by Missy Blue
The Tornado
by Missy Blue
Copyright © Missy Blue 2015
The right of Missy Blue to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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Dedication
To my readers… I hope The Tornado sweeps you off your feet.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Prologue
I BREATHED IN and out and tried to keep myself from punching the wall behind her head.
I didn't know what the hell I had done to deserve this woman tearing my world apart. I’d just risked everything—everything! All the training, all the blood, sweat and tears, it didn’t matter in the end. I had just given up a two mill purse, for Christ’s sake. For my little Nutcracker.
I didn’t regret a second of it.
I only regretted not saving her.
I stared down at her and she was leaning against the wall, hand on hip, her dark eyes somehow managing to blaze heat when their very color belied any warmth. Her cheeks were flushed and her lips were set in a thin, hard line. She was about five-feet nothing, but at that moment, she looked much taller, her anger and passion lending height to her small frame.
As I looked at her lips, her eyes dropped so I couldn't read her expression and she ran her tongue lightly over her bottom lip, then bit down. She moved her eyes back up to me, all that white heat suddenly gone and replaced suddenly by something else.
I swore I could hear a breathless sigh escape her lips as they parted ever so slightly. My fists clenched at my sides as my body responded to her. My breath was coming faster and I knew what it meant. I was no stranger to desire. Had felt it many times with her. The only thing that was foreign about it was the fact that I didn't feel in control at all.
Unlike the nights I’d spent with her, this time, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from taking her.
I felt like a snake about to come uncoiled. I could feel it swirling into the pit of my stomach. As if it was not a part of my body, my hand moved up of its own volition to smooth her hair back from her neck. I dipped my head down, letting my eyes slide closed and knowing as our lips met, I would ignite from the inside out and I would incinerate on the spot.
I imagined tasting her would be like warm sugar and vanilla, all sweetness and velvety softness. I imagined being with her in any way would be like sewing myself inside of a cocoon. Safe and suffocating, all at the same goddamn time. I knew this, because right then, it was getting harder and harder.
And all this began, when she was just a boy.
Chapter One
HIM
Three months before…
I WATCHED AS Loner hurried into my gym, went straight to the bag, and got to work. Like he always did.
He’s been coming to the gym for three months. Every single night. Without fail.
He was definitely shy. Never talked to no one. He always kept his head down, only focusing on the task at hand. And when he was through, he would wipe the bag down, pull off his wraps, and head out as quickly as he’d come in. Poor kid. Probably getting picked on at school.
Loner never talked to me. In fact, it felt like he went out of his way not to look in my direction. No one’s really sure what the kid's real name is either. We just refer to him as Loner. I didn’t keep strong tabs on our clients. Even with the super-influx of new business—thanks to my sudden and reluctant rise to fame—all the guys knew each other on some level or another.
It was getting a little weird now, and some of the guys weren’t liking the fact that this kid thought he was too good for them to talk with. Something needed to be done. It was time to break the ice.
I walked on over. “Hey, kid. Wanna spar with someone?” I asked. “It could help with—”
Loner dropped his head and turned his back on me, scampering away before I could even finish my damn sentence. I grunted. Think that was the first time someone had snubbed me.
I figured it really didn't matter if the kid wanted to talk or not, wanted to spar or not. He paid his thirty-five dollars every month without fail. But curiosity always got the best of me. I headed into my office, and went through all the applications.
I figured the kid had to be Jules Mucciarone. It was the only name I didn't recognize and one I couldn't immediately put a face to. Not that I'd been able to do that—to see the kid's face, anyway. The kid, Jules, always came dressed in a baggy hoodie with the sleeves cut off, over an oversized T-shirt with sleeves that went down to skinny elbows and baggy sweatpants. The large hoods on his sweatshirts were always pulled up, and there was always the brim of a baseball hat sticking out from under the hood, pulled down low over his face. So low, I didn't understand how he was able to do any bag work. How was it possible for the kid to work out in so many heavy layers? Fifteen minutes into my own workouts and I’m in gym shorts and nothing else.
Despite the kid's anti-social behavior, he was a little beast on the bags. He moved with accuracy, precision, and was lightning fast. I didn't have to be on the receiving end of those punches to know they were brutal. I noticed he had a certain rare grace to his movements too. For a skinny twig, Loner seemed to have some brute strength and skill. I wondered if he could be profitable in some way. I planned to ask the kid later if he’d ever contemplated real training and real competing for a real purse.
Heading into the office, I sat down and picked up the mail on the desk. They were mostly bills, but a large glossy envelope caught my eye, and despite the fact that it was addressed to Blaise Colton, I tore it open, pulling out a thick piece of glossy cardstock. Bradley Wilcox, the creator of Sparta, was hosting another tournament. It was an invitation to the middleweight MMA tourney, Ithaca.
My eyes dropped a little lower, taking in the details of the tournament. It was to be held in New York in three months. It was going to be a winner-take-all scenario—if you felt you had the stuff, the mettle, then it might just be for you. At the bottom of the flyer I stopped, my eyes settling on the most important detail of the entire event.
‘Two million dollar purse.’
“Fuck me,” I whispered, my eyes widening
. I eyed it over and over, pursing my lips as my brows drew together.
Since my first fight, I remained undefeated and earned good cash. I had endorsement deals thrown at me from every direction but I always turned them down. The guys called me fucking nuts for doing it. But I wasn't into all that shit. Didn’t want the fame. Didn’t want the glory. Didn’t fucking deserve the glory.
And every week some reporter was calling me up for an interview. I didn't even know where half these assholes got my number, but it’d gotten bad enough that I'd had to change my phone number twice. Interviews were simply out of the question. And if Marty White tried calling me one more time, I would hunt him down and cut his damn hands off, so he couldn’t no more. That was one reporter I’d be damn grateful for to see six-feet-under.
My eyes flicked over the purse again. If I won this, and I was confident I would, I could send Bethany enough to set her and the kids up for good. I could finally feel like I'd made good on my promise to Gable—God rest his soul. I swore I’d always keep my promise to him. I sighed, leaning back in the chair to slam a tack through the invite into the corkboard on the wall behind.
Always.
I pushed away from the desk and rolled my head around on my neck. I'd done the manager thing long enough for the day. Now, I was getting back into fighter mode. I wrapped my hands quickly and headed out of the office, flicking off the lights and shutting the door behind me. I waved off my sparring partner and headed for the bags in the corner, selecting my favorite one and setting to work. After about fifteen minutes I noticed movement out of the corner of my eye and saw a slim figure sidle up into the area of the bags.
Loner.
Probably took guts to come train near me. Guess he decided it wasn’t worth not training. Got more respect for the kid then. I could be a scary bastard when I wanted to be. I set to work on the bag and I could hear sharp exhales of breath on every strike as the kid started to pummel the bag. I watched for a moment before returning to my own bag.
Gotta remember to talk to that kid about competitions tonight, I thought, then began pounding away at my bag again.
When closing time came, I stood by the door, leaning against the frame with my hands in my pockets, waiting for Loner to finish up. The kid breezed past me with a pair of large white headphones over his hood.
"Hey, kid," I called. "Macaroni!" I said his last name wrong, but I didn’t have a clue how to pronounce it. Even so, he knew I was calling him. But Loner just kept right on walking, heading in the general direction of the train station. I shook my head.
Now that was fucking rude.
Chapter Two
Her
“JEWEL!”
Ruby’s voice floated from the kitchen, tucked away in the back of my family-owned Italian café.
"What up, doe?" I called over my shoulder, shoving the sleeves of my hooded sweatshirt up my forearms, and then glanced at my watch. “It's ten minutes before closing; no one else is coming in today."
"In a hurry?" Ruby asked, slightly sarcastic. "Off to the gym to see your sexy famous fighter boyfriend? Oh, wait. My bad, I forgot. He has no idea you exist because you've decided to become a transvestite."
Ruby was unfortunately, my best friend. She’d become our baker four months ago, just six months after my family and I had relocated to Pittsburgh from New York. Ruby was quirky and funny, with long natural-blonde hair and bright blue eyes. She was drop-dead-gorgeous and always had a smile on her face.
"Hey," I warned, pointing a finger at Ruby, moving away. "Mind your own business."
"I hope you can knock off this secretive shit soon," Ruby said after me. "You not being able to wear nail polish is truly disgusting."
"Pretty sure someone there might take issue with a guy who has painted nails," I called out. “Anyway, I need to get out quick because I need to train at the gym before my shift tonight at Trinity’s, and then up early to teach my ballet class at the YMCA.” I sighed. Balancing three jobs was hard. But I never complained. It would be worth it in the end. Each shift brought me closer to my dream of opening my own dance studio.
Haunted by the trauma of my past, I never forgot how close I’d come to losing my dream, and everything, last year. The horrific experience I’d been through had cost me any kind of professional dance career, but it couldn't completely ebb the passion I had for dance, not really, not ever.
"You should see this place, Ruby. Nothing but testosterone."
"Oh, I’ve fantasized plenty," Ruby replied with a wink. “What I wouldn’t give to go a few rounds with Asher ‘The Hunk’ Prince. Damn, that boy is something. Bet he’s got some smooth moves, if you know what I mean.” She winked at me again.
“Ruby!” I admonished, feeling my cheeks flush. “Is there something wrong with your eye? It keeps twitching.” Ruby just narrowed her eyes at me and I shook my head slightly. “Anyway, he’s really scary in person. Always seems to growl or grunt at everyone. Always seems really pissed off.”
"Which only serves my overall curiosity as to why you want to go there in the first place? I know we don't discuss the past, but I know enough by now to know that what you went through involved a man. Why put yourself through that?"
Memories flooded me instantly. Memories of terror and dark, fear and sweat, hands on my skin, pain radiating through my body. The broom I was holding clattered to the floor as anxiety threatened to overwhelm me.
Ruby rushed toward me, her face instantly apologetic. "Here, sit down," she murmured, guiding me to a chair. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that." She watched as I squeezed my eyes shut, inhaling deep breaths through my nose as my entire body tightened. "Do you have your meds?"
I gave a terse nod, wrapping my arms around myself. "In my bag."
Ruby immediately went to my messenger bag, hanging on the coat rack, and rifled through it, coming up with the medication bottle and popping the lid. She’d done this enough times to know exactly where in the bag I kept my meds, exactly how many to give me, and how much water I needed to drink. It was automatic now.
Ruby grabbed me a cup of water and brought it over, dropping two anti-anxiety pills into my outstretched palms. I washed them back with the water immediately.
"To answer your question," I began after a long pause, my voice steady but low, "I guess it's my own personal form of therapy. As long as no one pays me any mind, I can be around them and still do what I have to do. It helps me focus under pressure." I took another sip of water. "Besides, the guy that co-owns and manages it, is an MMA star. Even if I don't spar with him or even talk to him, I can still watch and study his movements. So essentially, I'm still learning from the best."
"And it doesn't hurt he's got a perfect, gorgeous face and a sizzling hot ‘come-and-eat-me’ body, I'm sure," Ruby added dryly. Even if someone wasn't an MMA fan, Asher ‘The Tornado’ Prince was a hometown celebrity for sure. Everyone knew what he looked like and how he'd risen to notoriety.
The honorable ex-Marine, who came out of nowhere like a tornado, and tore apart any competitor that dared to stand before him in the ring. He would turn any man in his wake into dust. And then there was all that drama in the media. Allegedly, he’d had an affair with a fallen comrade’s wife. A Marine who had apparently died saving Asher Prince’s life in combat. But I didn’t like to listen to gossip. And Ruby was right. He was the hottest man I’d ever laid my eyes on. The kind that made your body set on fire in an instant.
I finally allowed myself a tiny smile. "No," I conceded. "That doesn't hurt at all."
MAKING SURE MY long straight dark hair was still tucked under my Yankees cap, I peeked around the bag I’d been working on for the last hour. I glanced from under the brim of my baseball hat to watch the best at work in the ring.
Asher Prince was shaking out his hands, facing off against his sparring partner. They’d been fighting for an hour, at least. I watched as he lifted his fists into a guard position, almost casually, and focused intensely on his opponent.
I tilted my
head and watched his feet. He moved with incredibly quick, confident movements. He landed a kick, leaping past his doubled-over opponent. Then, with a quick shuffle of his feet, he switched his direction, casually yanking up a pant leg as he resumed his guard position. Watching him in his prime, my tummy fluttered at the buzz whipping through my body. I shook my head, my mouth opening slightly. Asher Prince was a beast, but there was something so lithe, so sure, almost graceful about his movements that made him so breathtaking to watch.
He was grinning at his partner, who had just landed a jab to Asher’s chin. It was clear Asher was enjoying the moment. It was nice to see his face lit up. He was normally so cantankerous and bad-tempered, without a smile in sight.
I had watched him fight and win the Sparta tournament, on the TV, and I recalled how he’d always looked so grim, the hatred practically radiating off him as he would charge his opponents, take them down, then burst out of the ring and stalk away from the arena in rage. Now, it was like night and day; he was smiling, laughing a little, and his handsome face looked peaceful and calm.
I’d never really looked him in the face before, not in person, although the opportunity presented itself every single time I left the gym after closing. He would always be standing by the door, toothpick in his mouth, hands in his pockets, waiting patiently for me to finish up. I would always keep my head down and brush right past him.
Last night, when I’d been wearing my headphones, I thought I’d heard him yell out my name, but I hadn't been about to blow my own cover. So I ignored him, sprinting to the train station in fear.
But the curiosity at what he, Asher ‘The Tornado’ Prince, would have to say to me, a nobody, was picking at me. Did he know my secret? Was he annoyed I stayed past closing, keeping him there too? Had I missed some hidden fee?
I studied Asher as he jumped out of the ring and headed toward the office. Taking in the symmetry of his face, his unbelievably full lips, his steely blue eyes, I stifled a hot shiver coursing through my body. I knew from seeing him on TV that he was a very good-looking guy. But here, seeing him in person, although not up close, I could tell that the camera hadn't done him any justice. He was a god.