Fighting for Control (Against the Cage Book 3) Page 4

  Her top lip turned up in the slightest hint of a smile. Not enough to give him a glimpse of those straight white teeth, but enough to let him know she was thinking about it. “Your time’s up, Mr. Del Toro,” she said, stepping back and pulling her wrist out of his grasp and then handing him a pen to sign the release. Why the hell not sign it? It wasn’t like she was going to find anything, anyway.

  Taking the ballpoint from her, he scribbled his name on the form, giving her access to a past that by all accounts didn’t exist—too bad that wasn’t true. What he wouldn’t give to disappear as easily as those military records had.

  “Have a good rest of your day, Mr. Del Toro. It was . . . nice to see you again.”

  Nikko hadn’t been gone a whole five minutes before Pen came busting into Violet’s office. “Oh, my gosh! You know who that guy was, right? That’s Nikko freaking Del Toro! I’m fan-girling so hard right now! He’s the bad boy of MMA.”

  Violet closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Pen, shut the door before someone hears you.”

  Penelope pushed it closed and then leaned back against the jamb as if to bar any interruptions. “So . . . give me the scoop. What’s his damage?”

  “You know I can’t tell you that,” she grumbled. “Besides, he’s not your type.” Violet wasn’t sure who she was trying to convince, Pen or herself. Nikko was so Penelope’s type it wasn’t even funny, and the truth of it grated on Vi’s nerves.

  Pen snorted an unladylike scoff. “Are you kidding me? I love dark and broody guys! It’s you who likes ’em straight and narrow.”

  Apparently not anymore, because Nikko Del Toro was as bent and twisted as they came.

  Her friend nibbled her bottom lip as she studied her, looking like she was trying really hard to solve a crossword puzzle. “Unless you want him . . .” she declared, a thread of suspicion infiltrating her voice.

  “What? I don’t want him,” Violet denied. “That’s ridiculous.” Okay, too much admonition?—perhaps, because Pen was looking less convinced by the second.

  She shrugged. “Whatever, lying to me about it doesn’t make it any less true. Admit it, Vi, that guy got under your skin.”

  “Yeah, well, so does a rash, but that doesn’t mean I want one,” she grumbled.

  “Really? So you don’t mind if I go after him, then?” Her friend held her gaze, daring her to deny it.

  “No.” Yes. “He’s all yours.” I think I might hate you right now. “You know I can’t get involved with my clients, Pen. It’s unethical.” It was also something she never dreamed she would ever have to worry about, but today that dilemma arrived in the form of one angsty MMA fighter who had thoroughly rocked her world.

  “Those CFA guys don’t count, Vi. It’s not like they’re ‘real patients,’ anyway.” She air quoted the last part. Apparently in Penelope’s mind “real patients” meant the crazy ones.

  “I’ll be sure to use that as my argument when I’m brought before the board of licensure for unethical conduct.”

  “You know what you need?” Pen cut in, hijacking the conversation.

  “No, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

  “You need to go out. All you ever do is work. That’s it.” She snapped her fingers as if a bravo idea had just come to her. “Your birthday’s coming up in a few weeks and I’m taking you out.”

  Oh, please no.

  “We’ll go to Angelo’s. It’ll be a blast.”

  Vi wasn’t so sure about that. Pen’s idea of a blast and Violet’s were not at all the same. Pen loved loud music, crowded dance floors, and hard liquor, while Vi preferred a cold beer, a bowl of popcorn, and a good chick flick. Pen really was her opposite in every way. Maybe that was why they got along so well. Even their taste in men was completely different, Nikko excluded. There was never any of that catty drama or female competition between them.

  How could Vi have forgotten her own birthday was coming up so soon? Oh, joy. She was about to respectfully decline Pen’s gracious and selfless offer to take her out and get totally shit-faced, when Penelope switched tracks on her again by blurting, “Oh, I almost forgot to tell you, Barry called again.”

  Cue the screeching record. Seriously? Again? How many times a day would he keep calling her? When was he going to finally accept the fact that they were over? It’d been six months since their divorce had been finalized, and she’d hoped back then that making it official would drive home the fact that some mistakes were just too big to get past, and fucking your secretary in Manhattan happened to be one of them.

  “What did you tell him?”

  “That you were with a patient. I’m sure he’ll call back. He always does,” Pen grumbled under her breath.

  “I’m sorry you have to deal with him, Pen. I know he’s a pain in the ass.” If Barry had paid half as much attention to her when they were married as he did now, they would probably still be together and she’d be floating along in her ignorant little bubble thinking life was great. But a little over a year ago, Barry had shattered that utopia when she discovered he was having an affair with his secretary. Not only was the betrayal devastating, but it became doubly so because they all worked together in the same office. Vi and Barry had been partners at work as well as in life—or so she thought until she came home early from a psychology conference and found her husband balls deep in another woman.

  That day Vi would have sworn her world had come to an end, and in many ways it had. They shared the same friends, networked in the same social circles, and, humiliatingly, she had been the last to know about Barry’s infidelity. She could only imagine the whispers that had gone on behind her back, the pitying head shakes as she’d walked past her coworkers—her friends . . .

  No, she didn’t think she’d ever be able to forgive Barry for ruining her life. To know he desperately wanted her back now and how deeply he regretted his mistake was of little consolation. She was doing her best to forge a new career and a new life here in Vegas. It was nothing like the one she’d had before with penthouse views, cocktail parties, and depressed rich housewives who needed their monthly refill of Paxil.

  No, her patients in Vegas were different. They had very real problems and needed serious help. At least she felt like her work here was important—like she was making a difference in people’s lives, even if there were parts of her old life she still missed terribly. She had loved being married and missed that companionship deeply, but no matter how alone she felt, no amount of desperation could ever make her want to take Barry back again.

  “Have you been firm with him? Told him there was no way you were getting back together?”

  “I’ve tried. About the only thing I haven’t done yet is tell him I’m seeing someone.”

  “That’s a great idea. Why don’t you try that?”

  Vi shrugged. “Because I hate to lie. And it feels sad and desperate to make up a fake boyfriend.”

  “You could go out with Nikko, and then you wouldn’t have to lie. Oh, that’s right. He gave you a rash . . .”

  Despite herself, Vi laughed. “You’re such a bitch, Pen, you know that? Why do you want me to go out with this guy so bad?”

  “Because you want him.”

  “I don’t—” she protested, but Pen held up her hand, cutting Vi off.

  “Whether you admit it or not, you do. And you deserve to be happy, Vi.”

  “Why are you saying this? I thought you wanted him.”

  “Oh, I do, but there’s only one problem . . .”

  “Oh, yeah, and what’s that?”

  “I think he wants you.”

  Nikko lay flat on his back, his gaze fixed on the chipped ceiling tile as Nickelback’s “Side of a Bullet” blasted into his ears. He loved this song—story of his life. Listened to it all the time over in Afghanistan, and it was the fight song he walked out to every time he set foot in the Octagon. As the music played, he relished the burn licking up his arms with each rep of the bench press.

  The pain ke
pt his mind clear and his thoughts focused. Usually, it blocked out the demons of his past, always hovering at the edge of his consciousness, ready to swoop in the moment he lost control of his thoughts, but not today. Today he abused his body for another reason, putting it through a brutal routine of cardio and weight lifting, trying to banish the image of a blonde-haired, violet-eyed female who had him in knots.

  Seeing Clover again had affected him far more deeply than he wanted to admit. The memory of their escapade in the bathroom sat too close to the surface of his thoughts. How many times had he relived that moment in the darkest of nights when he’d been desperate to drown out the screams, the report of gunfire echoing in his head, and the phantom scent of gunpowder stinging his nostrils?

  That memory of her had become his safe haven—the place in his mind where none of the ugliness or the brutality of his past could touch him. There was closure in knowing he’d never see her again—in knowing that one hot, incredible moment belonged solely to him. People were messy. Relationships were complicated and an incredible amount of work that he had zero interest getting involved in. But that quick tryst with Clover had been clean and simple—tidy and quick—just how he liked it.

  But now, in the span of sixty minutes, that woman had managed to shatter his refuge, robbing him of the simplicity of what had been, because now he couldn’t stop thinking of what could be—what he wanted but would never have, because he didn’t deserve that kind of happiness. If Clover knew him—the real Nikko Del Toro—she would never want him. No, his Clover was nothing but an unattainable temptation, a cruel joke played by that sick bitch called fate, who maliciously dangled his secret desires just beyond his reach.

  Even if it were a possibility, if by some insane chance in hell Clover felt something for him, he’d promised himself a long time ago that he’d never give a woman that kind of control over him again—the power to hurt to him, the power to break him. He knew what it’d taken to put himself back together the last time and how the pieces didn’t fit together right anymore. He couldn’t risk them breaking again because he was all out of glue.

  Shutting down his mind, he focused on the song set on his iPod to play on an endless loop—Side of a Bullet.

  As the music blasted into his ears, he focused on controlling his breathing. His grip on the bar tightened as he pushed it up with his exhale, locked his elbows, and then lowered the weights again for another rep. He was about to push up again when a face bent over him, jutting into his line of vision. His lips were moving, and by the scowl on Kyle “The Killer” Scott’s face, he was good and pissed off.

  Nikko returned the expression, locking eyes with the fighter, nicknamed “Kill,” who had a temper to rival his own. Truthfully, Nikko liked the guy. He was a great fighter who had his head on straight and his shit together, and he absolutely adored his baby sister, Willow. She’d only been fourteen years old, and Kill twenty, when their parents had died in a car crash. Any young, single guy who would put his life on hold to raise a teenage girl deserved the fucking Medal of Honor as far as Nikko was concerned.

  She was a cute little thing, his sister, and from the stories he’d heard, she could be a handful, but Kill had done an amazing job raising the girl. She’d just celebrated her twenty-first birthday a few weeks ago. He’d thrown her a surprise party and a lot of the fighters had been there. Many of the guys who were friends of Kyle’s were also friends of his sister. She didn’t have just one brother; she had a gym full of them.

  Willow was a regular fixture around here. When she’d turned sixteen, Kill had gotten her a job cleaning the place, washing towels and cleaning mats and stuff. Some of the guys had thought he was crazy for exposing a teenage girl to this place, but it turned out to be a stroke of genius because not only did that girl have Kill watching out for her but Coach’s entire camp of MMA fighters. Nobody would ever mess with her. In fact, Nikko pitied the guy who’d ever be suicidal enough to try to date her.

  Nikko set the barbells back in the hooks and popped out an earbud in time to hear Kill rant, “—trying to get yourself killed?”

  “What?” Nikko returned the fighter’s glare, in no mood for his bullshit, as well-meaning as it might be.

  “How much weight are you pushing?”

  “Three twenty-five.”

  “Without a spotter? That’s a hundred pounds over your body weight. You know the rules, Bull. No one lifts that much weight alone. For fuck’s sake, no one’s even in here. What if your elbow gives out? Are you trying to get yourself killed or just kicked out of the CFA entirely?”

  Nikko jerked the second earbud out and swung his legs over the side of his bench. “First of all, I know my limits. I’m lifting under my par. Second of all, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m pretty much public enemy number one around here right now, so that spotter thing ain’t happening. Third of all, I already have a mother, and I ain’t in the market for another one, so you’re just going to have to save that shit for Willow.” He glanced around, looking out the door to the main area of the gym, and his scowl deepened. “Where is she anyway? Isn’t she supposed to be here by now?”

  “Yes, she is, and she’s late—again. How many times can that girl’s classes run behind? I’m sick of covering for her. Coach cuts her more slack than Dean does. Then again, I’d expect the president of the CFA to be a ballbuster, and I’d expect Will to make it a priority to get her ass to work on time.”

  “Give her some breathing room, man, she’ll come around. She’s still young, trying to figure things out and find her flow. You remember what it’s like.”

  Kill’s brow arched. “Do I? When I was her age, I was a full-time parent and fighting to put food on the table.”

  The doors slammed out front, and a moment later Willow came bursting into the weight room. “Look who the cat dragged in,” Kill grumbled.

  “Sorry I’m late, Kyle. Oh, hi, Nikko. Missed seeing you around here for the last few days.”

  “Hey, Willow. Good to see you, too.”

  She came over and gave him a quick hug. He tried to fight the involuntary reflex to pull back because his body wasn’t having any of it. If she noticed his discomfort, she gave no indication, and even if she had, he doubted she’d let it stop her. Willow was free with her affection, nonjudgmental, and giving to a fault. The thing about her was when she said shit like, It’s good to see you, or, I missed you, she actually meant it. That girl was pure goodness. Kill was lucky to have someone like that in his life.

  Willow turned to her brother, stood on her tiptoes, and kissed his cheek. Like magic, that fighter’s scowl instantly dissolved. Damn, that girl had him wrapped around her cute little finger. It was entertaining as hell to watch, especially if you knew what a dour hard-ass Kyle “The Killer” Scott truly was.

  “Classes ran late again.”

  Nikko didn’t miss how Willow’s gaze darted to the floor as she rushed to give her brother an explanation. Huh . . . he wondered why she was lying. What was she hiding from him?

  “That’s the third time this week, Will.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. Thanks for covering for me.”

  “I’m a fighter, Willow, not a housekeeper. I need to be training, not doing the gym’s laundry.”

  She bit her bottom lip, looking truly remorseful. “I’m really sorry, Kyle. It won’t happen again.”

  They both knew it would, but her brother refrained from pointing it out. Exhaling a sigh, he dragged his hand through his hair. “It’s fine, Will. Don’t worry about it. I can’t very well spar without my partner, anyway, who, by the way, is forty-five minutes late. I swear I’m getting both of you watches for Christmas.”

  Willow turned away, but not before Nikko saw the guilty blush staining her cheeks. No fucking way . . .

  “I’d better get to work,” she said, heading toward the laundry room. “Thanks again, Kyle, I owe you one.”

  “You owe me more than one,” he called after her. “So I expect lasagna with garlic bread for supper Th
ursday night. And not that frozen shit you tried to get away with the last time, either. I want Mom’s homemade recipe.”

  “You got it,” she called, opening the door to the laundry room and waving good-bye as she rushed inside.

  Nikko couldn’t hold back the grin tugging at his lips when Kill swung that surly scowl back on him and growled, “What are you smiling at?”

  The dude truly didn’t know. Nikko held up his hands defensively and chuckled. “Nothin’ man . . .” He was not about to be the asshole that told this guy his best friend, who also happened to be his sparring partner, was fucking his baby sister.

  Right on cue, Regan “Rapscallion” Matthews came flying through the door. “Sorry I’m late, man,” he called on his way to the locker room. “Just give me a second to change and I’ll be ready to go.”

  “What the hell happened to you?” Kill yelled across the gym.

  “Car trouble.”

  “Your cell broken, too?”

  “Nah, man. I had a flat.”

  Had Willow flat on her back is probably more like it. This place was turning into a regular Days of Our Lives.

  The moment the door closed, the sexy stranger had her shoved up against it, the whirr of the jet engines drowning out her startled yelp. Vi wasn’t sure what to expect, but this was not it. It took her all of two seconds to realize she was out of her league, another two to realize she’d made a huge mistake, and another two to panic.

  His mouth came down on hers with a savage intensity that stole her breath. It wasn’t that it didn’t feel good. He felt really good—too good—and it scared the hell out of her. This was too much. The emotions he was stirring, the energy that lit up her nerve endings as he pressed his hard body against hers. She came online and connected to him on a level she’d never felt before. It was like being caught outside during an electrical storm, with the energy crackling around her prickling over her skin, making the fine hairs stand on end, warning something powerful was about to strike.