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

  After grabbing a hot pad, she pulled the cherry upside-down cake off the rack and set it on top of the stove to cool. The air in the room shifted, and she tensed, awareness prickling up the back of her neck. She knew the moment Regan entered the kitchen. She could feel his eyes sweeping down her spine, lingering on her ass.

  Not that he’d ever do anything about it. God forbid that steely resolve of his would ever crack and he’d actually admit he felt something for her. Frustration boiled up inside as she busied herself getting cake plates from the cupboard and pulling forks out of the drawer as she did her damnedest to pretend he wasn’t standing behind her.

  Close. Oh, God, too close . . .

  She could smell the fresh scent of soap mingling with his spicy masculine scent.

  “You all right?” His husky baritone rolled right through her.

  She took a deep breath. “Of course I’m all right. Why wouldn’t I be?” The frost in her voice declared her a liar; the hammering of her heart betrayed her resolve.

  “You seem out of sorts tonight. Is something bothering you?”

  Besides the fact that her parents’ killer was about to be set free and the guy she was in love with had wanted to bail on their dinner tonight so he could go get laid? “Nope, I’m just great.”

  “Liar.”

  His hand covered her shoulder. The warm press was tender—comforting. She closed her eyes, letting herself imagine, even if for just a moment, what it would be like to be his. She hated the women who knew the answer to that question—a populace larger than she cared to admit.

  “You might be able to fool others with that hard-ass attitude, but I know you too well, Willow.”

  She didn’t turn around, wasn’t sure she could and still keep it together. How easy it would be to lean into him and revel in the strength of his touch.

  The last time she’d caved into that temptation, it had ended in her humiliation. She’d vowed that night she’d never allow herself to take that kind of solace from him again. She might have been young, might have even been naïve, but she’d never forgotten the sting of rejection. It was painful lesson learned and one she wouldn’t be repeating.

  Honestly, she was surprised he allowed himself within arm’s distance of her now. He was usually more careful.

  “Kyle shouldn’t have said what he did—about the cage-banger. I’m sorry.”

  Steeling her resolve, she stepped away from him, needing the distance to clear her head. “Why? You don’t owe me anything, Regan, least of all an explanation of how you intend to spend your night,” she replied crisply, grabbing a pair of her mother’s oven mitts from the drawer and shoving them onto her hands with more force than necessary. She made a move to step past him, but he stopped her with a hand on her bicep.

  “Willow, this tension between us has got to stop. Kyle’s going to notice it. We used to be friends. We used to be close.”

  Her gaze shot up, locking on his absinthe eyes. Her pulse hammered inside her chest. He was a gorgeous man—strong, square jaw, dark hair, and the lean-cut body of a hard-muscled fighter. “We are friends, Regan. Now please, grab the ice cream out of the freezer.” She sidestepped him, and he released her arm. Grabbing the ends of the baking dish, she carried the dessert out to the dining room.

  Pasting on the smile she’d become an expert at displaying, she announced, “I hope you saved your appetite.” Her false grin fell and she froze as her eyes shot into the living room. Kyle was standing near the couch, staring at the TV. The evening news was on, and plastered across the screen was a mug shot of the face that haunted her nightmares. A wave of dizziness swept over her, and the room began to spin. Her knees buckled, and the glass dish fell from her hands, shattering on the floor.

  Regan heard the crash from the kitchen and ran into the dining room just as Kyle was leaping over the couch. Regan got to Willow first and wasted no time scooping her into his arms. “Willow? What’s wrong?” he demanded, tucking her slight frame against his body. She was so pale. Her eyes were wide and unfocused. She looked shell-shocked, like she’d just seen a goddamn ghost.

  “Bring her over to the couch,” Kyle instructed, skidding to a halt, then doubling back to the living room.

  When Regan moved toward the sofa, the TV caught his eye and he growled a ripe curse. “Shut that shit off,” he barked at his friend, who was already diving for the remote. But the TV didn’t black out before old footage of Sean Campoli being led into the courthouse with a slew of camera crews hot on his heels flashed across the screen.

  It had been bad enough losing his friends’ parents, but having the event turned into a goddamn media circus was absolutely appalling. Unfortunately, that was what happened when the son of Bruce Campoli, millionaire and owner of Campoli Hotel and Casino, crashed into a car, killing two people and nearly a third while high on coke and all liquored up. It had been big news. Campoli was a powerful player in the Vegas circuit. There was no telling how far up the court system his reach extended. If it hadn’t been for Willow’s testimony, Regan had no doubt that the bastard would have walked.

  What Regan wanted to know was why in the hell the evening news was drudging up a story that was five fucking years old?

  Regan laid Willow on the couch and knelt beside her. “Hey, you all right?” He swept a chunk of platinum hair behind her ear, letting the ends slowly slip between his fingers. His chest tightened. So soft . . . just like silk.

  “She all right?” Kyle demanded, moving in front of Regan and forcing him to relinquish his spot beside the woman who stirred his protective instincts to life like nobody’s business.

  It killed him to step back and watch from the sidelines as her brother took over. But Regan knew that when it came to Willow, Kyle lost all rational thought. That girl was his entire life; the affection he felt for her was more parental than sibling—not that Regan could blame the guy. Kyle had given up college, his dreams, and his life as a twenty-year-old junior attending Harvard to raise his little sister. They were all each other had left, and Regan knew that kind of sacrifice forged unbreakable bonds.

  “Hey, Will . . . look at me.” Kyle swept his hand over her pale cheek before grasping her wrist and checking her pulse.

  She looked so fucking fragile lying there. Every muscle in Regan’s body was strung tight with the effort it took not to wrap her in his arms. He ached to comfort her—to tell her it was all right and remind her that this nightmare was over. Her parents had gotten their justice. Willow had seen to that.

  Those vibrant blue eyes that reminded him of a clear summer day blinked a couple of times, as if coming back online and shaking off the shock of seeing her parents’ killer blasted across the evening news. Her brows tightened, eyes snapping into focus.

  “Kyle, I’m fine,” she said after a moment, but Regan knew she was lying. That girl was anything but fine. “I was just caught off guard for a moment. That’s all. I wasn’t expecting to see his face when I walked out. Stop fawning over me. You two look like a couple of mother hens,” she grumbled, tugging her hand out of Kyle’s grip and trying to sit up.

  They probably did, but that wasn’t going to stop either one of them from hovering. Regan knew she hated for them to see her like this, to think her weak, and he often wondered if Kyle’s decision to raise her in the cage-fighting world hadn’t stolen some of her emotional freedom. It was there that she’d learned the credo they all lived by: What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. And Willow Scott was the strongest woman he knew.

  Growing up around and working in a gym full of hard-ass cage fighters didn’t afford a lot of opportunity to nurture her feminine side. And over the years, she’d become a pro at fronting, but something inside Regan ached to break through that tough exterior and get at the heart of this woman. He missed the old Willow and longed to reconnect with the girl who used to wear her hair in long platinum braids and give him carefree smiles and blushing glances. Only problem was he was pretty sure that girl had died in the car with her parents.r />
  “Kyle, could you please get me a glass of water?”

  Regan doubted very much that she wanted one, and he suspected she was only assigning her brother the task to get some space. As soon as he left, Willow swung her feet over the side of the couch, planted them on the carpet, and exhaled a shaky sigh before scrubbing her hands over her face as if that would somehow rub away the memories.

  He watched her, torn between following her brother’s folly of smothering her and giving her the space she needed to get her bearings.

  “I’m sorry I ruined dessert,” she grumbled.

  “That’s all right. It’s not like it’s my favorite or anything.”

  She arched her brow at his teasing tone, opting for humor to help cut the tension. It almost worked. Her top lip ticked up in one corner. “Who are you trying to kid, Matthews? Cherry upside-down cake is so your favorite. Why do you think Mom used to make it all the time?”

  “Well, it’s really upside-down now.”

  A bubble of laughter broke from her throat—a short, feminine bark that brought a smile to his face. At the beautiful sound, a measure of tension eased from his muscles, and he finally felt like he could breathe again.

  “You’re such an ass,” she mumbled, shaking her head, but her soft smile declared him triumphant.

  It was a small victory. Unfortunately, he’d already lost the battle for his heart.

  Chapter 3

  The storm beat against the windshield as the wipers whipped back and forth futilely. Sheets of rain blurred the headlights of the oncoming car in the distance. The storm blotted out the moon, and darkness seemed to swallow the meager light cast by the halogens of her father’s sedan.

  Willow glanced at the clock in the dash—1:00 a.m. They’d spent the weekend bringing Kyle back to Harvard after spring break, and she was anxious to get home. They weren’t far from the city now, the glow of Las Vegas an ethereal beacon in the distance.

  “This rain is terrible,” her mother commented over the cacophony beating on their roof. “Maybe we should pull over and wait for the storm to pass.”

  “Nooo . . .” Willow complained from the backseat. “I just want to get home. It’s late, and I’m tired of sitting in this car.”

  “I’ll keep going,” her father said. “It should be easier to see once we hit the city.”

  Willow settled against the seat and closed her eyes. She wasn’t sure how much time passed—a minute, maybe two. She’d just started to drift off when she heard her mother say, “Robert, that truck is in our lane!”

  The note of alarm in her voice sent a prickle of fear racing up Willow’s spine. Her eyes flew open, but all she could see was blinding light. Her mother screamed. Her father hit the brakes and tried to swerve, but it was too late.

  CRASH! The sound was deafening—an explosion of colliding metal and shattering glass. Sharp bits hailed at her. God, the screaming . . . All she could hear was this shrill, horrific cry. She couldn’t breathe. When she finally managed to force air into her lungs, the noise stopped—everything stopped.

  Nothing remained but the sound of rain hammering against their car and the whir, whir, whir of the wiper blades, flopping back and forth.

  “Mom? Dad?”

  Silence answered her.

  “Mom? Dad?” she cried louder. With shaky hands, Willow reached for the buckle of her seatbelt, but the latch was stuck. She couldn’t move! Panic clawed at her throat. “Mom, Dad, say something!” she pleaded. “Tell me you’re all right!”

  Footsteps echoed outside, a crunch of broken glass beneath the heavy steps drawing closer. “Oh, shit. Oh, shit,” the voice chanted over and over.

  “H-help!” Willow called, unsure if he could hear her over his own panicked voice. She couldn’t see the man but knew he was close. Suddenly, light filled the car, and she squinted against the brightness darting from the driver’s seat to the front passenger. A shaking hand reached inside the shattered driver’s window toward her father’s neck, and then it was gone. Footsteps ran to the other side; then the light shone in from the broken passenger window.

  “Oh, God, they’re dead,” the voice announced.

  “No! No, no, no,” she repeated the denial, her mind unwilling to accept what her heart already knew to be true. Willow began to cry, struggling with the latch of her seatbelt. “Help me,” she sobbed.

  The light turned toward her, forcing her to close her eyes against the blinding beam. The man muttered a foul curse, then seemed to panic even more. His eyes weren’t right, darting around, wild and unfocused. There was something wrong with him. At first, she thought it was the shock of the accident, but his rambling agitation grew worse with each passing second.

  “I’m going to prison. I can’t go to prison. It was an accident. The roads were slippery from the rain. No one has to know it was me. They’ll think they all died in the crash.”

  The man babbled to himself as he paced outside the car, each pass ratcheting up Willow’s terror as she lay there trapped, listening to him plot and justify her murder. When the back passenger door was ripped open, Willow let out a blood-curdling scream and tried to kick at the man to keep him away from her.

  “No! Get away from me! Leave me alone!”

  “I’m sorry.” His crazy eyes darted around frantically, hands trembling. “You’ve seen my face.”

  He reached for a shard of broken glass from the floor by her feet. “Don’t touch me!” she screamed, kicking at him when he made a grab for her ankle. She tried to dodge his hand, but she was unable to evade his uncoordinated grasp. He caught ahold of her hair, and she screamed again. Jerking her head back, he exposed her throat and pressed the glass against her skin, the sharp edge biting into her flesh.

  “I’m sorry,” he said one last time before raking the shard across her neck.

  Her scream was cut off by the rush of blood pouring down her throat. She couldn’t breathe! Her lungs seized at the invasion of liquid, throwing her into coughing spasms as she grasped at her neck, desperately trying to stanch the flow. The glass clattered to the ground, and the light disappeared, surrendering her to total darkness. The retreating pound of footsteps echoed above her hammering heartbeat. A vehicle roared to life, and the last thing she heard was the squeal of tires as her parents’ killer tore off into the night.

  Willow jolted awake with an air-hungry gasp, her hand clutching her throat as she struggled for breath. But this time it wasn’t blood choking her; it was bile. Her stomach lurched. God, she was going to be sick. Scrambling off the bed, she dashed into the bathroom and dropped in front of the toilet just in time. Again and again, she retched, her body’s pathetic attempt to purge the horror snaring her in its grasp.

  Seeing the face of Sean Campoli last night had released a floodgate of memories she’d spent years of therapy trying to come to terms with. Her mind was reeling from the letter she’d received, informing her that he was up for early parole. If she wanted to appeal, she needed to notify the court by the end of the week.

  In all honesty, she wasn’t sure she could survive it again.

  Rising to her feet, Willow flushed the toilet and stumbled over to the sink. She wet a washcloth and wiped it over her face before brushing her teeth. As she went through the perfunctory motions of getting ready for the day, her heartbeat slowly began to calm as she disengaged her mind. She couldn’t think about this right now. She had an A&P Lab exam in two hours. Now was not the time to be losing her shit.

  Focusing on some of the meditation techniques her therapist had taught her when she’d been struggling with panic attacks, Willow set her mind on one task at a time—one step in front of the other. By the time she’d showered and gotten ready for the day, she was feeling about as normal as she was going to get. Willow was careful to keep her gaze averted from her neck as she leaned toward the mirror and swiped some mascara over her lashes. She just couldn’t look at the scar on her throat today. Other wounds were too raw, making that one unbearable. After heading to the bedro
om, she quickly dressed, pulling on a plum-colored sleeveless mock turtleneck and a black maxi skirt. She was twisting her hair into a messy bun and pinning it on top of her head as she emerged from the bedroom. Just a quick stop in the kitchen to grab one of Kyle’s protein bars, and she’d be on her way.

  When Willow rounded the corner, she was surprised to find Kyle sitting at the table, statue-still, elbows on the table with his head in his hands. He was usually gone by now on his morning run. He didn’t look up when she entered the kitchen. Nope, he just kept sitting there like a piece of granite until her already-nervous stomach tightened with dread.

  “You all right, Ky?”

  His dark-blue eyes snapped up to hers with the intensity he usually reserved for his opponents in the cage. He was pissed. “When were you going to tell me?” His voice was too quiet, too controlled.

  “Tell you what?” Had he somehow found out about her feelings for Regan? Had Regan said something to him last night before he left? The idea of it filled her with both panic and relief. She was so tired of pretending.

  “Goddammit, Willow, don’t play dumb with me! When were you going to tell me that Sean Campoli is up for early parole?” He tossed the letter onto the table, and it skidded to a stop just before hitting the floor.

  Okay, now she was pissed. “You went through my purse?”

  “No, I was searching for the car keys. You had them stuffed inside your purse, and I didn’t want to wake you last night to move the car into the garage. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Hurt flashed in his eyes, and she felt horrible knowing she’d caused it. She hadn’t intended to keep it from him. She probably would have told him about it tonight. “I don’t know. I guess I just needed a day to digest it, to figure things out—”

  “I don’t want you to do it. Don’t appeal this.”