Occupational Hazard: The Ultimate Workplace Romance Box Set

by Eve Langlais

  I missed her so fucking much.

  “You need to snap out of it, man. I’m serious. This isn’t just about hearts and flowers shit. If you walk out there with your head as messed up as your body, you’re going down. And it might not just be for the count of three. Costas wants to take you out for good, Fox.”

  Saying nothing, I turned away.

  Slater spun me right back and got in my face. “Look, you brainless fuck, you’re my family. I’m not watching your skull get turned into banana puree because some hot piece of ass screwed you up. If you’re not sure you can make him tap out, you tell me now.”

  I had to dig down deep to summon the strength to meet his gaze. “I’ve got this. Really. And she’s not a hot piece of ass.” I considered. “Well, she is, but she’s so much more.”

  Slater’s smirk injected a rare moment of normalcy into the unusually tense night. He was right. Something was off. The charge of anticipation in the air seemed almost…ominous.

  “Keep your mind on pinning Costas and not pinning your cute little fighter babe.”

  “Little? She’s five-nine.” Maybe five-ten. She wasn’t little by any stretch.

  “Metaphorically. Now shut up and go swim. I’ll meet you by the ring in sixty. Don’t forget to listen to the tape. It’s cued up and ready to go.”

  I rolled my eyes and stuck my head in my locker, waiting until the door clanged shut behind Slater before I tugged out my bottle of pills. Not only did Slater rely too much on woowoo nonsense, he also refused to catch up with technology and insisted on spoon-feeding me meditation tapes on an old school cassette player. The tapes usually weren’t half bad, but that didn’t mean I wouldn’t razz his ass. It was one of my few pleasures in life.

  I popped off the cap, poured my mixture of ibuprofen and acetaminophen in my palm, and threw them back without water. My jaw hurt, my hand stung, and I’d messed up my back at Vinnie’s unloading some boxes.

  Mentally and physically, I was in rough shape. If I won tonight, I’d know Slater was right about that karma shit being real. Good thing I always donated to charity.

  I strutted into the ring an hour later. Tonight’s crowd filled the old converted warehouse, and the smoke machine and booming music made it feel like what I imagined a big time fight would. We had the tinny PA system, the roped cage, and the groups of men huddled at either end advising their guys—Costas in red, me in blue.

  Impossibly young girls in bright pink hot pants and tiny tops hip-swayed around the ring, tossing their hair and juggling their cards. They got to call out the rounds in their 900-line voices, and most of them pretended pursing collagen lips and shouting out a number counted as a real skill.

  I wasn’t bitter. Not one bit.

  “You ready, boss?”

  I looked over the side of the rope at Timmins and guzzled more water rather than answer. I could lie to Slater, mainly because he let me. He understood I had my pride.

  Lying to my coach wasn’t nearly so easy. My pride meant less than nothing to Timmins, and he’d call me on my bullshit right quick.

  “Knox. I asked you a question. You ready?”

  The typical anthems from back in the day blasted over the speaker as the announcer took the podium on the makeshift stage. Time for some asskissing with the crowd before my ass kissed the floor.

  I rubbed the cherry blossoms on my side, feeling uncharacteristically sentimental. I wasn’t going to war. This was my choice, and I could back away at any time.

  Then I glanced up and saw Costas smiling at me, insolence carved into every line of his face, and my shoulders stiffened. He was an old school fighter in a lot of ways, usually going for the straight ground and pound while mixing it up just enough to keep his opponent off-guard. I didn’t have a set style, relying more on my mood and what I’d had the most success with in training that week. If I fell back on the same combinations more often than not, so what? My method of selecting my moves based on what I was feeling had always worked before.

  Right now I wasn’t feeling anything. Not fucking good.

  “Yeah.” I gulped the rest of my water and clenched the bottle in my good fist. Slater appeared at my side, ready to wrap my hands. He had my gloves under his arm. I hated wearing them, preferring to fight without, but I also wasn’t in the mood to take shit from Timmins. “I’m ready, Coach.”

  If only that had been true.

  The first round went quickly. I circled Costas, taking his measure, and he did the same, taking mine. I landed the first strike, a swift, high roundhouse to his right side. I had no choice but to start hard, because my tank was running dangerously low. If I got into a position where he had a clear shot at my hand or face, I’d be in trouble.

  A couple more kicks battled him back. I had strong legs and I was fast. My speed hadn’t deserted me at least. But Costas had a couple of years on me and he looked fresh and well-rested. Every move I made he countered easily, making me think he was biding his time. I tried to up the stakes and he pretended to let me lead. He could afford to wait me out.

  I wasn’t stupid. I could tell I was outgunned. Getting in the ring tonight with this guy had been a huge, potentially deadly mistake.

  I had nothing to lose…literally. He had everything to prove.

  Near the end of the first round he began demonstrating that fact on my jaw, precisely where Mia had given me her little love tap earlier in the week. Then he started kicking my ribs, alternating that with a couple of jabs near my right eye. I had a hard head, but I couldn’t block enough of his hits. He seemed to be everywhere at once. My back kept spasming, and I was having trouble compensating for the ridiculously athletic combinations he kept pulling off. The guy kicked higher than a fucking cheerleader. Every time his foot collided with my ribs I swore they’d shatter.

  Even so, I gave back almost as good as I got, avoiding the illegal strikes that Costas had no problem dishing out. I was moving through mud. My kicks and punches weren’t having any effect. Either he was a fucking ninja or I was losing ground, quickly.

  He knocked me back and I stumbled, going down hard. I could hear the crowd screaming, aghast that I was on my knees so soon. I rarely even fell. Now here I was, sweat stinging my eyes and my sore hand, my jaw contracting with pain so severe that I almost wished he’d knock me out to end it.

  Almost done. Let it fucking be done.

  My spine hit the canvas. I tried to scissor my legs to get leverage to pull him down with me long enough to switch our positions, but I couldn’t move.

  Game over.

  My eyelids fluttered, railing against the oblivion trying to claim me. I struggled for clarity, latching on to the only thing that could sustain me through the punishing blows.

  Mia had wanted to fight me because Fox Knox was the guy to beat. What a joke. But if I went out like this, even that small use she had for me would be gone. And that thought was the fuel I used to drag my shoulder off the mat.

  Mia. Always fucking Mia. But I knew I wouldn’t manage the feat twice.

  Somehow I made it to my corner. A strong arm banded around my back, propping me up. And I needed the help, since my spine had apparently turned to liquid when I wasn’t looking.

  “Goddammit, Fox, you can’t do this. You’re hurt. You can’t go out there again.” Slater sounded almost frantic against my ear, though I could barely hear him through my wheezy pants. Was that really me? I sounded like an aging diesel engine about to cough out a few miles from the station.

  My head lolled to the side and a montage of images scrolled through my mind. My dad hitting my mom with an open hand, the slaps ringing through the floorboards of my bedroom. Me lying in my bed with the pillow crammed over my head so I wouldn’t hear. Hearing anyway.

  The first time I’d walked into a MMA gym, strolling around like I owned the place. The first fight I’d won. The blowjob some anonymous ring girl had given me in the hallway after.

  Mia in my tub, her thighs closed around my hand, her mouth soft on mine. “Tray.”r />
  My eyes sprung open and I looked up, disoriented by the sights and sounds. Dozens of anonymous faces swarmed around me in my ringed trap. The hum of voices grew louder, as distracting as the drone of cicadas in the summer.

  I didn’t know these people. They’d come to watch me fail. Maybe even to die. They’d point and laugh, then they’d say nice things at my funeral and forget who I was in a year. If that.

  What the hell was I doing? Fighting wasn’t the point. Fighting for the right thing was.

  I’d taken too damn long to finally figure that out.

  “Fox.” Slater tugged out my mouth guard and shoved an opened bottle to my lips. My tongue was so dry that I moaned at the first drop of water. “Drink, you bastard.”

  I finished one bottle and immediately demanded more. Slater obliged me and waited until I’d finished before speaking near my ear again. “Why are you doing this? You’re going to end up seriously injured. This doesn’t even matter to you that much.”

  The smile I tried to give him cracked my cheeks and set off a wicked throb in my jaw. “What…does?” I reached for another water out of the cooler and he brushed me off, gripping my chin in tense fingers and staring hard.

  It’d really fucking blow if my buddy’s hard green eyes were the last I ever saw.

  “Do you want to die? Is that what this is? Forget playing chicken in the ’Vette. Just wait until Costas cracks open your skull. More of you would be left in whole pieces in a damn street race.”

  I patted his head as if he were a dotty grandfather. “Don’t worry ’bout me, surfer boy.”

  “Fox, dammit—”

  I popped in my spare mouth guard and stumbled away from the ropes, ostensibly toward the center of the ring. The match was about to start and hot pants girl was fellating her words as she shouted them in the general direction of the crowd. Raucous cheers accompanied them. “The Eye Of The Tiger” began to play, a song that normally made me grin. Unlike Rocky, I was in my prime. Failure wasn’t an option.

  Pushing all the noise out of my head, I focused on the present. All that mattered was here and now. Even in my exhaustion, my training came to the fore. I took deep, even breaths and centered my mind, forcing out the negativity.

  You want to hand him the bout, fella? Then keep winning it for him in your head. You’re all you’ve got.

  With Timmins’ voice playing on a constant loop in my head, I took my usual stance and waited for the ref to start the round. Across from me Costas was sneering and prancing, victory clear in his eyes. He’d only have to land a few good blows and the match would be over.

  My gaze drifted from his face to the crowd, searching for something I could hold close to get me through. A fan, a smile, a sign of support. Then I saw her, a hood shielding her face, brown leather dwarfing her shoulders. My coat. My girl.

  Mia.

  Costas swaggered forward before I could recover from the shock. He landed a single staggering blow—one fucking hit, goddammit—and bones crunched as my head snapped back. My bones. Blood gushed out of my nose, obscuring the horrified woman who’d somehow pushed her way to the front and now clung to the ropes, shouting my name. She begged me not to fall, and for a few seconds, I believed I’d remain upright from sheer will alone.

  I swayed on my feet, my vision narrowing until she became my whole world. Then everything went black.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Mia

  I was caught in a nightmare.

  It had started when Tray fell to the mat, blood fountaining out of his nose with such pressure that I was sure an artery had been hit. I launched myself into the ring before the fight had even been called and somehow ended up on Costas’s back with my hands in his hair. My nails scored his skin and he howled in shock and pain, which made me happy for one shining instant until they pulled me off him and I remembered the carnage that had propelled me toward him in the first place.

  Tray. On the floor, bleeding. Unconscious.

  I slapped aside the hands that attempted to hold me back and crawled toward him through his blood, cold tears tracking down my cheeks. Every time I blinked, Darren’s face superimposed over Tray’s, flashing on and off like a macabre stop light. Even with all my fights, I hadn’t seen this much blood since it had stained my hands. But I didn’t let the memories of Darren slow me down. Tray needed me. I’d have plenty of time to go crazy later.

  Sucking in a breath, I knelt next to his head. I was shaking so hard I feared touching him might cause him additional injury. So I bent to press my cheek to his and cupped my hand over his heart—still beating, thank God—and prayed he could feel my presence. My tears ran into his blood and when I backed away to let the EMTs do their job, both smeared my face. A sick, disgusting kind of war paint.

  I’d caused this, every damn bit of it.

  What happened to Tray was my fault. I’d caused him to break that glass in frustration. I’d punched his jaw. Somehow I’d even compelled him to look at me in the crowd, not knowing that one moment of distraction would be enough to take him out.

  He was so strong, so vital. His silence and stillness were unnatural in every way. Rage and terror burned in my eyes and throat, finally drying to a pitiful dust that singed. I ached to switch places with him so badly that my lungs quaked around the silent plea.

  That should be me bleeding out on a stained mat. Not him. Never him.

  Eventually they loaded Tray in the ambulance. His trainer ignored me and gave the EMTs brisk instructions before hopping in the back at Tray’s side. I wasn’t allowed to go, because I wasn’t family. Neither was Timmins, to the best of my knowledge, but he got to go and I didn’t.

  I’d have to find another way.

  Numbly, I walked out of the building and across the sidewalk to where the cabs should be. Snow clung to my lips, and the subdued voices that spilled out of the warehouse barely intruded into my consciousness. Blood smeared my hands and face, but I wasn’t going to wash anytime soon. I couldn’t bear to rinse any part of him away.

  Heavy footsteps pounded up behind me, too close for comfort. Normally I would’ve whirled and prepared for a confrontation.

  Tonight I’d just hand over my wallet and cell phone. I no longer cared.

  “Hey.”

  I kept walking, shoulders hunched. Where the hell were the cabs? The hospital was too far away to walk. Carly had a license, but we didn’t have a car.

  Go get Tray’s Corvette out of storage.

  A high-pitched laugh burst from my lips, puffing into the cold air. The footsteps behind me came to a halt.

  “Hey. Are you Mia?”

  That brought me up short. I turned warily and glimpsed a tall guy in bike shorts and a hoodie with shaggy brown hair and furious eyes. I had no idea of their color in the darkness, but I could tell from his squint he was pissed. Or it could’ve been the way he stood with his fists balled and his hips thrust out, daring me to challenge him. Hoping I would.

  I’d seen him in Tray’s corner. He must be his friend. That didn’t mean he wasn’t my foe.

  “Who are you?” I returned, matching his stance.

  He didn’t answer for a few seconds. “I’m Slater. Tray’s best friend. Are you Mia?”

  So Tray had mentioned me. Hope quivered in my chest before the glow from a streetlight highlighted the brutal set of Slater’s jaw. He didn’t like me.

  Yeah, well, get in line. I wasn’t too thrilled with myself.

  “Yes.” Rather than elaborate, I turned and continued walking up the street, away from the crowds and the questions and the judgment. I needed to get to Tray.

  “Where are you going?”

  Was this guy stupid? “To the hospital.” I continued walking.

  “You think you have any fucking right to be there?”

  I came to a halt. No, I didn’t have any right. Luckily Brooklyn Presbyterian didn’t segregate by moral code so I’d still be able to drag my tarnished ass through the white glass gates.

  But I also didn’t o
we him a response. He’d know I was at the hospital when he saw me there. If he chose to waste valuable emotional energy on poking at me, that was his choice. I wasn’t making the same one.

  “What the fuck? Don’t you speak?”

  When I started walking again—without speaking—the footsteps behind me sped up in a manner meant to intimidate. Poor guy didn’t realize I didn’t intimidate easily.

  I spun around and caught him off-guard, raising my arm near his face. He was taller than me, but not by much. “Get the hell away from me. I’m not your problem.”

  His exhales cut through the taut, cold air between us. I’d barely breathed for the last half hour. His glacial expression warmed, just a fraction. “You really did punch him.”

  “What?”

  “You punched Tray in the jaw. I didn’t believe it. He was still bruised all to shit tonight.”

  My eyes stung. Great, more tears. I couldn’t break down here. Not in front of this stranger.

  Not in front of anyone who wasn’t Carly…or Tray. The realization that somewhere along the line he’d risen in status in my head made me tighten the jacket around me from my sudden chill. His jacket. It was wet. Maybe from snow—

  I glanced down. Dark patches marred the front. Confused, I brought my fingers to them, a sob escaping at the blood that dampened my hand. God. I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t go back to another hospital, even for him. Not again.

  “Mia?”

  Slater’s voice had gentled and that made me angriest of all. I didn’t deserve his kindness. He should hate me, just like Tray.

  I pulled off the coat with the utmost care. Then I pushed it into Slater’s arms and gazed up into his baffled face. “You need to get this dry cleaned. Now. Please. I’ll pay whatever it costs.”

  He wasn’t moving. “It’s eleven o’clock.”

  “I don’t care. There has to be a twenty-four hour place around here somewhere. Whatever it costs. Goddammit, please.” Another sob escaped as I shoved his chest. “I have to go be with him. I can’t lose this jacket.”