first.”

  As Stefan headed for her corner, Bracken gave the crowd a once-over. Every guy in the room was focused on the way her tight ass flexed in those pink pants while doing her lunges. Goddamn hard-on central, Bracken’s cock being the hardest of all. The only guy whose radar was not zoomed in on Huntley was her opponent.

  A freakin’ male fighter, but considering the few women in the Hall, that wasn’t a surprise. The guy—another amateur judging by the way he moved, all cocky and shit—had a few inches on her in height. Weight, though, was a bigger concern. No one was paying attention to the fact that a male featherweight weighed significantly more than a female featherweight. Her opponent likely had a good fifteen to twenty pounds on her.

  His eyes narrowed back toward the center of the cage. Sweet Jesus. Limbering up took on an entirely different meaning, the way she was bent forward, hands on ankles and ass in the air. It was like she was waving a pink flag at a group of blood-hungry bulls. She’d give an over-the-top stripper a run for the money.

  What Bracken had in mind for her was quieter. Low-key. Something that wouldn’t draw attention. She straightened and rolled her shoulders, unaware of the stir she was causing in the Hall. Low-key was right, a mixture of business and pleasure.

  Huntley had some muscle on her, sweet, taut mounds that weren’t bulky or overblown. It helped. Let’s hope she has some skills to show them off.

  Her cornerman headed out to the center of the mat, pointed to her wrappings and nodded in Bracken’s direction. Her spine stiffened, briefly, before she unwound the gauze enough to flex her fingers and warm them up.

  Bracken noted how Huntley took direction well, one major hurdle already crossed if he agreed to train her. Her head swung his way, and a second later, she stalked across the cage.

  “How’s this for limbering my fingers?” she yelled down at him. She shot him a stiff-fingered bird, then with a toss of her ponytail, she marched back to her corner.

  Unappreciative minx. Hell, if they were going to do this, she’d better learn quickly who was boss.

  “You sure have a way with the ladies,” Stefan joked, pushing his way beside him. Bracken arched an eyebrow, and his partner nodded with a sly smirk on his lips.

  A lack of sex had him on edge, and the little busybodied fucker knew it.

  A year with the Mayhem had taken its toll. Fucked him up rather than got him fucked. Growing the beard had helped keep the Mayhem groupies at bay. The few who’d tried soon high-tailed it away after he issued a few well-executed insults. What was it with women, and their wanting a bad boy between their thighs? Fucking a club regular wasn’t in his job description.

  Yeah, like what Stefan was proposing was?

  Bracken had pissed too many higher ups off. Taken too many risks, all which had paid off.

  Except for that last one.

  Guess his rogue cop reputation had come back to bite him.

  Two years ago, I.A. had a freakin’ field day after his brother Caden had been taken in for possession of performance enhancing drugs. Bracken had swiftly shifted the blame onto himself but not without repercussions. Why had he broken freakin’ protocol? Who did he think he was, taking matters into his own hands? But Caden’s mess was manageable. This investigation into Flagstaff cut deep. This shit was real.

  They thought he’d turned bad, that he’d somehow flubbed the bust just as he’d been about to close the deal. That he’d lined his pockets while the drugs hit the streets. Their suspicions were fed by some far-fucking-fetched rumor, started by god knows who. Supported by a chief with a hard-on for him, with no evidence whatsoever except for speculation. Typical how those pencil pushers couldn’t see beyond the obvious. Too caught up in trying to connect the dots on their goddamned paperwork. Wasting time on nonexistent link between the fuck up in Flagstaff and Bracken. Guess him telling them to fuck off on numerous occasions after the Caden debacle had come back full circle.

  Bracken wasn’t about to be their fall guy. The poster boy for what happens when a cop turns bad. Prosecution. Jailtime. Disrespected and dishonored. Bracken was going to beat them to it. Figure out what he’d missed. Find the piece of the puzzle he’d overlooked, what the catalyst had been for it all going to hell.

  His time with the Mayhem had to count for something other than screwing up his life, his career, his goddamned psyche. A matter of pride? Self-respect? Arrogance? You bet. One way or another, Bracken always finished what he’d started. No matter the cost.

  His gaze shifted to Huntley. Yeah, she’d be perfect for a private one-on-one assignment. But as far as being his inside connection, that wasn’t going to work out. A female fighter. One that looked like she belonged on a farm, with the sun on her sweet cheeks, a straw hanging out between her plush lips, that tight body of hers sporting a pair of Daisy Dukes... Shit. No can do. Huntley was absolutely the wrong ride in. This assignment kept him on the street, far away from desk duty. He couldn’t afford to blow it.

  “I’m gonna have to pass.” He nudged his chin at the all-male crowd. “Why don’t you hook me up with one of these assholes instead?”

  “Open your eyes, man. The men are nuts about her—who wouldn’t be, with a face like that? And she needs a coach. Pronto. Says she’s aiming at fighting in Vegas in January at the women’s event—New Year’s Belles Brawl. Nice purse, too.”

  He snorted. One thing about Stefan, the man loved making money. Shame he’d tied himself to a cop’s salary. “Ambitious start,” he added, wondering how she’d make it given the female talent out there.

  A waste of a pretty face. Too sweet. Too naïve to make it in this brutal sport. A woman as hot as Huntley’d probably tap out after the first hit.

  Her opponent, shirtless and dressed in loose plaid boxing shorts, waved at the crowd and fist pumped the air, like he was headed down the red carpet and into a party. Midway to his corner, he paused. He made a V with his fingers, and stuck his tongue in between them and wiggled it. With his free
hand, he motioned Huntley closer. The moron clearly didn’t consider her a worthy match up. For a second, Bracken considered jumping into the ring and jamming Preppy’s tongue down his throat.

  Man. She had no business being in there.

  Except, Huntley beamed back at the guy, as if he’d just brought her freakin’ chocolate truffles.

  “See what I mean? They fucking love her.”

  Yeah, he’d seen enough. “I can’t teach boxing 101 to a woman. You can tell your puppet masters back at headquarters to keep digging. Maybe they’ll finally pull their heads out of their asses, along with yours. I’m out of here.”

  As he turned to leave, a bullhorn sounded, signaling the bout was beginning. The crowd thickened around them, shouting and jeering like they were cheering on their favorite babe in a wet T-shirt contest. Not an Octagon cage, not an arena where someone could get hurt. Not where Huntley was about to get her pretty face bashed in.

  Yet, instead of fighting his way out of the Hall, Bracken found himself fighting himself not to leave. Like a pedestrian stopping by to witness a car wreck in progress. Damn. Exhaling a long breath, he turned to watch, drawn to her along with the rest of the crowd.

  Huntley lightly jogged forward and closed the distance between them, unfazed by Preppy’s what’s-up-babe approach as he sauntered into the center. He eyeballed the crowd, then shot out his fist, a fast strike. It missed her chin by inches.

  Shit. Did he really want to watch this?

  Huntley...smirked.

  The smile on Preppy’s face fell.

  Bracken rubbed his beard, and studied her more closely. Light on her feet. Strong jabs and hooks, which she now directed at the air more so than at her opponent. Decent upper body work. None of it mattered, though, if she couldn’t pack a punch.

  Preppy had started moving, dancing on his feet. A little too late in the game to limber up. He was watching Huntley’s arm work as well. Noticing the precision in her movements. Understanding she had some clue as to what went on in a fight.