Fighting for Flight (5 page)

His eyes go wide and his mouth drops open. “They
don’t kick my butt.”

Laughing at his defense, I struggle with the
welded-shut water bottle.

He motions for me to hand him my water. “Here, let
me.”

Unscrewing the stubborn thing with ease, he hands it
back.

“I loosened it for you.” I drink deeply, hoping the
cool water will quell my pounding pulse.

“Of course, you did.”

“Okay, but really, the belt is ugly. What do you do
with it once you get it? Do you, I don’t know, wear it out to
dinner or around the house? Do you, like, model it for your
billboard ads?” Judging by the faint pink coloring Jonah’s face at
the mention of his ads, I bet he gets teased often.

“Maybe a black and white layout of you and your belt
on a sandy beach for, say, a protein shake billboard?” Sucking both
my lips between my teeth to hide my smile, I watch in fascination a
shy Jonah. He recovers quickly and narrows his eyes on me. I’d
worry that I’d offended him if it weren’t for the humor lighting
his face.

“Ha, ha, ha. Very funny,” he drawls.

“What? You do
model,
don’t you?” I tease
doing my best Derek Zoolander face.

Exhaling, he throws his hand in his hair and drops
his chin. Bringing his head back up, his eyes lock with mine. “Yes.
I have sponsors that I’ve
modeled
for. Happy?”

I’m still smiling.

“You think that’s funny, huh?”

“Well, yeah, I do. Don’t get me wrong. It’s not the
modeling I think is funny. It’s the look on your face when I talk
about you modeling that’s funny.”

Tilting his head, I see something working behind his
eyes. Then, to my surprise, he dips his finger in black grease and
swipes my cheek. “There. You think that’s funny?”

I stare silently, glaring in his direction. I snag
the tin of grease, dip four fingers into it, and hold them up.
“You’re going down, Slade”

I lunge at him and make a swipe on his neck. My
instincts tell me to be careful, reminding me that this is a
trained fighter and that I’m a lanky, twenty-year-old girl. But a
comfort that defies explanation has me trusting him.

Dipping both sets of fingers into the grease, he
gives me a look that says I better run or else. I turn to bolt just
as I feel two strong hands wrap around my biceps from behind. With
a girlish squeal, I’m pulled, my back forced to the firm heat of
his chest. I swallow a moan that almost escapes my lips at the
feeling of his hard body pressed to the length of mine. His strong
hands grasp my arms, rubbing the oil with one long stroke from
elbow to shoulder, and igniting the blood beneath my skin.

“You’re going to have to tap out. No way you’re
going to win this one.” His words are spoken into my ear, making me
shiver and practically sag in his arms.

“Oh yeah?” My question sounds weak in my own ears.
Darn it.

“Mmm-hmm.” The vibration of his low voice rumbles
against my back.

If I don’t get out of this hold soon, I may end up
doing something stupid like rub up against him and purr.

I twist hard and he releases me. Darting around the
Impala, back to the grease tin, I lather my hands up with ammo and
slink towards him, hands held forward in warning.

He crooks his finger at me and lifts an eyebrow. I
lunge again.

We chase and dodge, while laughing and throwing
threats at each other, until we’re out of grease and forced to call
a truce. Our clothes and skin are covered in the oily evidence of
our horseplay. Against a wall, I slide down to sit and catch my
breath. He tosses me a stack of shop towels and goes to work
cleaning off his neck and face.

“Okay, all fun aside, whose booty do you have to
kick to get this belt?” I wipe grease from my shoulder.

He sits next to me, cleaning the muck from his
fingers. “Victor Del Toro. He’s the current heavyweight champion.
No one’s been able to knock him off the throne—until now, of
course.” The confidence in his voice makes it a statement of fact
rather than a prediction.

“Hm. Well, good luck.” A quick glance has me locked
in his stare, fiery hazel pulling me in. “Not that you’ll need
it.”

His eyes roam my face and neck. My defenses try to
push my gaze to the floor, but I’m captivated by his allure.
Awareness, like a silent confession, passes between us igniting my
blood. I suck in air and roll my bottom lip between my teeth to
avoid saying something I’ll regret like
kiss me.

A slow grin pulls at his mouth, his eyes sparkling.
“You should come to the fight.”

The way he’s looking at me wakes the butterflies in
my stomach. Come to the fight? I’d say yes to anything he asks.
“Sure, yeah.”

He’s still staring, but his smile grows, his dimples
forming bookends to his radiant smile. “It’s September fourteenth
at—”

“Shut. Up.” My powerful response surprises even
me.

“What? Why?” He’s genuinely confused which only
endears me to him more.

“Oh, no, I just mean . . . shut up . . . like . . .
no way . . . My twenty-first birthday is September fifteenth.”

“Wow, twenty-first. That’s a big one. I remember my
twenty-first.” His eyes search the rafters, concentrating.
“Actually, I don’t.” Shrugging one shoulder, he smirks. “I heard it
was great though.” He runs a hand through his hair with a shy
grimace that I find completely sexy.

I fold the greasy shop towel. “How long ago was your
twenty-first?”

His eyes narrow on mine. “Raven, are you trying to
ask me how old I am?”

Heat warms my neck, rising up to color my
cheeks.

“Five years ago. I’m twenty-six.” Comfortable
silence fills the air. “Anyway, you should come to the fight. I’ll
get you a ticket. Call it an early birthday present.”

“I’d love that. Thanks.”

~*~

Jonah

Thirty minutes with the heavy bag didn’t make a dent
in my attempt to exorcise Raven from my head. I thought for sure
that spending time with her this morning would work in my favor.
Figured if I got to know her better, I’d realize she’s just like
other girls. I was wrong.

From the moment she walked into my house to the
moment she walked out, she held my rapt attention. Usually when
women start talking I zone out, but this girl said things I wanted
to hear. She talked about cars like they were family. It was
captivating. If that weren’t enough, working together was a breeze.
We fell into easy conversation and comfortable silences, as if she
were one of the guys—well, one of the guys in a supermodel package.
Damn.
What a package. Even the garage, with its twenty-foot
ceilings, felt small with her in it. No matter how far away I would
move, her perfect body seemed too close. Thank God I had to get to
training or I’d probably fallen to my knees and begged her to have
dinner with me.

This isn’t good. With the title fight coming up, I
can’t afford any distractions. Maybe I should put the restoration
on hold until after the fight. That should give me time to forget
about her. Or maybe I should pull my shit together and stop acting
like some teenager with perma-wood.

I can’t blow her off now. I promised her tickets to
my fight, and I can’t go back on a promise. Comfort washes over me
at the thought of looking out from the octagon on the biggest fight
of my life and seeing Raven standing in my corner. This shit is not
cool. I’ll get one of the guys to give me a thorough ass kicking
before I leave for being such a pansy.

But pansy or not, I’m drawn to her by some unseen
force. Everything from my thoughts to my dick gravitates in her
direction. Like getting caught in a rip tide, one minute I’m
swimming, free to go in any direction, and then I feel a tug. I’m
kicking and flailing my arms and legs toward shore while the
invisible pull takes me in the opposite direction. No matter how
hard I swim, I keep going further and further out to sea.

Yeah, that’s how it is with Raven. One minute I’m
free, navigating the waters of my life, and, now, I feel a tug.

“What’s up, man? Where is everyone?” Rex calls as he
makes his way to the mats to warm up.

“They should be here.” I answer absently, still
trying to pull my head out of my ass. “Yo, T-Rex. You missed a
couple.” I motion to my eyebrow and lip.

“Shit, man. Thanks.” Rex removes the small barbell
from his eyebrow and ring from his lip and places them on the
bench.

I stretch my arms and roll my neck. “Where’s
Caleb?”

“He’s here, just wrapping his ankle in the locker
room.” Rex motions over his shoulder where I see Caleb making his
way to the mats.

“Y’all talkin’ about me?” Caleb’s telltale,
country-boy accent echoes off the walls. Owen sneaks up behind him,
and smacks the back of his head. “Ow, dick!”

Owen ignores Caleb’s pained remark. “You done
wrapping your ankle, sweetheart?”

Caleb rubs the back of his head.

“You guys get warmed up, and we’ll break into teams
for grappling.” Owen’s order is all business. He’s one of the best
coaches in MMA, and when he gets down to it, he doesn’t fuck
around.

“You bitches ready to get your asses handed to you?”
Blake strolls toward the mats. Late.

The group grumbles and throws back a number of
different taunts and insults before we pair off and take our
places. This title fight is an accumulation of everything I’ve been
working for since I started fighting. It’s the single biggest
accomplishment of my life. And I’ll be damned if a girl is going to
rob me of my goal. Never.

A few hours into training and I’m breathing deep.
Sweat coats my skin, proving without question that I worked hard. I
welcome the burn of my muscles and the flood of endorphins that
blur the thoughts of a certain female.

Owen calls time. “Take five and we’ll hit the
bags.”

We all grab our waters and stretch on the floor.

Caleb flops down next to me lying flat on his back.
“Where are we watching the game this weekend?”

“Not my place.” I swig from my water bottle.

“Jonah’s it is.” Owen decides for the group.

I scowl at him and contemplate sweeping his legs.
“The fuck you say?”

He shrugs in my direction.

Blake’s standing, grabbing his ankle to stretch his
quad. “Sweet. I’ll bring the pizza.”

“I’ll get the beer.” Rex’s voice calls out from
behind me.

“Shit, no. I said
not
at my place.”

Caleb nods to Rex. “Game starts at three so we
should be there by two.”

“Fucking assholes.” It’s like I’m not even here.

Rex’s dumb ass looks right past me. “Don’t forget, I
have a show that night. Sound check’s at seven. Ghost Bar. We can
all head over to the club after the game.”

“You guys want me to bring the Wii?” Caleb puts on
his gloves, his eyes darting from dickhead to dickhead, overlooking
me.

“No. No fucking Wii.” What started as watching a
game at my house has turned into a party, and knowing these guys,
they’ll stay all weekend.

“Oh come on,
Vajonah
.” Blake’s cocky smile
makes me clench my fist. “You worried we might dirty your kitchen?”
He lifts one eyebrow.

I spear him with a glare. As if one douche bag
giving me shit isn’t enough, I don’t need the group giving me a
hard time.

“All right, fine. But no pizza. I’ll throw something
on the grill. I can’t eat that shit this close to the fight.”
Defeated and pissed as hell, I strap on my gloves.

“If you’re going to grill, I’ll bring Nikki. She can
whip up some healthy shit in the kitchen and sit by the pool.”

Owen’s wife Nikki is a nutritionist and kicks all
kinds of ass in the kitchen. That alone makes this worth it.

“Sounds like a plan. I’ll bring some girls so Nik
will have chicks to hang out with.” The group goes still, staring
at Blake. “What?”

Everyone knows the kind of girls Blake keeps company
with. I’m not interested in having a bunch of jock-sniffing
groupies around, and Blake travels with a fucking harem.

Owen looks at Blake, a grin pulling at his lips.
“This should be interesting.”

Blake glares at Owen. “That was a long time ago,
man. You two weren’t married yet.”

“Nah, but Nikki sure didn’t appreciate your bitches
rubbing up on my shit.” Owen laughs and shrugs.

“How can you laugh?” Blake throws his arms out to
his sides. “Nik broke that chick’s nose.”

Owen’s laughter answers Blake’s question.

I cross my arms at my chest. “I don’t want a house
full of your knob polishers.”

“Hey, a player needs lovin’ too.”

“No more than two, Blake. I’m serious,” I warn.

“Yeah, I got it.” He dismisses me with a wave of his
hand.

He doesn’t get it.

I tilt my head, feeling the side of my lip curl into
a smile. “Say it, Blake. Say, ‘I promise, Jonah, I won’t bring more
than two chicks to your barbeque’.”

Blake’s eyes narrow. “Are you fucking serious? I
said I got it.”

“Say it.”

“Shit. Fine. I won’t bring more than two chicks to
your barbeque.” Blake’s jaw is so tight I’m surprised he doesn’t
bust a tooth. This guy is so easy to mess with.

“You forgot, ‘I promise, Jonah’.”

Umpf!

My breath is knocked from my lungs as Blake tries to
take me down to the mat . . . unsuccessfully.

Raven

It’s day three working on the Impala: seventeen hours
and thirty-eight minutes to be exact. I keep track of the hours
spent at Jonah’s for my time card, not because I mark every minute
with him, committing it to memory so that when my work here is done
I have something to remind me of our time together.

I’ve got the engine out and apart. Going through it
piece by piece, I set aside the things that can be salvaged while
Jonah disassembles the inside. Perched at a workbench, I sort
through the motor brackets.