Raw (30 page)

It’s the biggest match the Underground has ever had. My father’s departure made people happy, but the fact that word spread about Tate and me developing a friendship created controversy and curiosity. They want to see us—see it to believe it.

We’re both aggressive fighters. Though I’ve learned to defend too, because Tate is also great at defense. While training me, it felt like he wanted to create something better than himself. He taught me everything to look for, things nobody’s ever seen because he’s never let them close enough. Things nobody else can find but me. I’ve never been able to beat him. But he’s given me every opportunity to find out how.

We tap gloves, both of us trying to gauge each other’s strategy for the night. Wear me down? No. He’s not playing games with me, and I’m glad he isn’t, because we’re both here to fight.

Ting ting.

The crowd goes wild as I take the first swing.

He blocks, grins.

He follows me, trying to land a big hit. His knuckles land a clean blow to the head. I react when he opens and bury my glove in his gut. It’s like hitting concrete. But I’m strong and, judging by the sound my punch makes, it went deep.

We leap back, then circle.

The crowd alternates between silence and cheers. We’re giving them quite a show. A blow that stuns me. He’s got the most powerful punch I’ve ever felt. He’s got me against the ropes. He doesn’t tell me where I fucked up—hell, I know it already. I put my arms up and block, then lower them and narrow my eyes.

He grins as they stop us and force us apart. I can see it in his eyes—a challenge. Asking me,
Do you think you deserve to be world champion? Champions never fuck up twice.

I take position.

The crowd stands and starts chanting, “Remy! Remy! Remy!”

I’m waiting for him to look at his wife and take a hit.

And somehow I wonder if he’s waiting for me to look at Reese.

Achilles is only as strong as his heel.

And we both have heels.

And we both know where they are sitting tonight.

He takes a shot under the heart, then a hook that shoots my head around. I back away as I recover, Tate becoming the aggressor.

I stop backing up and take a left straight jab. He moves his shoulder, evading, but I see that coming and counteract with another right. Knuckles crush into his temple. The hit stuns him.

The bell for the first round rings.

We keep fighting after the bell, suddenly both of us punching, some landing, some missing, ducking, punching.

The referee yells and slips inside. “Stop! HALT!” he demands.

We ease back and take our stools.

We’re back on. The announcer: “Cage is prowling . . . the only fighter this season not in awe of the champion . . . and Tate’s up against the ropes! Cage takes a hit. They’re getting touchy. Referee cannot break them apart. . . .”

“HALT!” the referee calls again.

“Fucker,” Tate says when he steps aside and lets us continue. “Won’t let us have any fun,” he growls.

“Speaking of fun,” I say, chest heaving as I catch my breath. “Checked your wife out yet? She’s not looking at you, she’s looking at me.”

He smacks my face so hard I bounce on the ropes, then I duck and he misses and swings around, frowning
and
grinning. “Fucker. Reese just left. Said to call her when you got better game, pussy.”

I swing my left, he ducks and shoots his left out. My forehead catches the blow and my brain jerks inside my skull. I back away, listless.

Things get bloody after that.

I feel a high, a complete rush of adrenaline. Boxing, moving, punching, countering, blocking.

Round four, five, and six—he breaks my rib and I give him a swollen eye. He can only see through one, squinting at me as we fight.

The crowd is overwhelmed. Ringside seats splattered with blood. We’re beating each other to a pulp. Throwing punches left and right. We’ve both got gashes above our eyes, Tate on his temple, and my blasted same cut above my eye has opened again. We are breathing hard, getting Vaseline on our faces when we take our stools, and getting patched up, and wearing down the more we fight.

Round seven, he knocks me to the canvas.

I get up, and the fight keeps going. . . .

Three of Tate’s hooks on round eight, and I’m down again.

“Fuck,” I growl under my breath, my cheek flat on the ground as my body convulses from the hits.

The countdown begins.

Reese is on her feet, hands to her mouth, crying.

She’s with
me.

My body trembles as I demand more from it than it can give. Everything. I plant my hand down on the ground, and then the other, bring my knees up and stand.

And I look at Tate. One eye is swollen. His coach is cutting it up so the blood can emerge, and he’s taping him back.

I look at my gloves. Every mark there on the leather is from me. Fought for by me. I think of my father’s message and drag a deep breath.
Guess I’m a real fighter now.

Tate approaches. He’s angry now. Is he disappointed? He looks mad that I haven’t given him more. Did he think he wasted his time with me? Is he thinking I wasn’t worth it? Like my own fucking father?

Don’t want to think he’s bigger. More experienced.

He thought I’d give him the better fight.

And I will.

I don’t fight for my father.

I fight for me.

I’m
the phoenix rising.

I brace my legs, lift my arms, and keep on fighting.

Hungry for victory.

His nose crunches.

He hooks back and busts my face open. I hit the ground and immediately leap up.

My vision’s blurred. Legs, arms, nothing responds. I blink and taste blood in my mouth. Pain slowly streaking through me, I force myself forward.

I picture my father. His face. Him fighting me.
You’re not good enough. . . .

Him fighting dirty.

Him fighting Tate.

Him soiling me.

Him letting my mother scrape until her hands were weary.

And I roar and swing out so hard, Tate hits the canvas.

The next seconds are a blur.

Time drains away. The countdown stops, and Tate is still getting his bearings.

My eye’s so swollen it’s all a blur, but I see something shiny fly at me—and focus on the penny landing at my feet.

The penny I gave Reese when it was all I had. When I had nothing but me.

I scoop up the penny and lift my eyes to Reese. Tears stream down her cheeks, and I inhale and it hurts to breathe, and it hurts to lift my fist and put the penny to my chest, and when she cries harder, and I can’t breathe anymore, I look away so she doesn’t see the burn in my eyes as the ringmaster grabs my wrist and lifts my arm.

“Your VICTOR, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! The first rookie ever to win the season championship, to shoot to the top of the fucking stratosphere!”

And for the first time in my life, I hear the crowd. I hear the crowd. And the crowd is yelling at the top of its lungs:

“MAVERICK! MAVERICK! MAVERICK!”

Tate comes to his feet and he looks like shit, and so do I, as he locks his hands behind my neck and bumps his forehead to mine and squeezes the back of my head, grinning until his bloodied dimples pop out. “How do you feel, motherfucker? Is this real enough for you? Huh?”

And the crowd goes, “REMY! REMY! REMY!”

The ringmaster stands between us, lifting each of our arms, and fucking crazy Remington Tate is grinning over the top of his head at me.

The crowd is yelling after him as he leaves the ring for the last time, a legend. Eternal.

But I can’t move yet.

For the last few seconds, I stand alone in the ring, bloodied and broken, a winner, the world opening up to me.

But I’m still clutching Reese’s penny in my fist like the most precious thing I’ve got.

♥   ♥   ♥

I’M ALONE IN
the back room.

Hearing the crowd cheer outside.

Oz is patching me up, trembling with adrenaline, sniffing quietly. I stare at the wall. Processing.

There’s a knock, and Tate stands at the door. All patched up too. Tape along his temple, his jaw, a lot of swelling spots like my own.

Oz looks at him, reverently pats his back, and whispers something like, “Best fight I’ve ever seen in my life,” and he steps outside.

“Hey.” Tate drops on the bench before me. “First time I was up in the ring, I got beat up so hard, I got two ribs broken and my spirit. They both healed though. If it comes to that, yours will too.”

I hold my jaw tight as I nod. I want to talk, but I have no words for this guy. My father’s greatest enemy, who gave me more attention than my father ever did. My father’s greatest enemy, who believed in me more than my own father ever did.

More father to me than my own blood. My mentor. My brother.

“When I started training you,” he says, smirking in pride, “I thought you could be great. Hell, I knew you could be great. I knew you could be better than me. And I was right.” He jerks his chin toward the door. “Ring’s all yours. Own it and never hand it off unless you’re stepping down.”

“I won’t,” I vow with conviction, my hands fisting instinctively.

“Good.”

He puts his fist out, like his son does. “It’s an honor to have fought with you.”

I don’t know how I can get up. How I can talk. I do both. I meet his gaze with pride and gratitude and admiration and more respect than I’ve ever felt in my life. I press my knuckles to his, just like I do with his son. And say what I mean. I always say what I mean. “The honor was mine.”

Reese

T
hat was the first of many finals for Maverick “the Avenger” Cage. It’s been two years, hundreds of matches, and they call him the King of the Ring. People cheer when he’s on. The announcers nearly climax when they announce him. “OUR VERY OWN, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! The most fearless rookie to ever take this ring. The KING, the Avenger, Maaaaverick Caaaaaage!”

He climbs into the ring without glancing at anybody. Then Mav sees me as he disrobes and I look at my phoenix rising and feel so much pride I could burst.

He bought a house in Seattle, near the Tates. They had a baby girl and called her Iris.

Maverick still trains with Riptide several times a week. And every night, before we go to bed, we go for a midnight run.

Because . . . did I mention it yet?

I’m with him.

Every time he steps off the ring, I go stand by Oz, and he comes to his corner. To Oz and me.

I wake up to my mornings with my cheek on his chest and I almost don’t know which limb is mine or which is his, except his is harder and tanner.

Mornings, Oz is all business, with a shit-ton of water bottles packed for their daily workout. (Oz has a new girlfriend. Her name is Natasha and now everything wonderful is a Natasha.) “If we’re going to be champions
again
”—he rolls his eyes, as if there’s any doubt—“you’re going to need a coach, a sober one preferably.”

Maverick always fist-bumps him now. “That’s my man.”

And Oz grins, sheepish.

He’s met my parents.

I’ve met his mother.

Maverick and I don’t want to be apart. He’s determined. He wants me with him.

So, I’m with him.

It’s night now. The city of Seattle is quiet. The soft patter of rain died down a few minutes ago, and I’m all set to run as he finishes tying his shoelaces. He straightens and looks at me.

He looks . . .

Like him.

The guy in the darkness coming to the light.

The phoenix rising.

The guy holding my heart.

My love is like a steel weight, but it’s nothing compared to the weight of that steel gaze locked on my face like there’s no power on earth that will pull those eyes away.

“Ready, Reese?”

A helpless smile pulls at my lips. Love and lust and hope for us twists around my heart. “Always ready to try and beat your ass. Somebody has to.”

He steps forward, frowning as he does, still puzzled by my effect on him. “You decimate me, Reese.”

I play innocent. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You say it with these.” He touches my eyes, and then he kisses my eyelids. “Hey, I still love you.”

“And I still love you.”

He still doesn’t know that he had me at the penny.

He draws me close now and kisses my neck, and he lifts my head to kiss me on the mouth, and he tastes so right and so hard and so strong, so powerful, my world narrows down to all six-feet-plus inches of my avenger.

On a shuddering breath, my lips part and my eyes flutter shut as he begins kissing my jaw, my lips again. He sometimes smears my lipstick all over his mouth but I don’t care. He likes devouring me and I let him. Wild, primitive, his mouth ravages mine, like it does in bed every night.

He tilts my head at the best angle and sometimes he says my lips taste of cherries.

His father’s gloves are gone. He has a roomful of fighting gear, everything new, everything his. He’s still finding out who he is, but he knows who he
isn’t.

I’m still finding out who I am, and whoever that is, I know that I’m with him.

He has a portrait of that final match with Remy, of that moment—the
moment
where Remy embraces him like a proud father—and he has it in the hall to our bedroom.

He says he never wants to forget what it feels like to fight someone better than him.

He says he never wants to forget that he’s not Scorpion’s legacy.

And he’ll never forget that night despite all the others that have followed.

He’s still fighting.

And we’re still in love.

Heading out of our home, Maverick pulls on his hoodie and we take to the damp street to run on the wet pavement, where the path feels endless, where we have forever awaiting us.

But we both know nothing is forever, except legends. And except us.

Dear Readers,

Thanks so much for going on the REAL series journey with me.
Legend
is the last of the REAL series books, and although I started writing not knowing which of the men would win the last fight, I wrote as true to the stories as the characters gave me and this is their happily ever after. I couldn’t include (because it isn’t relevant to this story) that Melanie and Greyson are married, and that Pandora and Mackenna enjoy visits from their daughter, Eve, for entire summers. As you know, Brooke is pregnant and we all hope it’s a girl (Iris!). Maverick finally overcame his father’s shadow, and Remy officially has passed the torch. A draw for that last fight was impossible, no matter how much I wished for it. Both men fight to win and Remy put all his heart into his mentorship. He taught Maverick to be better than anything he would ever come upon and Maverick delivered. I am so proud of them and so grateful for all your love for my stories and these characters. Thank you for the support you’ve given us throughout the years.