Killer

  “Fucking North, kicking too late. Stupid bastard. You fucked up my back!”

  Sawyer North is quite possibly the nicest fighter in the gym, yet somehow Jack always finds a way to blame the guy for all of his “injuries,” and I use the word in the loosest of its definitions.

  “Hey, Jack.” I walk right on over and kneel next to the large, cursing man.

  His angry eyes calm when he sees me. “Britt. Thank god someone who knows what the fuck they’re doing is here,” he grumbles.

  I hide a smile. “Good to see you too. What happened?”

  “Strain in the lower back,” Brock, one of the trainers, answers.

  “Okay, can you make it to my office?” I raise my eyebrows at the intimidating man.

  Jack hisses in pain, but manages to stand and hobble all the way to my office at the back of the large, warehouse-sized training room.

  “Lie facedown,” I direct as I pull out the ice packs and grab some towels.

  By the time I get what I need and stand next to the exam table, Jack is halfway through a story, which, of course, I didn’t hear. I roll my eyes since Jack can’t see me.

  “Jack, I didn’t catch any of that. Is it about your injury?” I suspect I know what he’s getting around to, but I ask to be sure I’m not missing something important. As the sports therapist for these men, I need to pay special attention to each fighter. It’s not Jack’s fault I didn’t hear him. I don’t tell anyone about my hearing loss, not wanting to explain what happened to me ten years ago or be treated as a weak, fragile flower. I despise that.

  “No, not my injury,” he mumbles into the table, almost sounding embarrassed. “I was asking what you were doing later.”

  I sigh and grab the ice packs, laying them across the base of Jack’s spine. Sometimes I wonder how many of his injuries are merely excuses to get me alone and ask me out.

  “Jack, I don’t date fighters. You know this,” I repeat for the millionth time since I started working here two years ago, and it’s not only Jack. With the amount of testosterone flying around here, and me being one of only a handful of women who work at the gym, I end up repeating the same line to all of the guys at some point.

  Honestly, I should date one of them. It would keep me from having panic attacks every night, alone in my little apartment. If I did, I would have someone big and strong to hold me, protecting me from the evils of the world.

  Sometimes, it seems as if everyone here is hooking up except me. Lucky me, I get to listen to my coworkers gush about their weekend flings every Monday morning. I’ve been asked out by almost every single fighter to file through these doors. None as persistent as Jack Wolfe.

  Jack attempts to roll on his side to face me. I place a hand on his shoulder, holding him still. “Don’t move. You could make your back worse, especially if it’s a tear.”

  I already know it’s not a tear.

  If anything, he has a minor strain. Most likely, Jack made it up or has a tiny twinge and is playing up the symptoms to corral me in my office. Despite his irritating behavior and his tendency to be a spoiled brat, I find it kind of sweet this big, intimidating guy would go so far as to fake an injury just to ask me out on a date.

  “Yeah, yeah,” he gripes. “I’m not moving.”

  I remove the ice and gently press on different muscle groups across his broad back. “Tell me if it hurts, Jack.” After poking and prodding for several minutes with no reaction, I move away from the table. “You’re fine. I’ll put some rub on it and you can train tomorrow, but keep it light.”

  Jack leaves after I spread a thick layer of nasty smelling but highly effective ointment on his lower back with instructions to take it easy for the rest of the day.

  By the time I clean up after my last patient, wiping down the table and countertops with disinfectant, it’s late. I’m rummaging under the sink for more gauze wraps when someone taps my shoulder.

  “Oh my god!” I jerk at the unexpected touch, smashing my head on the underside of the cabinet. Stars burst behind my eyes.

  “Britt, I’m so sorry!”

  “Max,” I groan, rubbing my head where a knot is already forming.

  “Shit, I didn’t mean to scare you, Britt.” Max moves to inspect my injury.

  “I’m not bleeding, am I?” I won’t tell him I’m more worried about triggering a seizure or a migraine than a small lump or cut. He’ll feel bad. Then I’ll feel bad for making him feel bad. Plus, I’m not discussing my condition. I refuse to be treated like a broken little bird… like my mom treats me.

  Usually, I’m not easily freaked out at work. It’s one of the only places I know I’m safe. Surrounded by huge, powerful men who I know would never hurt me, who would protect me using physical force if necessary. It’s the main reason I took this job. But sneaking up behind me? I’m going to be jumpy, plus, I’m the most ungraceful person I know.

  Max sifts through my hair and I stiffen, afraid he’ll find the ten-year knot of scar tissue behind my left ear. His fingers graze the new lump.

  “Ow!”

  “Sorry. God, I’m an idiot. No, you’re not bleeding. It’s going to be sore though.”

  Annoyed, I grab an ice pack from the freezer and place the cold bag on top of my head. “I look ridiculous.”

  Max smiles, but it’s stilted. “Yeah, you do.”

  Laughing, I shove his shoulder to lighten the mood. “Shut up. What did you need?”

  He stares at me blankly.

  “Max! You came in here for something. Don’t tell me you scared me to death and possibly gave me a concussion and you don’t remember why?”

  “Oh, right.” His cheeks turn pink. “I ummmm, well, a new fighter is coming in tomorrow. Gabriel requested a full workup.”

  My eyebrows must fly up into my hairline. “A full workup?” No one gets a full workup unless they’re going to fight in the league. “Is he an amateur?”

  Max shakes his head. “Officially yes, but he’s fought before. Greg says he’s been training and fighting overseas somewhere. Thailand or something. The FLA wants him, offered him a contract, so he’s here.”

  Thailand. Muay Thai then. I’ve studied all the fighting styles to know what to watch for to prevent injury.

  “What time will he be here?” There’s a lot to do to prepare for a full workup. Professional fighters need me to analyze everything they do, looking for missteps or poor posture, which can cause injuries to muscles or bones. Plus cataloguing any previous injuries with a plan to protect those vulnerable places from repeat damage.

  “Early. Seven, I think?”

  I panic, staring at Max. “I can’t be ready for a full workup by then. That’s twelve hours from now! I’ve never even seen this guy fight.”

  “Don’t worry, Britt. Gabriel knows there’s not enough time for you to prep everything for tomorrow. Just meet with the guy, talk to him, and come up with a plan later.” Max winks, his attempt at humor falling flat. I take my job seriously and I don’t like to fail.

  Scowling, I grab my laptop bag one-handed, the other hand balancing the ice pack on my head. “I’m not happy, Max.”

  He follows me out, laughing, as I lock the door to my office. “I know, Britt. I know.”

  Max kindly drops me off at my tiny Westside apartment, sparing me from walking home in the sweltering early evening humidity. Atlanta in June is unbearably hot. Yet as I stare at the door to my apartment, knowing I’m about to be alone, a cold shiver ripples through me.

  “See you tomorrow, Britt.”

  “Bye, Max.” I wave as he drives away.

  Once inside, I quickly lock the three separate deadbolts on my door and start my exhausting nightly routine. Tonight, it only takes an hour to slow my racing heart, to silence the panic in my head, to stop the tingling spread of anxiety in each of my fingers and toes. Once I’m as calm as I’ll get, I haul myself off the floor and force myself to eat.

  After dinner, I swallow down the handful of pills necessary to keep the seizures a
nd headaches away. It’s why I only drive occasionally, why I’m concerned I hit my head at work. Anything can trigger a seizure, and doctors aren’t sure if having a big one will cause enough damage to my brain to cut off my hard won independence. It’s been years since I’ve had a seizure, but I don’t want to take a chance.

  One at a time, I put a bitter tablet on my tongue and swallow it with a gulp of water until they’re all gone.

  I take a quick shower, washing my hair, pretending not to feel the raised and twisted scar behind my left ear and being careful to avoid the new lump on top of my head. I silently curse Max and his carelessness, but can’t stay angry. He means well even if he doesn’t think sometimes.

  Tired, I climb into bed and turn on some mind-numbing program to keep my thoughts off of the fact that I’m alone and vulnerable before flipping off the light.

  With being anxious over my usual torments, plus the stress of having a new fighter I’m supposed to workup, it takes forever to fall asleep. When I do, it’s the same as always. Pieces of the fateful day almost ten years ago, teeny, tiny flashes of images but never enough to trigger the memories to return, pop in and out of my mind all night long. I can only pray they never break through. I’m not sure I can stay sane if they do.

  Killer

  On the front step of my high-rise condo, I pull up the hood of my lightweight sweatshirt, huddling down into the fabric as I begin to jog to my new training center. Today is hot as fuck, but I’m more comfortable burning up than going without my hoodie. Being back in the U.S. still feels weird after living overseas for almost a decade. The sights, the sounds, hell, even the language seems unfamiliar.

  Not even a little bit winded five miles later, I enter the enormous facility I’ll be calling home for the next six months as I prepare to become the newest fighter for the FLA. One step into the building and I know this place is serious about training. It’s not quite seven in the morning and the gym is buzzing with activity.

  “Hello. You must be Mr. Bishop.” A tall, incredibly fit woman with bright blue hair steps out from behind a counter, extending a hand.

  I nod and grunt. “Yeah.”

  She gives me a wide smile. “I’m Roxanne Frasier but everyone calls me Roxie. Nice to meet you.” She’s beaming and happy until her eyes meet mine beneath the hood of my sweatshirt. Roxie flinches. The movement is subtle, but it’s there. I drop my gaze.

  Reluctantly, I pull my hand from the pocket of my hoodie and shake hers, but don’t add anything more to the conversation. My reputation for being an asshole hopefully preceded me because she doesn’t question my lack of social skills or my silence.

  “Gabriel is in the back. He’ll show you around.” Careful to avoid making eye contact again, Roxanne looks away as she turns and heads into the gym. “Come on.” she says over her shoulder, again avoiding my eyes.

  I follow her into the huge open space. It’s clean and modern, the concrete walls painted white and the ceilings lined with steel crossbeams. This is a far cry from the small, stark facility I trained at in Brazil. And it’s a whole fucking world away from the run-down place in the slums of Thailand.

  We pass several men who are warming up, doing stretches or light bag work. Multiple full-sized octagons take up one entire side of the room. Rafael, my trainer in Brazil, wasn’t kidding when he said this place is serious about turning out real MMA contenders.

  “Olá!” A large, dark-haired, dark-eyed man of about fifty approaches, his hand extended in greeting. “You must be Keller! Rafael has not stopped talking about your talent!”

  The man grips my hand enthusiastically, pumping my arm up and down, the large smile on his face never breaking.

  “Killer. I go by Killer,” I growl, head down.

  He’s not fazed in the least. “Of course! Desculpe, desculpe,” the man apologizes in Portuguese. “I’m Gabriel Souza.”

  Gabriel doesn’t know I studied tapes of most of his fights from the early days of professional MMA and those of several fighters he currently trains. I know who he is and what he’s capable of. He’s the sole reason I accepted Rafael’s suggestion to come here to prep for the FLA. Never in a million years would I set foot back in this city otherwise.

  “Let me show you around,” he continues in Portuguese. After living in Brazil for the last five years, I know the language well enough to keep up. The tour is brief but informative. They have everything I need to stay in peak shape for competing.

  “Over here is our conditioning and sports therapist,” Gabriel says, switching to English as he motions to a small, slender wisp of a blonde girl with big blue eyes as she descends a flight of stairs. “Britt, this is our newest client, Killer Bishop. Killer, this is our token college graduate, Britt Reeves.”

  The girl’s dark eyelashes flutter and her pale skin pinks up when we shake hands, but she meets my eyes directly and never drops her gaze.

  Weird.

  “Nice to meet you, ummmm, Killer?” she says at a near whisper. I grunt in response, ducking my head and shoving my hands back into the kangaroo pouch of my hoodie. For some reason, I’m tense around this girl. I rub my finger and thumb together inside the pocket as I catch her studying me in my peripheral vision.

  This is surprising. People are universally afraid of me. I look dangerous. My nose has been broken more times than I can remember, and my ears are halfway to becoming the thick, cauliflowered ears of a fighter, each with black gauges in the lobes. There are tattoos on my hands, arms, back, chest and neck. Most people can’t look past the outside, but when they do look past it—and I mean really look—well, let’s just say I’ve been told more than once I don’t have a soul behind my cold, lifeless eyes.

  They’re right. There isn’t one.

  It’s the reason I hide behind the hats, the hoodies, sunglasses, ink, intimidating scowl—pretty much anything I can find. Because when people look into my eyes, they see the truth.

  That I’m a killer.

  This girl, though? For some reason, she meets my gaze, unwavering. She isn’t aware of how tainted I am, how threatening I can be. She would be wise to learn fast.

  “You have time to talk to Britt?” Gabriel turns to me, an eyebrow raised. “She’ll discuss any injuries you’ve had in the past, then watch footage of you fighting to look for problems with your form to address issues with joints or tricky spots, and help you adjust to prevent reinjury.”

  I lift my head and nod, my response gruff. “Sure.”

  Britt’s eyes fly back to mine and I’m captivated by what I see. Not just the deep blue-green color, which is beautiful on its own. What draws me in is the understanding in her eyes, a common bond we share. Pain and misery skims the surface, not quite as consuming as what holds me prisoner in my own mind every day, but it’s there in this girl’s eyes, plain as day if you know what to look for.

  What haunts Britt? What horrors does she hide behind the pretty face, quiet voice, and unshakable demeanor?

  If I’m not careful, I could let down my guard around this gorgeous girl and go after everything I don’t deserve. My mile-high walls are the only thing that stands between me and the crushing grief of the past. But the desire to hold her, to run my fingers through those long blonde strands, to stare into those eyes and weed out her deep dark secrets, is so tempting I have to bite the inside of my cheek to snap out of it.

  I blink away thoughts of the girl and force myself to remember I don’t give a shit about her or her problems. I don’t care about anything, really. The only time I feel at all is when I fight. In the cage I receive the pain and suffering I deserve if the other man can get a hand on me. Like a ritualistic cleansing, I let out my anger and frustration and self-loathing on my opponent using my fists and feet. Yet no matter how much I fight, how much I unload on my victim, I’m never, ever clean.

  “My office is back here.” The girl’s soft and timid voice defies her bold actions and disconcerting eye contact.

  “Come find me when you’re done. I’ll show yo
u your locker and you can meet the other fighters.” Gabriel smiles, slapping my back before heading toward one of the cages.

  My eyes follow Gabriel as he leaves. By the time I swing my attention back to the girl, she’s opening a door on the far side of the room. Grumbling to myself and with no other option, I trail behind, pausing in the doorway.

  The girl, Britt, is moving around the small space, clearly at ease with her surroundings. She opens a laptop and sits at a desk wedged in one corner. “You can sit.” Britt points to a second chair.

  Good. For a second I thought I was going to be forced to get up on the treatment table. I’m not in the mood to be a guinea pig today.

  That’s a lie. I don’t really care what the trainers or specialists do to me as long as they make me a better fighter. It’s the girl that bothers me, not the thought of being under a microscope. This is the only woman I’ve ever met who isn’t instantly and irrevocably afraid of me, and the only one who has me tempted into thinking I could have more. More than a filthy, dirty fuck to release tension. More than someone to use for a few hours of pleasure.

  Britt’s obviously already damaged. As much as I’d love to peel back those layers, I don’t want to give her a chance to dig out my own psychological scars, the nightmares hidden beneath a baggy hoodie and a cold stare. If I do, Britt may never recover from what she finds.

  “I’m sorry,” she apologizes, tapping on her computer. “I only found out you were coming last night, so I don’t have much information and haven’t reviewed your medical file.”

  She’s so quiet, I strain to hear her. When I don’t respond, she cocks her head and her eyes flick up to mine. Shit. I duck down so she can’t get a good look at my face.

  Fucking coward. She’s going to find out at some point, idiot. Why delay the inevitable? She’ll see the same thing everyone else sees when they look in my eyes… nothing, a monster, a killer.