“He hasn’t been right since . . . ever. What the fuck are you talking about?”
Regan chuckled, shoving his mouth guard into place and shaking his head as they made their way toward the cage. As was their ritual, they stopped outside the steps and knocked gloves before entering.
Wham! Regan nailed Kyle with an uppercut to the side, pulling his punch at the last second, but still hitting him hard enough to send the guy back a couple of steps. Kyle quickly recovered and countered with a roundhouse kick that would have caught him in the jaw if he hadn’t been expecting it.
Back and forth they exchanged blows—attack, block, counter—then started all over again. A fine sheen of sweat began to coat Regan’s body, his muscles burning with the familiar sting of lactic acid. This was the one place where he could shut it all off, where his problems seemed to disappear. In the cage, nothing else mattered but his next breath, his next strike, his next submission. In the cage, he was just a fighter—nothing more and nothing less—not the son of an abusive drunk, not the abandoned child of a mother who never loved him enough to save him, not a traitorous friend fucking his best friend’s little sister.
Regan sidestepped Kyle’s superman punch and shot in for the takedown, sweeping his leg. They both hit the mat, and Kyle threw an elbow, clipping Regan in the jaw. He knew he’d have to eat one to get Kyle’s arm across his chest. He shot past his guard, grabbing Kyle’s wrist and trapping his arm across his throat. He bucked to displace Regan, but he had his hooks in. Leveraging up on Kyle’s arm, he felt the succinct tap on his leg and immediately released him. Rolling to his feet, Regan held out his hand and offered to help his partner up from the mat.
A slow clap echoed through the gym, drawing their gazes toward a man sauntering in—Dean White. Regan hadn’t realized they’d had an audience. How long had he been standing there? Regan spit out his mouth guard and hoisted Kyle to his feet.
“Beautiful submission,” he complimented Regan as he approached. “Well done. And Scott, your stand-up is some of the best I’ve ever seen. Watching you two spar is like watching a choreographed fight. It’s like you know what the other is going to do before he even moves. You’re both so fluid. In all my years, I’ve never seen two fighters flow like that. How long have you been sparring partners?”
“Ten years,” Regan answered, swiping his towel off the mat and scrubbing his face.
“And who usually wins?”
Most fighters would be thrilled to grab the notice of the CFA president, but Regan had an unsettling feeling he wasn’t going to like where Dean was going with this. It wasn’t out of curiosity he was asking these questions.
“It’s fifty-fifty.”
Dean nodded as if that was the answer he was expecting to hear.
“Well, carry on, then,” he said, giving them both a wave as he passed by.
Regan responded with a chin-lift, watching the guy as he returned to his office.
“You got a problem with Dean?” Kyle asked, coming up to stand beside him, hooking his fingers through the cage.
Regan cut him a quick glance. “Nah, it’s just strange, not having Coach here running things, you know?”
“Yeah, I know. Change isn’t easy for you.”
Turning his head, Regan pinned his friend with a scowl. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Kyle shrugged. “It means you don’t like change. That’s all. Not sayin’ there’s anything wrong with it. You’re loyal to a fault, but you don’t let many people in.”
“Okay, Dear Abby, when the fuck did you grow a vagina?”
“Shut up. You’re just pissed because I know you.”
Regan snorted in disgust. “What do you know?”
“I know you’re not as cool about this thing with your pops as you want everyone to believe. I know it’s eating at you like a goddamn cancer, but you won’t talk to me about it.”
“What’s there to talk about? He’s going to die. He’s treated me like shit my entire life, and suddenly I’m supposed to care he’s got one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel? You think there’s something wrong with me because I’m not choked up about it? That I’m a horrible person, is that it?”
Kyle studied him with eyes that were seeing a hell of a lot more than Regan wanted him to. “I never said that. You’re a stand-up guy, Regan. You always have been.”
Ah, fuck me. How much longer could he keep up this lie? “Yeah, well, maybe you don’t know me as well as you think you do,” he grumbled. Frustrated, he drove his fist into the cage. The rattle of metal rang out through the gym as he turned away and headed toward the showers.
Chapter 21
Where do you think you’re going?”
Willow shot a scowl at her brother in the reflection of the mirror as she painted her lips with gloss. Returning to her task, she rubbed them together, then used her thumb to wipe off the excess. “Where do you think I’m going?” she asked, grabbing her hairspray and spritzing her up-do. “I’m getting ready for Nikko’s pre-fight press party.”
Kyle exhaled an exasperated sigh and crossed his arms over his chest. “I thought we’d already been through this. You’re not going. These CFA parties can get too out of hand.”
Willow turned around and stepped up to her brother, who was blocking her exit from the bathroom. “Well, then, I guess it’s a good thing I’m twenty-one now and don’t need your permission.” Rising to her tiptoes, she gave him a smug grin and pressed a glossy kiss to his cheek to soothe the sting of her words. “Don’t worry. I promise I won’t cock-block ya,” she teased as she slipped past him, trying to lighten his surly mood.
“It’s not me I’m worried about, Willow,” he said, following her down the hall to the kitchen. “This is a high-profile fight with lots of press coverage. There are going to be several camps there and a lot of different fighters we don’t know.”
“First, I can take care of myself, Kyle. You and Regan made sure of that a long time ago. Second, you’re wasting your breath because I’m going to this party—not only to support Nikko, but because it’s going to be a blast. Third, go get dressed before you make us late. Regan just pulled up.”
Regan walked through the door and his feet ground to a halt. Holy fucking shit. His gaze quickly darted from Willow to the floor, but the image of her was already seared into his retinas. She looked heart-stopping in that navy-blue halter dress. It was one of those scarfy numbers with the deep cleavage, like Marilyn Monroe used to wear—and those silver strappy heels . . . He was getting hard just imagining her in those and nothing else. With that four-inch height advantage, he could bend her over his kitchen table and fu—
“I’ll be ready in a few minutes,” Kyle grumbled in lieu of greeting. “While you’re waiting, why don’t you make yourself useful and talk her out of coming with us.”
Kyle hit the stairs, and a few seconds later the door slammed. Regan’s gaze immediately returned to Willow, and something in his chest tightened uncomfortably. God had never made a woman more beautiful than Willow Scott. Her silver-blonde hair was swept up in a twist, exposing the long elegant column of her neck; a delicate choker circled the base of her throat, covering her scar. The vibrant blue of her eyes nearly sparkled as she stood there watching him, waiting for him to say something, but honestly words failed him.
“Don’t waste your breath, Regan. I’m coming to this party,” she informed him, notching her chin defiantly and crossing her arms over her ample cleavage. “This is a big fight for Nikko, and I’m going to be there to support him.”
A flare of resentment rushed through his veins at the thought of Willow going to this party looking like that—to support Nikko. Good thing he was gay or Regan would be taking some serious issue with that. His cock strained against the confines of his jeans as his gaze devoured her.
“Aren’t you going to say something?”
She was feeling feisty. Kyle must have pissed her off good before Regan had arrived. He shot a quick glance at the
ceiling before settling his gaze back on her. “I’m wondering how much time I have before Kyle comes back downstairs, and whether it’s worth the risk of getting caught to bend you over that couch and fuck you right here.”
Her eyes widened, her glossy, luscious mouth falling open in shock. He took a step toward her, feeling like a predator moving in for the kill. “You look so fucking gorgeous. I’m going to spend this entire night hard as a rock. You know that, right?”
She gave him a huge flirtatious grin that nearly brought him to his knees—a place he wouldn’t have minded being right then, with one of those sexy legs tossed over his shoulder and his face buried between her—
“Do you want me to tell you a secret?” she whispered, beckoning him forward with the crook of her finger.
He drew closer, stopping only scant inches from touching her, because he knew once he did he wouldn’t be able to stop until he was inside her.
With those sexy shoes, she was just tall enough to reach his ear as she whispered, “I’m not wearing any panties. Just remember that when the cage-bangers are filling your pockets with their numbers tonight.” She nipped his lobe hard enough to sting, sending a jolt of white-hot lust barreling into the base of his cock.
His hand wrapped around the back of her neck, stopping her from leaving, and a low growl of primal need curled up his throat. He shoved his free hand up her dress. She gasped when he tested the truth to her claim, eyes going from wide to heavy-lidded pleasure when he parted her folds and buried his finger deep inside her. He’d be damned if he was going to be the only one suffering tonight. He teased her sweet spot, chuckling in wicked satisfaction when her body melted against his. Her head dropped back, exposing her throat for his kiss, her gorgeous lips parting with her quickened breaths.
“Regan,” she whispered, already so close to the edge. He pressed his thumb over her bundle of nerves, and her glove tightened around his finger in response, getting ready to break into spasms. At the last minute, he pulled his hand away, eliciting a soft cry of protest, her beautiful blue eyes flying open in surprise.
“I’m not going to be the only one aching to come tonight, sweetheart.” Dipping his head, he slowly ran his tongue over her bottom lip. She tasted like strawberries. With a final nip of that plump, glossy flesh, he let her go and took a step back just as they heard Kyle’s feet hit the stairs.
“I can’t believe you just did that,” she hissed. “I take back every nice thing I ever said about you.”
He chuckled. “I’m not worried. By the end of the night, you’ll be singing my praises again.”
Nikko’s weigh-in was held at the same event center as the CFA pre-fight publicity party. Kyle was right; a lot of fighters were here representing different camps around the United States, all in town for the big pay-per-view event, one of the most impressive being August “The Reaper” Grim, AKA the Grim Reaper.
As Willow stood at the bar, waiting for her Long Island Iced Tea, the fighter sidled up beside her, making no attempt to hide the head-to-toe eye-fuck he’d just given her.
“I haven’t seen you at one of these events before. Are you a new cage girl?”
Heat instantly flushed her cheeks, and she glanced quickly behind her, looking for Regan and Kyle and praying neither one of them were seeing this. Both men were across the room, circled by paparazzi. Nikko was several seats down the bar, nursing his drink and looking like he wanted to be anywhere but here. His gaze caught hers and then cut to the fighter standing beside her. His scowl darkened. A moment later, Marcus took the empty seat beside Nikko and clasped him on the back. He must have said something to Nikko he didn’t appreciate, because that glower got even stormier. She knew some of the fighters had mixed feelings about Nikko, but personally she liked him. It comforted her to have him so close now. She was used to being around fighters all the time, and rarely did they rattle her. The difference with Grim was that he didn’t know whom he was hitting on. If she didn’t handle this quietly and quickly, things could end badly for them all. Grim was a good-looking man. Problem was he knew it, and he had an ego the size of his weight class.
Most people probably thought the fighter was there to watch Nikko’s event. He was the current title-holder for the heavyweight division, and if Nikko won his match tomorrow, he’d be in contention for the belt and would soon be facing Grim in the octagon. And perhaps that was partly the reason he was in Vegas, but the gossip flying around the gym was that all wasn’t peachy between Grim and his manager. He was about to become a free agent, and Marcus wanted to sign Grim—badly. He and the fighter had an off-the-record meeting scheduled before he flew out on Monday, and there was no way in hell Willow wanted to risk ruining that for him.
“I’m not a cage girl,” she replied, glancing impatiently down the bar. How long could it possibly take to make a drink? “My brother’s a fighter.”
His brow rose in interest, and the smile he gave her reminded Willow of a shark. “Really? Anyone I know?” The bartender handed Grim his Jameson and Willow her cocktail. Grim pulled a twenty out of his wallet and handed it to the bartender. “This will cover hers too,” he said.
Before she could protest and insist she buy her own drinks, the bartender hurried away. “Thank you for the drink,” she said politely. “You didn’t need to do that.”
A few paparazzi stopped in front of them and snapped a picture. Grim must have been used to the press attention because he didn’t miss a beat. Flashing a glam-cam smile, he stepped closer to her and slung his arm over her shoulder. The lights flashed again.
Pop, pop, pop . . .
“Is this your girlfriend, Grim?” one of the men behind the cameras asked.
“Not yet. Give me twenty minutes.”
The men laughed at his joke and moved toward Nikko. Willow drove her elbow into Grim’s ribs, cutting off his chuckle, and stepped out from beneath his heavy arm. Amusement danced in his hazel eyes as she spun on him. “That wasn’t funny,” she snapped.
“I’m sorry,” he laughed, reaching up to rub his rib, but she knew damn well it was only for show. There was no way she’d hurt him.
“Apology not accepted. Try saying it with a straight face and I might believe you.”
His gaze flickered behind her, and the flirtatious spark left his eyes, replaced by something that sent fear needling down her spine. She heard a pop of breaking glass and then a crash. Before she could turn around, Grim snagged her around the waist and spun her to the other side of him. He barely got her out of the way before Cole and Nikko crashed to the floor. Cole was on top of him, his fist drilling into Nikko’s jaw. Coach was on the ground behind them—unmoving. A startled scream tore from her throat, her eyes searching the crowd for someone to help, but either everyone was too shocked to do anything or too scared to get in the middle of the light-heavyweight champ and the heavyweight contender. The area lit up like a strobe light, paparazzi cameras flashing all around. She caught movement out of the corner of her eye and saw Regan and Kyle shoving their way through the crowd, racing toward them.
Grim was the first to reach the fighters. Rushing forward, he pulled Cole off Nikko. It wasn’t an easy feat, but the fighter had probably two-hundred and fifty pounds of muscle to assist him. As Kyle and Regan got closer, she heard her brother yell, “I’ve got Coach. You get Willow out of here before this place turns into chaos!”
Willow thought it was a little late for that. Her head was spinning. What just happened? One minute she was standing there giving August Grim a piece of her mind, and the next he was yanking her out of harm’s way as Cole attacked Nikko.
Regan rushed up to her and pulled her into his arms.
“What happened to Marcus? Is he all right?”
She couldn’t see him anymore. Regan’s body blocked her view. As he ushered her away from the scene, she craned her head around, trying to get another glimpse of Marcus, but she caught Grim’s eyes instead. They followed her as she was led away, tears threatening to spill over her lashes.
“I don’t know, Willow. But you can’t stay here.”
Regan’s steps didn’t falter. He wrapped an arm around her waist and lifted her off the ground, carrying her through the crowd that was now parting like the Red Sea as uniformed officers and an EMS crew raced forward.
Chapter 22
We’ll go to the hospital and meet them there.”
She nodded, having lost the battle with her tears the moment they hit the parking lot. A few more officers pulled up, lights and sirens blaring, blocking one of the entrances. Regan came around the front of his car and climbed into the driver’s seat. After firing up the engine, he took the back exit, pulling onto the Strip and heading east.
Regan reached over and took Willow’s hand. “Try not to worry. I’m sure he’s going to be okay.” He knew how much she loved Coach. Hell, they all loved him. What in the fuck had happened back there? And why would Easton attack Del Toro like that? And at a CFA press party? Seriously? The timing couldn’t be worse. The press was going to have an absolute field day with this.
“I just don’t understand it. I was right there. I saw Marcus talking to Nikko. He looked upset, but I was too far away to hear what he was saying. The next thing I knew, Grim was pulling me out of the way and Cole was on top of Nikko.”
She dried her cheeks and sniffled, opening the center console, probably to search for a tissue.
“‘The Reaper’ pulled you out of the way?” He tried to keep the edge out of his voice, but obviously failed judging by the look she gave him.
“Yeah, if he hadn’t, they would’ve crashed into me. Is something wrong?”
“Of course not.” He dragged his hand through his hair in frustration, feeling like a complete asshole. “It’s just . . . I’m pissed that I wasn’t there to protect you. Kyle and I got swarmed by the press and . . . He’s right, you know. These parties are no place for you. You saw how easily they can get out of hand.”
Grappling for Position (Against the Cage Book 4) Page 20