Grappling for Position (Against the Cage Book 4) Read online

  ALSO BY MELYNDA PRICE

  Against the Cage Series

  Win by Submission

  Passing His Guard

  Fighting for Control

  Stand-Alones

  Beneath the Surface

  The Redemption Series

  Until Darkness Comes

  Shades of Darkness

  Courting Darkness

  Braving the Darkness

  Subscribe to Melynda Price’s newsletter.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Kindle Press, Seattle, 2017

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, Kindle Scout, and Kindle Press are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Do you want to go upstairs?”

  Do I want to go upstairs? With this guy? Not really. But the pain was unbearable today, and this whiskey and Coke wasn’t doing a whole hell of a lot to dull her memories. Brent scooted closer, slipping his arm behind the couch, and leaned toward Willow.

  “I promise I’ll make it real good for you.” His hot breath skated down her neck as his lips made contact, kissing the spot just below her ear. She felt . . . nothing. Not even a flicker of desire. What she wouldn’t give to feel something other than the crushing weight of heartache and loss.

  She closed her eyes and tipped her head back, letting her mind picture the guy she wished were crawling over her instead of Brent Walters, track star and captain of the football team. Perhaps she was drunk enough to convince herself it was Regan’s hand sliding up her thigh right now, his heated mouth against her throat. A lot of girls would have been flattered to have the most popular senior in high school paying attention to them, but those things didn’t matter to her. When you’d lived through hell, you stopped being impressed by letterman jackets and game scores.

  All that mattered was getting through the day so she could wake up and do it all over again. How many times had she wished she’d died in that wreck along with her parents? How much easier would it be to have the pain gone? She’d no longer be a burden to her brother, Kyle, who was doing his damn best to raise a sixteen-year-old girl while pursuing his fighting career with the Cage Fighting Association. He tried to hide it, but she knew he was hurting. He’d lost as much as she had that day—more even. Bottom line, he couldn’t help her; no one could.

  Brent’s lips covered hers, and she could taste the skunky bite of beer on his tongue as it snaked into her mouth. His kiss was wet and sloppy, not at all like what she imagined Regan’s would be. At the mere thought of him, her heart beat faster, warm sensations stirring low in her belly. What would it take to be noticed by him, to have him watch her with the same hunger she saw in his eyes whenever he was with those cage-bangers. She loved him so much it hurt. But to him, she would always be nothing more than his best friend’s little sister.

  Bitterness and pain swirled in her blood, mixing with the alcohol coursing through her veins. Her head was fuzzy, just light enough to say fuck it. What was she saving herself for, anyway? A guy who barely noticed her and would never love her back? Maybe Brent could make her feel better, if only for a while.

  If she had to guess, she’d bet that just about the entire senior class was here. The kegs were flowing, shots slamming—the music was booming, bass rattling the windows of Brent’s parents’ mansion. No one would notice if they slipped upstairs to one of the many bedrooms. Maybe she should do it. She’d tried everything else to dull the pain and nothing was working.

  Willow slid her free hand over Brent’s muscular shoulder, her other one tightly gripping her red Solo cup, still half-full of the only balm she could find to soothe her grief. She parted her lips to return Brent’s kiss, and he shoved his tongue deeper into her mouth. She leaned into the couch, trying to give herself some breathing room, but he was all over her. Her grip on his shoulder tightened, and she pushed against it, trying to ease him back. He wouldn’t budge. A frisson of alarm skated up her spine. What was she doing? This was a mistake.

  “Brent, stop,” she said, turning her head to the side and catching a gasping breath. He didn’t stop. Instead his mouth latched on to her neck, and he grabbed her breast, squeezing hard. She winced and tried to wiggle out of his grasp.

  “Shh, baby, relax. It’s all good.”

  It wasn’t good. It wasn’t good at all. Panic started to burn through her buzz; then a deep voice blasted over Eminem’s “Without Me.”

  “Get the fuck off her, asshole!”

  And then Brent was gone. Willow’s eyes flew open in time to see the quarterback crashing into the wall across the living room. The music stopped—a clichéd record-ripping screech from the vinyl-playing DJ. Cricket-chirping silence filled the room as all eyes turned to Willow and the furious guy towering over her, those vibrant green eyes glowing like absinthe.

  The thought flickered through her mind—I’d love to get drunk on those—followed quickly by a buzz-killing oh, shit.

  Someone else echoed her sentiment. “Oh, shit . . . did you see that?”

  Brent picked himself up off the floor and spun toward the guy who’d just tossed him across the room. Standing tall, Brent puffed his chest and clenched his fists, looking like he had every intention of throwing down—until Regan turned away from Willow and faced the quarterback. He stood a few inches taller than Brent, and even though they were about the same weight, Regan was all muscle. He had the lean, toned body of a fighter and the experience to back it up.

  “You wanna go?” Regan asked, calling the jock out in front of all his friends. “Cuz I’d love nothing more right now than to fuck you up.”

  “Dude, don’t do it,” Brent’s buddy Jarred whispered from across the room. “Don’t you know who that is? It’s Regan fucking Matthews, man, the MMA fighter!”

  Willow could see indecision flash in Brent’s eyes, the tension between him and Regan crackling like an electrical storm. It was decision time—back down and look like a pussy in front of his friends, or save face and risk getting it smashed in. A moment later, Brent relaxed his stance and shrugged. “Nah . . . you can have her. The
bitch ain’t worth it.”

  Wrong answer. Regan moved so fast that Brent was on the floor before Willow’s brain even registered the punch. The crack of his fist against Brent’s jaw rang out, followed by a loud crash as he hit the end table behind him. But Regan wasn’t done.

  “What the fuck did you say?” he demanded, looming over the football player, one hand fisted in the guy’s shirt while the other was poised to strike again. This time Brent had the sense to keep his mouth shut and stay down, a healthy dose of fear shining in his eyes.

  “You ever touch her again and I’ll break your goddamn hand. You won’t be able to grab your dick to jerk off let alone throw a football. Are we clear?”

  A dazed nod was the only acknowledgment he got. Regan let him go with a forceful shove and strode over to Willow. His jaw clenched, the muscle in his cheek flexing as he ground his molars. He was pissed. She could feel the sparks of his anger daggering her.

  “Come on, Willow.”

  He held out his hand. She hesitated. The butterflies in her stomach battered around so fiercely she worried she might get sick. “How . . . how did you know I was here?”

  “You forgot your duffle bag at home. Told Kyle I’d drop it off at Melanie’s for you. Guess who wasn’t there?”

  So, Melanie had ratted her out. Some best friend she was. Then again, Regan could be pretty intimidating when he wanted to be. Willow had no choice but to go with him. She was totally busted. Once Kyle found out she’d lied to him about going to Melanie’s, Regan’s wrath was going to look like a stroll through the park compared to the hell waiting for her when she got home.

  She took his hand, and Regan’s strong grip immediately enveloped hers. Her heart did a somersault at the contact, heat spreading up her arm and rushing to all her sensitive places. She wondered if he felt the connection, too, because for just the briefest moment, something registered in his eyes. Surprise? Maybe something more? But he quickly shuttered his gaze, hardening his expression. With a tug, he hoisted her off the couch. She raised her Solo cup in the air, trying not to spill it as he led her through the crowd, weaving toward the door.

  Humiliation prickled her flesh as the stares, snickers, and whispers of her friends followed her outside. The moment her feet touched the lawn, Willow tried to rip her hand free of Regan’s grasp, but his hold only tightened.

  “Let me go!” she hissed as he practically dragged her across the lawn toward his tricked-out, cherry-red Camaro. There were more people outside than in, and she could hear their laughter mocking her all the way to the car.

  “Regan, stop!” Willow dug her heels in, and he spun on her so quickly she stumbled a step back.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Willow?”

  “What does it look like? I’m trying to have some fun with my friends.”

  “By getting shit-faced and letting that fucking tool crawl all over you?”

  If she didn’t know better, she’d swear there was a snarl of jealousy in his voice. But it was only wishful thinking. The whiskey was letting her hear what she wanted to hear. “I’m not shit-faced.”

  “Oh yeah? Then what’s in the glass, Willow?”

  Before she could answer, he ripped the cup from her hand and lifted it to his mouth. She watched the thick cords of his muscular neck work as he swallowed down her last hope of forgetting the one-year anniversary of her parents’ deaths. She tried to fight back the tears pricking her eyes. It wasn’t fair. She just wanted a reprieve from the pain. Regan could make it better. He could make her forget.

  The only time she felt a spark of normalcy, a glimpse of happiness, was when he was with her—most of the time they were a trio with Kyle. Her brother was trying so hard to raise her right, but what did he know about teenage girls? It was difficult for him, trying to fit a sixteen-year-old into the life of a twenty-one-year-old MMA fighter. But he did his best. And Regan, being his closest friend, went out of his way to step up in Kyle’s absence—which was a lot lately, because Kyle was busy training for his first pay-per-view fight next month.

  Regan crushed her now-empty cup in his hand and tossed it onto the grass. “What are you doing, Willow?” he asked again. “This isn’t you.”

  “How do you know this isn’t me when I don’t even know who I am anymore?” Her vision swam, blurring him until two giant tears rolled down her cheeks.

  They extinguished the anger in his expression. Muttering a foul curse, he pulled her into his arms and hugged her tight against his chest. “I just know,” he whispered.

  His cheek rested against the top of her head as he stood there sharing her pain—he missed them too. It felt good to feel something other than grief, and being held in Regan’s arms was better than she’d imagined—so warm and hard. She took a breath, pulling his masculine scent deep into her lungs. When her need for oxygen forced her to release it, Willow exhaled a contented sigh and wiggled in tighter. She squeezed her arms around his waist and could feel the imprint of his muscular chest against her sensitive breasts. They tingled at the contact. His abs flexed in response to her pressing contact, and he stiffened in her arms, tension rolling through him.

  No, not yet . . . don’t let me go!

  His grip on her loosened, signaling the moment of comfort had passed, but she held on with desperation. Why couldn’t he want her the way she wanted him? Why couldn’t he love her?

  “Willow . . .” Regan’s voice was low, gravelly, and it sent a shiver through her nerve endings, but an unmistakable edge sharpened his tone—an unspoken warning maybe? She refused to heed it as she slid her hands up his muscular back and turned her face into his neck. He felt so incredible. She couldn’t resist another inhale of his spicy scent. She wanted to kiss him so badly. She had to know what he tasted like. Just once . . .

  He was turning to stone in her arms. No longer embracing her, his hands slid up her arms, sending a shock wave of goose bumps prickling over her flesh as his strong fingers clasped her shoulders.

  “Willow . . .”

  A definite warning filled his voice this time. And she felt something between them—something long and hard pressing against her stomach. Oh, wow, is he . . . ? Is this . . . ?

  Maybe he wasn’t so indifferent to her, after all. The thought gave her a thrill that emboldened her where the whiskey left off. Turning her head ever so slightly, she let her lips brush against his neck in the slightest caress. He didn’t move. She kissed him again, her mouth sealing over his flesh, her tongue skating over the pulse pounding in his throat.

  He tasted so good.

  She kissed a little higher, straining on tiptoes to reach his lips, but he was too tall. A low, throaty growl rumbled in his chest, and his fingers curled into her shoulders until it almost hurt. But instead of pulling her closer and dipping his head to cover her mouth with his, he pushed her away, setting her a full step back before letting her go.

  “What the hell, Willow?” he growled harshly, startling her.

  Heat rushed to her cheeks, and she couldn’t hold his searing stare a moment longer. His brows pulled tight in a scowl over eyes storming with too many emotions to name. She couldn’t speak; embarrassment rendered her mute as tears clogged her throat.

  “You think I don’t know what you’re doing?” He switched tactics when it became obvious she wasn’t going to answer. “I know what tonight is, and I know you’re hurting, but this isn’t the answer. You’re better than this. You’re better than that piece of shit in there”—he pointed toward the house—“and you’re sure as hell better than me! Fuck!” He dragged his hand through his hair, exhaling the curse as he spun away and began pacing in front of his car. “A kid,” he mumbled, his voice full of disgust and self-loathing. “You’re just a kid,” he repeated, as if trying to convince himself.

  But he was wrong. She wasn’t just a kid. She was sixteen years old. She’d been through the kind of tragedy that aged a soul immeasurably. She knew what love was, dammit. Unfortunately, no matter how old she might be, to Reg
an she would always be his best friend’s little sister.

  Chapter 1

  Four Years Later

  Willow readjusted the grocery bag balanced on her hip and grabbed the stack of mail from the box attached to the house. After tucking it under her arm, she opened the screen door and wrestled with her keys, trying to slide one into the lock. Finally! She turned the knob and pushed her way inside.

  “No, that’s all right, Kyle. I got it. Don’t worry about me,” she called over the serenade of “Roots, Bloody Roots” echoing from the surround sound in the living room.

  She was almost to the kitchen when the screaming rasp, “Roots, bloody roooaaaaaahh” abruptly cut off, leaving blessed silence. She hated her brother’s taste in music, had never understood why someone would want to listen to death metal.

  “That you, Will?”

  “Yeah.” Exhaling an exasperated sigh, Willow set the groceries on the table and began shuffling through the mail: Bill, bill, credit card offer . . . she froze. Her heart stuttered before kicking into a hammering rhythm as she stared down at the envelope. Nevada Department of Corrections. With trembling hands, she slipped her finger beneath the seam and started to tear the flap.

  “Hey, there you are.”

  She startled and let out a yelp when the sharp edge of the seam cut across her finger. “Ouch, dammit!” She spun around, bringing the envelope behind her back and tucking it beneath the discarded mail.

  “You ready to go? I’m going to be late if you don’t move your ass.”

  After grabbing a napkin, Willow pressed it against her bleeding finger. Kyle was standing in the doorway, duffle bag slung over his shoulder, looking amused with himself for scaring her.

  “See what you made me do,” she griped, sticking her bloody finger in his face.

  He caught her wrist and moved it into focusing range, then winced. “Sorry. Damn, those hurt, don’t they?”

  “Yes, they do. Thank you very much. And it’s your fault I’m running late in the first place, so you’re just going to have to hold your damn horses a minute.”