by Anne Conley
“How much are we talking?”
Larry didn’t answer right away, and Quinten knew the man was trying to figure out how much to realistically inflate the number.
“Almost a half-mil.”
Shit. Quinten knew Larry lied, especially about money, but there was always an element of truth. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, searching for the words to tell his friend how epically stupid he was. But there were none.
He could get some extra hands at Valerie’s house while he was gone. It was only a couple of hours, tops. And then he’d be done with this fighting shit. Forever.
“Fine. Part of me wants to just pay you off, but I’ll do this. I’m a man of my word, but this is a really dumb move on your part.”
“Fuck yeah, you rich fucker. I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”
“Yeah, I’ll be there.”
Quinten punched his phone with his thumb—hard enough to make the parts squeak but not break—then he tossed in into the couch cushions to let off steam, but again, not break it. His phone was his lifeline to the team, and it would be stupid to ruin it in a fit of temper. But he could sure as hell throw it at cushions.
“You alright?” The soft voice behind him had Quinten spinning around, embarrassed she’d seen him almost lose control. Of course, Valerie had been watching from her monitors.
“I can’t get out of the fight tomorrow night.”
Valerie’s hand went to her stomach, and he saw the distress in her eyes as they swept up and down his body.
“What kind of fighting is it? Why do you need money?”
He simply shook his head, not willing to involve Valerie in the seediness of his issues. Quinten needed to follow through and just get it over with. He used to enjoy the fighting—the savageness, the ferocity of it all. Now, he’d outgrown it and wasn’t as eager to embrace his inner brawler.
“How much do you need to pay him off? Whoever you were talking to?”
Quinten sighed and sat on the sofa. Valerie glided over and joined him in a misguided show of support. “Is it drugs?”
“God, no!” Quinten barked, and Valerie recoiled. His hand reached for hers, but he made it stop short. He did want to touch her, like his life depended on it. But he’d get through this without making things worse. He realized what his end of the conversation had likely sounded like and figured it would be easier to just get it all out in the open.
“You know how, when expectations are high, you’ll do almost anything to give the finger to the world, no matter how passive aggressive it is?” Valerie nodded, her eyes filling with understanding. “Well, in college, I was getting my precious law degree to appease my parents, but at night I was fighting. Underground fights, the illegal kind, in back alleys and bar basements and stuff. I never told my parents about it, but it made me feel like I was being my own man in spite of their determination to mold me the way they wanted. The fighting was all for me.” He dropped his head into his hands, not wanting to see her face. “And I was good at it. To this day, I’m undefeated. But I’m getting too old for this shit. My parents are dead. I’m not proving anything anymore. I don’t need it like I did.”
A gentle touch on his back made goose bumps ripple across his skin where her tiny hand caressed him. It was the first time she’d ever instigated a touch with Quinten, and it encouraged him to go on. “Tomorrow night’s my last fight, and I’m done. It’s been scheduled for months, and the gym owner who’s organizing it has a lot of money invested in it. If he was a better guy, I’d buy him out, but I’m not sure he’s not yanking my chain, so I don’t feel right giving him all that money. I’ve got to fight.” He looked up at her and saw she’d moved closer; she was right there. He could kiss her if he wanted, and it would require minimal effort on his part. He licked his lips, suddenly finding it difficult to breathe. “I’ll get extra people in here, so you feel safe. I don’t want to leave you alone.”
“It’s okay, Quinten. You do you. I’ll be alright.” His name rolling off her lips was a sin. You do you. Words to live by.
Like a magnet pulled on him, Quinten leaned closer. Valerie’s hand had stilled on his back, and he felt the press of her fingernails. His cock hardened almost to the point of pain, and her eyes darkened to an impossible shade of the deepest emerald. Her light, citrusy scent overwhelmed him, and he very nearly kissed the hell out of her. But at the last moment, he managed to regain a semblance of control, remembering the lessons of his brother. Keep her safety a priority, then he could love the fuck out of her.
Quinten pulled himself out of her arms and leaned back on the sofa, ignoring the hurt look on her face.
“I’m sorry. I was about to be unprofessional there.” Running his hands through his hair, he saw her smooth her hands down her pants. He hissed air out of his mouth, aware he’d just almost made a mistake of epic proportions.
“Did you have any brothers or sisters who could take some of the weight off your shoulders with your parents? I always wished I did so mine would have someone else to focus on sometimes.”
Quinten couldn’t imagine a life without Simon or Bonnie. In addition to just their company, they did take some of the weight off. He tried to school the pity rising in him as he answered. “Yeah, I have an older brother and a younger sister. Simon and Bonnie.”
“You’re pretty lucky, then,” she said softly.
He chuckled. “Yeah, except Simon never really gave a damn what my parents thought and became a cop. It nearly killed my mom. And Bonnie’s so much younger, she didn’t get the brunt of anything. Our parents died when she was still in high school, so she missed out on all the college and career planning junk. She got a little bit of it, with the fancy prep school Mom and Dad put her in, but me and Simon let her pick out what school to go to.”
Thoughts of Bonnie drew him up short with a pang of guilt. Just knowing how scared Valerie was with her stalker made Quinten wonder what all he’d missed with Bonnie and hers. Was there some sort of residual damage he wasn’t aware of? They’d done everything they could to protect her and make her feel safe, even putting her up in the guest house behind Simon’s place, which used to be their parents’. But what if she had these same issues as Valerie, but Bonnie being Bonnie, hadn’t told them about them? Did she remember the guy every time she left her place to go to work? Did she have moments when she was paralyzed with fear?
He needed to call her but wanted to be able devote the time his sister deserved. Vowing to contact her for more than a check-in after the job with Valerie was over, he stood. Maybe they could even meet and get some support from each other?
Looking down at Valerie, he saw she didn’t look hurt anymore, but he was still turned on, despite the discussion of his family.
“I need to make my rounds.” His voice was gritty, and he was sure his erection was obvious, but he had to get out from under her influence. Maybe a chat with Batman would dampen the lust firing through his veins.
Quinten blocked out the noise of the crowd at the gym. He could hear it all from the dressing room, but he muted it in his brain. Until his entrance music came on, he’d just stay here and bounce, trying to get into the right headspace. Larry, God love him, was intent on making these fights as close to the real thing as he could without actually going legal. He was a cheapskate that way.
Larry had done some good promo with making a huge deal out of The Haymaker’s retirement match, putting him up against some sorry son of a bitch who’d offered to fight him on this one. It may turn out to be pure arrogance on his part, but Quinten had allowed some concessions when the fight was initially arranged. The Grynderr wanted a no-holds barred, bare-knuckled, gloves-off fight.
So Quinten was obliging him, and Larry capitalized on it, touting the fight as the fight of the century on all his anonymous social media accounts. It was underground, in that gambling was involved, which was how Larry made so much damn bank on the fights, but it was actually held in his gym—windows blacked out with trash bags over the windows.
> Quinten was glad it was almost over. When he was young and dumb, he’d loved it—the aggression, the rebellion, the girls. The gym bunnies didn’t hold the appeal they once had; he now had other outlets for his aggression, and there was very little to rebel against.
Besides, he was too old for this shit. He’d be thirty-two on his next birthday, which wasn’t old, but it was nearly past the nine-year peak time.
It kept him in great shape, but it took too long to heal. Every injury he got at the hands of an opponent was worse than the one before, it seemed. Now that the securities firm was going strong, he didn’t have the luxury of taking days off because he’d broken stuff. It was called “glass jaw” and fighters developed it—hits and kicks that didn’t used to faze him were now sending him straight to the mat. At least his reflexes were still good, and he managed to dodge most of the blows. It was what had kept him going this long.
When the Dropkick Murphy’s song started up, and the roar of the crowd got impossibly louder, Quinten began to move. Exiting the dressing room, he put on his game face and bounced out the door. Sweat coated everyone, and the screams were deafening. No air-conditioning in this gym, it kept the muscles loose, but it was hot and smelly. The air hung heavy with anticipation, and Quinten felt the sheen turn to droplets as they rolled down his back.
Women reached out for him for strokes of luck. Men tried to shake his hands. Quinten’s head swiveled from side to side as he searched the crowd for Simon. He hadn’t come to a fight in a long time. His brother had refused to be a part of them when he was a cop, but since then, he’d come to a couple. He found Evan first, standing out in the crowd in his hipster clothing. Quinten grinned at him. A sweater vest. Only Evan could get away with something like that, mostly because under his nerdy clothes was a body Quinten himself trained with almost daily. The other guys were there, too, except Ryan and Andrew, who were with Valerie. Even Deena Rae was there, yelling at some dumb fuck who’d made the mistake of hitting on her. Something bloomed in Quinten’s chest. They’d never all come to one of his fights before. He hadn’t realized he’d want them there.
Quinten lithely squeezed under the ropes around the ring which had been moved to the center of the gym, continuing to bounce on the balls of his feet as he got back into his head. He needed this fight to be done.
The music shifted to Rob Zombie, and all eyes shifted to the women’s dressing room door, Larry’s subtle “fuck you” to any opponent who dared challenge his money maker. The crowd roared, thirsty for this guy’s blood.
The Grynderr burst through the door to a chorus of cheers, jeers, and boos. As he approached the ring through the crowd, Quinten watched how he moved. He was new on the scene, but Quinten had fought enough ex-cons to know they fought to win, and they were dirtier than a two-dollar whore. Since Simon had put this one away himself, Quinten was extra alert to something weird with the guy. In this business, you just never fucking knew anyone.
Dude was big and bulked up with muscles. His biceps were easily nineteen or twenty inches around, his legs thick as tree trunks. He moved with a surprising agility for someone of his size. Quinten bounced a little higher on his feet, making his own body bigger, pumping himself up.
When The Grynderr got to the ring, he rolled under it, bouncing up and spitting on the ground at his feet.
No mouth guard.
If that was premeditated, Quinten needed to watch for a Mike Tyson, not letting the guy get his mouth close to flesh. He’d been bitten once in his career, and it hurt like a motherfucker. He didn’t want any repeats.
Quinten tuned out Larry’s droning, long-winded introduction of the fighters while some chick pranced around holding up a piece of poster board with numbers on it. Stats. He already knew the stats. He was six foot seven, The Grynderr was six foot four, he weighed 230, The Grynderr weighed 260, yadda yadda yadda…
The Grynderr looked like a fucking Viking—long, blond hair pulled back in braids, cold, blue eyes, sharp cheek bones, and an arctic sneer on his face.
The ref pulled them to the center for last minute instructions, which were few: fight ‘til the bell, tap-outs are allowed, listen to the ref. Quinten tuned him out, watching the guy in front of him with murder in his eyes.
When the referee was done with his superfluous instructions, The Grynderr started speaking.
“I wanted to fight you because your brother’s a dumb fuck, but I have so much more incentive now.”
Quinten pulled the side of his lip up into a sneer, not willing to get dragged into a pissing contest with the guy. Smack talk. That’s all it was.
They tapped fists, and the crowd noise muted in Quinten’s head. The bell rang, signaling the beginning of the fight.
And the circling began. Quinten hated this part. He already knew how to take this fucker down, but the more build-up, the better the crowd liked it. The Grynderr had the advantage of videos of The Haymaker. Quinten had no idea what sort of fighter this guy was. If he was the least bit prepared, he would know not to let Quinten get him on the ground. Grappling was a strong suit of his. But if he couldn’t grapple, he’d just knock the fucker out.
The Grynderr struck first with a kick to Quinten’s thigh, testing the waters. He pivoted his leg inward so it only struck the meaty outside. Quinten followed with a combo to The Grynderr’s face, getting one good hit in before he was blocked.
The Grynderr’s head snapped back, and there was a sudden feral look in his eyes. This was the point where Quinten saw he was finally in the fight with him. He was finished with his posturing and ready to get down and dirty.
Quinten put his hands in front of his face and wiggled his fingers, returning the look. Bring it.
The Grynderr attacked in a flurry of fists and feet, not trying to get Quinten on the ground. Quinten deflected, blocking his jabs easily, letting him tire himself out. He returned the volley with a punch to the ribs, hearing a satisfying crack as bones broke under the force of his fist.
A wheeze of air left the guy in a whoosh, and Quinten followed up with a kick to the outside of his knee, which The Grynderr deflected. When he came in close to attempt a couple of rib shots of his own, he wrapped a hand around Quinten’s neck and muttered in his ear, “I hear you’re working for big brother now, and I see they’re here. So where’s your girl?” Quinten pushed him back, looking at him with wild eyes.
The Grynderr was smiling a wicked grin at him now, blood spilling between his teeth. “Did you leave her at home? All alone?” He spat again, and Quinten went after him with a right hook that usually took out lesser men.
But this asshole took it like a champ, absorbing the force. His mouth twisted into a self-satisfied sneer, and his shoulder muscles bunched as he swung a tight right hook directly into Quinten’s eye. The crowd went wild, a chorus of jeers meeting Quinten’s ears.
Quinten lost his focus. Nobody in this ring knew his job. He’d always been extremely careful to keep the two aspects of his life separate. The fighting never bled over into his other part of his life. The reason behind the lack of a mouth guard was suddenly clear as The Grynderr continued his verbal jabs.
“Heard she used to be quite the looker. Lucky asshole. There’s a couple of guys just waiting for you to be distracted enough they can get into her panties.”
Quinten wanted to call the fight off right then and find out what and how this dude knew about Valerie. But it was impossible. His only option at this point was to end it. He was done fucking around.
The next step The Grynderr took toward him, Quinten let loose with a haymaker. The blond warrior’s eyes rolled back, and he fell to the ground, but he recovered quickly, grabbing Quinten’s ankle. He yanked hard, not hard enough to bring him down, but Quinten obliged anyway.
He fell on top of The Grynderr, rolling him as he did. The Viking wasn’t at the top of his game after the punch that would have fully knocked out a smaller man. Slipping his arm around the blond’s neck and grabbing his own bicep with it, Quinten put him in a rear cho
ke hold. He slipped his free hand behind The Grynderr’s head and applied pressure, knowing the lack of blood flow would make him tap out. Or pass out.
As he pushed his shoulder back, forcing more pressure, he spat out his mouth guard and hissed in the man’s ear, “You tell your buddies I’ll fucking kill them if they touch her. You hear me?”
The crowd was cheering, jeering at The Grynderr to tap out, and the ref was in their faces, watching for the tell-tale sign. When it finally came, Quinten jumped off the asshole and stalked to his corner of the ring. He was looking for Simon and the other guys. He needed to talk to them.
The roar of the crowd alerted him to something amiss, and before he could turn, an axe kick to the back of his head made him senseless.
At this point, he was acting on instinct. Nobody could hold him back as he advanced on The Grynderr with the shit-eating grin. Quinten pushed past the people that had flooded the ring until his mark was in front of him.
Stepping in with his left foot, Quinten threw a right jab at a 45-degree angle. The Grynderr grinned as his right arm shot out, missing him. Quinten pivoted on his foot and put his body into a left hook that connected, right before pulling both hands behind the blond man’s shoulder and bringing his solar plexus cracking into his knee.
The last move wasn’t necessary; Quinten had knocked him out with the left hook. The solar plexus crunch was just for him.
Bastard knew his client. Knew him. Which meant one thing.
He knew who was watching Valerie. Or he was watching Valerie. He was in on this somehow.