You make me drunk, Maverick. . . .
Fuck, I shouldn’t have taken her to her hotel. I should’ve brought her with me. To lie here, on my chest. Like she wanted. And talk all night, either with words or with silence.
And I’ll kiss her, for hours, her tongue coming out to play with mine, and I’ll have her breasts in my hands. She’s going to moan into my mouth. And I’m going to draw out those moans, because when I’m with her, I’m intoxicated and I’m crazed and out of control.
Reese in bed, looking nice and sweet, wrapping her arms softly around me as I spread out on her. Her saying my name in a way I know she wants me, needs me like I need her. “Maverick.”
I can’t talk, I’m groaning against her mouth, then squeezing her ass in my hands as I taste her nipple. I turn her around and kiss the mounds of her ass too. Slip my fingers between her legs, and she’s all wet and juiced up. I’m memorizing her. It’ll take me forever, but I’m dedicated and I want to memorize every tiny inch and pore with my eyes and my fingers and my tongue.
Her breaths jerk and she rolls around and grabs me to her and takes me inside. She’s hot. Wet. I can’t get enough. She accepts me inside her. She welcomes me inside her. She rubs her hands all along my back, over my tattoo. And she knows what it means. She’s the only one who knows what it means. It’s not about my father, it’s about me.
And I know who she is. I know she’s strong and sweet, I know she fights to balance what others need and what she needs. I know she’s finding Reese, and I know that I’m the lucky guy who’s gotten the privilege of watching her find herself.
TWENTY-EIGHT
STRONGER
Maverick
One . . . two . . . three . . .
Fifty-seven . . . fifty-eight . . . fifty-nine . . .
A hundred . . . a hundred and one . . . a hundred and two . . .
I’m doing sit-ups. Training in an empty hotel room Oz and I wrangled for the day.
I’m thinking of finals six weeks ahead. And of her. Always of her.
I know losing can get to your head. I know losing can ruin a fighter’s life. I also know you’ll never win if you don’t believe you deserve it. Because when your body’s about to give up, and you’re on your last push, you won’t ever go that extra mile if only a fraction of you didn’t believe you could nail this.
Maybe it’s my rebel inside. I’ve always believed I could; mainly, because I don’t think anybody else did. I believe I can. So I will.
And she is mine. I’m claiming her as mine. Slow and easy. That’s how we’ll do this.
But in the ring, I’m not going easy. I’m getting stronger, I’m getting faster, and I’m getting shit done.
I’m pumped up after yesterday.
I’m pumped up thinking of Reese, in the back of a cab, putting my hand between her legs. In my mind, the better I become, the more deserving I will be of Reese formally dating me.
“Oz, you need to watch Tate when we’re fighting. Tell me if you see an opening.”
“Maverick, I tell you what to do, not the other way around. Get yourself to semifinals first.”
I stop with the sit-ups and ease to my feet, jumping rope now. “Still mad I took you to AA?”
He glares, takes out a water bottle, and guzzles it down.
I toss the rope aside and go slap his back. “Hey. You can do this.” I toss him the tape so he can tape up my hands. “Oz, I can’t be everywhere in the ring. You need to tell me if you see weakness ’cause his coach is sure as hell telling him mine.”
“Not his coach, YOU ARE. All those times training with him? That guy’s been studying you like an encyclopedia.” He scowls bleakly.
“Good,” I murmur, letting him tape my hands. “I’ll know my own weaknesses before finals when he comes at me. I’ve been studying him too.”
“Get yourself to fucking finals first. Twister’s all up on standings, climbing the ranks. There’s talk that he’s cheating the system, pumped to the balls in steroids.”
“His balls have nothing but air.” Hell, I’m insulted he thinks I’m losing to Twister. I already beat him once. I glare. “I can take him.”
Oz guzzles more water. I narrow my eyes. “You dehydrated?”
“What?”
My eyes widen when he closes his bottle like it’s holy water and slips it into the inside of his jacket. I reach out and wiggle my fingers. “Give me that water.”
“No.”
“Oz.”
He tosses me a new bottle of water from a small cooler. I catch it, set it aside, and take a step. “You put vodka in your water bottle, Oz?” I ask quietly.
He stands up and puffs out his chest as he looks up at me, trying to intimidate me. “Drop it, Cage.”
“Give me your water, Oz.”
“I said it’s water,” he growls.
“Are you drinking?” I ask.
He glares, stomps away, and slams the door shut.
I grit my teeth and stare down at my untaped hands, curling my fingers into my palms. Then I run after him before he catches an elevator.
“Oz, come on. Let’s talk about it.”
The elevator arrives, and he boards defiantly. “There’s nothing to talk about. You’re gonna be on my back, then I quit.”
“Oz.”
“You either lay off me, or I’m not going to be spending time here to be lectured. I got enough of that before with Wendy.”
“I’m not Wendy, all right? Just chill and we’ll figure this out. Get back on this fucking floor, Oz,” I growl.
He glares but steps off. “I’m chill. Just back the fuck off.” He storms back into the room, and says, “Heavy bag.”
I follow him inside, simmering in frustration as I spread my hands out in helplessness. “I don’t know how to help you, Oz.”
“I can take care of myself. You worry about you. Heavy bag.”
I grind my molars. Then I go hit the bag, bare-knuckled. And get the perfect sound. And I keep going. And going and going. Getting it all out of my system. Getting ready for a fight.
♥ ♥ ♥
THE CROWD ROARS outside, and then there’s silence and the announcer speaks. “For the first time in Chicago, ladies and gentlemen, we give you the man causing waves . . . the man causing whispers . . . the man you all fear . . . the first rookie ever to get this far in an Underground championship . . . We give you, Maverick ‘the Avenger’ Cage!”
I turn to Oz. “If we win tonight, promise you’ll try again tomorrow.”
He smirks. “I’ll promise tomorrow.” Then he sobers and opens the door, where the crowd starts with a combination of name-calling and booing. “Let’s do this, son. One match at a time.”
I nod and I step outside and head to the ring.
TWENTY-NINE
RUN WITH ME
Reese
He won. I heard it from the team. Depending on the rankings of the fighters, they get to fight on separate nights in each location now that we’re heading to semifinals. Even numbers fight on one night, odd numbers on the next.
Maverick didn’t get to fight Remy in Chicago. But he beat every single man put in his path.
We’re in Chicago now, and he’s shot up in rankings from 148th (where he started, with no record) to thirty-ninth (after his first five match nights) to seventh now. Everybody is talking about the way Cage “cages” his opponents against the ropes, then knocks them out with what they’re calling the Maverick Jab because of his long arms and incredible reach.
The question on everyone’s mind is if he has it in him to stay there and make semifinals and win against the experienced fighters he’ll be facing.
But the main question is if he has it in him to beat Riptide.
“I’m telling you, he does. You need to stop training with him,” Coach said that night after the fight.
“The more you tell him not to, the more he’s going to do it,” Pete advised Coach Lupe when Remy stayed mum.
“Why, Rem?” Coach demanded.
br /> “Because he’s unstoppable, and I’m challenged to see if he’ll stop . . . or not. I’m hoping not.” He lifted his fist and looked at his bruised knuckles that reminded me exactly of Maverick’s bruised knuckles.
“So you help Scorpion leave a legacy rather than protect yours?”
“He’s less the son of that bastard than he thinks he is,” Remy answered. “All he has of his father is the scorpion on his back. Scorpion was never this good this early on. Hell, ever. And he was never this clean.”
“I still don’t agree with you mentoring him,” Lupe growled.
“You don’t have to agree, Coach.”
“FUCK, RIPTIDE, LISTEN TO ME! That kid IS POISON! He’s a SCORPION IN THE MAKING.”
“Coach.” Remy’s voice turned threatening.
Coach quieted down. And Remy just sent him a look that said to drop it.
“I like Cage. He’s got fire burning in that soul,” Riley said.
“Saying he was on fire in the ring tonight is an understatement,” Pete said.
Coach Lupe shook his head. “Talent like that, untamed, can go wrong in so many ways. Like it did with the father. One trigger, and it snaps, and he’ll be the worst nightmare you’ve ever encountered up there. Anyone has ever encountered up there,” Coach warned.
I was so sick of spying on the men to hear about the Underground that I headed over to Brooke’s bedroom, where she was lying on her stomach on the bed reviewing the flight schedule. “Brooke, is there somewhere online where I can watch the fights?”
She sat up and reached for the pad and pen on the hotel nightstand. “Oh, of course. Sometimes, not always, depending on the location. Here, I’ll list a few sites.” She tore off a page and scribbled down half a dozen web links. “Try those,” she said, handing over the page.
I headed to my room and did a search on my phone, trying to see if the latest match was being replayed. I found an image of Maverick’s broad, muscled back with his phoenix tattoo, and there were hundreds of comments on it. This guy fucking scares me but I can’t get enough of watching!
I kept scanning for the fight when he texted me. For the first time ever.
Hey Reese Where are you training tomorrow?
And let me just say that those elusive little butterflies, the ones I’d always overheard girls talk about but I had personally never met until Maverick, they have found a new home in me.
I can’t tame them when I think of him. Hear his name mentioned. They’ve become a part of every thought of him. Of remembering him in my room, of bending down to kiss the beak of his phoenix. Wanting more. So much more.
Trying unsuccessfully to tame them, I text him the gym I planned to be at, and he replied, I’ll look for you.
I spent all night watching the matches, wincing when he caught a few hits. Most of the time, I winced for the others.
Maverick is an intimidating force, slowly and surely overtaking the Underground.
♥ ♥ ♥
NOW I’M STARING at the doors of the gym as I push myself hard on the stationary bicycle.
Chicago is windy, but Brooke tells me to enjoy it because Miami—our next stop—should be blistering. I’m blistering now in the crowded gym. I’ve grown addicted to exercise, the endorphins, the way my body reacts to the stimuli. Sweat beads on my forehead. My body’s hot and my muscles burn. I’ve never felt stronger. My muscles are getting so firm and lovely. Even breathing is easier now: my lungs becoming more efficient these past few weeks. Same goes for my heart. It takes more to agitate it, much more.
I keep pushing, breathing in and out, in and out, and then I breathe in and hold it and my heart definitely gets the kick it needs when Maverick “the Avenger” Cage steps inside.
The gym quiets.
Really, the more people hear about him, the more scared they become.
I’m scared of him too, but in a wholly different way.
I’m scared of the power he has. Not in his fists. But over me.
I stop pedaling, the wheels keep turning on momentum, and I feel as if my whole world is spinning too. Lungs and heart, here’s your favorite workout now . . . approaching soundlessly like a panther. . . .
And his lips are forming the sexiest male smile ever smiled on this earth. “Look at you,” he says in that deep-thunder voice.
Oh god.
I can’t look sexy right now, not like Maverick looks sexy now. He’s freshly showered, his lean, muscled, tanned body covered in a pair of sweatpants and a clean T-shirt, a little sexy cut on the corner of his lips.
I’m concerned about the cut.
And oddly attracted to it, for it is right on that lovely smiling mouth of his.
“Did you get hurt last night?” I ask.
He shakes his head like that cut is nothing. He notices that I’m panting, I guess. He lifts up my water when I try to reach for it and cracks it open for me. He watches me take a long swig. I down it all, then gasp for air, smiling. “Sorry.”
He steps before me and straddles the bicycle wheel, then he folds his arms over my bike handles as he looks directly at me. The shirt is straining over his muscles. His voice low and barely audible through the gym’s background music. “Hey. Want to go for a late-night run with me tonight?”
I lift my finger and absently touch the cut on his lip. Then I realize what I’m doing and pull my finger away. “What?”
His eyes twinkle happily. So . . . he likes me touching him? “Come run with me, Reese.”
I hesitate. But somewhere between meeting him and giving him my V card, I’ve come to feel things for him that I’ve never felt for anyone in my life. He’s also my friend and I miss him. “I’d love to.”
“I’ll pick you up at your hotel. Ten p.m.?”
He steps closer, and I roll my eyes pointedly at the people in the gym, staring covertly at us. He’s the Avenger. People have been talking about him nonstop.
He glances at them in silence, then they all scatter or turn away, and he looks at me. “Is someone bothering you?”
“No.”
He nods and heads to the vending machines, brings me a new water, sets it down, then we look at each other.
He stares at my face as if he misses the look of it.
And I stare at his face, missing the look of his.
I find myself staring at his retreating back, at the black T-shirt that ironically reads i don’t know what i’m doing in white letters.
I exhale, aware of all the looks coming my way. I pull out my music, turn on “Geronimo” by Sheppard, think of us as if I’ve been oddly finding a little bit of us in every song I hear, and pedal like I want to burn off the arousal Maverick left lingering in me.
♥ ♥ ♥
IT’S 10:02 P.M. when I step off the elevator, dressed top to bottom in exercise gear, the laces of my sneakers double knotted, and from the blazing lights in the hotel lobby, I walk out into the cool streets. I see his hooded figure, waiting against a wall at the start of the hotel driveway.
I start to walk over and then trot, and he quietly starts trotting next to me. Silently. I follow him toward the park.
Yellow lights dot the walkway, but the deeper we head in, the darker it is. I can smell freshly cut grass. And fresh air. And guy.
Guy who makes me happy inside. And tremble.
And ache.
And yearn.
“It looks different at night. Almost mystical,” I say when we’ve been running for fifteen minutes. The sound of our feet smoothly hitting the pavement eases up as he slows his pace, and I slow mine.
We end up stopping to look at each other.
Or rather, Maverick seemed to want to look at me.
I laugh. “I’m silly.”
But when he tips my face up to the moonlight, I don’t laugh.
It’s not silly.
This is serious.
Him. And me.
I gave him my V card.
And he’s the Avenger.
And I want him.
I
don’t know if being brave is stopping now or going all the way. I only know what feels good right now. I edge into the shadows, backing away from him. Maverick follows me.
We silently drop down on the grass, on our backs, and we stare above.
“Makes me sad when I stare up at the sky and can’t see any stars. It’s like all the noise in the city and the lights keep you from seeing what’s right in front of you,” I admit.
He takes my hand. “I don’t want that to happen to us.”
I turn my head.
“All the noise,” he specifies, studying me. “Keep you from seeing me. And me from seeing you.”
We’re kissing.
Completely.
I tip my head upward, and he props himself up on one elbow and leans down, grabbing the back of my head to pull me up higher so his lips—his glorious lips—can settle on mine. Firmly, without hesitation, like his mouth was made for me and mine for him.
We pause for breath, and I find myself lifting his hand in mine and stroking my fingers across his knuckles.
“Did Tate know you were coming with me?” He runs the back of one finger down my face as he asks. The touch is achingly tender, very unlike the violent passionate need in his eyes.
“No, but I think they suspect.”
His eyebrows furrow thoughtfully, and a muscle starts to flex in the back of his jaw. “Tate won’t let you spend time with me?”
“I don’t know, Maverick, but they’re not judgmental. And Remy seems to like training with you.”
“We respect each other professionally,” he says.
Once again, I stare at the scars on his knuckles. I raise my brows. “And you don’t like him at all?”
“It’s not whether I like him or not. It’s that he’s standing in my way.”
He plops down to his back and uses his arm to pull me to his side, inhaling my hair for a long, delicious second while I also discreetly inhale the soap on his shirt. “Are you close? You and the Tates?” he asks me.
“We’ve grown very close these days.” I hesitate for a second. I want to ask him about his dad. I peer up at him: “You and your dad?”