Grappling for Position (Against the Cage Book 4)

by Melynda Price

  It surprised him when she broke out into laughter. It wasn’t light or feminine, but bawdy and kinda obnoxious. Though, for some reason, it seemed to work on her.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  He scowled. “Like what?”

  “Like I just stole your friend’s car.”

  “Because you probably have. Kyle doesn’t let his . . . acquaintances drive his car around.”

  “Well, he didn’t have much choice since my tires were flat. And I never said he was happy about it.”

  Who in the hell was this woman?

  Her delicately arched brow rose in question or perhaps in challenge. “You think I’m a cage-banger, don’t you?”

  He couldn’t tell if she was incredulous or amused, and he was surprised she was familiar with the term. “Are you?” he challenged.

  She studied him a moment then gave a negligent shrug. “Maybe, maybe not . . .”

  Damn, something about this woman seemed familiar, but fuck him if he could place her. “Have I seen you somewhere before?” Regan might have guessed a party, but he’d cut out on that scene months ago.

  “I suppose that depends on where you’ve been, big guy.”

  Was she intentionally being obtuse? Whatever. He didn’t have time for this or her games. “Do you know where Kyle is?”

  “I do. But seeing as how you’re about ready to break down his front door, and I’m not particularly keen on the same thing happening to mine, how about I tell him you’re looking for him?”

  Penelope didn’t give him a chance to respond before sliding her ass into the driver’s seat and pulling the door closed. She fired up the Charger, the low growl of the engine drowning out his curse as she gave him a cheeky grin and a finger-fluttering wave before backing out of the driveway and leaving a healthy amount of tread on the road behind her.

  Chapter 37

  How did it go at the gym?”

  Regan dropped his empty duffle on the floor and closed the front door. He headed toward the living room and plopped into the chair beside the couch where Willow had been reading a book. Leaning forward, he braced his elbows on his knees and scrubbed his hands over his face. How in the hell was he going to tell her what Kyle had done?

  “I got my job back.”

  “You did? That’s great!” Two heartbeats later. “So why don’t you seem happy about that? Do you want to quit fighting?”

  He met her stare. “No, I love what I do. It’s your fucking brother . . .”

  “Kyle? What did he do now?”

  “He quit the CFA.”

  “What? Why?”

  “That’s what I want to know. I went to the house to ask him what the fuck he was thinking, and he wasn’t there. The spare key is gone. And the place was full of boxes.”

  “Boxes? Why would he—?” Willow paled. “He’s packing up my things. He’s moving me out.”

  “Why would he do that? He offered to bring you home with him from the hospital.”

  “Maybe he did it before my accident. I don’t know. I wish he would talk to me. Something’s going on with him, Regan.”

  So Willow had sensed it too. Kyle had been at her bedside, day and night, just as Regan had. There was no question that he loved his sister with all his heart, but in the aftermath of all that had happened, in the wake of so much hurt, things had changed. He was different, withdrawn—resolved.

  “I don’t know, Willow. He won’t talk to me either. There was a woman at the house—”

  “A woman? Kyle never lets women near our parents’ house. He always said it was out of respect for them and me.”

  “Willow, calm down. It’s not going to do any good to get upset.”

  “Upset? Regan, this is my fault! Don’t you see that? You were almost fired—because of me! Kyle quit the CFA—because of me! He’s running around with cage-bangers and bringing them home—because of me!”

  “Willow, listen to yourself. You’re being irrational.” Which was not the thing you should probably say to a woman who was hopped up on pain medication. But goddammit, Kyle was an adult and responsible for his own choices—good or bad—just as Regan was. None of this was on her, and he wouldn’t tolerate her bearing the guilt of another person’s fucked-up choices. “First, Kyle has always run around with cage-bangers. He doesn’t do relationships. You know that. And quitting the CFA was his decision—not yours, not mine, his. I’m not any happier about it than you are, but no one made him do it. As for me almost getting fired? I broke the rules of the cage. The whys of all this are irrelevant because actions lead to consequences. It’s as simple as that.”

  Maybe it wasn’t as simple as that, but that was his story and he was sticking to it. Preparing himself for a fight, because Willow had never backed down from one of those in her life, he was surprised as shit when she exhaled a long soulful sigh and said, “You’re right.”

  He clutched his chest, feigning a heart attack. “Sweetheart, I think we should go back to the hospital and get you another head CT.”

  Unable to resist his jest, she smiled and reached over, slapping his chest. “Ha-ha.”

  Grabbing her wrist, he crawled out of the chair and over to her. “Aw, come on, baby . . . let me hear you say it again.” He teased, nuzzling her neck. “Those words make me so hot.”

  “You’re an ass,” she laughed, pressing her hands against his chest and giving him a half-hearted shove.

  “Not the words I wanted to hear.” He growled, nipping the lobe of her ear. Was he trying to distract her? You bet. Until he talked to Kyle and figured out what the fuck was going on, there wasn’t anything either of them could do about this. Regan wanted to see her smile, to hear her laugh, because that was where he found his joy. Without it—without her—life was just one continuous vat of shit. “Come on, baby, say it . . . just one more time. Feel what those words do to me.” He took her wrist and pressed her hand between his legs. It wasn’t the words at all. It was what this beautiful woman did to him—every second of every day.

  “What am I?” he whispered against her ear as she unfastened the fly of his jeans and took him out his boxers, stroking his hard length. Pleasure shuddered through his body at her touch, the pressure in the base of his spine tingling with anticipation. It wouldn’t take much to set him off. Just a few more strokes and he’d be coming in her hand. It sometimes shocked him how fast he could go from zero to sixty with this woman; though by now it shouldn’t. Willow had always held some special power over him.

  Playing along, she tipped her head, offering him her neck as her thumb slicked over the moisture beading his cock. “You’re sometimes accurate.”

  He bit her neck hard enough to draw a startled gasp from her lips that turned into a moan when he began to suck away the sting. “Say it,” he demanded, struggling to hold back his release as her hand worked him over, her grip tightening, her pace quickening.

  “You’re occasionally correct . . .”

  Fuck, he was going to lose it. Shifting his weight to his left forearm, he slipped his free hand into her pants and found her wet. Oh, yeah . . . he wasn’t the only one getting off on this power play. Slipping two fingers inside her, he quickly found that sweet spot.

  “Say it,” he growled.

  Willow moaned. “You’re right”—Yes! Ha! He won!—“there.”

  What? No!

  “Don’t stop,” she pleaded, her desperation reflecting in the frenzy of her strokes. “You’re right there.” The pressure in the base of his cock warned him he was about to go off, and the tightening of her glove gripping his fingers told him she wasn’t far behind him.

  “Say it, Willow, and I’ll make you come so hard.” Truth be told, they were both going to lose it in the next ten seconds, whether she said shit or not.

  But as his mouth covered hers with a scorching kiss, she broke contact long enough to whisper against his lips, “You’re right.”

  The sound of her sexy, husky voice sent Regan right over the edge. The pressure in
side him released, jetting from him as euphoric waves pulsed through his body. Willow’s own climax gripped his fingers, the rhythmic spasm mimicking the jerking pulse of his cock. Through it all, his mouth devoured hers, swallowing her moans, drinking her in until his senses were saturated with her scent, her taste.

  His phone began ringing, and he made no attempt to answer it. He was right where he wanted to be at the moment, and the rest of the world would just have to wait—at least long enough for him to clean up the mess he’d made of Willow. Though she didn’t seem to mind that his release was all over her, and fuck if that wasn’t hot as hell. She seemed content to just lie here, kissing him. What idiot asshole would say no to a proposition like that? But then his fucking phone had other ideas, and the damn thing wouldn’t quit going off.

  “You should probably answer that.”

  At least that’s what he thought she said, but it was hard to tell with his tongue in her mouth. He ignored her, and the phone vibrated in his back pocket as he continued to kiss her, his lips moving to her jaw, following the delicate angle onto the sweep of her neck. She reached into his back pocket and fished out his cell. Swiping her thumb across the screen, she held it up to her free ear and answered the call.

  “Hello?”

  His mouth was at her collarbone and heading for that glorious cleavage when he felt her tense beneath him.

  “He’s right here. Just a minute.”

  Regan looked at her and exhaled an annoyed breath. He wasn’t happy about the interruption and made no attempt to hide it. But he must have seen the concern on her face because his was mirroring the expression as he took the cell from her.

  “Hello?”

  Willow wasn’t sure who was on the phone, the woman hadn’t identified herself, but the formality in her voice when she asked for Regan Matthews told her this wasn’t a social call.

  “This is Regan Matthews.”

  There was a moment of silence and then Regan’s expression turned to granite. “When?”

  Then more silence.

  “All right. I’ll be there.”

  He hung up the call and shoved his cell into his back pocket before getting up. Regan didn’t speak as he tucked himself back into his jeans. His movements were brisk and jerky, nothing like the fluid grace with which he usually moved. Anxiety began to knot in Willow’s gut.

  “Regan? What’s wrong? Who was that?”

  After zipping up his fly, he fastened the button and turned to look at her. With all the emotion he might use to inquire about the weather, Regan informed her, “My father is dead.”

  Chapter 38

  He thought this was something he could do alone. At least that was what he told Willow when she’d tried to insist on coming with him. She had just gotten home from the hospital herself and was prone to spells of light-headedness. There was no way he was bringing her with him to do this. But as Regan approached the hospital room, as he opened the door and stepped inside—as he stood next to his father’s bed, staring down at the orange-gray face of a man he no longer recognized—Regan wasn’t sure of anything anymore. Right now, the only thought resonating in his mind was Dear God, I can’t believe this is really happening.

  Withered away. . . consumed by the poison he’d consumed his entire life. The irony of it was almost laughable if not for the suffering he’d caused those unfortunate enough to be around him. Beneath the sheet that had been pulled up to his father’s emaciated neck, the outline of his arms resting peacefully over his chest hit Regan the hardest. There hadn’t been a day in this man’s miserable life that he’d been at peace, and to pose him in such a way now felt like an obscene joke. His father would know no more peace in death than he had in life—Regan highly doubted there was whiskey in hell.

  The door opened and closed softly behind him. He was expecting his father’s nurse to come in with whatever paperwork she needed him to sign so they could release his body to the funeral home. When no one spoke, he glanced behind him and was surprised to find Kyle standing there.

  “What are you doing here?” He was too raw for pleasantries.

  “Willow called me.”

  It was the only explanation he was apparently going to get. “You didn’t have to come.”

  “Yes, I did. She didn’t want you doing this alone. Neither do I.”

  He stepped forward and clasped Regan’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze. And fuck him if it wasn’t that kindness that had his vision blurring. He would not break, he told himself, sucking it up and pushing back the emotion swelling in his throat.

  “How you holding up?”

  That was a tough question to answer. Up until a minute ago, he was doing pretty damn fine. “It’s funny,” Regan said, more to himself than Kyle as he stood there staring at what the ravages of alcohol could do to a person. “I imagined this moment a thousand times, wished for it a thousand more, and now that it’s here”—he shrugged—“I’ve got nothing, none of the emotions I know I’m supposed to be feeling right now. There is an empty hole in my heart where he’s concerned. My father’s dead, and that should mean something to me, right? But it’s kinda hard to mourn something you never had. I buried him a long time ago; now I’m just going through the motions.”

  “I’m sorry, man. I’m so fucking sorry.”

  The genuine empathy in Kyle’s voice felt like a sucker-punch to the gut. “For what?” Regan’s tone was sharper than he’d intended. “You didn’t kill my mother. You didn’t kick the shit out of me every fucking day. You saved my life, and I repaid you with betrayal. It’s beside the point that I’m so in love with your sister that I can hardly see straight. I lied to you. I went behind your back, and I broke your trust. Yet here you are. After everything I’ve done, you’ve still got my back. You’ve always been a better man than me.”

  “That isn’t true. I’ve got my flaws, and you know it. The only thing I might be better at is hiding them. You see yourself through your father’s eyes. That’s always been your problem. And maybe now that he’s gone, you’ll be able to bury all that shit right along with him. Life’s all about choices, man. You can choose to live in the past and let this define you, or you can make a fresh start with Willow.”

  That sounded a hell of a lot like Kyle giving them his blessing. But Regan knew better than to hope for the impossible.

  “You’re not the only one who needs to learn to let go to move forward. I can see that now, and it’s been a painful realization I’ve had to come to. In trying to hold onto the thing I loved the most, I’m destroying the relationships I’ve held most dear.

  “When my parents died, so did a part of me—the part that held my hopes, my dreams. And then I almost lost Willow too. I remember sitting in that emergency room and pleading with God to spare her. When she survived, it was like He had given me this precious gift. She was all I had left in this world, and I’ve spent these last five years living for her. Every sacrifice, every decision I made, has been for her. Looking back, I realize I didn’t do it alone. I couldn’t have done it without you. Your friendship and your loyalty—to the both of us—helped get us where we are today. Fuck, I would have been poor as dirt and raising Willow living on ramen if you hadn’t gotten me that shot with Coach.

  “I shouldn’t have doubted your feelings for her, your commitment to her, because you’ve spent the last five years earning her love. You deserve it, Regan. You deserve her, and I’m sorry I ever made you doubt your worth. This isn’t you.” He gestured toward Regan’s father’s bed. “It’s time to close this chapter and start a new one.”

  “Would you like some help with your tie?”

  “Is it that obvious I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing?” Regan met Willow’s eyes in the mirror. Her sweet smile made his chest tighten.

  “Turn around,” she told him, taking his shoulders and turning him half a revolution to face her.

  He watched her as she worked at knotting his tie with a hell of a lot more efficiency than he’d had. Her attention was focused on
his neck as she concentrated on getting the thing straight. Being this close to her, having her touching him, even in this platonic way, calmed the riot of nerves jockeying inside him.

  God, he hated today. If he could avoid it, he would. But what kind of an asshole doesn’t give his father a funeral? It would be nothing fancy, just a hole in the ground and a brief graveside service. Arthur Matthews had no friends that Regan knew of, and although the announcement had been placed in the paper, he expected no guests to attend other than Regan’s MMA family. And that was okay. He still needed to do this—if not for his father, then for himself, because he needed the symbolism that went along with putting that man in the ground. This was his chance to bury the past—literally—and he vowed this day would mark a fresh start. Kyle was right. This was a new chapter in his life, and he wouldn’t waste one more day of it dwelling on the past.

  Now that his father was gone, he intended to take that letter with the GPS coordinates to the police. He’d tell them everything his father had told him and all he could remember of that time, which admittedly wasn’t a lot. He’d spent a good portion of his life trying to block those memories out. Along with his decision to turn over the letter, he’d come to the conclusion that, whether they brought his mother home or not, she was in a better place now. She had been for years, and knowing that she had died loving him, that she’d never abandoned him, brought healing to old wounds he’d once feared would never close.

  On the subject of wounds . . . he hadn’t seen Kyle since that day he’d come to the hospital. They hadn’t spoken about his decision to leave the CFA or where all this left them now. But like Regan, perhaps he needed some time to heal. Would things ever be the same again? Fuck, he hoped so.