Bare Knuckle: Vegas Top Guns, Book 5 (25 page)

Chapter Twenty-Four

Only two minutes in, Eric knew his Tuesday-night fight was going badly. Harley Hamilton had an extra two-inch reach, although they were fairly matched in weight. It shouldn’t have mattered, but Eric’s head was full to bursting with worry for Carey. After leaving an opaque voicemail about wanting to tell Eric something, he hadn’t answered return calls.

Or maybe it was Trish, how far they’d come, how seeing her in the ring was such a fucking turn-on. She’d even switched nights with another girl to watch him fight that evening, which had added an extra obligation to a day spent in class.

Or damn, it could’ve been that he was short an hour in the flight simulator and had to make it up before the end of the week. His participation in the upcoming Red Flag was still not certain.

Didn’t really matter.

What mattered was the heavy-as-sin fist he took to the face. The pain of impact. The hard crack of his neck. The gray film that washed over his vision.

Fucked.

Eric was fucked.

He tried to come back, managed a flurry of gut shots that sent his opponent to the ropes. But Harley snaked in a sharp jab that connected with Eric’s temple.

Rocking back, Eric gritted his teeth as he staggered. Power surged up his legs and into his arms. Swing. The other guy’s torso was implacable. Punches kept flying. Eric took too many. Way too many.

Something sharp. Mean. Flames of pain up his side.

Harley pressed his advantage. A three-punch combo to Eric’s gut. Pushing.

Holding his ground, Eric made it to the fifth bell, but the decision was in Hamilton’s favor. Eric would have made the same call. By the way he was swaying on his feet, he felt like his head had gone on walkabout. He couldn’t decide what troubled him more, the way his ribs throbbed with every breath or his already-swollen cheek.

He wasn’t sure how he made it back to the prep room. A trainer wanted to check him over, but Eric pushed him off. The man left a pile of bandages, two sentences of advice to get to a doctor and a reminder that Eric had been fighting in an unsanctioned match. Suing wouldn’t be his best idea.

Message received.

Icepack to his face, he glowered at the door.

Until Trish showed up.

He hadn’t realized he was waiting on her, but there was no mistaking the easier breath he heaved. The way his spine straightened.

She remained in her bikini, which was a fucking blessing—a neon-blue number with peekaboo cutouts on either hip. She was a beautiful distraction from his mixed-up mind and the dingy eggshell walls.

She offered a shaky smile. “Well, I guess we know for sure which of us is the prettier one.”

He lifted an eyebrow then winced against the spike of pain. “Wasn’t in doubt.”

“But we’ve established that you have the sexier mouth.” She stepped near enough that he could smell her. Inviting. Light. Perfume or lotion, something sweet. Her fingers shook as she touched his face.

“At least you didn’t say it was pretty.”

“What?”

He chuckled, which only made his ribs and his lungs burn. “You know. ‘You gots a pretty mouth, boy.’”

“Dirty, dirty man.” Her heart didn’t seem to be in on the teasing. Instead she was looking at his cheek. Her eyes were huge blue pools of concern. “Didn’t anyone tell that asshole you’re too skilled to take a beating like this?”

“Apparently not. And here I was thinking Tuesday-night opponents would be easier marks than the weekend guys.” He cupped her face. Perfectly precise features. She was faultless at showing off exactly what she wanted the world to see. Now, however, she was practically see-through. “Why so worried, showgirl?”

“You’re hurt.” Her hands slipped down to his side. He flinched away. “Your ribs could be broken.”

He shook his head. “Bruised at most.”

“How would you know?”

“Been here before.” He swallowed against a knot at the back of his throat. Somehow these words were harder to offer up than it was to withstand her inspection. “Been hurt worse.”

Her fingers spread over his abdomen. “You’re not a doctor. It’s not going to make any old injury worse, is it?”

“No.” That much he knew. His most lasting injuries had been burns, and if his internals and his legs hadn’t healed a full hundred percent, he never would’ve returned to the skies.

She searched him. Looked closely into his eyes. He wanted to give her more. Say more. But he was incapable. Bad enough she was seeing him like this. He held his arms tight to his body, containing the hurt. His neck was heavy. His head wanted to bow. He held back, held it up. No giving up in front of her.

She wet her bottom lip and swallowed. “Will you at least let me take care of you?”

He could’ve made a dirty joke, ask if he could take pictures throughout. Anything to deflect. But she was open. He couldn’t give her that bullshit when she was vulnerable.

His head was beginning to clear enough to put the pieces together. Thoughts lining up in cognitive order.

Carey. Damn.

Losing wasn’t a matter of taking a few blows. He’d need to fight again to cover the balance of Carey’s treatment. Then there was Fang. These injuries would bruise. The next morning’s work call would lead to a fuckload of trouble.

So no dirty jokes. He needed Trish. Some calm in the storm. He fought a shudder of pain up his left side. “If you want.”

She picked up the roll of bandages left by the trainer. Her fingers were long and elegant. He focused on the details, like her red manicure and the veins just beneath the thin skin of her wrist.

“Arms up now.”

He obeyed. Pain streaked through his muscles.

“So different.” Her smile wasn’t back, but it seemed to want to appear. “Me giving you orders? I hardly know what to make of it.”

“Enjoy it while it lasts, showgirl.” Talking for once had purpose. He could talk right over the pain. “Next time I get a hold of you, I’ll have you standing. Hold your arms behind your back. Fuck you silly.”

“Big talk from a big man.” She started wrapping the bandages around and around his chest, her breasts brushing him. “Because first you’re going to have to heal up, mister.”

That healing up definitely wasn’t done by the next morning. Eric stood loosely at attention across the desk from Major Haverty. Fang had taken only one look at Eric before pointing at his office door.

Eric had gone, quick like. No fucking around when the boss wanted you on the carpet.

Fang eased into his chair, hands flat on the scattered papers that covered his desktop. From how slowly he was moving, a person might think
he
was the one who’d been in a fight. But then, Fang was too straight arrow to screw up a good thing. With one foot out the door, on the verge of a promotion, he remained the epitome of the 82
^nd
Division’s nickname: the All-Americans.

Rather than resent the man, Eric loosely knew that Fang had come from humble beginnings. Some rumors said they’d been shittier than Eric could claim. Fang was in command, a supreme hard-ass, but he was an officer to be admired and respected.

A muscle hopped and jumped in front of the man’s ear. “Captain Donaghue, is there anything you’d like to share with me?”

“No, Sir.”

Fang’s hands curled into fists. Loose ones, but there was no mistaking. He narrowed his eyes. “Last chance, Captain. Rethink that one.”

“Wouldn’t like. Might have to, but doesn’t mean I’ll like it.”

“Go ahead. Be a smartmouth.” Haverty spit each word with precise sarcasm. “You pick now to become chatty? Real brilliant.”

Telling his CO to fuck off would be a worse idea, but Eric was nervous as hell. Fang could shut him down. For good. He probably should if he was half the leader the Aggressors knew him to be.

“Sorry, Sir,” he managed to bite out.

“I’m going to ask you this only once. What happened to your face, Donaghue?”

“A fight.”

“A bar fight? I didn’t think you were the type.”

Eric sucked in a deep breath, then instantly regretted having a hot poker shoved between his ribs. “Not exactly.”

“Make with the explanations. Now. Or I swear to God you’ll have an official letter of reprimand so quick it’ll feel like a fastball to that thick skull of yours.”

Eric fixed his gaze on the unit pennant behind Fang’s head. He loved this damn squadron. And he was probably going to be kicked out. A deep, desperate part of him already mourned.

“Prizefighting, Sir. Boxing.”

“Have you lost your goddamned mind?” Haverty slapped the knuckles of his fists on the desktop, levering to a standing position. The real surprise was Fang cussing. Eric had never heard him use profanity, even when he lost his temper. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t ground you this instant.”

“My brother’s in rehab.”

“What does that have to do with it?”

Eric kept his hands loose at his sides. No fighting this man. Wouldn’t help his case. “It’s not covered by insurance.”

“I’m not getting it.”

He risked a look at Fang. The man didn’t seem pissed. Well, not as pissed as a moment ago. “I’m paying for it. Mom and Dad…can’t afford it.”

“You’re an officer in the Air Force. Pilot pay. All the bennies. What rehab is so expensive that you need prizefighting?”

His mouth twisted against the acidity of the words. “It’s his third.”

Fang eased back in his chair. “You can’t be serious. And you’re still paying?”

Eric only nodded. Maybe he really was an idiot, but he couldn’t see another way.
Not
paying would be the same as giving up on his only brother.

“Second mortgage?”

“Upside down.”

“Damn,” Fang said on a rough sigh. He drummed his fingers across the desk. To one side was a computer monitor and a palm-sized picture of his pretty redheaded wife. “Eric, you’ve got to stop. I cannot in good conscience let this go on. You’re an officer. An Aggressor. You can’t risk yourself or your comrades like this. You wanna box, try out for the Air Force team.”

“One more.” His pride broke. He leaned toward Fang. So much rode on this. “I need one more purse. Shoulda last night, but…” He waved toward his face.

“But you got the crud beaten out of you instead.” Fang folded his hands together, apparently back in control. “Who’s to say it won’t happen again? And you’ll be asking me for one more fight after that. No.”

Eric shook his head. He didn’t have any kind of reassurance to give. And if this artsy stint crapped out, he had nowhere else to send Carey. For the rest of his life, he’d be fielding three a.m. phone calls from a cranked-out motor mouth.

And he wouldn’t have the Aggressors to call his own.

Eric flat out wasn’t capable of thinking that way. Nothing there but a hard, concrete wall. “One, Sir. Only one.”

Trying to guess what was going on in Fang’s head was like picking winning keno numbers. He could only hope the man wasn’t thinking about that shit awhile back, when Eric had made it his mission to piss off Tin Tin.

One fight. Maybe Eric was delusional. He’d had a nice run. Carey was almost clean. Trish—and everything Trish was and said and did. Maybe it was time to be done. His luck had run out, like it almost had in a too-beautiful Canadian sky.

Except Fang pointed at Eric, his eyes narrowed. The muscle in front of his ear jumped again. “
One.
I swear if it goes past that, I’ll see you personally court-martialed. Meanwhile, you’ll pull any detail I ask of you. And you’re out of the air until it’s done.”

“What? Sir, I’ve only been back in the sky a few months.”

Fang pressed his mouth flat. “You’re fighting. Your health is at risk. You’re not tiptop in that plane, and you could take someone else down. Tell me in good conscience you’d risk that.”

Fuck.

No arguing that, despite his first, desperate protest. So he’d stay out of the air. For now. And he’d win that next goddamn fight. “I can’t, Sir. Not in good conscience.”

“As for the Red Flag, I want a full medical write-up before I consider assigning you. Got it?”

Although his chest cinched like tightening ropes, Eric nodded. He turned to go but stopped short. “Thank you, Sir.”

He owed the man that much, at least.

Fang only shook his head. “Get out of my office, Captain.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Thursday lunchtime.

She had a date with Eric.

He’d asked almost offhandedly as they had walked arm in arm out of the boxing complex. He had bruised ribs, if not a cracked one, and his mood had been dark. Dollars to donuts he hadn’t gone to see a doctor since.

But he’d asked. She didn’t know what to make of it. Something he’d planned ahead of time and didn’t want to back out of? Something that had shaken out of his kicked-sideways brain?

It didn’t matter. A regular ol’ date felt practically novel after the crazy things they’d done.

Trish barely made her bus. Class had gone long, but for the best of reasons. Her design project for
Don Giovanni
had been awarded top marks. The buoyancy she felt was like jogging with helium for bones, which almost made up for the fact that her mama still refused to take her calls. Not that Trish wanted to go back to the trailer, but she needed to know her only family didn’t hate her.