by Josie Kerr
“Oh, I don’t know, Ashley.” The last thing Annie wanted to do was be in a group of couples. While she certainly didn’t want to be coupled off, she didn’t want to be a fifth wheel.
Ashley scoffed. “Don’t even think about giving me some bullshit ‘but you’re all married’ thing, because one, Rory and I aren’t even married, and two, the boys will be messing with that damn band. It’ll be more of a girls’ night out.”
“You aren’t married? You have five children!” Annie slapped her hand over her mouth as soon as she blurted out the words, and Ashley cackled and snorted.
“Oh, honey, that is a long-ass story that I’ll tell you another time.” She laughed but then grew silent for a beat. “Say you’ll come. Come on.”
“You’re not gonna let me not come, are you?”
“Well . . .”
“Sure, I’ll come. I’d love to.”
“Yay! I’ll give you the deets tomorrow. Do people say ‘deets’ anymore? Anyway, I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Bye, Annie.”
Annie blinked at the phone. Well, at least she’d have the opportunity to start marking off things on her list, right?
Chapter Six
A loud whistle rang out, and Pierce looked toward the front of the gym to see Nanda waving something in her hand and grinning like the Cheshire cat. When Pierce went back to what he was doing, another whistle split the air, followed by Nanda’s husky voice calling, “Pierce, get your ass over here!” So he made his way toward the front desk, where the sassy manager grinned at him.
Pierce was immediately suspicious. Nanda looked absolutely gleeful, and though he’d only been at DS Fight Club a short time, he knew the her well enough to know ‘gleeful’ generally meant that someone was about to get his ass handed to him.
“What’s up, Nanda?”
The gym manager grinned wider and handed him a piece of paper. “This is for you.”
“Yeah?” Pierce snatched the paper out of her hands. “What’s the story?”
“It was in the manager’s mail slot when I got here.”
“You know who it’s from?”
“Uh-huh.” More grinning.
“You’re not going to tell me, are you?”
“Nope.”
Pierce grunted as he considered the note in his hands. The single sheet of paper was folded over and sealed with a small piece of tape. The outside had his neatly lettered name written in purple ink.
Pierce tried to ignore Nanda as he carefully snapped the tape on the note.
Dear Damon,
Thank you for being so kind to me yesterday afternoon. I know that you had more important things to do than deal with a hysterical woman who couldn’t handle Cardio Kickboxing, so I greatly appreciate you spending your time on me. Hopefully we’ll get a chance to see each other again when I’m not as much of a mess.
Sincerely,
Annie Hedges
Damn. A guy could get used to receiving this kind of note.
Nanda cleared her throat. Pierce dragged his attention from the piece of paper to Nanda’s grinning face.
“And? You gonna tell me what she wrote or what?” Nanda drummed her fingers impatiently on the countertop.
“Not that it’s any of your business, but she was just thanking me. Okay?” Pierce grinned.
“Whoo, look at those dimples. Look out, Junior—you’ve got some competition, hermano.”
Pierce turned around to see the fight club’s boxing trainer walking into the lobby.
“What the fuck you talking about, Baby Sister?” Junior growled, shifting his shoulder under the sling he wore. He jerked his chin at Pierce. “Hey, Pierce. How you doin’?”
Pierce bobbed his head. “Doin’ good. How’s the shoulder?” he asked, hoping to deflect Nanda’s further nosiness about the letter from Annie.
“Eh, it’s okay. Not healing as fast as I’d like, but then again, I’m fifteen years older than the last time I got shot in the shoulder.” At Pierce’s shocked look, he quickly added, “Military injury.”
“Oh. I keep forgetting that you weren’t always a trainer.”
“Hell, I do, too. Seems like I’ve been training fighters forever. Speaking of injuries, how’s your gut?”
Pierce rucked up his tank to expose the pink scar on the left side of his torso. “Everything’s healed. Doc cleared me to start training again. Things are looking good. I’ve been cleared to spar, too.”
Junior nodded. “Good, good. I’m glad. We’ll get you set up with a program before I leave for Jersey next week so you can get going, okay?”
“Sounds good, Junior. Thanks.”
Junior grunted but awkwardly shook Pierce’s proffered hand and nodded. “Let’s do it.”
“Thank God,” Nanda muttered. “So, Pierce, looks like you have an admirer.”
Pierce groaned. He should have known he wouldn’t get off that easy.
“Nah, she was just being nice.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
Nanda leered at him from behind the tall counter. “She made a special trip to give that note to you. In fact, I don’t think she was going to give you a note at all. I think she wanted to talk to you, only you weren’t here. Hence the note.”
Pierce grunted, but his gut warmed, pleased that he had captured the attention of the pretty woman.
“Hey, Pierce, you got mail. This was in my cubby by accident.” Ryan Richards, the fight club’s cutman, slid an official-looking letter down the countertop to Pierce.
Nanda whistled. “You’re just getting all sorts of letters today.”
“Ugh. I don’t think this letter is going to be nearly as nice as Annie’s,” Pierce said as he tore open the end of the envelope.
Sure enough, it wasn’t. He read the letter three times to make sure he understood what it said.
Fuck.
“I gotta talk to your brother, Ryan. That crazy bitch is out on parole.”
Four hours and one restraining order later, Pierce was back at DS Fight Club and working out his frustration and anger on the Jacob’s ladder. How his crazy ex-girlfriend, Andrea Michaels, had been released from prison four whole months before he’d been notified made him furious and worried. Johnny Richards, Ryan’s older brother and a detective, had promised to look into her parole, but Pierce didn’t trust that Andrea wasn’t going to come back to Atlanta and make mischief for him even though he had absolutely nothing left to give her.
Not that a restraining order would stop Andrea. She was wily and determined, and that combination of personality traits made Pierce very, very nervous.
As he climbed on the machine, he thought about how Andrea had managed to get through his usually impenetrable defenses. After his parents died, he’d bounced around the foster system, mostly in group homes due to his age. Pierce had hardened his heart with every change in foster family, and by the time he was eighteen and left the system, he’d had years that reinforced that he was better off not getting attached to anyone or anything.
He’d been living that detached lifestyle for over ten years, working construction and fighting in underground fight clubs, when he’d met Jett Raptor, co-owner of the Raptor Pryde MMA club. Raptor had wooed him with promises of financial security and hooked him with emotional stability. Raptor had busted through Pierce’s armor, and Pierce had begun to feel as if he’d actually become part of a family. A squabbling, dysfunctional family, but a family nevertheless.
As he won more and more fights, money, women, and attention flowed his way, and he lapped up every fucking drop of it. The kid who grew up couch surfing and often dumpster diving for food because his parents didn’t want to be encumbered by so-called traditional ideals now lived in a luxury apartment, drove a big, gas-guzzling SUV, and had a different woman, sometimes more than one, in his bed whenever he wanted.
But in the morning, when the post-fight parties died down and after he’d put the women in a cab, he was still alone and floundering ev
erywhere except for the octagon.
Then he’d gotten a chance at the heavyweight title. The problem was that he faced Colin Carmichael for the belt.
“Ice Cold” Carmichael was ruthless and calculating, with a high fight IQ, and no amount of trash talk could make him loosen his tightly reined emotions. He was a college wrestling champion whose natural skill had been honed with years of training and coaching from the best in the nation. He definitely wasn’t known for his sparkling personality, but Pierce had watched him from afar and noticed that while Carmichael just as soon would tell reporters to fuck off and slam a door in their faces, he would also stay long after signing events and press conferences, talking to the fans, signing paraphernalia, and posing for photos.
Pierce? Not so much.
Pierce was a brawler, with all his fighting techniques learned in the school yard and alleys, and later in parking lots and abandoned warehouses. His fighting style was wild, and his temper wilder. Pierce didn’t like doing pressers, but Raptor was a showman, often stirring up shit on social media with fake accounts. Pierce went along with it, figuring he owed the man who literally rescued him from a life on the streets. So Pierce ran his mouth, put his hands on his opponents, and grinned for the cameras when he and the Raptor Pryde squad visited high-end strip clubs and exclusive after-parties.
That shit got real old, real fast.
When Pierce complained, Raptor essentially abandoned him, leaving a third-tier trainer in charge of his not-quite-so-golden boy. But Pierce kept winning, despite Raptor’s apathy, and he kept his eye on Carmichael. And he knew that Carmichael did the same. When Carmichael won his first belt, Pierce knew it was only a matter of time before they clashed, and the combat sports world was definitely watching.
Enter Andrea Michaels.
Andrea was a skilled manipulator who managed to convince Pierce that Carmichael was emotionally abusive, something that Pierce innately understood from his own emotionally stunted parents. Andrea had played him like a fiddle, right up until the day of the title fight when she took a look at the odds and decided she was better off back with Colin.
The weigh-in was ugly, and the fight was uglier. Colin had beat Pierce easily and decisively. Pierce was left with no girl and no belt, only a burning hatred of Colin Carmichael.
He spent the next two years trying to get back at Colin, even after Andrea had come crawling back.
“Dude, whoa. Whoa! Pierce!”
Pierce stumbled on the climber, almost getting entangled before hopping off and furiously facing the person who distracted him.
“What the fuck, Ryan?” Pierce’s head swam. “Whoa.”
“That’s what the fuck is, Pierce. You trying to give yourself a heart attack, man? How long you been on the climber?”
Pierce forced himself to take deep breaths while he calculated the time. Shit.
Ryan scoffed. “That’s what I thought. Dude, you need to be careful. I know you got cleared for training, but . . .” He grabbed Pierce’s wrist to check his pulse.
“Yeah, I guess I was a bit in my head.”
Ryan snorted. “A bit? Try ‘so far in your head that you tuned out your body’. You were about ten flights away from cardiac arrest.” He dropped Pierce’s arm. “You’re obviously not okay, so what’s the deal?”
Pierce groaned but gave Ryan an abbreviated version of The Andrea Situation, even filling the cutman in on some of his personal background, surprising himself.
“What? I don’t like that look.”
“You seriously need to get out and blow off some steam. You’re coming out with us on Friday.”
“Nah, man, I already said no. Besides, I picked up a shift at Foley’s because that band’s playing and they usually draw an extra big crowd.”
“Damn. I was hoping I could bribe you by paying for your drinks. I don’t want to be the only singleton in the group.” Ryan shook his head. “I was even going to offer to be your wingman.”
“Uh . . .”
“Come on. You couldn’t ask for a better wingman: a gay dude won’t be tempted to hone in on the lady you’ve got your sights set on. Am I right?”
Pierce had to laugh at Ryan’s justification.
“Sully said I probably wouldn’t have to be on the door all night. I’ll make sure I stick around after I get off, okay?”
Ryan grinned. “Okay.”
Chapter Seven
Annie opened her eyes, looked in the mirror, and promptly pulled off her blouse and threw it onto the bed.
“Maybe I should just pull a Miley and wear my bra as a top,” she muttered as she surveyed the contents of her closet, which were now strewn across the top of the bed. It was hard enough picking out an outfit for work each day, but choosing something to wear to a pub? When you were going to be with people that you really didn’t know? And oh yeah, your blonde, six-foot-tall, former beauty queen boss was going to be there?
A teeny-tiny piece of Annie longed for the days when she had someone to pick out her clothes for her.
She shook her head to rid herself of that thought. She wouldn’t give up her newfound freedom for the world, even if she arrived at Foley’s looking like a complete clown.
She turned to look at her reflection. Maybe black pants were wrong. Maybe she should wear jeans. Yes, jeans were probably more appropriate when you were going to see a band you’d never heard of play in a bar that was going to be full of professional fighters.
She dug through the pile of clothes on her bed and pulled out the two pairs of jeans she had. Oh boy. She had the choice between full-length Mom Jeans and cropped Mom Jeans.
Maybe her black trousers were the better choice.
The ringing telephone offered a reprieve from her clothing dilemma. She checked the caller ID: Unidentified Number.
Nope. Not going to happen. She didn’t have to answer the phone, so she didn’t.
Annie halted with a sudden realization. Then a smile spread across her face, and she erupted in giddy giggles. She knew exactly what she would wear.
Thirty minutes later, Annie sat in the parking lot of Foley’s Public House and tried not to second-guess herself as she watched the casually dressed couples wander into the bar. She already felt conspicuous entering the pub alone.
Oh no. What if she was the first one there? Or worse, what if she was the last person to arrive?
She felt the tiniest prickle of anxiety forming in the center of her chest, but she took a few deep breaths and repeated her mantra: You can do whatever you want. You can. A few more deep breaths, and she popped out of her car and walked determinedly to the door of the pub. Or at least, she tried to walk determinedly. The cobblestone sidewalk wasn’t very heel-friendly. Then she saw Damon Pierce at the front door, carding people.
Annie caught Pierce’s glance at her, and her stomach fluttered a little bit when he winked—winked—at her.
Oh boy.
It wasn’t enough that he’d seen her, breathless and panicky, but he’d helped talk her through that panic attack. And then she really lost her mind: she’d gone up to the fight club to thank him in person, and when he wasn’t there, she’d written him a note. A note, like some goofy middle school girl. She’d regretted leaving that piece of paper since she’d walked out the door, but what was done was done. Annie took a deep breath and forced herself to look the big fighter in the eye when she got up to the stool where he sat.
“ID, please.”
“Are you serious?”
Pierce grinned but continued to hold out his hand for her ID. Annie fumbled for her billfold and took out her driver’s license with a shaking hand. He checked it and gave her a wink before handing her the license back.
“The band’s a lot of fun. You’ll have a great time,” he said as he pressed a star stamp on the inside of her wrist.
“Thanks. I’m sure I will.” Annie smiled bravely back at Pierce and tried to ignore the heat of Pierce’s fingers on the underside of her hand.
The person behind Annie cle
ared their throat, startling her out of her daze. With a little wave, Annie entered the darkened bar. A tiny voice inside her head warned her that she didn’t even know what kind of music ska was, so how on earth could she possibly know that she would for sure have a good time?
She told the voice to shove it, but her anxiety prickled a little bit as she searched the room for a familiar face. When she located Ashley, it was just as she feared—she was the last person to arrive.
Annie saw Ashley perched on the lap of a big, red-headed man whom Annie assumed was her significant other, as all the babies had matching russet curls. Annie also recognized Ashley’s best friend, Em, who had stopped by the office several times and was as short and curvy as Ashley was tall and thin. Next to Em was a huge, bearded, tattooed man who was deep in conversation with one of the owners of DS Fight Club.
“Annie! You made it!” Ashley hopped up and efficiently steered Annie toward the table as if she had known that the other woman was about to turn around and flee the bar without having said anything to anyone. “Sit down, girl, and have a drink. Do you like beer, or are you more civilized?”
“Um . . . I don’t really know.”
Annie saw Ashley get ready to say something, but the big, red-headed man squeezed the back of her neck and murmured something in her ear before turning his attention to Annie.
“Don’t mind Ash, love. Have a look over at the menu. There’s plenty of time.” He grinned at her. “I’m Rory, by the way. I’m Ashley’s mister.”
“Nice to meet you, Rory.”
Rory bobbed his head before draining the glass of beer that sat in front of him. “Oi, Mickey—we better get.”
The big bear next to Em nodded, and with a wink and a peck on the Em’s cheek, pushed back from the table and made his way to the stage.
“They’re members of the band?” Annie asked. She sat between Em and Ashley in the chair Rory had vacated.