Out for the Count

by Michele Mannon

  * * *

  How hard could patrolling a storage unit have been? Fire? Vandals? Bug infestation? Whatever had happened during Bracken’s absence had exhausted him. The interior light shining down inside his pickup had given her a clearer glimpse of the dark circles around his eyes.

  “It’s not like the sun won’t rise tomorrow. Why don’t we call it a morning and you get some sleep?” she’d asked.

  “I’m good,” was his response. Yet he’d grown quiet. Twenty minutes later, as he shifted into park, her pulse quickened with astonished delight.

  From the pickup’s perch high up in the Sierra Nevada mountains, mile upon mile of darkness spread out across part of the valley below. As if a blackened blanket had been pulled over the harsh desert terrain, concealing itself from the spectacle of colorful twinkling lights. Past the blanket’s edge was Reno’s nightscape, painting a rainbow of color across the desert. Breathtaking. A foreign beauty so different from her carefully manicured hometown. Darkness versus dancing light, with the latter winning out.

  Who would have expected a biker to have such an eye for beauty?

  Turning both the engine and lights off, Bracken sat quietly next to her, deep in thought. The silence that had accompanied them as the car had steadfastly climbed into the mountains lingered. Yet no words were necessary—the landscape below captured the rush of feelings coursing through her. The darkness caused by worry and stress vanishing under an overwhelming display of light, the hope that she was finally on track. That the quiet man next to her would teach her the skills to win.

  Without a word, she opened her door and clambered out, wanting to feel the fresh morning air on her face. Carefully making her way forward over rocky terrain, she perched on a flattened boulder, pulled her legs in tight and rested her chin against them.

  A refreshing chill filled the air. Even in mid-June, the mountains tended to be cool.

  She sat that way for a long while, the quietness washing over her, hope alight inside of her. A car door closed, and then she heard the crunch of pebbles beneath Bracken’s boots. Through the stark darkness, she could make out his high cheekbones, the crooked nose that bisected what she realized was a perfectly symmetrical face. So manly. So perfect. So hidden beneath his rough whiskers. What else was concealed by his rough exterior? She caught the narrowing of his eyes. If light was symbolic of her night at this moment, he was darkness, like the blackened desert below.

  A shudder of awareness ran up her spine.

  “Cold?” He didn’t wait for her response but removed his leather jacket and tossed it to her. A Southern gentleman would have gently placed it around my shoulders. Still, she’d take a considerate biker over a big, scowling brute any day.

  Bracken settled himself on a rock across from her, stretching out his long legs and with his hands behind him, leaned back to peer up at the night sky.

  Funny, she’d been so focused on what lay below, she hadn’t paid much attention to the clear night overhead.

  “What made a Creampuff like you take up MMA?”

  She bristled at his nickname, hearing the sarcasm in his voice each time he used it. “What made you take up a life of crime?” she countered. “That’s what bikers do, right? Pillage and plunder, and wreak havoc on the unsuspecting.”

  He snorted. “I was born to be bad. Your turn. Answer my question. I need to know I’m dealing with more here than a pretty face.”

  It was her turn to snort. “Come on over and let this pretty face show you exactly who you’re dealing with, handsome.” How many knocks to his thick skull did it take to prove herself?

  She heard him chuckle, a low rumbling sound. “Got balls, that’s a start.”

  Scanning the horizon, she thought about that. Her training and sparring, her learning how to give as good as she got. She didn’t consider herself ballsy. Survivor was a more fitting label—one who’d learned how to protect herself.

  One who’d been struggling to help her family. One who’d do just about anything to help them, including making friends with this rough, hard-ass biker.

  “Back in Savannah, my brothers insisted I take self-defense classes. So I took it one step further and enrolled in an MMA club. I fell in love with the sport. The brains behind the techniques, the skill needed to pull off a maneuver. I came to Nevada to...well...why I really came here was to fight in New Year’s Belles Brawl. Prove something to myself, that all these years of training meant something. You’ll find that I’m a terrific student. Don’t go easy on me—I plan on winning.” She paused to inhale a fresh breath. “I have to win. And whatever it takes to do so, I’m in.”

  She could feel his gaze piercing her through the darkness. “Whatever, huh?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Why?”

  The air seemed cooler, a chill grabbing hold of her bones. Adjusting his jacket on her shoulders, she bit her lip. Her family drama was her business.

  Bracken shifted on his rock but didn’t say anything; she had the impression he was waiting on her answer.

  “Do you have any regrets? You know, like the life you’ve lived wasn’t the life you’d imagined for yourself? Like you’ve been sailing about at half mast, waiting to catch a bit of wind to set you on the right course?” Heaven have mercy. Where had that come from? The fresh air, the serene scenery, had gone to her head. Getting all philosophical on Bracken would probably have a player like him high-tailing back to Reno in no time.

  “Yeah. Pretty much sums it up.”

  She angled her head his way, trying to make out his features in the dark, but it seemed the one cloud in an otherwise clear night decided to mute out the moonlight. Still, there was much more to the man obscured beneath that beard. A depth to him, hidden within that tough-ass exterior. Was it pain that he tried hard to keep in check? Did he have a skeleton or two in his own dark closet?

  Of course he does—he’s a biker. A fighter. You don’t wake up one day and decide to live that kind of lifestyle. He’d probably has a walk-in closet full of skeletons.

  “You ready to get busy?” he asked, unwinding his big body off the rock.

  She should run. Forget about this arrangement. Go with her instincts and keep some sense of self-preservation. Still, his pain drew her in. Maybe it was because she was accustomed to taking care of the men in her life that she felt this unreasonable urge to comfort him?

  Fool. His idea of comfort was likely a back alley fist fight. Guess in a twisted way, sparring with him would be like comforting him.

  Jeez, she didn’t even like him, right? She shook her wayward thoughts off and focused on her main objective, lesson one in perfecting a punch.

  After all, there was time. Time to learn. Time to train. Time to get to the bottom of the man who dressed in leather, acted like an uncaring ass and who, like her, had a few secrets he was holding close to his chest.

  Chapter Eight

  “Give me your best shot,” Bracken ordered.

  “As much as I’d like to, I can barely see you.”

  His lips twitched at her surly tone. Feisty as well as beautiful. Intelligent and sweet. Not a brutal bone in her tight, fit body. Which was probably why he enjoyed getting a rise out of her, pushing her buttons and testing what she was made of. Hell, he’d been put through the same test early on in life. Better to have learned then how to survive life’s sucker punches than years later. He’d be dead by now.

  And if he didn’t prepare Huntley for any unwarranted surprises, she could end up dead herself.

  He shifted, drawing himself deeper into the shadows of the evergreens surrounding the empty field he’d taken her to. The flat earth beneath them was clear of rocks and other hazards. All Huntley had to worry about was him.

  A swooshing sound followed by her exasperated sigh broke the silence. “Close,” she murmured.

 
“Close doesn’t count.” From the way he positioned them, he had the advantage, the moonlight casting her in soft shadows and providing him with enough light to catch her scowl.

  “Maybe if I understood the purpose of this activity...”

  “It’s all about instincts. You want to win, you’ve got to anticipate you opponent’s moves.”

  “Jeez, it’s not like I’ll be fighting them in a cave. Have you seen the way an Octagon cage is set up? Lights galore. Maybe it’d be more beneficial to train underneath several spotlights, so every time a light blinds me...”

  “Look, it’s almost sunrise. I’ll drop you home so you can catch up on your beauty rest and you can call that moron Jeffrey and see if he’ll take you back. My guess is he would, judging by the way you were locking lips.”

  He didn’t budge as her fist connected with his cheek. “Jealous, handsome?”

  Shit. Why’d he go and bring up that asshole? He should let her land a few more punches, and knock some sense back into his addled brain. “Your punches are like kisses, Creampuff. Put a little heart into the next one,” he taunted, directing the conversation back to a more comfortable topic—for him, anyway.

  Her fist sailed by, harder and closer this time.

  “Instincts. It’s one thing to be skilled, disciplined, fight intelligently. But without good instincts...” You might get killed.

  Her leg connected with his side. “Keep talking.”

  He laughed, the sound as genuine as it was foreign. “That’s the spirit.”

  That kick was the only one to land, as he easily sidestepped her foot. She wasn’t bad, though he didn’t voice his thoughts. He found himself enjoying her, how her eyes narrowed in concentration, how she cursed underneath her breath with every missed landing, how she didn’t give up. How she didn’t seem winded despite her efforts, her strong lungs proof she’d been preparing and took this seriously.

  “Graah,” she growled, her fist coming at him in an uppercut. He’d been expecting it. Her reach was short so for it to be effective, she had to get in close. Without pulling his head away, he took the hit.

  The morning light now gave him an unveiled view of her face, and for a second, it felt like she’d punched him hard in the gut. Her expression took on an absolute look of pleasure. Eyes sparkling, a shit-eating grin spread wide on her lips, a jaunty cock of her head. Goddamn, if he’d known how pleased the bloodthirsty minx would be, he’d have let her kick his ass hours ago.

  Bet you can make her grin broaden.

  “Gotcha,” she said jauntily, flexing her fingers. “That square chin of yours is like a beacon in the night. Hard to miss. A shame your whiskers cushion my blows.”

  Shit. He couldn’t afford to like her.

  “Let’s go,” he commanded. Without waiting for her response, he turned and stalked down the path leading to his truck, quickly putting some distance between them.

  But he’d caught a glimpse of her face. His abrupt change in manner had wiped the smile from her lips. He’d hurt her.

  Better she learn now that he meant business. Nothing but business.

  He couldn’t have it any other way.

  * * *

  It was Friday night, and the Warehouse was packed, full of new blood mingling with the old crop of fighters she’d grown to know. The old gang were nice guys, in general. Construction workers, hardcore physical laborers and a few stray business types. Working tough day jobs and picking up bouts, mostly on Wednesday through Sunday nights. Blue-collared men who liked to fight and drink. Not always the best of tippers, not like the new cast of characters that filled the Warehouse tonight.

  Hank must have posted a billboard, or something, to have drawn in such a huge new crowd of fighters and spectators.

  She tucked a ten dollar bill in her pocket, a present from a silent blond giant of a man. Yep, tonight was a prime money-making opportunity. She depended on it because she’d sacrificed her lucrative Wednesday shifts for less than stellar Mondays to train afterward, the crowd thinning out quickly earlier in the work week. Kaleigh had left for Tampa, had called Huntley earlier from the airport to say goodbye. On a happier note, at least Kaleigh had distanced herself from that scumball player Stefan.

  Not that it fazed the jerk in the least. Earlier, he’d snuck up on Huntley as she’d been wiping down a pub table. Patted her on her ass as he said hello, then had the balls to squeeze a cheek. What was it with men copping a feel of her bottom? She’d given Stefan a swift goodbye, issuing the same aim-for-the-balls treatment Desmond had received. In return, she’d gained his animosity—which come to think of it, she’d had already had on a less in-your-face level.

  Her eyes drifted to the double doors. It’d been Bracken’s idea to use the cage and workout equipment in the Hall for their training sessions.

  “Choose your sparring partners wisely,” Bracken had instructed after the discussion they’d had about location. He’d dropped her off at home, issuing commands about how she was to continue with calisthenics, increase her endurance time, and whatnot. Ordering her about like a sergeant general, so much so she was hoping the sullen biker would show back up and take his place. As she was about to close the truck’s door, he’d added, “Then I’ll chat with them, give them a bit of a shakedown and decide who fits our needs best.”

  When she’d protested—his overly domineering ways were rubbing her raw—he’d pinned her with his gaze and stated, “I’m calling the shots. Remember that.”

  Yeah, we’ll see about that.

  She scanned the Warehouse once more. I have new blood to choose from. She patted the bulge in the pocket of her mini skirt. If tips like this came her way the next few Friday nights, she’d make it even with her lame Monday schedule.

  “Good night, huh?” Hank came up to the bar as she cleared off the empty bottles.

  “Better in the Hall,” she replied in a neutral voice, wanting to let him know the move he’d pulled and his false promises still resonated, without pissing him off enough to fire her.

  He pulled a funny face. Mission accomplished. She poured a draft from the tap, her version of a peace offering. Or more like job security. Losing her job bartending in the Warehouse because of a grudge would be catastrophic.

  “Some guy was in here looking for you.”

  Huntley froze, the pint wobbling on the bar as she set it down too quickly in front of him. “What did he want?” she asked. Tiny goosebumps spread across her skin.

  Hank took a long sip before responding, “Asked a bunch of questions about the Warehouse.”

  She sighed, feeling slightly relieved. “Then how did you know he was looking for me?”

  His pint half raised, Hank paused to scowl. “I’ve been around a lot of crooks in my lifetime. He wasn’t interested in the Warehouse. It’s you he wanted. He didn’t use your name, but described you perfectly. Funny accent, too.” His eyes narrowed. “Keep your trouble out of my business. Got it?” He turned to leave, then shouted over his shoulder, “Now ring the bell.”

  Her feet refused to cooperate. She wanted to call out to him, ask him if the accent was Southern. It couldn’t be Robert, right?

  Swallowing hard, she grabbed hold of the chain, her grip tight. The small links bit into her palm. After three calming breaths, she yanked it hard.

  Sweet ringing filled the Warehouse and, like magic, the crowd hushed. The familiar rush of excitement was overshadowed by unwanted memories. She picked up the bar rag and with firm strokes, ran it back across the wood, back and forth like she was trying to erase what had happened.

  Her break up with Robert was like a nasty parasite embedded inside her, churning around and growing darker and more toxic as the memory of those events played out in her head.

  Her staring down at the object he slid across the restaurant table. A ring? A diamond engagement ring? Holy hel
l. They’d been dating for three months. In that time, they’d had sex twice, and let’s face it, she’d had a much better time clipping her toenails. No, she wanted a generous lover, not someone so selfish. So quick to get in and get off. Himself off, that is. She’d only agreed to meet him for dinner at the Savannah Country Club in order to break up with the jerk.

  “I’ll take your silence as a yes,” he stated, overconfidently.

  She smiled half-heartedly, thinking of the best way to break the news to Robert gently. “My father and brothers—”

  “Forget them. Think for yourself, Huntley,” he interrupted sharply. Yeah, his attitude had only reinforced her decision.

  “What I was about to tell you was that my Pop and brothers started packing up my mama’s things. For years, Pop wouldn’t let us touch the closet where he’d stored most of them. You know what they found while going through my mama’s stuff?”

  A deep V had formed on Robert’s forehead, like he was upset she hadn’t answered him directly yet. “What?” he asked.

  “Letters.”

  “What letters?” he demanded.

  First he pushed a ring on her, then he used that tone? Breaking up with him was getting easier by the second. “Love letters. From when my Pop was courting my mama.” She picked up the ring, reached across the table and set it down in front of him. “The answer is no. I’m sorry. I want the kind of love my parents felt for each other. A love so deep that it’s taken my Pop years to deal with losing her. He’ll love her forever, regardless of who he might date or maybe even remarry in the future. That’s what I’m holding out for. That’s what I’m looking for in partner. Robert, you’re not that person.” She’d said it softly, careful of his feelings.

  “What else did they find?”

  “Drawings. Papers. They’re not done yet.” Was he in denial, pretending she hadn’t just broken up with him? “Did you hear what I said?”

  Abruptly, he stood up, his chair wobbling precariously on its legs from the force of him pushing it back. His body seemed to quiver in anger, so much so that her breath caught in her throat. “You. Fucking. Bitch,” he spat, then to her disbelief, turned and stormed out of the room.