Wreck (Bareknuckle Boxing Brotherhood Book 2)

by Nelson, Cara

  Wreck

  By Cara Nelson

  The Bareknuckle Boxing Brotherhood Series

  Book 2

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  Dedications

  I dedicate this book to you, my loyal readers. Wherever you are in this world. Thank you for all the lovely e-mails, reviews, and support. Without you, this wouldn't be possible.

  Table of Contents

  Wreck

  Dedications

  CHAPTER 1—BOSTON

  CHAPTER TWO, BOSTON, SHEA

  CHAPTER 3—BOSTON, KYLE

  Chapter 4—BOSTON, SHEA

  CHAPTER 5: BOSTON—KYLE

  CHAPTER 6—SHEA

  CHAPTER 7: KYLE

  CHAPTER 8—SHEA

  CHAPTER 9—KYLE

  CHAPTER TEN—SHEA

  CHAPTER 1—BOSTON

  When Shea Granger glimpsed him through the plate glass window, she had two thoughts.

  First, she admitted that her best friend Zoe hadn’t exaggerated when she said that Kyle Dolan was exactly her type. He was like her type with whipped cream and rainbow sprinkles on top. Chiseled, rugged, and one-hundred-and-fifty percent alpha male, he gave the impression of power coiled up, waiting. His hair was buzzed to nothing more than a dark shadow, a choice that spoke more of his audacity than anything else. His eyes were the same captivating, dangerous blue as an acetylene torch.

  Second, she wished she’d scheduled a private lesson instead of signing up for a group class. Several women had already jostled her on their way into The Good Fight, the self-defense school Kyle owned with his brother Aaron Dolan, for the six p.m. class. She’d never taken Zoe that seriously about the self-defense classes, figuring she just wanted to promote her fiancé’s business venture with all her well-meaning urging. Now she saw that it was the real deal. About twenty women of all ages and descriptions crowded the newly-renovated storefront, giggling and ogling the instructor as he finished up his workout in the gym. They had all, every damned one of them, come early to the class. And worn eye-makeup. Clearly they had ulterior motives. Maybe Zoe should consider adding a photo of Kyle on those advertising fliers she was always posting on the telephone poles. He seemed to draw in business.

  Shouldering her tote bag, she muscled her way inside and through the crowd for a better view. Shea had come from her nursing job. She’d just thrown on some sweats for the workout, not realizing that this was a subversive beauty pageant. All around her, women wore cropped leggings with snug workout tanks, with the youngest ones clad in shorts and exercise bras, displaying taut stomachs. Even the grannies had on eyeliner and form-fitting workout wear. Shea was the only one who hadn’t brought her A-game, apparently. She wished she’d worn something more flattering, or that she could just sit there alone in the gym, watching Kyle Dolan finish his workout. Perhaps with a nice glass of chilled white wine. And a garter belt and some massage oil. The sight of that man was bad for her concentration.

  “All right, ladies, class will start in just a minute. Give me a chance to get a bottle of water and I’ll be at your service,” Kyle said, with a wink that should have looked smarmy, but instead seemed conspiratorial and sexy.

  The man could wipe his nose on his sleeve and you’d think it was hot, Shea scolded herself. She dropped her bag on the pile in the corner and found a spot to stretch in. Since Shea didn’t usually do anything resembling exercise, her version of stretching involved one attempt to touch her toes, followed by a four-letter word and a fleeting wish for some lip gloss. She found a ponytail holder in her pocket and went to the mirrored wall, pulling her loose t-shirt tighter around her torso, rucking it up a little. A sliver of skin was visible above the waistband of her sweatpants, and she secured the extra fabric with the ponytail elastic, so it made a tail at the small of her back. She surveyed her reflection and decided that as long as you didn’t look at the floppy tail, the front and side view looked a lot better; less sloppy, more attractive.

  Not that she was here to hook up. She was here to support her best friend’s fiancé’s business venture by signing up for a self-defense course that was perfectly practical. As a nurse, she sometimes found herself working odd shifts and traversing the hospital parking lot alone. It was just good sense to see what Kyle Dolan had to teach her.

  They stood on their yoga mats, introduced themselves, and told their reasons for joining the class. Shea was positive that this part of the process was Zoe’s influence, because she couldn’t think of any man, much less this prizefighter with his arrogant stance, who would be interested in their inspiration for seeking self-defense classes. Smiling at the thought, she waited her turn while the others offered what seemed like versions of their OKCupid ads.

  “I’m Sydney,” a gorgeous redhead with a dazzling smile said. “I’m twenty-four and I’m a photographer’s assistant. I joined the class because I don’t like stress and drama in my life, and I thought that being really, just, physical would help me relax and get inspired!”

  Shea rolled her eyes. Why doesn’t she just say, ‘I want to shag you, hot instructor!’? Okay, so we’re all thinking that…who am I to judge her? Several more ladies rattled off their ages, occupations, and offered general adorableness before it was her turn.

  “Hi. I’m Shea Granger, I’m twenty-five, and I’ve been an OR nurse for three years. I’ve always been really independent, but ever since my friend Zoe was mugged in this part of town last year, I’ve been a little nervous. So I thought I’d check it out.” She smiled and squared her shoulders back so her chest pushed out a little.

  Kyle’s automatic interested-listener expression changed, and he really looked at her. She felt a jolt, a shock of attraction. His blue eyes locked onto her and swept her from head to foot, pinning her there with his gaze.

  “So you know Zoe,” he said with a mischievous grin.

  “We used to be roommates until she moved in with your brother,” Shea managed, I want to shag the hot instructor on repeat in her head.

  “Welcome to the class, Shea,” he said, his voice lower, more personal than the one he used to address the whole class. From her spot in the front row, she felt color suffuse her cheeks. His voice seemed like a caress along the length of her body.

  They stretched and did some rope jumping to warm up, and then he taught them to throw a punch. A little shadow boxing; then he started pulling volunteers to grapple with him and show them how to escape various attacks. First up was the lissome Sydney, who giggled and tittered through her demonstration, demurring when Kyle asked her to strike out at him.

  “You have to take it seriously. It’s not a game. Don’t be afraid to hit me. I can take it,” he encouraged, and she rewarded him with a limp-wristed smack to the shoulder.

  “Okay, I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess that any friend of Zoe’s isn’t faint of heart. So let’s get you up here for a demo, Shea. I have a feeling you won’t be afraid to hit me.” Again, that slightly evil smile sent a jolt through her. She rose to the challenge.

  Shea stepped forward and held out her hand. He shook it and said, “I should warn you, I used to be a professional fighter,”

  “Then it’s only fair I should warn you that I’m not easily impressed,” she said.

  “I’m going to grab your arm, and I want you to resist.” Kyle seized her upper arm with measured care, so as not to hurt her.

  She jerked away from him. “I don’t think this is realistic,” she objected.

  “Why?”

  “If you’re supposed to be a r
apist or a mugger, you’re not just going to grab my arm and then let it go at that.”

  “Then what would I do? I’m not going to beat you up. This is a role play.”

  “If you’re going to prepare me to defend myself in a hospital parking lot at two in the morning in South Boston, you’re going to have to do better than an arm grab, Dolan,” she challenged.

  “Fine, I’ll grab both arms.”

  “Because felons are so careful to grab only the upper arms?” she snorted.

  “One of the holds I want to demo is grabbing you from behind. Is that gritty enough for you?”

  “We can try,” she conceded.

  Kyle instructed her to walk by and pantomime unlocking her car. As she passed, he caught her around the arms and hauled her back against his chest. She couldn’t help but notice the hard, bulky length of his body pressed against hers, and barely kept herself from sighing and sinking back into him. Her instinct wasn’t to fight him; it was to turn her head and catch his mouth with hers. Reminding herself where they were, Shea wriggled in his grasp.

  “Do you give up? I can tell you where the weak point is in this hold,” he offered.

  Shea stomped down on the instep of his foot with her heel as hard as she could and threw herself forward as he released her, landing in a crouch.

  “That was good,” he said. “Another way to escape that hold is to drop down with all your weight toward the floor and slip forward away from the assailant. Thank you for your help, Shea. Who’s next?”

  The students grappled a bit with each other, and then class wrapped up. Admirers were eager to tell him how much he’d helped them and how reassuring his presence was. They pressed their phone numbers on him enthusiastically mobbed him. Shea hung back and fiddled with her bag until they cleared out. When his fans dissipated, Shea came up to him.

  “I think, for future, reference, it would be more realistic if you did something like this,” she said, and demonstrated by grabbing his ass.

  Kyle stepped aside good-humoredly. “I don’t think women come here to be harassed by the instructors,” he said, “and I don’t think we have a lot of guys even in Southie who’d grab you by the ass.”

  “Right. ‘Cause that shit never happens,” she said.

  “Look, I know that guys can get out of hand sometimes, but I really don’t think that your average—”

  “Yeah, the average guy is going to catcall and grope and grab anything he can reach. I used to work the ER before I got my surgical job. I can’t count the number of patients who grabbed my ass or went for a handful of tit. These are guys who want my help, who are getting an IV line set or something, and they’re groping me. So don’t tell me the average guy is this upstanding, God-fearing angel,” she snapped.

  “Christ, that’s awful,” he said, and his very horror was endearing. He looked surprised that people would treat her like that, and it was oddly sweet. “Look, do this. Roll your hand outward to strike them on the inside of the wrist to push them away. And then pull out a Taser and zap them till they piss their pants like the bastards they are,” he said with a rueful grin, his hand on her wrist. “Let’s try it.”

  Kyle reached around toward her in slow motion as if he were going to grab her breast and waited for her to sweep his hand aside. She caught his eye and gave him a look as naughty as the things going through her mind. He withdrew his hand with a sharp laugh.

  “This isn’t that sort of club, Shea. Maybe you read Fifty Shades a few times too often, but I’m a God-fearing angel myself, and I’ll not be groping you in the name of self-defense training.”

  “The last of the chivalrous heroes?”

  “I’m nobody’s hero, kid,” he said with a rueful shake of his head, “and I’d advise you to get some pepper spray if you’re walking the parking lots late at night.”

  Shea shouldered her bag and left with regret. Even talking with him for those few minutes, having him put his hands on her in a purely detached, professional way, left her restless and longing. He had a default setting to smolder, she decided. Kyle Dolan was the cocky type, all brash energy and raw power. He’d be a fun fling, if she could elbow her way through the throngs to get to him. At least he didn’t have to worry about keeping his business in the black as long as he showed up in that tight white t-shirt to teach classes overcrowded with women.

  Even if she hadn’t learned much in the first class, she figured it was good fantasy material. Sure, the class cost more than the average Ryan Gosling movie, but Ryan Gosling never put his hand on her arm or looked directly at her, so this was a more personal experience. It flitted through her mind that she was objectifying him like he was the masculine equivalent of a perky aerobics instructor whose juicy cleavage overwhelmed her spandex. Shrugging it off, she made sure to put the next class on her calendar so she wouldn’t forget.

  ***

  Kyle Dolan finished his pushups and drained a glass of water. His brother Aaron, younger by two years and taller by a head, stood in the doorway shaking his head with amusement.

  “You still train like you’re about to go ten rounds, brother. Ease up on yourself. We left that life behind, remember? No more smashing faces in for a living.”

  “Ah, I don’t want to lose my edge. Hot date tonight. I need to impress her,” he said easily.

  “Then you should hit the showers. I don’t think the smell of your sweat will win her over.”

  “If she can’t stand a little sweat, she’s too delicate for me,” he said, glancing at his watch. “I’m running late as it is.”

  “I doubt she’d mind a ten-minute delay if you cleaned yourself up,”

  “She’ll take me anyway she can get me,” he said with a wink and headed out.

  ***

  Wreck was in an even oilier side street in Mattapan than Swagger, their old fight club, had been. Still, he couldn’t risk going back to Swagger after he and his brother had withdrawn from the fighting life to grow up, or go legit, or something of that nature. He never quite knew why, except that it was a muddle of loyalty to Aaron and his brother’s desire to get out of the business. So he went in secret, like a rendezvous with a mistress he’d sworn to give up.

  He liked the thrill of sneaking around, of giving his brother a cover story and staying out late. The visceral surge of triumph when he defeated an opponent, the worship of the boozy audience, and the prize money. Not to mention the fact that there was always a ring bunny or a fan ready to help him celebrate after. He’d found to his delight that an Irish boy with broad shoulders and blue eyes never had to sleep alone if he didn’t want to.

  Kyle slunk in the back alley entrance, blood pounding with anticipation, barely ten minutes before his fight time. He opened his locker and changed, kissing his crucifix necklace and hanging it on the hook before he shut the door and spun the combination lock. In the ring, his ears rung with the roar of the crowd, the hot lights beating down on him. Everything else receded—the sickly green paint peeling on the walls, the sticky floors, the smell of stale beer and unwashed bodies crowded together.

  There was nothing but the dust on the mats, the blood beading in the cut below his opponent’s lip, the rush of his breath and the distinctive crush against his knuckles as his opponent’s cheekbone gave way beneath his fist. The challenger slumped against the ropes to a cacophony of beery shouts in the crowd. Kyle’s wrist was seized and thrust into the air to signify victory. His face split into a grin as the atmosphere rushed back in on him. He was at the center of the throng, triumphant, with a check in hand and a couple of good-looking ring bunnies hanging off his arms. He accepted a pint and threw it back in one to the further cheers of his fans.

  Kyle basked, there was no other word for it—in the attention, the surge of dominance in the ring, the adoring gazes of young women in sequined bodysuits, dazzled by his strength and prowess. They had been hired to hold the signs between bouts, but they were usually fight groupies. He had enjoyed his share of them…maybe his share and someone else’s as wel
l, to be truthful. Tonight, he had his eye on the brunette, just for a change from the regular blondes. Sighing with satisfaction at the moment of his glory, he accepted a towel and wiped the sweat off his face and neck.

  “I need to talk to you, Dolan,” came a stern female voice.

  He squinted in the bright lights to see who had intruded and took in a woman, too skinny and haggard-looking. Her hair was lank, her dark eyes, familiar. Frowning, he shrugged off the ring bunnies and stepped forward.

  “I’m afraid I haven’t had the pleasure?” he said with his automatic charm.

  “Yeah. You have. We know each other. Biblically,” she said ruefully.

  Kyle gave her a harder look, but he still couldn’t place her face. “Let’s sit over there.” He gestured to a rickety table that was vacated as he approached. “Obviously you know my name, but I regret that I don’t recall—“

  “Ashley Framm. It was Ashley Delany when I was a ring bunny,” she reminded him.

  “Ah, Ashley,” he said, trying to sound like her name rang a bell.

  “Look, I went to a lot of trouble to track you down, so don’t waste time trying to act like you remember me. I’m here on business, family business.”

  “Okay… How can I help you?” he asked smoothly.

  “You can give me your family medical history,” she said flatly.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I need to know if there’s kidney disease in your family,” she said.

  “Why would you need to know that?”

  “Because about ten years ago I had your kid, and now she’s sick,” she said.

  Kyle narrowed his eyes at her, feeling his fists clench, and scanned the room for the nearest exit. This woman was obviously nuts and he had no intention of being blackmailed by some random chick who was down on her luck now and thought she could tap him for a few thousand in supposed back child support.

  “Look,” he leaned forward across the table, “my brother is the one who scored a million in Vegas last year, not me. I have four hundred dollars in the bank earmarked for my car payment. Aside from that, there’s the check in my hand, so if you’re after money, try scamming someone else. I don’t have a kid.”