Fighting for Control (Against the Cage Book 3) (2 page)

“I didn’t change my mind,” she said, notching up that little chin with a defiant lift. Wow, this little Clover had some moxie, after all. And to her credit, she looked pretty damn sure she wanted to do this.

Well, she’d better be, because Nikko was done being a nice guy. He’d been taking the high road for weeks with Ryann, and he’d finally run out of ground. He’d given this woman an out once; he wasn’t going to do it again. “Whatever you say, doll . . .”

Opening the bathroom door, he yanked Clover in behind him.

Six Months Later

I
t’s no secret you don’t want to be here, Del Toro, but do you think you could do me a favor and fake it for a couple of hours? You’re at a publicity party for the CFA, not a funeral, for crissake,” Nikko’s coach, Marcus, grumbled.

Nikko shot his coach a sideways glance from his barstool before turning his attention back to his Jag and Coke. “A funeral would be a hell of a lot more fun than preening for these paparazzi assholes.”

Coach slid into the empty seat beside him and ordered a whiskey sour. It was no big surprise the spot was vacant, only being filled long enough for the occasional cage banger to come by and rub up on him. But it didn’t take the women very long to realize that wasn’t happening, and they’d move on to some other more amiable fighter. He wasn’t interested in playing their games, even if his cock might not be so opposed to going a round or two. But he didn’t give a rat’s ass what that thing wanted. He never had been one to be ruled by his desires, and he wasn’t about to start now—unlike most of these glory hounds here tonight.

Shit, the last time he’d been with a woman was . . . It didn’t take him very long to conjure the image of gorgeous violet eyes and pale-blonde hair. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the only mental imagery flashing through his mind right now and making his dick hard as granite. He’d never look at a pencil skirt again without seeing it hiked up past that woman’s ass and feeling those slender, shapely legs wrapped around his hips . . .

Her light vanilla-scented skin, tinged with a sweetness that reminded him of almonds, was permanently seared into his memory. Without a doubt, that was the hottest lay he’d ever had. Nikko rarely allowed himself to think of his four-leaf clover, but it was at times like this, at the most random, inconvenient moments, that she would pop into his mind and refuse to leave.

He was grateful she hadn’t asked for his name and he’d never gotten hers, because Nikko wasn’t sure he would have been able to resist the temptation to track her down if he had. The last thing that woman, who clearly had a shitload of her own baggage to carry, needed was someone like him adding to it. Nikko didn’t do relationships, didn’t want one, and never would again. If he thought he was fucked up before, nothing says
head case
like coming home after getting blown to hell and losing your team to find out your wife is banging some other guy.

Coach grunted. “Yeah, well, these paparazzi assholes can make or break your career, son. You’ll do well to remember that.”

Nikko chuffed at the advice, and the truth behind it. Yeah, well, fame wasn’t why he fought. It wasn’t why he’d done it in the Marines Special Forces recon unit, and it certainly wasn’t why he was doing it now. It’d been a matter of survival back then, and it was a matter of survival now. It was the only thing that kept his demons at bay, and lately not even that seemed to be working. Damn, he needed this fight to happen—like yesterday. After all these months, he was finally getting his rematch with Cade “The Anaconda” Kennedy. It had been an answer to his prayers, giving him something constructive to focus his time and energy on.

Coach tossed back his whiskey, setting the glass down with more force than necessary, and slid it toward the bartender for a refill. Nikko’s brow arched in question. The guy wasn’t usually this uptight, and he rarely drank. No doubt he was under a shitload of stress, trying to run the Vegas camp and opening one up with Cole Easton in Minneapolis. Both men had just flown into town with minutes to spare before the press party started, but, yeah, something was definitely off with the old man tonight. Nikko could ask, but then he’d have to pretend to give a shit, and the whole charade was just too exhausting.

“News flash, you’re fighting Cade Kennedy tomorrow, so that means you’re now the face of the CFA, so glam for the goddamn cam, will ya? The league is spending a ton of money on reshaping the image of MMA.”

Nikko laughed at the irony, a sharp, sarcastic bark. “If this is the face they want showcasing the Cage Fighting Association, then their marketing director should get fired.”

“Agreed. Were it up to me, Easton would be fronting this organization and representing my camp. No offense, but you clearly couldn’t care less, and he knows how to play the game. He draws in a big crowd, which means bigger money. But his shoulder is still healing after getting shot to hell, and he doesn’t have medical clearance to fight, so, tag, you’re it, asshole.” Coach saluted him and tossed back a shot.

“Old man, you better slow it down with those shooters or you’re going to be flat on your ass in no time. Maybe you should take a—” Flashing lights exploded around him, the click, click, click of cameras seeming to come out of nowhere. Nikko flinched at the blinding brightness. He couldn’t see, the burst of lights sparking a flashback of memories that hijacked his consciousness. And just like that, he was another man, from another time, in another place, living someone else’s nightmare—no, his nightmare, the one that played on an endless loop, haunting him day and night. He knew how the story ended, and yet he was helpless to stop it.

Darkness descended, the sharp pop of semiautomatic gunfire echoing all around him. The hot graphite smell of gunpowder permeated the air, mixing with the dust of countless spent rounds, burning his lungs and making it difficult to breathe. The muzzle flashes around them gave away his enemy’s position—they were outnumbered—and the Tali were closing in fast. The ping of metal ricocheted off rocks, which were the only protection between his squad and the enemy. This was his mission, his recon team, and it was his responsibility to get them out alive. They needed to ghost before these ragheads pinned them down and flanked them.

His grip tightened on the base of his weapon, his mind racing through their limited options, scenarios flashing through his brain like a reel of movie clips—all ending in disaster.
Fuck
. . .
Alice-Gahn was supposed to be deserted. This wasn’t the first time he’d gotten shitty intel, and if they made it out of here alive, someone’s nuts were going to be on the chopping block.

“Hey, Bull, lay some cover fire for me, will ya? I’m going to try to flank this fucker.”

Remington, the recon team’s sniper and his best friend since boot camp, was gunning for the raghead, firing the majority of the rounds northwest of them. Dammit, something didn’t feel right about all of this. Nikko’s instincts were lighting up like the Fourth of July, and there wasn’t a goddamn thing he could do about it. He grabbed for Remmy to stop him, but the cowboy was already gone, blitzing straight west at a dead run. Nikko snarled a foul curse and flipped the switch to Auto on his M4A1 and squeezed the trigger, raining a hailstorm of lead on Remmy’s target. Pop!

Something sharp bit into his hand. He hardly felt the slicing pain or the warm liquid running down his palm. But the slew of blasphemies rioting beside him grabbed his attention.

He glanced right—no one was there—then left—nope, still alone. So who in the hell was grabbing him?

The grip on his arm was like a vise, clamping down on his wrist and refusing to let him go.

He couldn’t pull the trigger! Remmy was on his own, a good thirty meters from the burned-out hut that would serve as his sanctuary. Nikko tried to yank his arm free once, twice—still stuck. “Fuck!”

He saw the Tali’s muzzle flash a second before the bullet’s report echoed through the air, and the full metal jacket slammed into Remmy’s shoulder, knocking him to the ground. “Noooo!”

Reacting on reflex, Nikko threw a wild punch, trying to get loose from the invisible hold. His fist connected with something solid and he gained his freedom, but the victory was short-lived. A second later, something slammed into him from behind—hard—and he was on the ground. Wham! Something collided with his face, and it was lights out.

What the hell happened?

Nikko sat on the edge of the narrow cot, springs poking him in the ass through the thin, broken-down mattress. Elbows braced against his knees, he sat there, staring at his bandaged hand, trying to remember how in the hell he got here. Yeah, there wasn’t much coming to him. Then again, sometimes it took a little while for his head to clear and his memories to realign with reality. Curling his fingers into a fist, he tested his bandaged hand and then cursed at the tug of stitches in his palm. What in the hell happened to his hand, and how was he going to fight like this tomorrow?

The energy in the air shifted, and Nikko sensed he was no longer alone well before he heard the heavy footsteps echoing down the hall. He didn’t bother lifting his head. He had no interest in seeing whoever would appear on the other side of those bars. Thanks to the knot on his temple, his head was pounding in time with his heartbeat, much like the cadence his drill sergeant used to bellow at his squadron.

Like it was yesterday, the words echoed through his mind, put to the tune of his hammering pulse.

Runnin’ through the desert with my M16

I’m a mean motor scooter

I’m a US Marine

If ya see me comin’, you better step aside

’Cause many men didn’t and many men died
. . .

When he paid no attention to the Doc Martens stepping into his periphery, the man cleared his throat, making his presence known. Slowly, Nikko lifted his head and locked eyes with the coldest pair of ice blues he’d ever seen. He didn’t know Cole Easton, aka “The Beast of the East,” very well, but he knew the legend. Best damn fighter in the CFA and champion of the light-heavyweight division—Coach’s golden boy. A year ago, Easton had taken an illegal kick to the spine during a title fight that nearly ended his career.

Just when things were starting to come back together for him, he’d taken a bullet that was meant for his girl and it had shattered his shoulder. Thirteen months and still counting, the guy had been out of the octagon, but there were whispered rumors about a grudge match in the making between Easton and Crazy Dan DeGrasse.

So, yeah, other than being an MMA god, who happened to be Disco Stick Kruze’s good friend and old sparring partner, he didn’t really know a whole lot about the guy. But by the way he was staring Nikko down right now, it was easy to see there wasn’t going to be any love lost between them.

“They stitch your hand up?”

Nikko nodded, flexing it again to test his range of motion. “Must have. I don’t really remember what happened.”

Easton glared daggers at him. No doubt it was deserved. “Well, let me refresh your memory. The media came around, started snapping a few pictures of you. You lost your shit, broke a glass in your hand, and hit Coach. The press is having a field day with this, the CFA is pissed, and I’m fucking furious. All I can say is you’re lucky you’re behind bars right now.”

No
. . . It couldn’t be true. Did he . . . did he seriously hit Coach?—and at a CFA publicity party? Maybe they should just lock his ass up and throw away the key. It’d been so long since he’d had a rage blackout, he’d thought that shit was behind him. And here he’d thought he was handling this so well.
Well
being a relative term here. He was doing “well” when he wasn’t drinking himself to sleep, because passing out was just about the only way he could escape the nightmares.

He hadn’t realized how fine a line he was walking until it was too late. If he’d only known those lights were going to set him off. The hell of it was he never knew what would be his next trigger. His mental breaks were completely unpredictable and totally random.

“I think it goes without saying that, as of immediately, you’ve been suspended from the CFA pending a psychological evaluation. If you want to avoid legal charges, you’re going to have to start going to therapy twice a week for no less than six months. The only thing that’s saving your ass, and possibly your career right now, is your military service, but that’s only going to buy you so much rope—don’t hang yourself with it. As long as you’re punching a clock with a shrink, the CFA has agreed to let you use the gym to lift and weight train, but you are not to get back in that cage until you’ve been medically cleared.”