Raw

  Me: Reese and I are dating. And it’s serious.

  Tate: Good. I’m serious about what I said too.

  Me: Good.

  Tate: You love her?

  Me: Adore her.

  Tate: Then there’s nothing more to say except don’t cheat, don’t hurt her, and don’t make her regret choosing you.

  And I won’t. I fucking won’t. Even if tonight, I’m simmering in frustration over the fact that my girl will be all around town with Miles.

  I want her here. With me. Or anywhere safe. Anywhere but with Miles.

  “That fucker won’t have a thing for you.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Toro,” Oz assures me.

  I know I’m glaring, but I’m too mad to do anything else. “I thought you meant Miles.”

  “Oh, dammit, Maverick, you think Miles holds a candle to you?” Oz scowls protectively. “Nobody does!”

  “Oz.” I laugh at last, then run my hand through my hair. “Never felt this way before. You know? I don’t like not knowing what I’m up against. What he’s like. What she saw in him.”

  “Give me that damn hand, I’m not finished.” He takes my wrist and starts wrapping my hand in black tape. I watch him closely, beads of sweat across his brow. I feel for Oz. I know that every hour he spends without his flask is costing him his soul.

  “You kind of grow on a guy, you know,” I say.

  “Yeah?”

  I nod. “Yeah.”

  “Does your girlfriend hate my guts? I don’t want either of you to think I was a dick to her the other day. I was irked. For good reason. My champ stood up at the airport after going through all the effort of first class . . .”

  “She had good reason and she doesn’t hate you. Reese offered to be your sponsor, Oz. She’s anti-Wendy, like you and me. She’s one of us.”

  Oz exhales as if I just lifted the whole city off his shoulders.

  I test out my hand before shoving my fingers into the black boxing glove he extends. “You haven’t drank today. Right?”

  “Not for a few hours,” he admits, opening the other glove for me. “But I’m craving it, son. I’m going to need a fix soon.”

  “If you’re even tempted, tell me and we’ll find something funner to do.”

  “Yeah. Go break a few noses for me.” He signals to the door and steps back to make room for me.

  I get to my feet and stretch my neck; the crowd is getting noisier.

  The announcer calls out my opponent as I shove my arms into the black robe Oz holds up. I jerk the sash closed, then I loosen my shoulders, keep eyeing the door. My muscles are already heating. Adrenaline pumps in my veins. I’m sky-high on testosterone and I not only have tonight’s important match to thank for that, but Miles too.

  “Toro! Toro! Toro!” the crowd outside cheers.

  I hop in place, loosen my wrists, my arms. I’m impatient. I’m hardwired to fight the moment I put my gloves on. I’m ready.

  Come on, motherfucker, call me up already. . . .

  “And now, ladies and gentlemen. He’s reckless! He’s determined! He’s got eyes of steel that will cut you to the quick, and fists with unparalleled reach. Maverick. ‘The Avenger.’ Caaaaage!”

  I head with Oz down the walkway, lights shining down on us as the crowd shuffles restlessly and even gasps. Oz takes my corner, and I climb the ring.

  I’m fucking primed to fight. My eyes land on Toro as Oz pulls off my black robe, and suddenly I can hear the silence, as always, when my tattoo is revealed.

  Nobody sees the phoenix really. All they see is the scorpion that marks me.

  I purposely do not get rid of that scorpion.

  I am who I am.

  I come from where I come from.

  That doesn’t mean I’m shit.

  In the far back, I hear a few females scream, “GO MAVERICK!”

  “Well, look at that! I like them!” Oz happily cries.

  He squints into the lights and raises his hand to shield his eyes as he tries to locate my fans as I head to center and focus on the guy before me.

  Joel “Toro” Waltzinger.

  Bull in size, height, and he even breathes like one too. Sweat glistens all over his body, as if the guy already wore himself out climbing the ring. Hell, I hope he’s ready to get his guts smashed.

  Ting.

  We go toe-to-toe, tap gloves, and he tries a couple of jabs.

  I block and duck, easy.

  He throws his arms out again, and as I duck, I hit. I go for the body first, poom, poom, poooom.

  He grunts.

  I smile and prowl around him. “Not too bad for a rookie, huh?” I try baiting him.

  He swings out again, I block and hold his arm up there with mine, opening his side. And I hit again, crushing his ribs.

  He’s winded. And that’s when I drive my hook upward, straight to the head. First the left hook. Then the right hook. And then I shoot my arm out straight and bust his face, his nose crunching beneath my knuckles. He falls to the ground.

  Next up is Hot Shot.

  I keep my guard up, brace my legs apart, and hold my balance. Everything I learned from Tate.

  We go toe-to-toe. I double punch, hit, stunning him.

  I protect, then attack. Protect, attack. Stay away from the ropes, prowl back, then prowl forward until I’ve got him caged.

  And then I pummel him. Gut. Ribs. Gut. Temple. Jaw.

  He’s on the ground.

  The adrenaline is rushing inside me. I’m bloodthirsty and I’m eager for it. I’m taking this ring tonight no matter who they put before me.

  With Taz, we dance a lot. Hop, duck, leap around. He’s fast but I’m just as fast, and I’m stronger. I catch a few hits. They hardly graze. Mine don’t graze him. They land and crunch bone beneath my knuckles, knock him to his knees.

  He tries to come up and his leg quivers, and he falls.

  I take Libertine out within two minutes of taking the ring.

  Spidermann avoids the ropes. He’s been studying me?

  I play it different. I let him get in a few hits to the body, let him bring me to the ropes, and then I flip us around, cage him in, and fucking finish him.

  Twister is last.

  Oh, I’m going to have fun with him. Flirting with Reese? Busting his nose last time was not enough for me.

  I prolong it this time. I raise my fist and crunch his nose under my knuckles—in case he doesn’t remember who fucking busted it before.

  He yells, and when his hand flies instinctively to the source of the pain, I go straight for his liver.

  He chokes on a breath and gets blood all over my chest as he tries to lean on me for balance.

  I shove him back (I’m not his hugging post), then let him recover before readying to hit again.

  “You motherfucker,” he hisses, charging.

  I smash my hook into his mouth, then hold his head between my folded arm and hit him three times with my fist. Then I drop him splat on the ground.

  There’s a wave of shocked gasps across the crowd. I look around the arena as it falls silent, clenching my jaw, narrowing my eyes, and then I raise my arms and let my fist punch the air, saying, This is who I am!

  “Absolutely ruthless! No mercy from Maverick Cage, NO FUCKING MERCY TONIGHT! Ladies and gentleman, we give you . . . Maverick ‘the Avenger’ Cage!”

  I’m catching my breath as my arm is raised, and then I pull free and leap out of the ring to where Oz waits to lead me down the walkway, to the back room.

  “You just got into the fucking final, Mav. YOU’RE IN THE FUCKING FINAL!”

  “Yeah.” I pull my gloves free inside the back room and then grin up at him in wonder, disbelief, and a high you couldn’t believe.

  “Come here, you little fucker.” He squeezes me and I squeeze back, both of us laughing, then I shove my hands out. “Help me take these off. I want to tell Reese.”

  Oz works one hand free and I use my teeth to pull my tapes off the other as fast as I can. Sudd
enly I’m on fire to tell her. I can’t wait another second to tell her.

  There’s only one thing I want right now. One thing that will make this real. Telling Reese she’ll be watching me fight at the final.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  MILES

  Reese

  I’m stepping out of the shower when Miles texts me the club address where they’re waiting for me. I answer his text:

  I’ll meet you there.

  And quickly change, let Brooke know I’m leaving and Racer is asleep, and I head off, assuring her I’ll be safe and home before Racer wakes.

  The club is packed, bustling with dancing bodies and thrumming with music. Inside the club, I spot Miles, Avery, and Gabe. I head over. Avery is pressed to Gabe’s side. They’ve been on and off together for ages.

  Miles is wearing his contacts, his hair slicked back, wearing a polo and tan slacks. Gabe is in jeans and a pastel polo. Avery is dressed to slay in a sequined top.

  “Well, well, well!” Gabe says when I ease into the booth in the only space left, next to Miles. “Our worldly little lady is here.”

  “Thanks, Gabe.”

  “Won’t you say hello to me, Reesey?” Miles asks, waiting.

  “Hi, Miles,” I say.

  I used to leap at the opportunity to kiss his cheek, but it’s too clean-shaven and white, and I hesitate. I lean over and briefly brush my lips to his jaw.

  Miles leans back with a frown. “You look different.” He eyes me.

  “She looks radiant! You look so . . . fit!” Avery says, disgruntled.

  “I can see that,” Miles says, studying me in appraisal.

  I would’ve killed for this look before. But it’s such a lukewarm look after the smoldering ones I’ve gotten lately. I’m amazed how unaffected I am. I’m amazed by how much distance puts things in perspective.

  The three of them look different to me.

  Miles sits there, the computer wizard that he is. Preppy and confident and just a tad too smug.

  Gabe is outspoken and chill, but half the things he says are bullshit.

  And Avery . . .

  I never really knew Avery. She’s always with Gabe and Gabe is always with Miles, and Miles, for some reason, liked to hover around me.

  I wonder why I liked to hover around him too, and then wonder if maybe I’d truly felt so lonely, I’d rather have them than no one at all?

  I’m not real with them, and I guess, neither are they with me.

  I realize now that they always seem careful and distrustful around me. As if they believe I’m falling off the wagon any second now.

  They order drinks. “She’ll have water.” Miles signals at me.

  I smile. I used to be grateful that he looked out for me. Now I’m annoyed that he feels the need to make the decision for me, the request of water for me.

  “I’ll have a sparkling water with lime,” I say. “Thanks.”

  “Spill the beans, Reese. What does it feel like to travel the country and be part of all the excitement?” Avery asks.

  “I spend more time with Racer than anyone else, and he’s very exciting. ER visits included.”

  “Ohmigod, poor you. Why even work during the summer?” Avery asks, pulling Gabe’s arm tighter around her shoulders. “You should’ve come to the fight with us,” she says. “The eye candy was ridiculous!”

  “Reese is immune to all that, she likes brains rather than brawn, right, Reese?” Miles says.

  “I like both, actually,” I say.

  Miles lifts his brows. And I lift mine back.

  “Riptide is scrumptious. Avenger is absolutely wicked! He’s scary though,” Avery continues.

  “Dude, I’d piss my pants faced with that,” Gabe says, laughing.

  “Speaking of.” Miles stretches his arm out on the seat behind me. “So the one-on-one with Riptide? You think that’s possible?” he asks.

  “It would be incredibly cool,” Gabe seconds.

  I shift forward. Not liking Miles’s arm near me. It’s new for me, and it makes him shift a little closer.

  Our drinks arrive, and I’m reaching for my sparkling water when the waiter sets a penny right on the corner of my napkin.

  I blink and look at it, and my stomach starts whirling. I lift my head and anxiously scan the crowd. I don’t notice Miles, Avery, and Gabe are looking behind my shoulder, in shock. I don’t notice how my body is starting to crackle. I don’t notice how my heart is speeding. I don’t notice anything but the fact that I’m scanning the crowded club for a glimpse of dark hair, gorgeous metal eyes, and my rebel maverick.

  And with the achingly delicious make-out song of “Madness” by Muse in the background, I start when I see a flash of dark hair in my peripherals.

  Lips against my ear whispering, “Dance with me. . . . ”

  He takes my hand without waiting for my reply, the hand clutching the penny. He takes it from my fingers and, when he wraps his arm around me, slips the penny into the little pocket at the hip of my dress.

  We’re in the center of the dance floor.

  We stand there, among the shimmering dresses, the bustling bodies, the noise. At the booth, my friends are gaping. Avery is doing Maverick with her eyes and I don’t want her to look at him. I don’t want anyone to look at him. He’s mine.

  He’s looking down at me, jaw clenched a little in frustration, eyes smoldering with desire.

  I check him out in his worn jeans and the soft T-shirt he’s wearing. He looks freshly showered and shaven. There’s a light shade of purple, high on one cheekbone, and it only accentuates his hotness.

  I can’t breathe or concentrate or think when Maverick slides his arm around my waist.

  I feel drunk. I’m a puddle in his arms.

  His lips curl a little when I can’t move, and he takes my wrists to wrap them around his neck. “You don’t dance, Reese?” he teases me huskily. “You put one hand here”—he settles it on the back of his neck—“the other one here”—he settles that one on the back of his neck too. “You let me pull you close.” He does. Until our bodies are flush and I can feel him and I’m alive. And he whispers in my ear, “And you move with me.”

  His hands open on my hips and splay outward, to encompass my ass.

  This ass is mine. . . .

  I lift my head, and he looks wicked. Smiling wickedly. I’m drunk with the sight of him.

  His gaze flicks to my mouth, and I can feel him kiss me.

  I suddenly press a little closer, then he whispers in my ear, “That’s right, Reese, dance with me,” and he reaches up to slide his hands down my bare arms, over my shoulders, down my curves as we start dancing.

  He just fought. He just got into the finals, and I know this because I was clinging to news from the team like a junkie. Testosterone pulses through Maverick’s body in the usual fighter’s high, and I grab his jaw and press my lips to his, then quickly embrace him and keep moving with him as I whisper, “You’re going to the finals.”

  He whispers back to me through the music, “That’s right. And I want you there with me.”

  We’re still moving, but he eases back to put a few inches between us and study my face. His face is raw. His eyes are hungry.

  There’s something more than desire in his eyes. There’s something primal.

  And I think Maverick wants me for Christmas.

  And for Thanksgiving. And Easter.

  And I think Maverick wants me right now.

  On the dance floor.

  I wrap my arms around his shoulders, the square muscles that are straining his shirt. “Miles was my sponsor in AA,” I say, close to his ear so he can hear me through “Rollercoaster” by Bleachers. “AA prefers for heterosexual men and women not to sponsor each other, but I thought he genuinely wanted to help. He kept telling me that he saved me. And I thought I was in love with him because he gave me a chance to try to find myself. But a real man would’ve told me the truth. That I saved myself.”

  “That just makes me want to
pull out his testicles and feed them to the asshole.”

  He pulls me a little closer, looking down at me in frustration, rawer and rawer as the music hums and beats around us. Bodies move, but the fire inside this building is alive as Maverick presses my body to his.

  He lifts his head and scans the second-story balcony of the club, then stops dancing. Lacing my fingers in his, he leads me up the stairs and stalks purposely down the hall, peering into some curtained private rooms. He spots an open blue velvet curtain and he pulls it wider for me, tugging me inside, and I wait. Anticipation and nerves and need and love swirl around me as I stare at his back as he closes the velvet to the tiny private room with its cushioned bench a few feet away.

  “Hey.” He comes over and takes one of my hips in his hand, pressing me back against the wall, eyes on my face. “I don’t like the way he looks at you. I don’t like him looking at you at all.”

  “I hadn’t noticed he was looking at me, only sensed that you were close—”

  He cuts me off, saying, Not close enough.

  Lips taking mine. Tongue flashing into my mouth, his hands gripping my ass, squeezing my ass, lifting me by the ass and pressing me to his erection. “He’s looking at you like you’re his. And you’re not. You’re not his, Reese.” He sucks my tongue, commanding and without restraint as his fingers fly down the front buttons of my demure black wavy-skirt club dress.

  “Did you wear this for him?” He touches the skirt of my dress, lifting it a bit before dropping it.

  “No, I wore it for me,” I lie. “Because it’s soft and comfortable and it didn’t take up too much space in my suitcase.”

  He grits his teeth as if he wanted me to say I wore this dress for him—my rebel maverick—and I breathlessly admit, “I bought it today thinking of you.”

  “Fuck, I wanted you to say that.” He sets his forehead on mine as he runs his hand up the side of my dress. “You’re right, it’s soft, but your skin is softer and I want to take it off.” He dips his head lower and bites the top edge of my bra. He pulls it down roughly with his teeth, exposing me. Then his mouth is at the peak, drawing it in. Sucking and suctioning, licking and tasting me.