Caged

  “Because her grandma died. A funeral ain’t exactly fun.”

  “Guess it’s up to me’n Blaze to get Beck his birthday lap dance,” Fisher said.

  “If you guys go to Jiggles, I’ll give you my VIP pass,” Deacon offered.

  His eyes lit up. “No shit? You da man, bro.” He held his fist out for a bump.

  Ivan thrust his fist at Fisher and Deacon for a bump. “No woman tells Ivan what to do. I’m in.”

  Sergei snickered and said something in Russian that caused Ivan to gut punch him.

  “If you ladies are done swapping spit,” Maddox yelled, “how about you get those lazy asses in gear and get to fucking training.”

  Deacon picked up his gear. Then he said quietly, “Why isn’t Mad invited? He and Beck are always doin’ stuff together.”

  “Knox said Beck and Maddox had words this week and Sensei had to step in,” Fisher said.

  “Words about what?”

  “You, evidently.”

  “Fucking awesome. Seeing that Courey is still here, I know who won that pissing contest.”

  Ivan loomed over Deacon. “It’s not what you think. Maddox trains you. But Beck has your back. He proved it.” Then Ivan walked off.

  Weird.

  But Deacon didn’t have time to dissect what that meant because he spent the next four hours sweating his ass off and working his muscles to the point of exhaustion.

  • • •

  ABOUT an hour after he’d returned home, his phone rang.

  Deacon debated ignoring it—but he pushed ANSWER. “Hey, Dad. What’s up?”

  “Nothing earth-shattering,” he drawled in his thick Texas accent. “Just hadn’t heard from you in a while and I thought I’d see what’s new. How’s training?”

  He slumped back into his recliner. He could handle this conversation. It was the other one his dad regularly brought up that set him on edge. “It’s going good. Sometimes Maddox drives me so hard I wish he were my sparring partner so I could knock him the motherfuck out. Then, after training ends, we have a rational discussion about my progress or setbacks.”

  His dad chuckled. “Coaches like that are rare, son.”

  “I know.”

  “When’s your next fight?”

  “Next month. Here in Denver.”

  “Let me know when the date is set. I’ll fly in for it.”

  His dad was supportive of his MMA career—as much as he could be given that he’d set his sights on Deacon taking his place in the family business.

  “Your mother sends her love.”

  Deacon snorted. That was a fucking lie.

  For the next five minutes his dad filled him in on the stuff going on at JFW, the family company. After that they talked sports, his dad’s golf game in particular.

  “Anything new with Ronin?” his dad asked.

  “Since Black Arts has been under the House of Kenji, he’s had to step up his responsibilities.”

  “Responsibilities to what?”

  “The American Jujitsu Association. The politics of jujitsu ain’t his favorite thing by any stretch. But there are only five other instructors in the States that are at his belt level—none even close to his age, so his knowledge is valuable.”

  “I’d say so.”

  “He flies to San Francisco a lot. His understanding is he’ll be holding seminars with other dojos associated with House of Kenji.” Deacon paused. “I’d lay odds at some point during his travels he’ll find another punk-ass kid who needs direction like I did.” The instant the words were out of his mouth, he regretted opening the can of worms his father had been keeping the lid on.

  “He gave you what you needed at the time. I’m grateful to him for that. Maddox is giving you what you need now. But what happens a few years down the road, after you’re done fightin’?”

  “No idea. It depends on how far I go.”

  “What’re the odds you’ll ever get a title shot?”

  Fuck. Not this again. “Slim. But that don’t mean I won’t try. I realize I’m not twenty, but I’m not washed-up at thirty, either.”

  “I didn’t say you were.”

  “I’m in the best shape of my life,” he said defensively. “I finally feel like I’m getting somewhere.”

  “And getting somewhere will always take you farther away from Texas, won’t it?” his dad said softly.

  “Don’t. You fuckin’ know why I’m not there, wearing a monkey suit, collecting a big goddamn check, nothin’ but a waste of space—”

  “You’ll never be a waste of space. Jesus, boy. When will you ever get it through that bald head of yours that after Dante—”

  “Not goin’ there, Dad. Talk about something else or I’ll hang up.”

  “I hate this. I can’t even say his name or you lose your shit.”

  “I lost a fuck load more than my shit when my brother died and you fuckin’ know it. So next goddamn question.”

  A phlegmy cough sounded and faded, as if his dad had put his hand over the phone to hide it.

  “Dad? You sick or something?” he said gruffly.

  A beat later he answered. “Just old-age stuff.”

  “Sixty-five ain’t old.”

  “I feel it every damn day. And I’ll channel your mother here for a moment and remind you that when I was your age, I’d just gotten married.”

  Only because a social-climbing, money-grubbing beauty queen hooked you as her lifetime meal ticket.

  Nice way to talk about Mom, bro.

  Deacon closed his eyes. He used to welcome his brother’s voice inside his head, because he’d always been the more reasonable one of the two of them, but today that superior tone annoyed him.

  Shut it, Dante.

  Would it kill you to give him something? So he knows you’re happy outside the ring?

  Fuck.

  “I’m a long way from that stage, but I am, ah . . . seeing someone.”

  See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?

  Fuck off, Dante.

  Phantom laughter echoed in his head and then vanished. People would think him certifiable if he admitted it was more than just his dead brother’s voice; it felt like part of Dante’s conscience hadn’t moved on but had remained with Deacon all these years.

  “Tag mentioned to me that you’d met someone.”

  Gossipy damn family.

  “So? Tell me about her,” his dad prompted.

  “She’s . . . smart. And strong.” And gorgeous, and sweet, and funny, and sexy, and I’m so crazy about her it scares the shit out of me.

  “What’s her name, and how’d you meet?”

  “Her name is Molly. We met at Black Arts when she took my kickboxing class. She’s the office manager for Hardwick Designs—that’s Ronin’s wife Amery’s business.”

  “How long have you been dating?”

  “A couple weeks. But I’ve known her for almost two years.” Why had he shared that?

  “I’d like to meet her.”

  I’m sure you would. “She’ll be at my next fight.”

  “There’s an added incentive to go.” His dad chuckled. “I imagine you won’t be bringing her home to meet your mother. Does that mean I can’t tell her you’ve met someone?”

  “Why ask? You’ll do whatever you want. But Molly isn’t up for discussion with either of you.”

  “You sound happy. That’s all I care about. But I won’t speak for Julianne. Take care, son, and keep me informed on the fight.”

  “Will do. Later.” Deacon hung up.

  He ran his palm over his bald pate. His head was wet. Why did talking to his dad make him sweat?

  Because you’re still convinced he’s judging you.

  Christ, Dante. He is. You’re dead, and I still don’t measure up to you.

  Bull. Your perception has always been majorly skewed.

  Way to remind me I didn’t get the math brain.

  Quit brooding. I got the brains. You got the heart. Which one of us is still alive? So you tell me whi
ch one is more important.

  The voice disappeared again, leaving him feeling bereft.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  AFTER Deacon found the semiprivate room at Dave & Buster’s and exchanged the customary hand-jive, half-bro hugs with the Black Arts MMA crew, he focused on the birthday boy—who wore a Burger King crown, for fuck’s sake.

  Beck grinned. “Like the crown? Ivan’s idea. I’d tell you to get on your knees . . . but you’d take it the wrong way, D.”

  “Ya think?” Deacon looked around. There were monitors in this section that gave a live overview of the different game areas. “Dave and Buster’s? What are you? Ten years old?”

  “Piss off, Deacon. This place rocks. Besides, it’s a tradition. Twenty-fifth year in a row I’ve spent my birthday in an arcade.”

  Deacon swiped his light beer off the table. “So you didn’t discover video games until you were twenty?”

  “Not even on my worst day do I look ten years older than I am, unlike some bald-headed dudes, so fuck off, ass-monkey.”

  “Can you guys tone down your lovers’ quarrel? I’m trying to figure out what to eat here,” Blaze complained.

  “But their bromance is legendary,” Ivan deadpanned.

  “Fuck both of you.”

  Deacon looked around the table. Beck, Ivan, Sergei, Blaze, and Fisher. Surprisingly, Blue—not Gil—rounded out the group. Then again, if Beck and Maddox had words, Gil wouldn’t be invited since he and Mad were so tight.

  “You looking for someone in particular?” Beck asked.

  “The creepy guy who ties balloon animals at kiddie parties. Thought he could fashion that big dick you’ve always wanted.”

  “Bite me.” He smirked. “Unless your jaw hurts too much from taking one on the chin from Courey earlier this morning?”

  A chorus of oohs echoed back to him.

  “Ha-fucking-larious, douche bag. No. I just thought . . . Never mind.”

  Beck swigged his beer. “Yes, I invited Ronin, Knox, and Riggins, but they all had other plans.”

  “Riggins never comes to nothin’,” Blaze pointed out.

  “Training at Black Arts is a hobby for him. If he’s not being paid for his medical assistance with the fighters, he’s not hanging around with us. That’s who he is.” Beck shrugged.

  “Where’d you find him?” Deacon asked.

  “I didn’t find him. Knox did. So I assume they were military buddies or Riggins works for GSC, the same security place Knox does.”

  Or Knox and Ronin recruited him from Twisted—not that Deacon could share that suspicion.

  “Dinner’s on me tonight, so pull that damn menu away from Blaze,” Beck said. “The redheaded imp will bankrupt me.”

  “I hate when you call me imp.”

  “Dude. You’re like five five, and you weigh a buck thirty-five. Imp applies.”

  “Whatever. Just don’t call me rooster. Or red. I’ll prove size don’t matter when I come out swinging, ’cause them’s fighting words.”

  Food ordered, they all kicked back and decided to hit the games after eating. Talk turned to sports. Being raised in Seattle, Beck was a diehard Mariners fan. No one else followed baseball as fanatically as he did, so Fisher brought up the Broncos heading to training camp. Which generated Beck’s impassioned speech about the Seahawks.

  “You lived in Denver for three years and in San Francisco for almost five years and you didn’t switch to teams that actually win championships?” Fisher asked snidely.

  “Spoken like a native Coloradan who’s never lived anywhere else,” Beck said. “My allegiance remains with the teams I’ve followed for years—no matter where I live.” He pointed at Deacon. “Tell him, Yondan.”

  “What?”

  “Who’s your team?”

  “The Cowboys. Ain’t only my team; they’re America’s team.”

  Arguments followed, and Beck started spouting off stats for all the teams. The man had a head for figures. Reminded him of Dante in a lot of ways.

  Deacon noticed Ivan, Sergei, and Blue were talking among themselves. “Care to share with the class, boys?”

  “We’re talking real football. You Americans wouldn’t understand,” Ivan said with an air of superiority.

  “You mean soccer,” Blaze scoffed.

  “Football,” Blue corrected.

  “So why’s it called the World Soccer Cup, huh?”

  “It’s not, dumb-ass. It’s called the World Cup.”

  “Oh.”

  Sergei slammed his fist on the table. “Hockey!”

  “Whoa, there, Sergei. You’ll scare the kiddies. Besides, hockey is over for the year. The Rangers won the Stanley Cup.”

  “Nyet.” Then Sergei went into a very animated conversation with Ivan that made Deacon wish he understood Russian.

  “What’d he say?” Fisher asked.

  “Sixteen, seventeen games for football players is nothing. Hockey players play eighty-two games. That is the true test of athletic ability.”

  “I’m assuming Sergei used to be a hockey player?” Deacon said dryly.

  Ivan shook his head. “His brother, Semyon, is. He’s a skate-on for the NHL draft, hoping to get picked up by the Avalanche.”

  Enough food arrived to feed a hockey team.

  “So, Deacon, you’re really not going to the strip club with us?” Beck asked.

  “Nope.”

  “He’s blowing us off to get blown by Molly.”

  Deacon leaned across the table so he had Fisher’s full attention. “I won’t put up with disrespect where she’s concerned, so watch your fucking mouth.”

  “Oh, I see how it is. Last month when I took Jewel out, you said a bunch of lewd things—like showing Jewel the family jewels and asking how well she polishes them with her mouth. Now, when you’re with a woman for longer than fifteen minutes, she’s off-limits? Total bullshit, Deacon.”

  “Fisher has a point,” Blue said. “You were such a dick about him going to the ballet with Jewel.”

  “Come on. It was the fucking ballet.”

  Ivan smacked the table. “I was in the fucking ballet, remember? Even in a pair of tights, I can crush the life out of you, redneck.”

  Jesus.

  Beck made the time-out sign.