by Cari Quinn
She blinked, making me think she didn’t know what I meant. Inwardly, I sighed and tucked the frustration under another smile. I’d been in the fight game for three years, but it hadn’t completely erased what some people thought of as my snooty style of speech. I might be a college dropout, but I was an Ivy League one.
“I’m here about the job in the window.”
Before she could answer, the door to the back room swung open hard enough to hit the opposite wall. Out strode the most furious chick I’d ever seen.
I’d correctly nailed her identity. One sidewalk starer, reporting for duty.
She’d twisted up her long dark hair to show off her face. That might’ve been a good thing had she not looked like she recently collided into rough concrete, lips first. They were swollen and split, but I could tell they were a good size even when they weren’t torn open. She had dark eyes and lashes and winter-white pale skin, which revealed all of the assorted marks and wounds—most of them fresh—that made her look so disturbingly…broken.
Once upon a time, I’d wanted to patch things together, but I’d discovered I was better at breaking them. So maybe that’s why she called to me. Or that magnet pull was still in full effect.
“Screw you, Carmine,” she called over her shoulder, offering a raised middle finger salute. “Shove your job and your attitude with it.”
Carmine responded in kind, and she sneered without saying anything more. She gathered her stuff from under the bar, coming up short when the blonde grabbed her arm. “Mia, come on. We need you here tonight. We’re already down a person. What are we supposed to—”
“He won’t let me work tonight, Shell. Did you miss that part?” Mia sketched a finger over her face. Even the unpolished nail on her index finger was broken to the quick. This babe didn’t mess around.
Anger flared in my gut and I rose to my feet. Had Carmine done that to her? From what I’d seen on the street, she’d been a little messed up, but I hadn’t gotten a close look. Could be their fight had been physical before it turned verbal. If so, the asshole was about to get a taste of my fists.
A real man never hit a woman. Never. Not for any goddamn reason.
“Why don’t you ask this guy to fill in?” Mia sneered again and jerked that same finger in my direction. A second later, her gaze followed suit. Then she let her arm drop limply to her side as if I were the one with the busted face.
“What?” I patted my chest. Nothing twinged or twanged more than usual, and I hadn’t sparred yet today. That would come tonight. I had a few bruises, most of them under my clothes, and a cut near my eyebrow, but I’d certainly looked worse. And I looked way better than she did.
“Fox,” she muttered. “Frigging figures.”
Disgust shot through me at the use of the ridiculous nickname. I’d rather take a fist to the teeth than hear that crap. Rather than look at Mia, I glanced at the blonde. She’d started polishing the bar with a dirty rag, her mouth set in a hard line. Personnel issues obviously weren’t important enough for her to risk missing a blemish on the already damaged wood. Apparently, neither was my nickname. The likelihood that Shell knew about the underground fighting scene was slim, but I took enough chances on a daily basis without running my mouth.
Since I didn’t intend to discuss out in the open how Mia knew who I was, I grabbed her arm and tugged her through the pass-through. She stiffened under my hand. Hardened like stone was a more accurate description. Great. I’d probably hurt her again.
I gentled my grip and lowered my face close to hers. She was tall for a woman, but no match for my height of six-foot-three. “How do you know my name?”
Trepidation swam through her expression. Then she gave me a smile cocky enough to belong to the most confident fighter I’d ever faced. That was saying a lot, considering I’d stared down some arrogant bastards.
“Word travels.”
Uh huh. Sure it did. But I didn’t dwell on the unlikelihood of her statement. Even with her face all fucked up, she yanked my chain—and mine was pretty thick. Not bragging, just fact. I hadn’t had sex for a while, and while I wanted to meet someone, I wasn’t looking for a soul mate or some ridiculous shit like that. My dad always said my mom was his, and he’d regularly used her for a punching bag. He probably still did, but I tried to see them as rarely as possible.
I pressed my lips against the shell of her ear, intending to continue our conversation at a lower volume. “Does it?”
Mia elbowed me back, putting a definite distance between our bodies. Hers was slight and angular, but her stomach muscles flexed against her tight tank. I’d been trained to watch people closely, to grab lots of details fast. That wasn’t just for curiosity’s sake. My safety—hell, my life—depended on how quickly I could assess an opponent. This chick was bruised and battered, absolutely. A little too skinny too. She was also fucking ripped.
“We just met. I’d rather not have your tongue in my ear.” She pushed past me, thumping my stomach with her oversized bag. Whether or not that was intentional was up to interpretation. Judging from the venomous glance she directed over her shoulder before she shoved open the door and stepped outside, my interpretation was intentional times five.
“She’s prickly.” Her coworker shrugged.
“I noticed. How’d she get that face full of bruises?”
The blonde shrugged again. “Think it’s something domestic. I don’t ask. Not my business.”
I stared at the closed door for all of half a minute, watching the steady flutter of snow through the single square pane of glass. Then I followed, job forgotten.
Curiosity was a fucking bitch.
Chapter Three
Mia
Fox lurking around meant one thing. I had to get out of there. Fast.
The temperature hovered at about ten degrees and the wind roared like a bitch. Snow flew straight into my sore eyes, intensifying the sting that drops couldn’t cure. I should’ve tried to bring down the swelling, but I’d been stupid enough to think being on time would make up for the state of my face.
Moron. I should’ve known Carmine would only tolerate so much.
A couple of scrapes were one thing. A pair of busted lips, messed up eyes and a full complement of cuts and bruises probably qualified as over the top. With a little more makeup I could’ve covered up most of it, but naturally I’d been low on concealer too. Lately my luck ranked solidly around zero, with occasional detours into negative territory.
Blowing out a breath, I brought my gloveless fingers to my mouth. My knuckles were screaming so I probably couldn’t have pulled taps all afternoon anyway. See, I could find a positive side. This wasn’t a complete crisis. I could find another job like Vinnie’s in the neighborhood. I’d just have to put more effort into my appearance. Most of the females who worked in these joints caked it on and I could too. The lack of preplanning wasn’t ideal, but I’d dealt with much worse.
Underlined, starred, and bolded.
I was more worried about Friday’s fight. That afternoon’s sparring session had left me more banged up than I’d anticipated. I had a few days to rest up—well, around my training schedule anyway—so I’d handle it. Even though the locker room tricks had worked my last nerve, I’d grown adept at swerving around roadblocks.
Okay, so maybe adept was an overstatement. At least I was used to them.
But coming face to face with Fox, the man I intended to convince to fight me next month, had thrown me for a loop. Or ten. Fox trained at The Cage, the roughest, rowdiest gym in all of Brooklyn. They had top of the line equipment and physical therapists on site, along with classes in most of the martial arts. The Cage hid its ties to the underground MMA community, though anyone with two-fifths of a brain could figure out they were connected. Even so, people in this neighborhood took care of their own, and they didn’t want their weekend entertainment to get closed down.
Not while blond, blue-eyed, clean cut Fox kept whaling on guys twice his size and winning.
&nb
sp; Those fighters didn’t have to bribe guys to watch their bouts by promising them they’d get to see big tits, long nails, and maybe some blood too, if they were lucky. But women fighters didn’t work out at The Cage, though, technically, the gym catered to both sexes. To say the environment was somewhat hostile to the so-called fairer sex was an understatement.
Considering women weren’t encouraged to train on the premises to fight each other, they sure as hell wouldn’t be encouraged to fight a man. Especially the one everyone wanted to take a nice juicy bite out of lately.
Fox was good, no doubt about it. I’d been studying tape of him long enough to know. I was just better. Faster, leaner. And I wanted it more. No, needed it. The urgency burned on my tongue, saltier than any mouthful of blood.
The money I could win from a fight with Fox would get Carly and me out of New York. We’d find a safe place, somewhere I’d never have to use my hands or mouth to pay for our future again. Carly could go to college and be part of the same kind of small town we’d grown up in. Not exactly the same, but close enough.
When we’d tucked ourselves away in Happyville, I’d put my online design classes to good use. Maybe I’d even change my identity entirely, so I could finally stop living in fear that someone would recognize me and figure out why I’m running.
Footsteps approached behind me, too heavy and too close. I whirled, lifting my fists. The snarl that left my lips at the sight of the guy who’d owned my thoughts for months wasn’t planned, but I liked the way it stopped him in his expensive boots. My lip curled at the sturdy designer footwear keeping his toes dry and warm while my own feet were freezing and almost numb in holey tennis sneakers.
“You looking for Armani? If so, you’re out of range. Manhattan’s behind you.”
Fox smirked, his obvious surprise fading into amusement. He’d been blessed with a face made to smile. Seductive lips, high cheekbones, and blue eyes that edged closer to aqua added up to a hell of a shock when someone stepped into the ring. With his patrician features and white-blond hair, he didn’t look like a fighter. More like a model. Or maybe a yachtsman, who sat on the bow of his ship with a cigar in his mouth and sneered.
He was exceptionally good at the whole sneering thing.
“Thanks for the directions. Actually, I was looking for you.”
I gave myself a moment to collect my thoughts. They scattered like the fluffy snow under his feet as he came closer and got right up in my personal space. “That so?”
“Yep.” His hands were tucked in the pockets of his leather jacket, but his fingers poked against the weathered material. He was probably fisting those hamhock-sized paws of his. I had the same habit, when my knuckles weren’t so sore I could barely move my fingers. “How do you know the name Fox?”
Despite how he towered over me, I craned my neck to meet his gaze. I never missed a chance to assess an opponent’s expression. Just because we were on a city street instead of inside a cage didn’t mean we weren’t adversaries.
“Why, you’re famous ’round here.” I let the hint of Southern creep into my voice intentionally, to throw him off. Other than the slight enlargement of his pupils, he didn’t react. Since it was almost dusk, even that might’ve been a trick of the light. “Aren’t you?”
The smirk returned, and this time he added a tilt of his head. If he was trying to figure me out, I wasn’t about to make it easy for him. “Statement or question. Can’t you make up your mind?”
His lazy drawl rankled. He didn’t normally speak so slow and easy. Usually he didn’t speak much at all. I’d been to his fights a few times, usually staying in the back and out of sight, and he wasn’t one of the trash talkers. He employed a good stare—with those deceptively light eyes, he had to put a lot of power behind it—and that sneer, but that was it. His moves did the talking.
The world tilted and for a moment, he appeared above me, his strong arms braced beside my shoulders. His curled lips hovered dangerously near mine. Close enough to kiss. And bite.
God, I didn’t want that picture in my brain. In fact, I immediately pictured my own bloodied face from less than an hour ago to scrub it out. But the image remained, in such sharp relief that I blinked at the realization we were still standing on the sidewalk while snow streaked from the slate gray sky.
“Cat got your tongue?”
Twice in one day now I’d been teased about my silence. It made me want to scream to show them they were wrong. I had plenty to say. Too much. The ironic part was that I had so many words in my head I didn’t have enough voice to get them all out.
I turned my back on him and started to walk. Not only was I freezing from standing in one place in my thin coat and thinner sneakers, I also didn’t know what to say. I wasn’t ready to mention the fight yet. I wanted to pick my moment. Maybe if I left now, he would’ve forgotten me altogether when I approached him in a few weeks .
If I got really lucky, perhaps my face would even be intact for the meeting.
But he didn’t back off. He moved even closer as he walked at my side. His elbow bumped mine, and I fought the urge to put a mile between us on the sidewalk. I didn’t get all touchy-feely with men unless I was kicking their ass or they’d offered me money. Even then, I only did one thing. Blowjobs only. No kissing, no fucking, no rubbing like a kitten looking for a soft hand.
Or in my case, a rough one.
“You can’t get rid of me that easily, Mia.”
His voice was so pleasant it set my teeth on edge. The usage of my name—at least the version I used now—didn’t help either. I sped up, hoping he’d get the point.
Leave me the fuck alone.
He easily kept pace with me. “I asked a question. I’d like an answer.”
“Yeah, well, I’d like world peace. Don’t see that happening either.” I cut in front of him and turned at the corner to hurry up the block. Well aware that his strides lengthened at my side.
Huddling my shoulders against the wind, I waited, fully expecting him to snap back some snarky response. I was ready for it. Spoiling even. My black mood demanded a target, and apparently the ass whupping I’d given and gotten earlier had only made it worse.
What I didn’t expect was for him to drape his jacket over my shoulders. I hadn’t even noticed him removing it. And it smelled like him. All manly and sexy and tongue-tying.
A knot formed in my throat, cutting off my stilted breaths. Not good. It took everything I possessed not to bury my nose in the collar and inhale more of his scent like it was some illicit drug. Worse, because I’d never been tempted by drugs. I couldn’t say the same about Fox.
Before I did something stupid, I reached up to throw the jacket back in his general direction, unprepared for how his big hand closing over mine would feel. It didn’t make me think of punching him between the eyes, that was for sure.
“You’re shaking.”
He gestured to my discount-store-special windbreaker. It wasn’t a winter coat. I couldn’t afford one. I also couldn’t speak, apparently.
“Your coat is worthless. Wear mine.”
I looked up at him for a moment. Two. Behind me, horns honked and cars skidded through slush. People shouted greetings and goodbyes. Maybe even threats. My Spanish wasn’t the best, and the people closest to us were talking in short, clipped sentences.
None of that mattered, because those aqua blue, surprisingly understanding eyes held me hostage for the second time in my life. And for the first, I didn’t want to get away.
My throat convulsed. Fear. I recognized the taste, the smell. It lived inside me, just waiting for its chance to rule me again.
I didn’t think. Didn’t consider how running from him would look when I finally asked him for something he would never agree to unless I found the right key to turn. It didn’t even enter my consciousness. All I cared about was escape.
I fisted the coat at my neck and took off down the street, winding around the foot traffic as if my very existence depended on me getting away. He d
idn’t have a chance of catching me, not when I ran full tilt. I’d gotten good at running for my life a long time ago.
Only when I flipped the locks and sagged against my apartment door did I realize the mistake I’d made.
I still wore his jacket.
Chapter Four
Tray
She’d gotten the best of me. No one ever did that.
I’d been at the gym for a couple of hours already that morning, and I’d just finished a good sparring session. But I might as well have given up my fight to Mia, since she was the only thing I could think about.
I didn’t react well to tactical errors. This was a doozy. If she’d been across from me in the ring, I’d be tapping out right now. And I didn’t tap out for anyone, especially scrawny brunettes with enough marks on her flesh to play tic-tac-toe.
She’d fucking ditched me. I was fast. Hell, I made my living from my speed, among other things. Yesterday, I must’ve been moving through molasses, because she’d lost me before she cleared the first block.
Maybe she was a ghost. A figment of an overworked imagination. I’d’ve blamed my unnatural state of horniness, if not for the fact she wasn’t even my type. I liked curves on a woman. Her breasts were negligible. Ass? Hardly visible under that paper-thin coat. She had long hair and long legs, though both only emphasized the dichotomy of her appearance. Female or not, she was as hard as the wall at my back. As serious as the fist I’d had at my temple half an hour ago. Lush lips aside, she’d been all angles, wounds, and huge, wary eyes. Not exactly prime boner material.
Yet here I was, still remembering our brief encounter. Still replaying the few words uttered by her mouth and the many offered from her eyes. If only I understood the unspoken dialect of women…
Having an actual girlfriend was a rarity for me. I’d had one-night-stands and one-week-wonders. Now and then they lasted for a month of scattered hookups. My knowledge of the thought processes of females was practically nonexistent. Not sucking in bed was a source of pride, so a few casual questions couched in cockiness after sex saved my ego. Too many of my friends had mentioned their girls faking it and I didn’t trust myself to know the difference.