Grappling for Position (Against the Cage Book 4) Page 2

  Her brother shot her a teasing grin. Jackass.

  “You’re making lasagna for supper, aren’t you?”

  “You know I am. It’s Thursday.” Lasagna was Kyle’s favorite meal their mother used to make for them. Willow had stopped by the store after class to pick up the fixings. While she was there, she’d also grabbed the ingredients for Regan’s favorite dessert. Kyle wasn’t the only one who’d settled into the routine of Thursday night family meals, and the thought of seeing Regan woke the dormant butterflies in her stomach.

  “Go get a Band-Aid, and I’ll put the groceries away.” Kyle entered the kitchen and grabbed the paper sack from the table. “It’s almost one. If we get to the gym late, I’m so throwing you under the bus.”

  She scoffed. “It’s not my fault your car’s in the shop and I’ve had to become your chauffeur. Besides, Coach is a lamb.”

  Kyle let out a harsh bark of laughter. “Maybe to you he is.”

  Everyone had thought Marcus Miller was out of his mind for hiring a sixteen-year-old girl to work in his gym, cleaning equipment, scrubbing mats, and doing the laundry. But it had been a stroke of pure genius. Nothing was going to keep a broken, hurting, willful teen on the straight and narrow like a gym full of MMA fighters who all treated her like their little sister. Not one of them would hesitate to step up if need be. Because of those cagey fighters, Willow’s dating life was practically nonexistent. Not that it mattered. She wanted only one man, anyway, and unfortunately the feeling wasn’t mutual, sooo . . .

  Every one of those guys respected Kyle’s brotherly sovereignty. It hadn’t been easy for him, joining the ranks of the CFA and building a career while trying to raise her. The adage “It takes a village to raise a child” was certainly their motto—well, a gym in their case.

  Now, four years later, they were all like one big happy family. Well, except for one. Nikko Del Toro was Marcus’s most recent addition, and the black sheep some would say. But he didn’t scare her, even though she’d been warned by the others to keep her distance. The anger and rage smoldering inside Nikko was internally focused—he meant her no harm. The fighter was just broken, and more than anyone, she understood that, even if the other fighters didn’t.

  Their MMA family had sure seen its share of tragedy. They were all still rocked by what had happened to Cole Easton during his title fight against Crazy Dan De’Grasse a little over six months ago. An illegal kick to the spine had broken the light-heavyweight fighter—literally. Doctors weren’t sure if he’d ever walk again without the aid of crutches, let alone get back into the cage. But Marcus refused to give up on him, just as he refused to give up on any of them. The injury had rocked the whole team, driving home just how dangerous the sport could be. Sometimes a win in the cage came at the cost of a career.

  “Have you heard how Cole is doing?” she called from the bathroom as she pulled a Band-Aid from the box and peeled the ends of the wrapper apart.

  “Actually, yeah. He’s on his way back from Wisconsin for Aiden’s fight next week. Sounds like that new physical therapist is a miracle worker.”

  The whole team was feeling the pain and loss of Cole’s absence, but it had hit Aiden “Disco Stick” Kruze especially hard. They’d been sparring partners and best friends since Aiden joined the CFA, and he’d told Kyle he was planning to ask Cole to corner him.

  When Aiden lost his training partner, Nikko had stepped in. Willow was certainly no expert, but to her it looked more and more like a wailing session every time those two got into the cage together. They went at it fast and furious, both suffering some pretty heavy damage by the time their practices were over. Neither of them seemed to hold a grudge, though. They both went their separate ways—heads held higher, steps a bit lighter. It was almost as if they’d walked out of a therapy session rather than the cage.

  Crazy. That’s what that shit was, but who was she to judge? They all dealt with their demons differently, and she was certainly no role model for grief management. If Kyle only knew how many times Regan had stepped in over the years and saved her from doing something stupid and self-destructive.

  Regan. At the mere thought of him, Willow’s pulse did that patented gallop. She fastened the Band-Aid around her finger and tossed the wrapper into the garbage. “Well, I’m glad he’ll make it back for Aiden’s fight,” she said, walking back into the kitchen. Kyle was just finishing putting the groceries away, so she took the opportunity to slip the DOC envelope into her purse. “I know it’ll mean a lot to Aiden, having Cole there. Whether he can ever fight again or not, Cole is still a part of this team.”

  Shouldering her purse strap, she fished her keys out of the pouch, making sure the letter was tucked safely inside. Kyle grabbed his duffle bag and slipped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her in for one of his brotherly hugs as they walked toward the door.

  “Maybe you’re right, Will.”

  “I know I’m right.”

  “How did you get so smart?” he teased, rubbing his knuckles over the top of her head. She elbowed him in the ribs and playfully shoved him away.

  “Four years of grief counseling has to count for something.” She just hoped all that therapy had prepared her for whatever was inside that envelope.

  He could feel her eyes on him—watching. She was always watching. One would think, after all this time, he’d become immune to that stare. If anything, he’d only grown more aware of it. His flesh heated everywhere those beautiful oceanic eyes touched, making his skin feel too tight for his body and stirring that familiar restlessness deep inside he’d been fighting for as long as he could remember.

  It was as if his body no longer belonged to him, responding to her with a will of its own. Even now his dick grew hard, and this was a serious problem because there wasn’t a lot of room in these nut cups. A lesser man would have said “Fuck it” a long time ago and taken what she so innocently offered, but Regan had too much to lose, and no pussy was worth that price.

  He lifted his hand, signaling to his sparring partner and best friend to give him a minute as he turned toward the wall and readjusted his cock guard. A lot of good it did him. If Kyle’s aim was off, even a fraction of an inch, he was going to be a hurting unit—more than he already was. Spending hour after hour, day after day, hard for someone who was off-limits was pure fucking hell. Why wouldn’t she just get back to work?

  No one noticed her standing there, not Coach, who was currently shouting at him to tighten his guard, not Kyle, who was currently attempting to hand him his ass, and not Kruze, who was busy training with Del Toro for his upcoming fight with Mallenger. Then again, why would anyone notice the beautiful blonde who was as much a fixture around here as any of them? Of course she’d stop her cleaning duties long enough to watch her brother fight. Only problem was it wasn’t Kyle her gorgeous eyes were glued to.

  Abandoning all hope of fixing his shield, Regan turned back around and signaled for the fighter to come at him. Kyle did not hesitate. Two steps in and he was throwing a roundhouse kick that just about took Regan’s head off. Maybe he should be less worried about his balls and more concerned about his brain. His ears were ringing from the impact, drowning out Coach’s slew of curses.

  As Kyle’s foot torpedoed past his face, Regan stumbled a step back and blinked a couple of times, trying to merge the two images of the fighter in front of him. The ground tilted as he fought against the dizziness rocking his equilibrium. Acting on nothing but muscle memory, because his brain was scrambled as shit, Regan shot in, plowing his shoulder into Kyle’s solar plexus and taking the fight to the ground. He was a submissions expert, while Kyle preferred the stand-up K.O.

  Although their fighting styles differed, both were undefeated in the welterweight division. So far, they’d managed to avoid each other in the octagon, and if Regan had anything to say about it, that was the way it would stay. Lately, there had been rumors—whispers of a match between the two best friends, Regan “Rapscallion” Matthews and Kyle “The Killer” S
cott. But there were some things more important than the win, and Regan refused to advance his career on the shoulders of his best friend. Coach knew that; he’d known it since the day Regan had introduced him to Kyle and gotten his friend recruited into the CFA.

  MMA had never been Kyle’s passion, not like Regan. No, his friend had bigger dreams, loftier aspirations than earning a living with his fists and feet, though he’d always been a damn good fighter. They’d trained all through high school. For Kyle, it had been for fun; for Regan, it had been a matter of survival. Once they’d graduated, the friends had gone their separate ways. Who could have known that two and a half years later, Kyle’s life would be ripped apart, leaving him to raise his fifteen-year-old sister, Willow. He’d had to quit college and needed to start earning money fast. MMA had been Kyle’s meal ticket, and the guy had been fighting ever since—just not against Regan, never each other.

  They both hit the ground. Boom! The slam echoed through the gym as he pulled half-guard, but Kyle blocked the well-placed blow Regan aimed at his face. Kyle bucked his hips. Regan’s balance was still off, and he failed to get his hooks in before Kyle displaced him, slipping into scarf position. His side pinned Regan’s shoulders to the mat, his arm behind Regan’s neck. Grabbing Regan’s wrist, Kyle used his forearm to lever Regan’s arm at a forty-five-degree angle, torquing his shoulder.

  Fuck!

  Pain exploded in the joint, hot and tearing. With his free hand, Regan tapped the mat and immediately felt the release. The fire dulled to a complaining ache, and the weight against his chest was gone. He opened his eyes to see the extended hand reaching toward him, an arrogant smirk painted on Kyle’s face. It wasn’t often he could beat the submissions expert at his own game, but when it happened, Kyle was sure to bask in the glory of Regan’s tap.

  Regan grabbed the offered hand and winced as his shoulder bitched about the hoist that yanked him to his feet. It took him a second to get his bearings. As his vision cleared, he couldn’t stop his eyes from searching the corner of the gym near the laundry room. He caught a glimpse of platinum hair as she turned away, pushing her cart through the door, and felt a sharp pinch in his chest. When had things changed between them? How had they gotten so complicated? So strained? He missed her. He missed the easy way it used to be between them. It was a simpler time then, back when she was just a kid and not forbidden fruit.

  “You want to talk about it?”

  Regan cut a quick glance at Kyle, one stall down, as he worked the lather through his hair. “What are you talking about?”

  “Whatever’s bothering you.”

  “Why do you say that? Because you beat me? A Floating Americana from a Scarf Hold is a damn hard submission to get out of.”

  “You’re distracted. You ain’t fighting for shit.”

  “Thanks. You’re a real confidence booster, man. If your career in MMA goes down the toilet, you can always get a job as a motivational speaker.” Regan stepped back into the spray, letting the water beat into his sorely abused muscles. “Ever stop to consider that maybe you’ve just gotten that much better than me?”

  Kyle stopped scrubbing bubbles and canted his head to shoot him a look. “No,” he answered flatly, as if the idea was ludicrous. They’d been friends too long for Regan to get away with the smoke he was blowing up Kyle’s ass. “You’ve always been a better fighter than me, and we both know it.”

  That wasn’t true, but he wasn’t about to stand here with his dick hanging out, arguing which one of them was the better fighter. Apart from when Kyle was away at college, they’d trained together five days a week for nine years. Kyle had the raw talent, and Regan had the heart. Regan admired the guy’s natural ability, but he’d started fighting for an entirely different reason. Regan had gotten tired of his old man getting drunk and kicking the shit out of him—which was just about every day—and he’d figured out pretty quickly if he didn’t learn how to defend himself, there was a good chance he wouldn’t see the tenth grade.

  His mom had cut out a couple of years before that—took off one day when he was at school without so much as a good-bye. He’d come home, and his old man had told him she was gone. It had taken him years of wasted prayers before he’d finally accepted that she wasn’t coming back. As much as he could, he’d stayed at Kyle’s house. They’d grown as close as brothers. Kyle and Willow’s parents, Robert and Sue Scott, had thankfully taken pity on him. They’d treated Regan like one of their own, feeding him and providing him a safe place to rest his head at night.

  Damn he missed them.

  Regan grunted his acknowledgment and went back to rinsing his hair so he could get the hell out of there. He hated lying to his friend, but then wasn’t that what he’d been doing to himself for the last four years? Telling himself he didn’t care for her like that? That he wasn’t in love with Willow Scott?

  If he just ignored the feelings, they’d go away. That was one of his most popular lies. If he pretended those feelings didn’t exist, then eventually his heart would catch up with his mind, right? It had to because, without a doubt, if he gave into his emotions, caved to the temptation of that woman, it would be the biggest mistake of his life.

  Willow Scott was off-limits to everyone—but especially to him. Maybe someday his heart would finally get with the program. God knows he’d certainly fucked his share of women, trying to get her out of his system. No such luck, though. So, until that happened, it was avoid and deny.

  “You still coming over?”

  “I don’t think it’s going to work out tonight.”

  “What? But it’s Thursday.”

  Regan exhaled a frustrated sigh. “I know what day it is, Kill.” He didn’t mean to snap at his friend, but he wasn’t sure how many more nights he could sit across the table from Willow and pretend it wasn’t killing him not to be with her. She’d paint on that polite smile and pretend he was nothing more than her brother’s best friend—the Scotts’ charity case. Only once had she let that carefully guarded mask slip, and he remembered that night like it was yesterday.

  How pathetic was that? If he had a dollar for every time he’d replayed that moment in his head, he’d be a goddamn millionaire. It’d taken every last bit of his self-control to shut her down, and push her away. That night something had changed between them, and despite his continued efforts at normalcy, they’d never been the same.

  She’d been just a kid—sixteen fucking years old—but the need she’d awakened inside him had started a fire that had never stopped smoldering for her. “I got a date,” he lied. “This was the only night she was free.”

  “What the fuck?” Kyle cursed. “Bros before hos, man. We’ve been doing this every Thursday since they died. You’re seriously going to break tradition over some cage-banger?”

  Regan felt like a total prick. He knew how important this was to Kyle and Willow. Hell, it was important to him too. But tonight he just didn’t think he had it in him to pretend he didn’t want his best friend’s little sister.

  In keeping with the Scotts’ tradition, Thursday night was always family night. It was the one evening a week when the family members, Regan included, had been expected to be home—come hell or high water—for a sit-down family dinner. Sue would prepare an elaborate spread, and they’d eat together and spend the evening either playing games or watching a movie. Yeah, it was real Leave It to Beaver shit, but it was the only stable thing he’d had in his life, so he’d been grateful to be a part of it. That he was blowing it off under the pretenses of getting laid left him looking like a class-A asshole and feeling every bit the part. But it was better than spending the evening getting iced by Willow.

  “See, that’s exactly what I’m talking about. What the hell is your problem lately?”

  “Nothing. You’re right. I’m sorry, man. Of course I’ll be there.” It was more than dinner. This was their way of honoring Robert and Sue’s memory. He couldn’t hurt his friend by breaking tradition and bailing on them. He’d suffer through tonight
, just as he’d suffered through all the others before it.

  “See you at six,” Regan said, cutting off the water to the shower and snagging a towel on the way to his locker. Fuck him if Kyle ever discovered the truth about his feelings for his sister. It would be the ultimate betrayal.

  Chapter 2

  See. Isn’t this better than getting laid by some cage-banger?” Kyle asked before shoveling a forkful of lasagna into his mouth.

  Willow couldn’t stop her gaze from cutting to Regan. The look of guilt flashing in his eyes when they briefly connected with hers made her stomach turn. She shifted her attention back to her plate, the taste in her mouth souring from the rise of bile churning in her gut.

  His stare stayed locked on her. She could feel it. Her spiking pulse confirmed it. She shouldn’t be surprised by Kyle’s comment. After all this time, she should have been used to having Regan’s conquests flaunted in her face. She’d been living with it for years, but every time it was like a knife in her heart, twisting mercilessly.

  Kyle was oblivious to the crackling tension in the room—thank God—too caught up in the feast of Mom’s recipe for homemade lasagna, garlic bread, and Caesar salad to notice the sparks flying across the table. Usually, Willow did a better job of pretending, of painting on a bright, carefree smile and acting like Regan meant nothing to her. But tonight . . . she just couldn’t drum up the ambition to fake it. And apparently, neither could he.

  She swallowed the cheesy bite, forcing it past the lump in her throat. “Excuse me. I’m going to go check on dessert,” she murmured, scooting her chair back and rising. She was almost to the kitchen when she heard Regan say something to Kyle about needing another beer. Dammit, she didn’t have the energy to do this—not after the day she’d had and especially not after reading the DOC’s letter.

  Just when she’d finally thought she could move on, come to grips with the past and put this tragedy behind her, it was about to start all over. She wasn’t sure she could go through it again. Shoving the thought aside, Willow took a quick peek in the oven and turned off the timer a few minutes early.