Fighting Attraction
Page 56
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“This will stop you.” I press my hand to his chest where his heart pounds frantically against his ribs. “I will stop you. My safe word, Redemption, will stop you.”
“There’s nothing there.” He tears my hand away from his heart. “If that’s what you’re looking for, I’ve got nothing to give.”
18
Do I taste like whiskey?
RAMPAGE Sunday morning, I meet with my agent and my manager, James, at Redemption. We go over some new sponsorship opportunities, upcoming fights, and changes to the contract requested by MEFC. Far from being upset about the fight at Score last night, they want to feed the rumor mill about my hidden temper. Apparently, the one thing that might hold back my career is my reputation for being a nice guy, so a few broken noses in a bar fight is good for my image.
If they knew the real me, they wouldn’t be concerned. Nice guys don’t hurt the people they care about; they don’t want to make their women scream.
After the meeting is over, I go over the training schedule for next week with Andy, Torment, and my fitness trainers. I asked Torment to stay on my team as a coach after I signed with MEFC. He’s still one of the best fighters I know, a great teacher, and one of the few people I really trust.
He also knows me well enough to see that I’m wound up tight and irritable as hell. After patching Penny up last night, I went home and tried to work out my frustration on my punching bag. But two hours and ten bloody knuckles didn’t do a goddamned thing, and after a morning of meetings, I feel like I’m going to explode.
“You wanna take a break and go a few rounds in the cage?” Torment asks when we’re done.
“Fuck yeah.” Torment is the man. He just gets it. He knows I’m losing the fucking plot dealing with all that admin on my training day off, especially when my mind is somewhere else.
We meet in the practice cage after a quick change. Twenty-eight feet in diameter with a six-foot-tall chain-link fence and a thick padded floor, the practice cage is Torment’s favorite place to work out his stress.
Not one to waste time, Torment plants a fist in my fucking face only seconds after I close the cage door, and the fight is on.
“Good night?” He throws a big high kick, and I step aside.
“Started off okay. Then it turned to shit.”
He laughs. “You broke two noses in Score last night trying to find your girl.”
“That was the good part.” I bull forward and hit the fence with Torment in a clinch. I muscle him to the ground momentarily, but he bounces up after his knee hits, and we break.
“You might want to take it down a notch, or you’ll scare her away.” He throws a body kick and then a kick to the head that misses me only because I stumble back. “I almost lost Makayla that night Misery kidnapped her,” he says. “Some women can’t handle too much violence.”
I snort a laugh. “Violence isn’t a problem for Pen.” I throw an easy sidekick, and he makes me pay over the top, landing two long rights to my shoulder when I leave myself open.
“Fuck, you’re not pulling any punches.”
“You left yourself exposed.” He drops back, bounces around. “You do that, prepare for some pain. But vulnerability gives you strength. It builds confidence, lets you see your true self. Not only that, it builds trust. If your opponent thinks you’re vulnerable, he’ll come closer, open up. Then you can decide whether to push for the win or retreat.”
Is this a fight lesson or a fucking life lesson? With Torment, you never know. I spring, landing back-to-back right kicks that force Torment back to the center of the cage. Before I can gloat, he rushes me, landing a right, then a left. The barrage is on. He throws a body kick followed by a spinning kick, and I counter with a solid one-two. We pummel each other for almost ten minutes, letting off steam, until Renegade stops the fight to remind us there are others waiting for the cage.
I limp out the door, holding my ribs, my only satisfaction the fact that Torment is suffering behind me.
I wipe myself down with a towel, gritting my teeth against the pain in my shoulder.
“You get hurt?” Torment grabs his water bottle, showing no sign of injury in the least.
“Fuck yeah. You’re a bastard for not pulling your punches when I left myself open.”
“You gonna die from it?”
“No.”
“Good man.” He slaps me on the shoulder right where it hurts and I hiss in a breath.
“By the way,” he says, his lips tipping up at the corners, “that lesson was free.”
* * *
PENNY
After his meetings at Redemption, Jack picks me up and drives us down to the docks in Mission Bay. He refuses to tell me where we’re going or why, and I feel a little trepidation when he parks his SUV outside a red brick warehouse within a stone’s throw of the water. The pier is dark, quiet, and totally empty. Water laps softly against pilings, and the odd sea lion barks in the distance. I exit the vehicle and draw in a breath of crisp ocean air.
“What is this place?”
“You’ll see.” Jack pulls a set of keys from his pocket and leads me up to a huge double door, the window portion heavily barred as is the portico above. A discreet gold plaque affixed to the wall reads Kilkeelan Distillery.
“Is this yours?” I hesitate when he pushes open the door, afraid to walk into the dark.
A smile tugs at his lips. “Mine and Jimmy’s.” He reaches around and flicks on the lights to reveal a huge room with exposed brick walls, iron beams, and painted pipes. A long, narrow glass-topped bar takes up one side of the room, and behind it are glass shelves filled with liquor bottles. Small tables surrounded by bar stools dot the Plexiglas floor through which I can see a vast room filled with oak barrels, stills, machinery, and tools.
“There’s nothing there.” He tears my hand away from his heart. “If that’s what you’re looking for, I’ve got nothing to give.”
18
Do I taste like whiskey?
RAMPAGE Sunday morning, I meet with my agent and my manager, James, at Redemption. We go over some new sponsorship opportunities, upcoming fights, and changes to the contract requested by MEFC. Far from being upset about the fight at Score last night, they want to feed the rumor mill about my hidden temper. Apparently, the one thing that might hold back my career is my reputation for being a nice guy, so a few broken noses in a bar fight is good for my image.
If they knew the real me, they wouldn’t be concerned. Nice guys don’t hurt the people they care about; they don’t want to make their women scream.
After the meeting is over, I go over the training schedule for next week with Andy, Torment, and my fitness trainers. I asked Torment to stay on my team as a coach after I signed with MEFC. He’s still one of the best fighters I know, a great teacher, and one of the few people I really trust.
He also knows me well enough to see that I’m wound up tight and irritable as hell. After patching Penny up last night, I went home and tried to work out my frustration on my punching bag. But two hours and ten bloody knuckles didn’t do a goddamned thing, and after a morning of meetings, I feel like I’m going to explode.
“You wanna take a break and go a few rounds in the cage?” Torment asks when we’re done.
“Fuck yeah.” Torment is the man. He just gets it. He knows I’m losing the fucking plot dealing with all that admin on my training day off, especially when my mind is somewhere else.
We meet in the practice cage after a quick change. Twenty-eight feet in diameter with a six-foot-tall chain-link fence and a thick padded floor, the practice cage is Torment’s favorite place to work out his stress.
Not one to waste time, Torment plants a fist in my fucking face only seconds after I close the cage door, and the fight is on.
“Good night?” He throws a big high kick, and I step aside.
“Started off okay. Then it turned to shit.”
He laughs. “You broke two noses in Score last night trying to find your girl.”
“That was the good part.” I bull forward and hit the fence with Torment in a clinch. I muscle him to the ground momentarily, but he bounces up after his knee hits, and we break.
“You might want to take it down a notch, or you’ll scare her away.” He throws a body kick and then a kick to the head that misses me only because I stumble back. “I almost lost Makayla that night Misery kidnapped her,” he says. “Some women can’t handle too much violence.”
I snort a laugh. “Violence isn’t a problem for Pen.” I throw an easy sidekick, and he makes me pay over the top, landing two long rights to my shoulder when I leave myself open.
“Fuck, you’re not pulling any punches.”
“You left yourself exposed.” He drops back, bounces around. “You do that, prepare for some pain. But vulnerability gives you strength. It builds confidence, lets you see your true self. Not only that, it builds trust. If your opponent thinks you’re vulnerable, he’ll come closer, open up. Then you can decide whether to push for the win or retreat.”
Is this a fight lesson or a fucking life lesson? With Torment, you never know. I spring, landing back-to-back right kicks that force Torment back to the center of the cage. Before I can gloat, he rushes me, landing a right, then a left. The barrage is on. He throws a body kick followed by a spinning kick, and I counter with a solid one-two. We pummel each other for almost ten minutes, letting off steam, until Renegade stops the fight to remind us there are others waiting for the cage.
I limp out the door, holding my ribs, my only satisfaction the fact that Torment is suffering behind me.
I wipe myself down with a towel, gritting my teeth against the pain in my shoulder.
“You get hurt?” Torment grabs his water bottle, showing no sign of injury in the least.
“Fuck yeah. You’re a bastard for not pulling your punches when I left myself open.”
“You gonna die from it?”
“No.”
“Good man.” He slaps me on the shoulder right where it hurts and I hiss in a breath.
“By the way,” he says, his lips tipping up at the corners, “that lesson was free.”
* * *
PENNY
After his meetings at Redemption, Jack picks me up and drives us down to the docks in Mission Bay. He refuses to tell me where we’re going or why, and I feel a little trepidation when he parks his SUV outside a red brick warehouse within a stone’s throw of the water. The pier is dark, quiet, and totally empty. Water laps softly against pilings, and the odd sea lion barks in the distance. I exit the vehicle and draw in a breath of crisp ocean air.
“What is this place?”
“You’ll see.” Jack pulls a set of keys from his pocket and leads me up to a huge double door, the window portion heavily barred as is the portico above. A discreet gold plaque affixed to the wall reads Kilkeelan Distillery.
“Is this yours?” I hesitate when he pushes open the door, afraid to walk into the dark.
A smile tugs at his lips. “Mine and Jimmy’s.” He reaches around and flicks on the lights to reveal a huge room with exposed brick walls, iron beams, and painted pipes. A long, narrow glass-topped bar takes up one side of the room, and behind it are glass shelves filled with liquor bottles. Small tables surrounded by bar stools dot the Plexiglas floor through which I can see a vast room filled with oak barrels, stills, machinery, and tools.
