Fighting for Control (Against the Cage Book 3) (12 page)

“You guys, I’m fine. It’s just a little burn. Start eating before the food gets cold.”

“Let me see your hand, Will.”

“Kyle . . .”

“Now, Willow.”

She huffed and pulled it out of the water, holding it up for his inspection.

The pattern of the grate was burned across the top of her hand. It had to hurt, but Willow only looked irritated at all the attention she was getting.

“If you three don’t sit down and enjoy this freaking meal I just slaved over for two hours, I’m going to get pissed.”

Hmm . . . so the sweet little lamb had a bit of her brother’s temper in her, after all.

“I mean it,” she barked, tugging her hand out of Kyle’s. “All of you, sit down and eat, right now.”

And at the command of that little half-pint, all three hardass MMA fighters sat their asses down rather than risk the wrath of one Miss Willow Scott.

W
ham!
Kill’s open-mitt fist connected with Nikko’s face, the explosion of pain in his cheek a welcome distraction to the torment in his head. He nodded to Kyle, complimenting his strike.
T
he fighter was quick, deftly-skilled, and heavy-handed
just like Nikko wanted it. He kept the pace fast and the energy high. Kill advanced, growing confident in finding his range. Nikko weathered the assault, taking the punishing blows as penance that could never be repaid.

It felt good to be in the cage again. Every hit, given and received, released a little more of his pent-up aggression. The voices in his head died to a dull roar, the screams quieted—the echoing report of gunfire retreated to the background of his mind. It never completely went away. The ghosts that haunted him would never give him peace, not until they got theirs—and
that
was something that would never happen. The USMC had made sure of that.

Kyle shot in, clipping Nikko’s jaw and sending him stumbling back a step. He used the momentum to his advantage, turning it into a hook kick that landed a solid body shot to Kill’s ribs, taking the fighter’s air with it.

“Goddammit,” Kill barked, spitting out his mouth guard and taking a step back. “Are we sparring or are we brawling, because if you don’t start pulling your punches, you’re going to have to explain to Coach and Dean how my rib got broke and why I can’t fight Matthews next month.”

Ah, hell
. . .

“Don’t get me wrong, now I know why Disco loved sparring with you so much. You’re fun as shit to whale on, but don’t forget you’re two weight classes above me, bro.”

“Right. Sorry, man . . .” The mention of Disco was an unwelcome reminder of the absent fighter. He missed his friend and sparring partner more than he wanted to admit. And
that
was precisely why Nikko made it a habit not to get close to people. For the most part, he genuinely preferred to be alone. That way it didn’t hurt so much when they left—and they always did . . .

Sure, there were a few who’d managed to worm their way in over the years, some deeper than others. Unbidden, the image of a gorgeous pale-haired, violet-eyed woman came to mind, and something cramped inside his chest—regret was a damn uncomfortable emotion. He shouldn’t have said what he did to her. His words had been sharp and cutting, and he’d had no right to be jealous. Just because he thought of her as his didn’t make it so. And as long as he was being real with himself, maybe he was just a little spooked by the intensity of his emotions where she was concerned.

By thinking he’d never see Violet again after their first meeting, he’d felt the freedom to create a mental refuge around her. What if, by making her his emotional safe haven, he’d actually been falling for her this whole time? Which would have been fine, if he’d indeed never seen her again, but now that she’d turned back up in his life, all those budding emotions erupted into full bloom, and he was having a hell of a time dealing with them.

That had to be it. It was the only explanation he could come up with for how he could feel so strongly for someone he hardly knew. Nikko didn’t believe in love at first sight. He didn’t much believe in love at all, but he sure liked the shit out of that woman, and he was definitely in lust with her. And now he’d gone and ruined the chance of having any sort of a relationship with the beauty. Fuck . . . the unwelcome thought occurred to him that perhaps the people in his life didn’t leave him as much as he pushed them away, and the ones who hung in there were just more tenacious than the others. He wasn’t sure his clover was much of a fighter. After today, she seemed pretty intent on writing him off—not that he could blame her. Who in their right mind would want to take on a rancorous MMA fighter with serious trust issues who was haunted by demons and plagued by secrets he’d take to his grave?

If Violet Summers knew what was good for her, she’d run as far away from him as she could possibly get, and if he cared about her even half as much as he feared he did, he’d take this opportunity to step out of her life. Unfortunately, he wasn’t sure he had either the altruistic nature or the self-control to do it.

“—Disco yet?”

“What?” Nikko asked, realizing he hadn’t been listening to what Kill was saying.

“I said, have you heard from Disco yet? Six months is a long time to be gone on a honeymoon.”

That’s because he wasn’t on a honeymoon. That’s just what Disco had told everyone when he’d taken a leave from the CFA. Right before Nikko had left his friend in New York, he’d confided in him that he and Ryann were going into witness protection as part of an immunity deal he’d made with the feds. In order to avoid facing his own jail time, Aiden was going to have to testify against one of the most powerful Mafia families in Manhattan.

“None of us could believe it when he said he was getting married. Out of all of us, that guy was the last one I expected to get married. Well, except for you, of course.”

Nikko scowled. “What in the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means, ever since I’ve known you, I’ve yet to see you hook up with any cage bangers—or anyone, for that matter. But, hey, I’m not judging you, man.” Kill raised his hands defensively. “Your preferences are your business.”

What? Preferences? Oh, hell no
. . .
he did
not
just go there.
Nikko’s glower darkened and it took all his self-control not to bust Kill in the jaw. “You think that I’m . . . ? News flash, asshole, I’m not gay.”

Kill actually looked surprised. “You’re not?”

Oh, for shit’s sake
. . . “No, I’m not! Why in the hell would you
think that? Just because I don’t stick my dick in every cage banger that
comes my way doesn’t mean I’m into dudes. What the hell, man . . .”

Kill shot him an embarrassed grimace. “Sorry. I just assumed—”

“Yeah, well, you know what they say about assuming. Just because I don’t strut around here wearing my conquests like a badge of honor doesn’t mean I’m not into women.”

“Right. Sorry, man . . .”

Nikko shook his head.
Un-fucking-believable
. . . “Are we going to keep talking about my sex life all night or are we going to spar? Cuz right now I just really want to kick your ass.” He glanced up at the clock hanging between two framed posters. One was of Cole “The Beast of the East” Easton and the other was of Aiden “Disco Stick” Kruze. Both were in fighting stance and looked like they were about to jump off the poster and go a few rounds. They were two of Coach’s top fighters—his pride and joy.

Coach intentionally kept his camp small. His philosophy was quality, not quantity, often stating his goal was to create a tight-knit group of fighters that worked hard and played well together. He handpicked each one in his camp and oftentimes Nikko wondered what in the hell Coach had ever seen in him to put Nikko on his roster. In truth, he was more like the black sheep of Coach’s MMA family, and after what happened at the publicity party last week, he was pretty sure he wasn’t the only one who felt that way.

“It’s almost nine o’clock,” Nikko said, shoving aside his self-degradation to focus on Kill. “Let’s work on your strategy with Matthews before we head out. His ground and pound is excellent, so let’s focus on tightening up your submissions. Show me your Brabo and then transition to an anaconda choke.”

This time, when that little voice had told Violet to stop Nikko from walking out on her, she hadn’t listened. She wouldn’t repeat the same mistake she’d made at Carboni’s, and she refused to allow herself to feel guilty about it. So why then, six hours later, was she still thinking about him?—replaying their fight over and over in her head? Nothing about Nikko Del Toro was simple. He was a complicated, broody, temperamental fighter who could be as vicious as he was charming. This was not going to work, and the sooner she accepted that fact, the quicker she could get back to her boring, predictable life.

Exhaling a frustrated sigh, Violet turned off her episode of
Gilmore Girls
and closed her eyes. Pinching the bridge of her nose, she willed her thoughts back under control, but they were just as rebellious as the man they obsessed over. She hadn’t meant for him to find out she’d been married before—at least not like that. Her past was her business. That Barry seemed determined not to remain there was inconsequential.

There was no excuse for Nikko’s behavior. The accusations he’d hurled at her had been vulgar and cutting. Worse, she couldn’t even deny them—he had been her clean slate, her Barry-banishing bang. Only, Nikko had been wrong about one thing. She hadn’t been thinking of Barry at all when he had fucked her. And as crass as that word might sound, it’s exactly what he’d done. There was no tenderness, no wooing in his touch . . . Nikko had come at her with all the finesse of a freight train, consuming and utterly dominating her. And she’d loved every mind-blowing second of it. She’d never experienced that kind of unleashed power before, that kind of unrestrained passion.

Barry had always been so . . . bland—predictable and boring. Since he’d been her first, she had nothing to compare him to, until Nikko, and mercy, had she been missing out. It almost made Barry’s betrayal not feel like such a loss. Since she’d stepped off the plane, she’d yet to encounter another man with whom she had even a fraction of the chemistry she shared with Nikko—which didn’t bode well for her sex life, because that man was off-limits.

What a mess
. . .

Her cell rang, and when she glanced down at the caller ID, her pulse quickened. Nikko . . . What did he want?—to berate her some more for having sex with him the night of her divorce? To tell her how shitty he thought she was? No, thank you. Violet stared at his name displayed across her screen because, yeah, she’d saved him in her contacts, too. A few more taunting rings later, the phone went silent, and her chest tightened with regret.

How dare he make her feel bad about their hookup. So what if she’d used him. Wasn’t that the purpose of a one-night stand?—people using people? Did the reason really matter? It wasn’t like he hadn’t gotten anything out of it. From the harsh bark of release that had torn from his throat and the tension shuddering through his heavily muscled body, she knew he’d come just as hard as she had.

Violet’s phone chimed, pulling her from her mental replay, which—no lie—was making her warm and tingly. She swiped her thumb across the screen to check the incoming message. It was from Nikko.
I’m sorry
. . . with a sad-looking emoji.

She turned off the screen and was about to power it down when another message came through.

Want to see you.

Seriously?
I don’t think that’s a very good idea.
Send.

Want to apologize in person. Feel bad about what I said.
Another emoji; this one looked even more depressed than the last one.

Why the change of heart? she wondered. Maybe he realized how screwed he was without a therapist and wanted to ask her to take him back? Well, it wasn’t necessary. She wasn’t without blame for what happened in the office today. She never should have let it slip that she’d been married. Vi had done the one thing she’d vowed not to do, let her personal life affect her professional one.

Despite whatever conflicts they might have outside of the office, she was still a professional, or trying her hardest to be, and it was her responsibility to keep Nikko in compliance with the CFA requirements until Jim got back from vacation. Maybe if she prayed for a monsoon, he’d come back early.

No need, you’ve already apologized. If you want to continue therapy until Jim returns, I’ll see you Tuesday afternoon as scheduled. Have a nice weekend.
Send. There—short, professional, to the point.

Do want to keep coming, but not why I apologized. Still want to see you.

I’m sorry. I don’t give out my address to patients.
Send.

Not your patient anymore. At least not until Tuesday.
Winky face.