Caged

  said. “Then why would I care about the guys you’re so desperate to impress?”

  “You think you’re so smart,” Brandi sneered.

  Doesn’t take a whole lot to be smarter than you, dumb-ass.

  Molly had reached the bottom step when she glanced up and saw Deacon leaning against her car.

  It took every bit of resolve not to break into a run.

  When she reached him, he pulled her into his arms and softly kissed her lips. “Hey.”

  “Hey. How’d you know where I was?”

  “Only so many churches in this town, babe.” His gaze searched hers. “You okay?”

  “Not really. This sucks. But I’m better now that you’re here.”

  “You ready to hit the grocery store?”

  “I’m ready to hit something,” she muttered.

  Footsteps sounded behind them, and Deacon’s gaze moved over her shoulder.

  “Who’s your friend, Molly?”

  Molly turned, and Deacon stood beside her, keeping his left hand on the small of her back. “This is my boyfriend, Deacon McConnell. Deacon, this is my uncle, Bob Calloway.”

  Deacon offered his hand and Bob shook it.

  Jennifer slunk forward. “Molly didn’t tell us she had a boyfriend.” She held out her hand. “Jennifer Calloway. Molly’s cousin.”

  He lifted his chin and ignored her outstretched hand.

  Then Brandi horned her way between her father and sister. “Molly did mention a boyfriend, but I didn’t take her seriously.”

  Deacon cocked an eyebrow at Brandi. “Why not?”

  “Because she was flirting her ass off at the bar last night.” Brandi sent her a triumphant look.

  “I let you outta my sight one day and other guys are already sniffing around you. Will I have to bust some heads?”

  “You know you have nothing to worry about. Save your head busting for the ring.”

  Her uncle had been watching the exchange. “Ring? What do you do for a living, Deacon?”

  “I compete as a mixed martial artist.”

  “You don’t say. Karate and such?”

  From the corner of her eye, Molly saw her cousins exchange a look and then give Deacon a slow perusal.

  Eat your hearts out, bitches. He’s mine.

  “Not karate. I’m a jujitsu instructor at Black Arts in Denver.” He pulled Molly more firmly to his side. “We met in my kickboxing class.”

  “So that’s where Molly has tried to lose some of her weight,” Brandi said.

  “I’d watch the insults or you might be tasting blood,” Deacon warned.

  Brandi’s mouth dropped open. “Are you threatening me?”

  “Not me. Molly. The woman’s got a mean right hook. And I oughta know, since she learned how to throw a punch from me.”

  Molly sent Deacon a look of adoration. “Of course, I’d never hit someone out of anger.” Then she looked at Brandi. “Besides, if I used my fists on you every time you insulted me, you’d be black-and-blue from head to toe.”

  Without another word, Deacon opened the passenger door for her.

  Then he skirted the front end and climbed in the driver’s seat. “Keys.”

  She dropped them in his hand. “Thank you.”

  “For?”

  “Showing up.”

  He pressed his lips to her forehead.

  When she buckled her seat belt, she noticed Brandi glaring at them before she got into her father’s car.

  “What is up with those bitch cousins of yours? Jesus. I’ve always had a ‘no hitting women’ policy, but they’re tempting me to break it.”

  “They’ve been that way to me my whole life.”

  “And your grandma let them get away with it?”

  She ignored his probing gaze and stared straight ahead. “Everyone let them get away with it, claiming they’d outgrow it. They never have.”

  “That’s bullshit.”

  “As a kid, I had no power. As an adult, I moved away. I’d always been so malleable . . . until I wasn’t. I’ve had minimal interactions with Jennifer and Brandi since I went to college. After all this is over, I’m done with them.”

  “Good. No one needs bad people in their lives that make them question who they are.”

  Sounded like he was speaking from experience, but she knew better than to ask.

  The trip to the grocery store was uneventful—weird as it was shopping with Deacon.

  At the checkout she said, “Am I missing anything?”

  Deacon peered at the meat, veggies, bread, canned goods, and fruit in the cart. “Where’s the ice cream?”

  “I didn’t buy any.”

  His eyes turned shrewd. “You aren’t lactose intolerant or something?”

  “No. I’m intolerant of fat on my belly, hips, and ass after I’ve worked so hard to keep it off,” she said dryly.

  “We’ll share. What’s your favorite kind?”

  “Coffee or vanilla,” she lied. Both those flavors would be safe from her.

  He strolled to the frozen-foods section while she unloaded the cart.

  The last item that rolled off the conveyor belt was a carton of rocky road.

  Deacon put his mouth on her ear. “You’re a shitty liar, babe.” Then he deftly shunted her aside and handed the clerk his credit card. His death glare meant she’d be wise not to protest.

  At least not here.

  He pushed the cart outside. As soon as he’d opened the hatchback, she got in his face.

  His mouth was on hers before she’d uttered a word. The kiss wasn’t sweet and gentle. It was decisive. When she eased back to speak her mind, he murmured, “Let it go.”

  And so she did.

  Back at the motel, Deacon carried in the groceries while she put everything away. She fixed her favorite comfort food for lunch—canned chicken noodle soup and deviled ham sandwiches. Halfway through the meal, the reality of why she needed comfort food hit her. The first couple of tears fell in silence. But then they came too hard and fast to maintain decorum.

  When the first sob broke free, Deacon picked her up and carried her to the couch.

  • • •

  THE sobbing woman in his arms was killing him.

  Killing. Him.

  Fuck.

  He rarely felt helpless, but he sure as hell did now. Molly’s keening wails might just do him in.

  Deacon pressed his lips into her hair. Her tears dampened his shirt. How was he supposed to comfort her?

  First off, don’t be a dickhead.

  Amery’s warning had given him pause after he’d stormed into Hardwick Designs Monday morning, demanding to know where Molly had gone. Hearing that Molly’s grandmother had died was bad enough. But when Amery shared her concern about Molly being back in her hometown and dealing with her family members, who had had made her life hell, he’d booked the next flight to Nebraska.

  Molly’s sobs had morphed into hiccups. Then she wiggled to free herself from his embrace.

  “Where are you goin’?”

  “To get a tissue.”

  He released her.

  She pushed off his lap and shut herself in the bathroom.

  Deacon got up and waited for her.

  When Molly finally emerged, she jumped at seeing him leaning against the doorjamb to the bedroom. “I’m sorry I’m such a blubbering mess.”

  “Come here.”

  “But I’m better now,” she continued as if she hadn’t heard him, “so I’ll just go clean up the kitchen—”

  “I said come here.”

  “Deacon—”

  “Now.”

  “Fine.” She marched over to him. “What?”

  Deacon curled his hands around her shoulders. “You need to crawl into bed.”

  “I’m not tired.”

  “Bull.” He turned her and gave her a gentle push toward the bed. “In.”

  She stopped at the edge of the bed and stared at the neatly folded-back covers. “Did you do this?”

&
nbsp; “Yeah.”

  “Did you fluff my pillows too?”

  He dropped his hands to her hips. “Babe. I draw the line at that.”

  Molly snorted and crawled between the sheets fully clothed.

  He pulled the covers over her and smoothed his hand over her hair.

  She closed her eyes and sighed. “If I ask nicely, will you stay here with me? Just until I fall asleep?”

  Say no. You’re not a fucking monk. If you lie next to her, you’ll be hard as a brick. You want a repeat of last night? Thinking of Iceland as you’re in her warm bed, feeling her curves pressed against you, with her scent tempting you as you listened to her soft sleep noises? Say no. Say hell no.

  But Deacon found himself crawling onto the mattress and curling in behind her. The comforter wasn’t much of a barrier between their bodies, but it was enough.

  For now.

  His lack of sleep caught up with him, and he drifted off.

  The dream always started the same. Surrounded by fog as thick and sticky as a spider’s web. But he was safe inside. Then ghostly fingers crept in through the air vents, covering his mouth and eyes.

  So wet and cold. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t see. He couldn’t hear. Where were they? He opened his mouth to call out, but their names bounced back as if he’d shouted against a wall.

  In the next instant the fog dissipated and an image appeared in the distance. A ridged gray and black object. Getting closer and closer.

  A tree.

  He stared wide-eyed as the massive oak morphed into a talking tree from The Wizard of Oz. The knothole became a mouth open in a silent scream at the moment of impact.

  Then the screams became real.

  Not his screams, he thought as darkness overcame him.

  Breathe, man. Come on!

  Then he was floating, watching the scene above his own body, lying lifeless on the gurney along the side of the road.

  The EMT yelled at him to breathe, to fight.

  Not to die.

  He felt his soul being sucked away, vanishing into nothingness like the fog, forever gone. Like he never was.

  Until excruciating pain had him gasping for breath.

  “That’s it,” a disembodied voice said. “You’re a fighter. Stay with me.”

  Deacon shot upright in bed. His heart hammering, his body bathed in sweat, his hands clenched into fists so tight he couldn’t get them unclenched.

  It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real.

  Except . . . it was.

  In a panic he glanced over at Molly, afraid his thrashing around had awoken her. Or worse, his scream.

  Thankfully, she remained curled into herself, still asleep.

  Deacon carefully eased off the bed. He never wanted her to see him like this. Shaken. Haunted.

  Broken.

  By the time he reached the living room, he no longer felt like he might throw up.

  By the time he raced out of the room and reached the playground in front of the motel, he’d stopped shaking.

  He’d been shaking so hard he hadn’t realized his cell phone had been vibrating in his back pocket.

  The phone had kicked the caller over to voice mail.

  Good. He needed a distraction. He waited to return the call until his voice wouldn’t betray him.

  Deacon hit RETURN CALL, and the other line rang twice.

  “Please tell me you’re on a plane back to Denver,” Maddox said instead of hello.

  “Not yet.”

  “Any idea when that will be?”

  “Nope. There’s still a lot of stuff up in the air.”

  “Is she glad you’re there?”

  Deacon had asked Ronin if he should go. He said yes. So had Knox, and even Beck had told him to take off. The lone dissenter had been Maddox. “So far.”

  “Are you glad you’re there?”

  He grunted. “What do you think?”

  “I think this is a bad time for you to take off from training and become your girlfriend’s counselor.”

  “That’s why you called? Jesus, Mad, I’m not a fucking idiot. It’s not like I’ll be gone a month. I’ll do what I can with cardio and strength training.”

  “You also need to spar every day, Deacon.” He paused. “Speaking of sparring . . . guess who walked into the dojo today?”

  “Dana White.”

  Maddox snorted. “Micah Courey.”

  Deacon froze. “No shit?”

  “No shit.”

  “What did he want?”

  “To train here. Specifically, to train with me.”

  Fuck. “What did you say?”

  “I told him to come back in a few days after I brought it up with Ronin since he has final approval on adding new fighters to the program.”

  Pacing in the gravel parking lot kicked up puffs of dust. “Is this your way of cutting me loose?”

  “No.”

  “Then why are you even considering taking on a champion in my weight division?”

  “Nothing has been decided, and nothing will be until you get back here. But you can understand why I’d want that to be sooner rather than later.”