by Quinn, Cari
“It’s a good skill to have.” He paused. “I saw the schedule at work. You’re off Friday night. Why don’t we—”
“I have a fight Friday night,” I interrupted, already prepared for him to stop again. Which, of course, he did right on cue. “Do you have some sort of walking disorder? One foot in front of the other. It’s real simple.”
“Where?” he demanded.
I fidgeted, not liking the gleam in his eye. He moved aside to let a couple of guys enter the bar we’d just passed, then got all up in my face again. “In Bayside.”
“Why the fuck are you fighting all the way over in Queens?”
“Because I was invited to, and I could use the cash, okay?” I didn’t like his tone and showed him my displeasure by giving him a hard shove in the gut. “Not all of us have ’Vettes.”
He grunted, which gave me momentary satisfaction. “Men don’t make hardly anything fighting, unless you fight so dirty that you draw crowds. Like Costas.” Since I happened to know his next match was with Costas, I didn’t comment. “Or unless you win practically every match and get in the promoters’ spotlight. It can’t be much different with women.”
“Was there a question in there somewhere?”
“You win a lot.”
“I’m no Fox Knox.” I smirked. “But I get by.”
His face turned stony. “Who?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes. And that was a question, so stop stalling.”
“Caliente Cross. She’s a weight class above me, been in the game a long time. If I beat her, I’ll collect the most money I have yet.” I jutted out my chin. “Until I fight you.”
He glossed right over that. “What do you weigh? A buck twenty?”
I hadn’t even weighed one-twenty in school when I’d actually had a steady food intake. In the dating world, a man overestimating your weight was cause for despair and an extra pint of Ben & Jerry’s. In the fighting one, it was a badge of pride. “You know, I’m starting to think that bath and massage isn’t worth it.”
Those were the magic words to get his feet in gear. But they didn’t close his mouth. “Kizzy’s in your corner?”
“Yes. She’s my trainer.”
“And that Jamison dude helps out?”
“When I need someone other than Kizzy. Which isn’t often,” I added, vaguely annoyed.
“I have someone I want you to meet.” He walked faster, probably anticipating the insult volley about to hit him square in the back of the head. “He trains me at The Cage. His name is Timmins, and I’m not sure he’ll take you on, but I think—”
“Full stop. You want me to work with your trainer?”
“I said I want you to meet him.”
“Damn, it’s true.” I slowly shook my head. “I’ve heard rumors that sometimes sleeping with a guy makes them go batshit and think they own your vagina.”
Instead of leering or sneering or any of the other possessive, egotistical expressions I would’ve predicted, his eyes shuttered. “Were you were a virgin?” he asked softly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize. I thought maybe…”
I hated the concern in his voice. “No,” I snapped, crossing my arms and looking down the street. We’d finally reached his brownstone. This had been the longest walk in history. “I wasn’t a virgin. Far from it.” With effort, I dragged my gaze back to his. A small point of pride. “So don’t worry your pretty little head about that.”
“But—”
“Let’s get some stuff straight, okay? I fucked you. I liked it a lot. If I were in the market for more of the same, you’d be the first guy I would call. I’m not. I’m also not looking for a boyfriend. I’ve never needed one before, and I damn sure don’t now. So save the chivalry for someone who can appreciate it, all right?”
He remained silent for what felt like forever. Then he nodded and jerked his chin at his place. “Let’s go take a bath.”
Fifteen
She always chose the right move to disarm her opponent. Why use a simple jab to the chin when you could employ a flying kick to the groin? She had flawless execution and excellent timing, but I made my living being fast on my feet.
She didn’t want a boyfriend. Had I volunteered? No.
I had volunteered to wash her back, though. And that would be happening. Soon.
I tossed my keys on the table near the front door and kicked off my shoes and wet socks. My toes had shriveled up and frozen during the endless walk from the bar. “Want a beer?” I headed for the kitchen without checking to see if she followed.
Mia wasn’t the only one who could be an asshole.
When she finally entered the kitchen in her socked feet, I was leaning against the counter, a Molson tipped back and sliding like cold liquid gold down my throat. I didn’t ask again if she wanted a beer. She was so damn independent, she could get it herself.
She eventually grabbed one and popped the top with a little gadget she had on her key ring. She’d sucked down half the bottle before I summoned enough control to stop staring. Watching her throat move and getting hard wasn’t helping my case for indifference.
But Jesus, did she have to be wearing such a snug top? The light over the stove offered just enough illumination to show her nipples beading under her shirt. They were way perkier than their owner, that was for sure.
“Want a tour?” I jerked my elbow behind me. “I’ll give you the Cliff’s Notes, since I know you’re not concerned with things like basic human interaction. This is the kitchen. I eat takeout here. Lately, I’m partial to salami subs, which have way too many sulfites but I don’t really care.”
“Who’s the bowl for?”
Following her gaze to the blue bowl next to the microwave cart, I smiled in spite of myself. “Veyron, my puppy. He’s at the groomer’s overnight tonight.”
“You send your dog on overnight trips to the groomer?”
“She’s a friend, and our dogs play together.”
“I’m sure she is.”
Ignoring her snippy tone, I rubbed condensation off my bottle. “She gives Veyron the works while he’s there for his overnight play dates. It’s good for him to have friends. Good for everyone to have friends,” I added as she turned away.
She could dish with the best of ’em. As for taking, forget it.
“Moving on.” I gestured. “The next room over is the formal dining room. Since I don’t entertain, the layer of dust on the table is thick enough to write messages in. I do that sometimes when I get bored. Then there’s—”
“Who do you write them to? The messages, I mean.”
“Myself mostly.” I shrugged and guzzled more beer. I’d need another soon. “That’s where I keep my grocery list.”
“Salami?”
“And eggs. And bacon. And beer.” My mouth tipped up and I saluted her with my bottle. “God’s trifecta of goodness.”
“Some training diet.”
“You’d be surprised, but there’s more to my life than what happens in the cage.”
“So it’s true.” She nodded like an all-knowing Yoda. “You’re getting ready to hang it up.”
“You shouldn’t listen to rumors. You can get nasty diseases that way.”
A hollow expression overtook her face. She turned into a ghost, right in front of me. Just like what had happened outside, when she’d announced she wasn’t a virgin. Looking into the tunnels of her eyes physically hurt. I would’ve sworn they had no bottom. They’d become endless, empty holes.
“What do you do in the living room?” Her voice seemed to echo.
I didn’t know what I’d done to screw up her equilibrium, but I wanted it back. Though it cost me, I struggled to sound relaxed. “Sleep on the couch. Read the funny papers. Watch the big screen.”
“Game tape?”
Admitting it would mean I’d take more shit, but I couldn’t lie to her. “No.”
She nodded, as if she’d already known the answer. “Football?”
“No.”
“Then?”
“Talk shows.” For once, I was glad to see her sneer. The ghost had disappeared…for now. “The really trashy kind, where they do paternity tests and throw chairs and all that.”
She shook her head like I was a dimwitted kid who’d landed on his skull for the tenth time. “Don’t you get enough of that at the gym?”
“I’ve never had anyone perform a paternity test on me at the gym.”
“How about outside of it?”
I couldn’t help moving closer, so my hips swayed against hers and our bottles clinked. “Is that your way of asking how many women I’ve had in my bedroom?” I brushed my lips over her cheek and smiled at her ragged inhale. She couldn’t deny I affected her, as much as she wanted to. “Or bathroom?”
“Irrelevant information.”
I tugged down the zipper on the leather jacket, the sound surprisingly harsh in the stillness. Her breath picked up and her gaze shot to mine. She didn’t look frightened from my nearness, but judging from recent events, it was only a matter of time.
And that made me back up and take another slug of my drink. “Still want that bath?” I asked as mildly as possible considering the growing situation in my jeans.
What was it about her? I’d had more control at thirteen than I did in her presence.
She shrugged and finished her beer in uneven gulps. “Yeah.” She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. “It’ll have to be quick. I have to be at the gym at eight tomorrow.”
“And I have work.” I took her empty bottle and set it next to mine on the counter. “We’ll manage.”
I led the way down the hall to the bathroom. Mice seemed loud and disruptive in comparison to Mia, so I couldn’t tell if she was actually behind me and I wasn’t about to look. Once I reached the bathroom, I flipped on the light, then pulled my hoodie over my head and tossed it aside. My throw went wide and the sweatshirt nearly landed in the tub.
Nervous? Who, me? Never. I was suave and sophisticated—at least until I glimpsed Mia’s face in the glass. Any practiced moves I had fell away with one glance into her fathomless eyes. As her tongue slicked over her cracked lower lip, I had to brace my fist on the counter to keep from putting a restraining hand on my cock.
She was devouring me like she’d never seen a man’s torso before. And I was still wearing my T-shirt.
I swallowed and reached behind my head to grasp my shirt. “Can I?”
She shrugged. “Sure. You can’t bathe in your clothes.”
That was up for debate. I didn’t want her to be afraid. If that meant sitting in a tub with my jeans on, I’d do it.
What I’d do for this girl was already starting to scare the hell out of me.
I yanked off my shirt and let it fly before turning to her and resting my hands on the counter behind me, as casual could be. Her gaze drank me in, flitting from my shoulders to my pecs to my torso. Lingering on the trail of hair from my navel downward, hidden by the jeans I’d only unbuttoned in the kitchen.
“You don’t shave your chest?”
“No. I’m a fucking guy. Not some Ken doll impersonator.” I glanced down. “Not that I have much chest hair to speak of.”
“You have enough.” She stepped forward and pursed her lips, her gaze still firmly below my neck. “You have a lot of scars too.”
“Does that surprise you?”
“A little. You win so much.”
Smiling was harder than I expected as I drew my finger down her cheek. The softness of her skin always astounded me. Somehow I expected it to crackle like the barrier that guarded her heart. “A win’s only as good as the battle scars you earn during the fight, baby.”
“I’ve watched some of your matches, but I couldn’t ever make out your tats.” She traced her fingertips over the Japanese symbols that stretched across my abdomen. “What does it say?”
“Loosely translated, it means the samurai is the best man in the world, and the cherry blossom is the best flower.” When she stepped back, I felt the need to explain. “I went to Washington on a class trip in high school when all the cherry blossoms were in bloom. I had a thing for this chick, and I don’t know, I guess I was—” I broke off as she unzipped her jeans and shoved them over her hips. “Uh, okay. Suppose we’re done talking then.”
She pushed the denim down and stuck out her right hip. “Look.”
I looked. Hell, I couldn’t stop looking. The pale pink and brown tattoo on her thigh carved its way into my brain so deeply that I’d never forget it.
My fingers curled around the cool granite countertop that didn’t have anything on my erection. One glance at her smooth thigh and I probably could’ve broken out the window with the damn thing. “Fucking cherry blossoms.”
“They were my mom’s favorite,” she said, her tone too wistful to miss even for a guy with a crowbar for a dick.
“Were?”
“She died when I was eleven. Brain aneurysm.” She started to tug up her jeans.
I stopped her with a hand on her wrist. “Wait. I saw a dirty spot.” I lifted my thumb to my mouth and wet it, then pressed it in a widening circle high on her inner thigh. “Oops. Must’ve been a freckle.”
“What am I doing here with you, Tray?”
There it was again, my Kryptonite. My name said in her raspy voice made up for all kinds of sins, including the ones she’d committed deliberately to hurt me.
How she could hurt me so soon was a question I didn’t care to answer.
I stepped closer and enfolded my hands over hers on her waistband. As tall as she was for a woman, she had a small frame. But she could deliver a punch. In her case, delicacy and strength came in an incredible package.
“Right now, I’m about to give you a bath and a massage.” I kept my expression cool and clear of any emotion. If I gave her even the slightest hint of the storm brewing inside me, she’d run so fast I’d choke on the fumes. “I don’t have to get undressed. This is about you.”
She hesitated for a minute. Two. Then she threw back her shoulders and let the jeans fall to her feet. She stepped out of them and tossed them carelessly on the back of the toilet. Naked from the waist down, she didn’t pause for my perusal. She yanked off her work shirt and her plain cotton black bra with the economy of movement most fighters possessed.
Most fighters, however, didn’t have breasts like those.
Small and pale, they were capped with pink nipples that hardened under my stare. They made her seem vulnerable, especially in contrast with the sharp definition in her arms, torso, and thighs.
Shell pink nipples. Christ.
With the darkness of her hair and eyes, I hadn’t expected pink. I definitely hadn’t expected the rosy flush between her legs that I’d put there, partially hidden by the smattering of dark, wispy curls. I’d been rough with her, and judging from the state of her body already, I deserved to be shot.
She was bruised in too many places. Her body was a tapestry of fading wounds and scars, yet she also had patches of smooth, unblemished skin without even a freckle to mar the perfection.
I’d thought her broken when I saw her face the first time, and now all I could see was the strength forged from those cracks and breaks.
“Turn around,” I said gruffly, incapable of hiding my reaction.
It wasn’t just desire. That was manageable. She impressed the holy fuck out of me. I barely knew her, and I already admired her more than anyone else I’d ever met. I wanted to bow down at her feet, and she wanted me to get in a ring and hurt her.
And then she expected me to walk away.
She did as I asked. Her hair slicked down her spine in a straight shot, lacking any curl whatsoever. It skimmed the small of her back, drawing my attention to her heart-shaped ass. Also small. Also perfect.
Her vulnerability to me at that moment stole my breath. Seeing all the undamaged parts of her reminded me how easily I could bring her pain.
How easily I already had.
The thickness of her
hair didn’t hide the abrasions on her back caused by a brick wall and a thoughtless jerk who’d only cared about his own orgasm. I’d have to try to make up for my mistake now.
Swallowing hard, I opened the cupboard beneath the sink and dug around until I found what I was looking for. Once she turned back to face me, I held up the purple bottle with a grim smile. “Bubbles?”
Tentatively, she reached for the bottle, her eyes narrowed. “Grape-scented?” She popped the cap and sniffed. “You take bubble baths?”
I snorted out a laugh. “Hardly. My mom gave me that crap when I moved in.”
She smiled so quickly I wondered if I’d imagined it. “Moms do stuff like that.”
My throat closed around the questions I wanted to ask. What had her mom been like? What had made Mia like this? Who had tried to break her, and how had she found the courage to keep swinging?
And most of all, where could I get even an ounce of her strength?
I was afraid of the answers. Not for me, for her. I was scared of what I would do if I heard the name of the person—people—who had created this robotic fighter out of the beautiful woman beneath. I feared the lengths I would go to eradicate the individuals responsible. Harming them wouldn’t be enough.
I wanted to make them bleed.
She moved past me to start the bath. The tub was big enough for two people and had a bunch of jets. The glassed-in shower stall in the corner got a lot more action. In fact, I’d used the tub exactly twice since I’d moved in a year ago. Once, I’d been so sore after a fight, I filled it with ice and marinated like a day-old steak. Another time, I’d been feeling self-important and had gotten drunk off my ass on fancy champagne while I phone-sexed some chick. She’d talked me through an orgasm, and I hadn’t even touched my dick.
Guys could fake ’em too. At least on the phone.
I didn’t invite women to my apartment. I went to theirs or we went to hotels. There had been a few memorable encounters in the back hallway of the gym and at a club. A few other random places too. But never here. I liked my privacy, and I didn’t bring ring groupies home.