Fighting for Control (Against the Cage Book 3) (7 page)

“Where did you learn to fight?”

“The schoolyard. I got picked on a lot when I was a kid.”

“Really? I find that hard to believe. You’re, like . . . huge.”

He shrugged. “Late bloomer.”

“How did you get into the CFA?”

“Well . . . I was at this Halloween party at some bar. Not by choice,” he added. “And Coach’s camp was there. A fight broke out between two of the guys—Disco and Easton. I don’t know, I think it was over some prostitute and a rubber chicken or something. Anyway, it turned into a huge brawl. Someone hit me, and before I knew it, I was throwing down with the rest of them. It was chaos. I got mistaken for one of the fighters and was hauled off to jail with ’em. Coach bailed us all out, heard I held my own in the fight, and invited me to come down to the gym. He was looking for a heavyweight to sign, and I’ve been with him ever since.”

She laughed. Not the most professional response, but if that story were true, it was just about the most original induction into MMA she’d ever heard of.

“Why MMA?”

He shrugged. “Why not? Some fighters do it for fame and glory—like they’ve got something to prove. Others do it because they love the sport. It’s a blending of timeless arts and tradition.”

He was deflecting again. But this time she pushed a little harder. “Why do
you
do it, Nikko? Why do
you
fight?”

His gunmetal gray eyes darted up and locked on her. The intensity behind them was like liquid silver flooding her veins. She could feel the heat all the way to her toes as he stared at her for the longest time, as if trying to decide whether or not to respond. The more time she spent with Nikko, the more she realized he was very deliberate with what he said. He didn’t speak hastily, which was unusual for someone dealing with emotional trauma. No, the fight last weekend at the publicity party was definitely not Nikko’s norm. Something must have happened that night to make him snap. But what? She doubted he would tell her if she asked. That would be too easy. He was going to make her work for it.

Most people suffering from PTSD were impulsive and reactionary, but nothing about Nikko fit that MO, except maybe that night on the flight to Vegas. Unbidden, the memory of them in the bathroom flashed through her mind—his hot mouth against her throat, her legs wrapped tightly around his hips as he pinned her between his hard, muscled body and the door—

“What are you thinking about?”

His question was like a bucket of ice water, ripping her back into reality. Her already-overheated skin burned hotter from the fire of embarrassment. This was crazy. She was sitting here fantasizing about Jim’s patient. How horribly unprofessional . . .

“What? Nothing . . .” she stammered, wondering if she sounded as guilty as she felt. “I’m waiting for you to answer my question,” she finished primly, turning the focus of conversation back on him, which was exactly where it should be. But he wasn’t so easily manipulated.

“How do you expect me to trust you with my secrets if you’re going to sit there and lie to me?”

There was no anger in his voice—no emotion at all, actually—which sent a shiver of goose bumps up her arms. How could he sit there and remain so unaffected?

“I’m not ly—”

But before she could get the denial past her lips, he cut her off. “You forget that I’ve seen that look in your eyes before, Clover. That hot flush in your cheeks . . . Admit it, you were thinking about it.”

“Thinking about what?” Maybe playing dumb wasn’t the smartest move here. She had a master’s degree in psychology, for crissake. Surely she could come up with something a little more clever than feigning ignorance. And she should have known Nikko wouldn’t let her get away with it. He didn’t exactly strike her as the type to shy away from confrontation or an uncomfortable conversation.

Looking at her boldly and unapologetically, his voice held all the emotion of a rock when he said, “The same thing I’ve been thinking about every fucking day since I stepped off that plane.”

His words slammed into her with the force of a freight train. Her heart rioted inside her chest, her breath freezing in her lungs.
He did not just go there
. . . Oh, but he did. Before she could respond—and honestly, she had no idea what the hell she was going to say—Pen’s voice came over the intercom. “Dr. Summers, your next appointment is here. Should I let him in?”

Vi glanced at the clock hanging on the wall. Shit, where had the time gone? Nikko’s appointment should have ended almost an hour ago. She’d worked right through her lunch. She reached for the intercom button to tell Pen she needed another minute. Pen obviously didn’t know Nikko was still in the office with her.
A patient,
she corrected herself—she was still with Jim’s patient.

“Just a minute, Penelope.”

As she spoke into the small silver box, Nikko scooted his chair away from her desk and stood. She tried not to notice how large he was, or how a man his size could move with such lithe grace as he headed toward the door. She wanted to stop him, to say . . . something, but the words caught in her throat. He needed to leave; even if she didn’t have another patient waiting for her, it was time for Mr. Del Toro to go.

He reached for the door and paused. Then, seeming to decide on something, he looked back at her. Something flashed in his eyes, but it was gone before she could interpret it. “My sanity,” he said simply.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s what I fight for.”

And with that parting answer, Nikko walked out the door.

T
he following hour dragged at a snail’s pace. Repeatedly, Vi had to pull her focus back to her patient. Thankfully, Bob Miller didn’t seem to notice that her mind was somewhere else. Self-absorbed in his own OCD, he was content to talk the hour away, just happy to have someone listening to him prattle on. But try as she might to remain on task, she couldn’t help revisiting the significance of Nikko’s parting statement.

It had been her first breakthrough with him, the first crack in his steel-plated armor, and his progress wasn’t lost on her. Nor could she deny the victory felt more personal than it should. Mistake number one: becoming emotionally invested in a patient. Mistake number two: fantasizing about having sex with said patient—even if he hadn’t been her patient at the time. She’d been nothing more than a heartbroken woman trying to start a new life, and he’d been nothing more than a hot stranger on a plane.

What were the chances karma would bring them back together again? Knowing her luck?—pretty damn good. It was just like that bitch to tempt her to risk everything she believed in and walk down the dark, tangled road that was Nikko Del Toro. She could rationalize this shit all day long. If she hadn’t already met him . . . If the sex hadn’t been so mind-blowingly incredible . . . Bottom line, the moment the CFA hired her to become Nikko’s therapist, he became off-limits, and this . . . attraction was wrong. Black was black and white was white. Unfortunately, Nikko’s world was nothing but gray.

“—don’t know. Or do you think I’m just being crazy?”

What?
Knowing Bob, the answer was most assuredly yes. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t heard the question.

“Bob,” she gently scolded, wracking her brain as she tried to remember what he’d just said. “You know we don’t say the
C
word here.”

“I know, but I can’t stop thinking about her.”

If that was the bar for crazy, then she was in trouble. Since the moment Nikko walked into her office, she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him. Hell, if she was being honest, she hadn’t stopped thinking about the man since he’d rocked her world in the bathroom of a freaking 747.

“Does she know how you feel about her? This woman?”

“Oh, no . . . I couldn’t tell her.”

“Why not?”

His gaze darted nervously to the floor. “What if she doesn’t feel the same way? I’m not sure how I’d handle that kind of rejection.” There was something in Bob’s eyes that put Vi on notice. Bob had a lot of issues. Along with OCD, he also struggled with addiction, rage, and impulse control.

Whoever had caught this guy’s attention would be wise to be careful. A man like this would easily misinterpret nice and polite for something more. He read into everything. She’d been treating him since she’d moved here, and in the beginning she’d had to set clear limits with him. She was good at boundary setting. She did it all the time, so why was she having such a hard time doing it with Nikko?

“Well . . . does this woman meet the ‘acceptable to date’ criteria we’ve discussed?” They had developed the checklist to help give him guidelines with which to self-govern. Perhaps she should take her own advice, because there was a sexy MMA fighter who would definitely not make the cut.

Before Bob could answer, the timer dinged, marking that their session was up. “I should go,” he said abruptly, jumping up from his chair so fast the thing scooted back. Shit . . . Well, there was her answer—nope. Vi scribbled a note in Bob’s file reminding her to press him about the identity of the woman at their next session. Love made sane people do crazy things, and lust was even more dangerous. She should know, because she was having one hell of a time not looking forward to seeing Nikko at his next appointment.

She was writing in Bob’s file when a knock sounded on her door. “Come in,” she called, not bothering to look up from her desk.

“Za’s. I have your lunch, ma’am.”

Vi glanced up. “What lunch?”

“The lunch you ordered?” he said, holding up the paper bag and checking the address. “Chicken Parmesan on a ciabatta roll.”

It was her favorite, but Vi hadn’t ordered it. Oh, well, Pen probably realized she hadn’t eaten when she’d seen Nikko leave and ordered her lunch. “Come on in.” Vi grabbed her purse from under the desk and began digging for her wallet.

“I don’t need any money, ma’am. The bill has already been covered.”

Really? “Tip, too?”

He nodded.

Wow, Pen must be in a generous mood. Now she felt even worse for snapping at her this morning. The delivery guy handed her the sack and left. Vi reached across the desk and pressed the intercom. “Thanks for lunch, Pen. You’re the best.”

“What lunch? I thought you ordered that.”

Vi’s pulse spiked, a niggling of unease working its way up her spine. If Pen didn’t order this, then who in the hell did? And more importantly, how did they know chicken parmesan on a ciabatta roll was her favorite lunch from Za’s?

She had her answer when she opened the sack and pulled out the Styrofoam container. Lying on top of the package was a napkin with black ink scribbled on it.

Clover,

Sorry you missed your lunch.

“They’re stonewalling me.”

“What?”

“Camp Pendleton.” Pen handed her Nikko’s release of information. “They won’t give me Nikko’s military records.”

“That doesn’t make sense. Why would they do that?”

“I don’t know. If you want to try to get them, be my guest.” She dropped into the chair across from Vi. “I give up.”

“You can’t give up. That’s your job.”

Pen reached over to her desk and handed her the receiver. “Go ahead, call them. Their number’s on the second page I gave you.”

Really? This was ridiculous. How hard could it be to get someone’s military records? Exhaling an exasperated sigh, Vi took the phone from Pen’s hand and dialed the number. After a few rings a friendly voice answered, “Camp Pendleton records department.”

“Good afternoon. This is Dr. Violet Summers. My secretary called earlier requesting the military records of an ex-officer who is now under my care. Who do I need to speak with to get those sent to my office?”

“Just a moment . . .”

There were a series of clicks and then silence. Did they just hang up on her? “Hello?”
Crap
. . . “Hello?”

“Dr. Summers?” The deep voice on the other end of the phone startled her. “This is Lieutenant Williams. How can I help you?”

“Yes, thank you for taking my call. My secretary has faxed your records department a release of information for Sergeant Nikko Del Toro.”

Without missing a beat he replied, “I’m sorry, I can’t help you. We have no record of the officer you’re inquiring about. There must be some mistake.”

Her eyes shot to Pen, who was watching her with a smug
See, I told you so
grin. There was no mistake. The psychologist Nikko had seen for clearance to join the CFA had been clear and detailed in his notes. It was all in Nikko’s file.

“There is no mistake. He was stationed at Camp Pendleton. How can you have no record of one of your officers?” she pressed. “He was in the Marine MARSOC division, honorably discharged from active duty after an injury and advised to begin psychological treatment for PTSD. Seems someone should have a record of that somewhere.”

“Listen, Dr. Summers, do you have any idea how many Marines come through this camp? Do you honestly expect me to remember one from two years ago?” His voice was sharp with impatience.

“I never told you it was two years ago, Lieutenant Williams. It seems you remember my soldier far better than you’re letting on. Why are you refusing to share his records with me? What are you hiding?”

“I’m not hiding anything, Dr. Summers. Nor do I owe you any explanations. If you have any further concerns, I suggest you take them up with the Pentagon. We’re done here.”

Before she could come back with a rebuttal, the line went dead.
Well, shit
. . . That hadn’t gone how she was expecting it to. Seems the remark Nikko made when he’d signed that release had certainly come to fruition. Waste of time indeed. He’d known this was going to happen. But how? And why? What was he hiding? What was the military hiding?

If Lieutenant Williams’s abrasive attitude was meant to dissuade her, he’d be sorely disappointed. His evasiveness and obvious lies were only making the puzzle that was Nikko Del Toro more interesting, and one she was determined to solve.