Caged

  “All right, wiseass, I’ll tell you why. Because with the piss-poor showing I’ve seen from you in the training room recently, I’m afraid he’ll hurt you and you won’t be able to fight.”

  Deacon laughed. Which startled everyone, because he never cut up during practice. Never. “Whatever. The odds are better that I’ll trip over my own feet and twist my knee before Courey can ever hurt me bad enough to keep me from that fight.”

  Courey puffed up his chest and bumped it into Deacon’s. “You’ve got a big fucking mouth, McConnell. How about I shut it with my fist?”

  “You can try, dipfuck.”

  “Back off. Both of you,” Maddox warned.

  “You gonna let us spar, right here, right now?” Deacon asked Maddox without breaking eye contact with Courey.

  “No.”

  “Fine. Then we’ll go someplace else.”

  Courey grinned. “One hour. Chico’s Gym on South University.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “The hell you will!” Maddox roared. “You’re my fucking fighter. I say when you fight, where you fight, and who you fight.”

  “You can’t stop me.”

  “And I don’t recommend you try,” Ronin said from behind them.

  They all watched Sensei move forward in that deceptively lazy gait that meant he was ready to strike at any moment and strike hard.

  “What the fuck, Ronin?” Maddox demanded.

  “This is what you’ve been pushing for. So let them spar. Full contact.” Ronin gave both Deacon and Courey a cool once-over. “Then we’ll know who is ready to move to the next level.”

  Maddox looked unhappy as his gaze flicked between Courey and Deacon. He rubbed the frown line between his eyes. “You heard Sensei Black. Suit up. Ring check, five minutes.”

  Deacon grabbed his gear out of his locker and got ready, trying to focus on what he remembered as Courey’s weak points.

  No one attempted to talk to him. Good thing, or else he might’ve used them for a warm-up.

  Blue checked his gloves. Deacon spared a quick glance at the guys standing around the ring, then at Maddox and Ronin on opposite sides of the netting.

  Deacon bowed before he crossed the threshold into the ring.

  Courey did not. Once he got inside, he bounced around like he’d loaded springs in his feet. He swung his arms. Moved his head side to side until all the vertebrae in his spine cracked. Then he grinned and popped in his mouth guard.

  Terrel served as ref. “Clean fight. Three three-minute rounds. You both know the rules. Blatant disregard of common rules will result in forfeiture. Understand? Now, touch gloves.”

  After that they returned to their respective “sides” to await the signal to start.

  Courey attacked first.

  Deacon let him.

  Courey tried an outside leg kick, which Deacon blocked.

  Then Courey landed a punch to Deacon’s jaw, which Deacon didn’t even attempt to dodge. That singular hit fueled the rage and he released every bit of pent-up anger. Toward his cousin. Toward the fucked-up situation with Molly. Toward his motherfucking coach, who’d lost faith in him. Toward the sadness at losing his brother and the self-hatred for his part in Dante’s death.

  But within that firestorm he became a fighting machine. He remembered why he’d earned the nickname “Con Man.” Because neither Courey—nor anyone else—knew what to expect.

  By the end of the first round, Deacon had Courey on the run, on the ropes, on the mat. And he’d executed a picture-perfect takedown—a judo hip throw that even skimpy-praise Ito would’ve applauded.

  During the quick break, Deacon grabbed the bottle of water from Terrel and drank deeply, never taking his eyes off his opponent. Strategizing his next round. Not bothering to sit down because he wasn’t tired; he was exhilarated.

  At the start of the second round, Deacon kept Courey guessing by implementing every fighting style that he’d been perfecting. Faster hands courtesy of Fisher. Faster feet courtesy of Sergei. Faster takedowns courtesy of Blaze.

  When Deacon had Courey in a rear naked choke, he freed him before the man could tap out. Tapping out would be too easy. Deacon wanted to make the cocky motherfucker suffer.

  So before Courey caught his breath from the near choke out, Deacon rolled him to his back and started a ground and pound until Terrel broke them up.

  That signaled the end of the second round. Courey hadn’t landed a single kick or hit in those three minutes.

  Riggins entered the ring to tend Courey’s wounds. Hard not to smile about that.

  Again, Deacon didn’t sit down during the break. He paced as he remembered Molly’s disappointment, the shock and the hurt on her face when she’d learned what he’d kept from her. Then the anger when he refused to explain.

  With that one scathing look, she’d had him retreating far faster than any blows any fighter had leveled on him.

  She couldn’t walk away for good. He wouldn’t allow it. He couldn’t imagine never seeing that beautifully expressive face again. Never touching her body as they moved together in pleasure. Never hearing her laugh. Not being a part of something bigger and better than he ever thought he’d have.

  He couldn’t fathom his life without her. He’d lost too much already. No fucking way would he lose her. He was a fighter. He would fight for her. He would win. Because that—not Needham—would be the most important fight of his life.

  That train of thought sent him back into the red zone. He started to yell, “Can we finish this!” and only Riggins moving in front of him kept the words from spewing out.

  “Let me look at you,” Riggins said.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Then it shouldn’t be an issue for me to take a look.”

  “Then why don’t you check my balls?” he snarled. “Tell these guys who thought I’d lost them that they’re still intact.”

  “Jesus.” He dropped his voice. “You fucked Courey up. I oughta call this fight right now.”

  “But you won’t,” Deacon said.

  Riggins studied him dispassionately. “No. I won’t. But I suggest if you wanna go another three minutes, stop reopening his cuts or Terrel will call it.”

  “Maybe Courey oughta keep his face away from my fists.” Deacon looked across the ring as soon as Courey stood up.

  The last round Deacon switched to Muay Thai–style kicks. Once he got bored with that—because lookee there, the “Crusher” was on the run—he used a jujitsu takedown.

  On that move, Courey scored a reversal and they were back on their feet. Then he rushed Deacon until they were up against the side of the cage.

  Uh-uh. Wasn’t his problem Courey was too fucking tired to offer much challenge. So while Courey clung to him, Deacon landed blows to his upper body with both his hands and his knees.

  When they stumbled backward, Deacon did the man a favor and decided to end it by pummeling him in the face with a flurry of fists.

  Courey hit the mat like a drunken rag doll.

  Finish him. So he can’t get up on his own. He’d do the same goddamn thing to you.

  Before he could put the final hurt on Courey, Terrel stepped in front of him. “He’s done, man. Let it go.”

  Deacon bypassed Riggins on the way out. He didn’t look at Maddox or anyone else. He just picked up his equipment bag and left the training room.

  Of course there was no such thing as privacy at Black Arts—not even in the fucking stairwell. He ran into Beck as he cut down the stairs.

  “Whoa. Deacon. What the hell.” Beck glanced at Deacon’s hands, still in gloves and dotted with blood. “What happened?”

  “Don’t wanna talk about it.”

  Beck blocked him in. “Tough shit. With the way you’re sprinting outta here like the hounds of hell are nipping at your heels, I need to know what’s going on.”

  “Had enough of Courey’s big mouth. We went three rounds of full contact.”

  A pause, then Beck stated, “Courey lost.??
?

  “Yep.” Deacon sidestepped him.

  Beck countered and moved in front of him. “The whole Black Arts crew up there watching?”

  “Yep.”

  “Where you going?”

  I don’t fucking know. “I’ve got an appointment.”

  “Bullshit. You’re running from everyone.”

  He flashed Shihan a nasty smile. “Except Courey. He can barely fucking walk, let alone run.”

  “Jesus, Deacon.” Beck didn’t back off. “So you shut up the fuckers who’ve doubted you. I don’t see that’s made you happy.”

  “Ya think?”

  “Why aren’t you up there rubbing their faces in it?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “I don’t care. You need to talk about it.”

  “Move.”

  Beck said, “Make me,” knowing Deacon wouldn’t take action against his Shihan.

  “Why the fuck do you care?”

  “Cut the macho bullshit. Yeah, yeah, I got the memo. You prefer to keep to yourself. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but in the last year, you’ve become less like an island—at least in the dojo. There are far worse things than having people who care about you, trust me. So suck it up, cream puff, and pour your black heart out, because you know I’m not going anywhere until I either see tears or your gooey marshmallow center.”

  “You’re such a pain in my ass.” Deacon rested his shoulder against the concrete wall. “Everything in my life is as fucked-up as it can get. My way of dealing with it is to fight. I could go another ten rounds, I’m that wound. So I’m going somewhere where I’m not tempted to beat the living hell out of my friends.” Why did people talk about this shit? It didn’t solve anything.

  “Will you be back to teach kickboxing this week?”

  The thought of facing Molly in a roomful of people, seeing her hurt and scorning him while his students speculated about their private business, twisted his guts into knots. That’s when he knew the first fucking place he planned to go when he left here was her office. “I can’t. You’ll sub for me?”

  “This has to do with her, doesn’t it?”

  “Yeah. And no, I don’t want to motherfucking talk about it,” he snapped.

  “And I don’t motherfucking care.” Beck ran his hand through his hair. “Bare bones, Yondan.”

  “I’m a fucking idiot, all right?”

  “Not news to me. What else?”

  “Shit from my past came up that I shoulda told her about.”

  “And she found out from someone else,” Beck stated.

  “Yeah. She walked away from me, man. For good, I think.” What had compelled him to confess that?

  “You’re not gonna let that happen, D. We’ll figure this shit out.”

  Deacon bristled at the word we. “Did I ask for your fucking help?”

  “You are such a prickly bastard. But you show up to talk to her looking like that?” He gestured to Deacon’s bloodied knuckles. “With that wildness in your eyes? She’ll run. Or call the cops. And think about it. If she walked away last night, she ain’t gonna talk to you today anyway. No matter what you do—even if you show up with a truckload of flowers or buy out Tiffany’s. Give yourself time to figure out how to fix it.”

  “I hate this.”

  “Part of the gig with women, right?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never done relationships. Until her.”

  Footsteps stopped at the top of the stairs above them. They both looked up.

  Ronin’s cold gaze moved between them. “Deacon. A word.”

  “Not in the mood to talk.”

  “That wasn’t a request.”

  “I don’t give a damn what it was. I said no.”

  Sensei’s extreme displeasure pulsed through the air like a poisonous dart.

  Deacon caved. He couldn’t go against his Sensei any more than he could go against his Shihan. Softly, he said, “She knows,” and those two words changed Ronin’s demeanor entirely.

  “You told her?”

  Deacon shook his head.

  “Fuck.” Then, “Who did?”

  “My cousin Tag.”

  Ronin shot Beck an odd look—as if he wasn’t sure he should speak freely. “What happened?”

  “After she found out at dinner last night, she broke it off with me.” Deacon pushed off the wall. “Look. Talking about it with you two ain’t gonna change a damn thing. So can we please fucking drop it? I need to talk to her.”

  Ronin sighed. “Don’t go to the office until I talk to Amery and find out what kind of shape Molly’s in.”

  “That’s crap, Ronin. I need to—”

  “Take the rest of the day and get your head on straight. And yeah, I’ve had plenty of experience taking that advice myself. Besides, Amery gave Molly a Taser for her birthday. Don’t give that woman an excuse to use it.”

  Beck groaned. “Now you’re just taunting me, Sensei, with the image of Deacon twitching on the floor while Molly keeps zapping him.”

  “Piss off. I thought you were on my side.”

  “I am. But you gotta admit it’d be funny,” Beck said to Deacon. Then he looked at Ronin. “Since Deacon’s day is done here, I’ll take over his endurance training. I could stand to get out and mix it up.”

  “Where you taking him?” Ronin asked.

  “We’ll do stadiums.”

  Deacon flashed his teeth. “Bring it. We’ll see if you can keep up, old-timer, because I live for this shit.”

  “Old-timer?” Beck gave him a nasty grin in return. “You forget I trained with Sensei’s Sensei for four years. Stadiums will be a Sunday walk in the park compared to that.”

  “If I didn’t have meetings, I’d tag along to watch,” Ronin said.

  “Watch? Blow off your meetings, Sensei, and we’ll show you how it’s done,” Beck challenged.

  Ronin speared them both with an evil smile. “Oh, grasshopper. You forget I trained with your Sensei’s Sensei. My pain threshold and stamina will make you both fucking cry.”

  • • •

  BY the time Deacon and Beck finished ten sets of stairs in Mile High Stadium, they were both so wet, it appeared they’d been caught in a downpour, and they were so out of breath, they couldn’t speak. Which was exactly how Deacon wanted it.

  Of course it was too good to last.

  “I needed this. It’s good to mix it up every once in a while,” Beck wheezed.

  “If you say no pain, no gain, I’m pushing you over the railing,” Deacon warned.

  Beck laughed. “And people say you have no sense of humor.”

  “I thought people said I was an asshole with no heart.”

  “They say that too.” Beck tipped up his water jug and drank. “So you reminded Molly of your asshole side last night?”

  “Yeah.” He stared at the seats across the stadium until they were an orange blur. “I got backed into a corner. Couldn’t come out swinging, so my mouth ran unchecked.”

  “Huh. I’m surprised you didn’t just close down. That’s what I see you do when Maddox gets under your skin during training.”