Raw (12 page)

We get a break.

I take my stool.

“Dude, you’re getting creamed out there,” Oz says.

“Really?
That
you’re awake for? Got something for my jaw?”

“Think not. Maybe.” He checks his materials and slaps something on. “There.”

This time, I block better. I’m braced for his force and catch a few hits, then start swinging. I open up my side when I hook, and he takes it.

I fall splat on the floor, winded.

The girls out in the arena scream his name. They quiet down when I stand. Sweat dripping down my forehead along with blood and a whole shit-ton of frustration.

Tate leans to me. “Your hook’s off.” Then he jabs and hooks and knocks me to the ground.

The announcer’s voice cuts through the speakers as the ringmaster raises his arm. “Ladies and gentlemen. Once again . . .
Riptide!
Riiiiiptiiiiiide! UNDEFEATED FOR THREE CONSECUTIVE YEARS. The most unstoppable beast this ring has ever seen. RIPTIDE!”

The crowd’s sudden, wild roar pulses in my eardrums. I plant my glove on the ground and come to my feet. The crowd quiets. Riptide lowers his arm, his grin fading.

Neither of us looks away from the other as we climb the ropes to get off the ring.

We head down the walkway, side by side, silent.

Oz is wide awake now—and he’s pissed. “Why the fuck are you giving my fighter pointers? You want him to beat you?” he demands.

Tate shoots me a look when he speaks. “I want him to try.”

“You can fucking count on it!” Oz replies.

Tate stops by his door and turns to face me, waiting for me to say something.

I don’t.

I just look him directly in the eye while our teams try to shuffle us into our rooms.

“You have something to say to me?” Tate asks.

“Not yet,” I say.

His team piles up on him to usher him inside. It takes Oz a lot more effort to move me.

“You’re the only fighter I’ve ever met who’s not intimidated by the current champion, Maverick, I swear . . .” He shakes his head in consternation as he pulls off my gloves.

I look at my fists, curl my fingers in slowly, then squeeze and release them.

It’s my first time in the ring with Tate, but it’s not going to be my last.

♥   ♥   ♥

I’M BACK IN
my hotel room an hour later, my body in a tub of ice. I’ve got an ice pack on my temple. Oz sewed up my cut and just dropped dead on my couch. I’m bouncing a tennis ball against the wall of the bathroom, catching and throwing it back. I used it to lay my back on and release any knots, but I just like the rhythmic sound of it now. Helps me think as I replay what Tate said.

I’m getting madder and madder, throwing the ball faster and harder.

Something to say to him?

I might have something to say to the asshole.

Hell, I have a lot to say.

I would prefer my fists did the talking, but those will have to wait for another day.

Catching the ball, I toss it into my duffel, then swing to my feet.

“Oz,” I call into the room, tightening a towel around my hips as I storm out of the bathroom. “Oz.” I nudge his prostrate form. “Where’s he staying?”

“Huh?”

“Motherfucking
Riptide
. Where’s he staying?”

He grumbles a hotel, and I shove my legs into my jeans, slip on a T-shirt, and head over there.

♥   ♥   ♥

THERE’S A CROWD
outside the Tates’ hotel. I shoulder my way past and through the revolving doors just as Tate and his wife step off the elevators. Gritting my teeth, I stalk across the hotel lobby. “Why are you giving me pointers?”

His brows lift. “Because you need them.”

I laugh mockingly. “I don’t need your help. Fight me. Privately, you and me.”

“I don’t fight puppies.”

He narrows his eyes when I stay in place and cut him a dark, unflinching look.

“Armor’s gym tomorrow. Five a.m. Be there,” he says.

He takes his wife by the elbow and leads her across the lobby when the elevator opens and feet shuffle out.

“Mavewick!” I hear.

My eyes fall down to a familiar little grin and there’s Racer, looking up at me. He’s dressed in tiny shorts and a Batman T-shirt and someone is holding his hand. A female hand with neatly trimmed, soft-pink nails. My chest feels tight, and I lift my gaze.

Reese.

And it dawns on me.

She is with them.

I look at her and search her face to see if she knows who I am.

She knows.

I fought with Tate tonight and he can’t not know. Everybody knows by now.

I can see wariness and concern in her eyes, concern for what, I don’t know.

It’s not concern about me. Can’t be.

She glances past my shoulder at Tate and his wife, and I realize, it’s concern about them knowing she
knows
me
.

Loss.

You can’t lose shit you don’t have.

But in my mind I had some sort of . . . attachment to looking for her every day. I feel like I just lost a fight I didn’t even know I fought.

And I lost it to Tate.

“Mavewick!” I hear again, and I feel a tap on my thigh.

I look down again. “Hey, little buddy.” I fist-bump him before I can catch myself. I look at Reese, and she’s amused and surprised seeing that. I edge my hand back. A tight black top covers her upper body, and dark-wash jeans cover her legs. It’s hard to breathe right.

There’s something about this girl. What the fuck is it about this girl? I can smell her, a sweet flower scent, and feel her. She’s under my skin. I’m boiling in jealousy that she’s with Tate. Jealous she’s living with him, holding the hand of his kid. Rooting for him.

Jesus, how come my body always knows when she’s in my space?

Her purse slides down her shoulder and I impulsively grab it.

“Oh, it’s fine,” she flusters.

I sling it over my shoulder reluctantly and signal for her to walk past me. “After you.”

“Mavewick, come celebwate.”

“Can’t, buddy.”

I watch her as they walk next to me.

Every inch of my body is beat-up but the pain is gone now. The pain is gone except the new one in my crotch.

I’m attracted to her round little face, her heart-shaped mouth, her firm little legs, the softness she has going on in all the right places. The shade of blue in her eyes. She calls to me on the most primitive level. She’s in my fucking veins. This girl.

I grab her waist and keep her close to me as we shuffle out into the crowd.

Her breasts press into my chest. I inhale for control, but my mind’s fucking running a thousand miles an hour. The blood rushes south. Impossible to get enough blood supply to my brain. Her hard little nipples press against the flat of my chest. It’s impossible to stop thinking of those firm, round breasts and how great they feel. I’m getting all lathered up just thinking of getting my hands on them, squeezing and teasing them with my fingers, tasting them. I’m betting her nipples are as pink as her lips, and I want to softly smother them with my mouth and suck on the tips until my jaw hurts.

My dick is in pain and my balls hurt big time. The fact that she smells great and that I seem to lately be replaying our conversations in my head doesn’t help.

The crowd clears and Racer starts running for his dad, who’s watching us narrowly. Reese starts after Racer, but I catch her wrist.

“Wait,” I softly command.

She looks down at my hand, and I force my fingers to uncurl and let the fuck go. My jaw aches when I clench it but I can’t loosen it up, not my jaw, not my fists at my sides, ready to crush something. I don’t know what frustrates me more. Who Reese is, or who I am.

I want to say something, but I can’t seem to know what. It’s Reese who speaks first.

“You’re not Parker the Terror’s son.”

Our eyes meet and hold. “No.”

“Your father is Scorpion.”

“Yes.”

She says nothing after that. As if there’s no more to say.

Reese

“W
hy did you let him bait you?” Brooke asks Remy.

We’re in the SUV on our way back to the hotel and the tension after Maverick hasn’t at all dissipated. Pete, Riley, and Brooke have all been sending Remy covert, confused glances, and I haven’t been able to get past the moment Maverick took my wrist and stared into my eyes, looking raw and frustrated.

Racer is asleep in his car seat. It seems that she’s finally asked what the team has been wondering. Everyone except me, because I’m drowning—drowning—in my own thoughts so much I cannot breathe. I’m just staring out the window at the Denver streets, wondering who sewed up the cut above his eye, which looked freshly open and swollen again.

And remembering what it felt like to have his strong arm around me in the park and lay my head on his chest and smell the soap on his shirt. Oh
god.

Remy just shoots her a smile with Racer’s same dimple, except he has two.

“He’s Scorpion’s spawn!”

He laughs softly and clenches his hand around the back of her neck. “He’s a puppy, Brooke. Oz is not what he needs, and no one else will give him the time of day.”

She sighs.

“What did his father do?” I blurt out.

I’m all wound up from what I’ve been hearing. All I know is that him being Scorpion’s son is not good. Pete and Riley threw out words like “corrupt” and “poison” like I’ve never heard.

And then I saw him in the lobby, his cheekbone a little purple and a cut above his eye, and all I know is that he’s the same Maverick from the park.

I’m sad.

I’m sad with hopelessness and helplessness, wondering if this means the end of the bone-deep, soul-deep things Maverick makes me feel.

Remington looks at me with interest after my question. I’m sure he knows I know Maverick, beyond tonight. That Maverick and I have . . . well, I don’t know what we have. But it means something to me. Maverick means
something
to me.

“On his ol’ daddy’s list,” Pete says, “there’s blackmail, extortion, kidnapping—”

“Drugging my sister, harassing our team,” Brooke adds fiercely. “His father is the most
despicable
fighter in history. No scruples, he is pure evil incarnate who would do anything to win, no matter who he ran over, drugged, cheated, blackmailed, or—”

“Brooke,” Remy cuts her off gently.

She’s looking emotional. She drops her head back and is now staring at the car ceiling and blinking her eyes. Remy takes her chin and forces her gaze to his. “Hey. He’s a
kid
,” he states.

“Scorpion’s kid.”

“When you’re up on the ring,” he says firmly, “you’re nobody’s kid. You’re you, your team, and that’s it. With Oz in the state he’s in, this kid’s up there alone.”

Brooke takes his hand, kisses his knuckles. “I trust you, Remy,” she says thickly, and when the car stops, she scoops Racer out and stares into the car interior when I try to maneuver myself to the door.

“You haven’t had time to have any fun here, Reese,” she says, stopping me from getting out.

But I shake my head. “Oh, no, I have a blast with Racer.”

“Go out with the adults tonight. There’s this party hosted by a huge fight lover. Diane’s staying in and she offered to sleep over with the little guy.” She smiles to convince me and heads away, and, reluctantly, I sit back by my window.

I look at Remy and he’s watching me speculatively. I say, “Thank you. For helping him.”

He raises his brows, laughs softly again, and says, “I’m not doing it for him, I’m doing it for me.”

“And him,” I counter.

He says nothing, simply lifts his brows as if surprised by me, then he hops out of the car to walk his son upstairs with Brooke.

Riley breaks the silence in the car. “A part of him misses Scorpion. No one gave him a run for his money like that man did. He doesn’t like his wins easy and that’s all they’ve been lately. Which is why he’s leaving the Underground.”

“What?”

Pete nods. “This is his last season. The final match of the season will be Rem’s last.”

Maverick

T
he two-story Denver home is pulsing with music inside. Fighters I know and fighters I don’t know bustle around with their teams, groupies, and the high-end Denver crowd. I’m not talking to anyone. Everyone knows better than to come near me. I suspect I’m putting out some major back-off waves, and there’s a wide radius around me that people are steering clear of.

I watch her in a lounge area. She’s with a couple of other women she just seemed to meet. The group is talking, but Reese isn’t. I watch her tuck her hair behind her ear, and not for a second do I miss the way her eyes slide over to meet mine. Her breasts coming up and down with each breath. Her eyes escape me again. Then come back.

To find me still watching her.

Every time they do this . . . her eyes, come back and hold . . . I get harder and harder.

I’m stone-hard and still waiting to make a move until she can’t take my stare anymore.

She shifts in place, then messes with her hair. I want to mess that hair too. I was taking it slow. But now she knows who I am. And I know who she is.

If I don’t grab her now, I’ll lose her from my grasp.

I don’t want more distance between us when there is already too much as far as I’m concerned.

I’ve wanted her closer. Every second since she said that I was with her.

She’s drinking a bottle of water, meeting my eyes across the rim as she takes a sip. She sets it down and stares at me. My blood is heading south faster than a thousand-ton drop. I’m slammed. I probably look like shit. Oz sewed up my cut, and for sure it’ll scar this time around from his hands. That scar brings to mind the girl who said,
He’s with me
.

I
am
with her. And tonight, she’s with me.

She breaks her gaze, at last goes to her feet, and starts down the hall. I push away from the wall and start forward.

She looks back at me, and her eyes widen and her lips part, and I like that they part. I like that she knows, with every step I take, what it means.