Uncaged Love #4: MMA New Adult Contemporary Romance Page 5

  I refuse to think about him, and go back to the tattoo. I press my lips against the curves of the design that looks a bit like a four-leaf clover. Lucky, I think. I should be the one with that inked on my skin. I’m the lucky one.

  If I had to endure all the hardships in my life just to get to this moment, I would do it all over again.

  “What are you thinking about, so serious?” Colt’s voice is still thick with sleep.

  “About what a little monster you probably were as a boy,” I say.

  Colt rolls to face me and drapes his elbow over my hip. I look so small next to him, his massive chest and arms dwarfing my body.

  “I was a mess,” he says. “Tearing through the house, pounding furniture with boxing gloves.”

  “Your father started you early.”

  “Oh, yes. I think the first picture of me with gloves on was taken before they left the hospital.”

  I giggle. “That’s crazy.”

  He kisses the top of my head. “I’ll probably be the same way. Only all the girls will get them too.”

  I look up at him, his hazel eyes earnest as they search mine. Is he thinking about little girls that look like me?

  “We’ll have tough kids,” I say. The back of my hand trails across his chest. “Did your mother only have you?”

  Colt rolls on his back and tucks his hands behind his head. “Yep. Keeping my father’s wandering eyes in check was a full-time job.”

  “Oh. He was like that.”

  “Well, that’s how she got him, you know. He was married to my half sisters’ mother.”

  “Right.” I had forgotten The Cure’s sordid past. “Did it work?”

  “As far as I can tell.” The whirring blades of the ceiling fan show in his eyes as he stares at the ceiling. “I know it sounds bad for my mother, having this crazy affair and getting pregnant. But she’s very kind. Almost regal. When you meet her, about the last thing you’ll think of is ‘home wrecker.’”

  “I wouldn’t think that.”

  “That’s what they called her in the biography.”

  “Ouch.” I wonder now if The Cure tried to buy up all the copies to protect himself, or her. But that would be gallant. Something a gentleman would do. And I doubt anyone has ever called The Cure a gentleman in his life.

  I don’t see him as being anything but the jerk I met in the limo, when he talked about bruised cherries. Then got all horrible yesterday when Colt met with him.

  I decide I don’t even care about what Colt’s father said about Colt’s past. The virgins. Him having to get rid of them after Colt was through with them. None of it could be true. All The Cure did was peg my insecurity and make me feel worse.

  “I would never do that,” Colt says.

  “Do what?”

  He sits up suddenly and turns to me. “I would never do what my father did.”

  My heart wants to sing a little. “I know that, Colt. I absolutely believe you.”

  “Nothing is going to come between us now.” He picks up my hand and kisses the back of it. “I mean that.”

  I shift on the mattress to kneel in front of him. His face is framed by the soft fall of the fabric from the iron bed. He’s beautiful and honest. And mine.

  “Show me,” I say. “Show me nothing coming between us.”

  With a little growl, he pushes me back on the bed. I fall onto the sheets. Parts of my body protest after the fight with Annie, and my head still rings a little from the blow on the coffee table. But I don’t pay attention to anything but his lips on my mouth, his hard chest pressing against mine. I am ready for him, always ready. And I vow that I will do my very best to make sure I don’t screw up. That I don’t misunderstand him. And that I never assume that I know what he needs. That I’ll ask.

  We’re in this together, all the way together.

  Chapter Eleven

  Colt holds a team meeting later that day explaining the situation to his staff. I mostly stay on the mats in a back corner. I carefully stretch and work out the pains from the unexpected fight.

  Most of them opt to make the move to LA. Colt offers to rent suites for them all for a couple of months until they can settle and relocate. But a few of the staff members who go way back to when The Cure was boxing aren’t up for life back in the city. They decide to stay on the family compound and handle his father’s affairs.

  They have a three-week gap until Colt’s next major match. This one is big, though, a pay-per-view gig in Vegas. It will be a squeeze to get everything changed over and still work in enough training hours.

  Colt sits next to me on the mat. “You feeling all right?”

  My head still aches, and a large purple bruise has formed on my thigh, but I say, “Never better.”

  He tugs on my ponytail. “You’re a terrible liar.”

  “We going to work out here today?”

  Colt nods. “I think so. We can drive in to LA tonight. One of the staff is calling Buster to let him know we’ll be back there tomorrow.”

  “I miss the girls I was training,” I say.

  “I’m sure they’re worried about you.”

  Killjoy calls out for Colt so they can run through an abbreviated workout. I lie on my back, angling carefully to avoid disturbing the gash on the back of my head, and do sit-ups with a kettlebell on my chest. I want to be able to do what Annie did, that unexpected ability to throw someone off your body.

  It feels good to do something normal and productive with everything so unsettled. For the next few hours at least, I will know what I’m doing and how I will accomplish my goals. As soon as we walk out these doors, we’re back into uncertainty.

  When we get back to Colt’s condo, he helps me shower and avoid shampooing the wound. Nestling into him inside the spray is comforting, like I’m protected. Even though I don’t fear a fight with anybody, it’s still nice to know someone’s got your back.

  During the drive to LA, I remember about the missing-kids network and that we never checked to see if my old name is on it.

  But it’s waited three years. It can wait another day. The stuff that is happening now is so much more critical.

  Zero texts me with an offer to cook dinner for us when we get into the city, which is crazy because he can’t even cook macaroni and cheese. I figure he’s going to pick up something premade and stick it in some dishes. But when Colt and I get to his apartment, the aroma of baking chicken and garlic has filled the room.

  “This smells great,” Colt says as he helps me out of my jacket and hands it to Zero. “I didn’t realize you were an accomplished cook as well as a performer.”

  “He’s not,” says a voice from the other room.

  My jaw drops as Angel Wild appears in the doorway of the kitchen. He holds a spatula and wears an apron that says “Kiss the cook.”

  Last I heard, Zero was proclaiming his moment with Angel a one-nighter. “Not oil and water after all?” I ask him, referring to his last comment about his and Angel’s compatibility.

  “Oh, no, oil and vinegar,” Angel says, totally getting what I’m saying. “Like the best vinaigrettes.”

  Zero’s face flushes red. Angel leans over to peck his cheek like a grandmother. “It’s taken a lot of effort to get him to see the light.” He heads back into the kitchen.

  Colt tries to hold back a smirk. Zero rocks back on his heels. He’s dressed even nicer than usual, a collared shirt beneath a sweater, khakis, and shined-up dress shoes. He obviously cares what Angel thinks.

  He also seems keen to change the conversation. “So, you feeling okay, Jo Jo?” he asks. “I can’t believe one of those nasty fighter girls accosted you at your own home.” He leads me over to the sofa.

  “I’m fine. Nothing worse than what can happen in the cage.”

  “No coffee tables in the cage,” Colt says, sitting next to me.

  Angel reappears with two wine glasses filled with something red. “For relaxing,” he says, holding them out to us.

  Colt and I respon
d at the same time, “Oh, no, we’re training.” We look at each other and laugh.

  Angel clinks the glasses together. “Finishing each other’s sentences is just around the corner.” He holds them out again. “Red wine is good for you. It’s practically health food.”

  When Colt accepts the glass to be gracious, I take the other. I’ve had maybe two drinks in my life. I don’t like feeling I don’t have total control. But maybe tonight I should lighten up a little.

  By the time Angel calls us over to Zero’s dining table, I’ve finished the wine. The room shifts a little faster than I expect as I stand up. Colt catches my elbow. “You okay there, Jo?”

  I look down at the empty glass. “I think I’ve had enough.”

  Colt chuckles. “Probably so.”

  But when we sit down, Angel fills my glass again. I push it aside with no intention of drinking it, but partway through the meal, I notice I’ve been sipping from it. I set it even farther away.

  Everything feels dreamy, soft and easy. Zero seems so happy. I keep catching glances between him and Angel. I’m glad he has changed his mind about him. Colt keeps a hand on my knee under the table. It helps me feel steady and secure.

  Angel is a good cook. The chicken is tender and flavorful. He’s been careful to serve plenty of steamed vegetables too, as if he knows what Colt and I should eat.

  I have a feeling my days with Zero and our randomwiches might be over. I suppose we could always build our crazy combination sandwiches with leftovers just for fun. Life is changing for all of us, for the better. I’m not sad to see those hard days go.

  Colt’s phone buzzes. He ignores it out of good manners, but then it buzzes again.

  “Big fighter hero man, get your phone,” Angel says. “It might be Muhammad Ali or something.”

  “Not likely,” Colt says, but he tugs it from his pocket. Then he laughs. “I totally forgot. Dylan’s going to be on a talk show tonight.”

  “Who’s Dylan?” I ask.

  “A friend of mine. He got a big recording contract. Broke out with some song about blue shoes, then he did ‘Where You Belong,’ that song I heard about a million times all summer.”

  “Dylan Wolf.” Zero claps his hands. “I love his eyes.”

  I think Angel is going to shoot him a look or act all jealous, but he’s just as excited. “Isn’t Dylan Wolf the dreamboat who sang at our charity event that time?” he asks.

  “Yes!” Zero jumps from his chair. “What show is he going to be on, what time?”

  Zero and Colt try to figure out the cable channels as the room swims a little more fuzzily. I pick up the glass to take another sip, then realize what I’m doing and set it down again.

  “You okay, Jo?” Angel asks.

  “Probably should stop with the wine,” I say.

  He nods and begins clearing the table, taking my glass away.

  “It’s coming after the break!” Zero announces. He’s practically hopping with excitement.

  I stand up a little unsteadily but manage to make it over to the sofa. Colt puts his arm around me, and we sit down together.

  “Angel! It’s time!” Zero calls out. He settles on his papasan chair.

  Angel comes out of the kitchen and fits in beside him.

  I’ve never seen this show, so I don’t recognize the host. He’s young and charismatic, with one of those scruffy beards that I never get how they can keep the exact same level of almost-but-not-quite shaved.

  The host and Dylan sit opposite each other in a pair of green chairs. But Dylan has a quality about him that has changed since he performed the drag show. “Does he seem subdued?” I ask Colt.

  He squeezes my hand. “He went through a bad spell.”

  “How is that possible?” Angel asks. “Big recording contract. Looks like he’s doing all the talk shows.”

  “A girl,” Colt says.

  “Oooh,” Angel says.

  Still, Dylan manages to be charming and funny. Probably anyone who hadn’t seen him before wouldn’t know anything was different.

  “Oh, I hope he sings ‘Blue Shoes,’” Zero says.

  But when Dylan picks up his guitar and moves to the stage area of the set, he doesn’t play either of the songs we know. Instead he strums the opening chords to something new.

  We’re all pretty captivated by the song, mournful and full of soul, about lost love. When it’s over, Zero’s hands are clasped tight around Angel’s. “I have to buy that one right now.” He jerks out his phone.

  I lay my head on Colt’s shoulder. “Text him and say he was great,” I say. I’m so sleepy.

  “Will do,” he says. “I think I should get you home.”

  I haven’t even seen Colt’s place in LA. Traffic was bad coming in, so we came to Zero’s straight from Santa Barbara. When we say good-bye and head outside, the cool air makes me alert again, excited.

  “Do you want to stop by your apartment to get anything else?” Colt asks. He holds open the door to the red Stingray.

  “Not tonight,” I say. I’m anxious to be alone with him.

  As he pulls away from the apartment complex, I remember seeing my part of town through new eyes on the back of Colt’s motorcycle, the first time I rode with him, after he pulled me away from that group of jerk guys. I’m feeling exactly the same now, the colors of the night scene blurring by. Coffee shops, pizza joints, people walking in jackets and scarves, happy couples.

  I’m one of them now.

  I reach over the console and slide my hand along Colt’s thigh. He lifts his eyebrows, taking a quick glance at me as we turn a corner. “Someone’s anxious to get home.”

  “If we make it that far.” I reach for the snap of his jeans. By the time I’ve worked it loose, he’s rock hard beneath the zipper. I ease it down.

  “You make it difficult for a guy to concentrate,” he says.

  “That’s the idea.”

  He pulls up to a streetlight. “Two can play at this game, you know.” His arm crosses mine to cup a breast.

  A thrill zings through me. “You have the worst car imaginable for this,” I say. The deep seats mean we have a lot less access to each other.

  “You should have longer arms,” he teases. The light turns green, and the Stingray jets along Cesar Chavez again.

  I glance out the windows. It’s dark out, just the streetlamps. We’re not in a great part of town right now, so I bide my time, lightly running my hands along the bulge in Colt’s boxers that pushes out from the open zipper.

  Eventually we arrive at the big park where I fled from his father. The irony of this makes me want to giggle. I slip my hand inside Colt’s waistband. My fingers close around him. He’s hot, and the veins pulse gently beneath his skin.

  He puts both hands back on the wheel as he navigates the car. His jaw is tight as he concentrates. I squeeze him at the base and work my way to the tip, then down again. Despite the chill outside, I see a bead of sweat form on his forehead.

  With a sudden squeal of the tires, Colt turns hard to the right and rolls through the entrance to a parking garage. We pitch downward into the belly of the cavernous empty garage.

  Before he’s even jammed the gearshift into park, he’s unbuckled his seat belt and is reaching for mine. I’m released in an instant, and Colt is hauling me over the center console. He slides the driver’s seat as far back as it will go. Even so, I bump into the steering wheel and set off the horn in a short blast that echoes in the garage.

  Colt laughs. “Now we’ll have spectators.” With another adjustment, he leans the seat back as far as it will go. It’s enough for him to work my jeans loose and push them down.

  My face feels flushed as I kick the jeans into the footwell. I sit up on him, my knees on either side of his thighs.

  “You should have taken these off too,” he says, his fingers in the band of my panties.

  With a quick snap, they’re off.

  Chapter Twelve

  “You owe me two pairs of underwear now,” I tel
l him. The feel of his jeans rough against my bare skin sends a shiver through me.

  “Maybe I’ll ban them,” he says, pulling me down so he can press his lips against my neck. “I run a no-panty household.”

  He grabs my hips and shifts me into place over him. I can feel him hard against me. The zipper presses into my skin. I reach between us to push his clothing farther down.

  “That’s it,” he says. His hands move beneath my shirt and under my bra. “This is what happens to naughty girls who tease me while I’m driving.” He shifts a little, and he’s there, pushing me open, cleaving me in a bold thrust.

  I brace myself on his shoulders, trying to keep the tilting world in its proper position. The wine, I think, and everything starts to blend together. His body under mine, the way he fills me up, his hands on my skin.

  I’m glad for the strength in my thighs as I lift up over him and slide down again. I don’t let him get used to any speed or rhythm, catching him off guard, refusing to let him settle in. He groans into my hair, reaching around to pull me tighter to him.

  The tension is building in me now, so I let go of taunting him and slow the pace. The heat is spreading. The fuzziness of my brain doesn’t quite register fast enough what is happening because suddenly I’m crying out against Colt’s shoulder, my body convulsing against him. Sparks are shooting in every direction, and I’m laughing and gulping tears at the same time.

  Colt grabs my hips and controls the rhythm now, pushing with powerful thrusts. The rush of warmth floods inside me when he comes. His hands are a vise, clutching my body as he shudders beneath me.

  Headlights pierce the foggy windows. A car is driving through the garage. “Oh my God,” I say, ready to scramble off Colt.

  He tightens his grip on me. “Hold tight,” he says. “Just be still.”