Fighting for Control (Against the Cage Book 3) (17 page)

“Not a chance, Ray.”

She rolled her eyes and stepped through the door, letting it close behind them. He turned back to the fighters who were laughing their asses off.

“Holy shit, man, your daughter is gorgeous,” Kill said.

“She’s fourteen. Why the fuck are you laughing?”

“Oh, there is a God! Dude . . . you are so screwed. I swear I thought she was legal.”

“You need your goddamn eyes checked, asshole. If I were you, I wouldn’t be laughing.”

“Oh, yeah? And why is that?”

“Cuz your baby sister
is
legal.”

Scott’s laughter abruptly died, and Nikko’s picked up where he left off. The dude looked ready to kill—hence his cage name. Regan shot Nikko a wary look and just shook his head.

“Come on, dude. You think Willow is going to join a nunnery or something? How long do you think you’re going to be able to keep scaring off every guy that’s interested in her?”

“You’re a dick,” Matthews growled.

He slapped Kill on the back and made his way toward the offices. “Not so funny when that shit’s on the other foot, huh?”

W
here in the hell was Nikko? Violet shot an anxious glance at the surly faces gathered around the table, then at the clock hanging on the wall—9:10. He was late. She was about to pull out her cell and send him a quick text when the conference room door burst open and there he stood, filling the doorway. His gaze briefly locked on hers before quickly darting away.

He didn’t look happy to see her, though that didn’t stop her heart from stuttering at the sight of him. What was it about this man that could flip her switch with just a look—a look that clearly wasn’t pleased. Feigning interest in the packet of papers in front of her, she prayed no one else would notice the tension crackling in the air between them or the sudden temperature spike in the room.

“Nikko, glad you could join us,” his coach said, the man’s tone more clipped than she’d ever known it to be. “Come in.”

Marcus Miller was the guy who helped put the CFA on the map, introducing world-class competitors into the sport of MMA. Even she knew who he was, and being on this man’s shit list was not where you wanted to be. What she wasn’t sure of was why Cole Easton was here. She thought this was a meeting to get Nikko’s sparring privileges back and that she’d been called here to report Nikko’s progress.

“Sorry I’m late, Coach,” he mumbled, stepping into the room and offering no more excuse than that. He took a seat at the end of the table opposite her, with Marcus on his left and Easton on his right. Dean and the fight commissioner sat on either side of her.

It was a table of somber, intimidating men, and Violet would be lying if she said she didn’t feel out of place.

“I appreciate you all coming in to meet with me on such short notice. I know I haven’t been around as much as I’d like lately, but as you know, Cole and I have opened the first CFA-sponsored gym in Minnesota, and it’s taken some time to get it up and running. We’ve got some great talent coming out of there and one or two fighters I think might have the potential to turn pro. Anyway, as I continue to move toward retirement, I will be working closely with Easton, who will begin transitioning into taking over the business when I’m gone. Now, I don’t want anyone putting me in a pine box yet, but there are some changes coming our way that I think we need to discuss.

“Del Toro, I’m going to be frank with you, son. You fucked not only yourself but this whole organization with that little stunt you pulled last week. The media is having a heyday with it and we need to come up with a plan to do some damage control. I don’t want anyone sayin’ I can’t control my fighters. Fans are pissed you didn’t get that rematch with Kennedy, and the media is claiming you pulled that shit to get disqualified so you wouldn’t have to face him in the cage. No doubt Kennedy’s camp is to blame for those rumors, but now that they’re circulating, we’ve got to deal with them.”

“Fuck . . .” Nikko snarled, his fist connecting with the table. Violet jumped at the loud bang that sent someone’s coffee sloshing over the rim.

Easton tensed beside him, menace radiating off the guy like cologne. “Take it easy, Del Toro.” The low warning growl rumbled in this throat, but the message carried loud and clear across the table.

And then it dawned on her why Easton was really at this meeting. He was here to step in if Nikko’s temper got the better of him and he lost control again. His own team didn’t trust him, and by the rage emanating from Nikko’s eyes right now, she could see why. He was furious, and intimidating as hell. Yet, for some unexplainable reason, she wasn’t afraid. In fact, more than anything she wanted to go to him, wrap her arms around him, and tell him everything was going to be all right. She willed him to look at her, inwardly pleading with him to focus on her and let her be his anchor.

“Effective immediately, you’ll be working with one of our publicists. I expect full cooperation from you. Of course, we want to reschedule your fight and to ax these rumors. But in order to do that, we need to get you back in the spotlight with public appearances and interviews. We can’t do that until we’re sure you won’t have another repeat performance of last week. How do you feel things are going, Dr. Summers? When can we expect to get our boy back in the cage?”

All eyes turned to her—including Nikko’s, the intensity of his stare burning into her. She wasn’t sure what they wanted her to say. Nikko had a long way to go to overcome his demons. It could take months, maybe even years, before they’d make the progress they were looking for. Problem was, she was not only staking Nikko’s reputation on him getting better, but her own as well. She didn’t want to do or say anything to potentially damage his career, nor did she want to make promises to these men she or Jim couldn’t keep. She honestly didn’t know how long it would take before Nikko could gain control of his rage blackouts. And she knew
I don’t know
was not the answer these men were looking for. Nothing about Nikko Del Toro was simple or predictable.

She cleared her throat before forcing her eyes to turn to the subject in question. Big mistake. He was staring at her with an intensity that took her breath away. Like she was holding his life—his career—in her hands, and he’d be damned if he’d beg her for mercy, that stubborn defiance warring with their intimate connection—so strong, so proud, and fighting like hell to hide his vulnerability.

Her heart slammed inside her chest, the silence stretching on as they all waited for her to say something. “Things are going well. Nikko has made every effort to comply with your requests. He’s keeping his appointments, and we are making progress. As to how long it will take, I cannot say. That depends on Nikko. I contacted Dean yesterday and requested that he be allowed to resume sparring.”

Marcus nodded. “That’s what I hear.”

“Fighting, for Nikko, is cathartic, and I would caution against removing his means for coping, especially while he’s in therapy. I feel that it is advantageous and necessary for Nikko’s mental health to provide as much normalcy and stability to his life as possible. Punitive restrictions would hold no benefit for him at this point. He is well aware of the damage that has been done by his actions, and I truly believe it was not his intention to cause you harm, Marcus, and he deeply regrets it.”

“I have no doubt that he does. I’ll take your recommendation into consideration, Dr. Summers.” Turning to Nikko, Marcus asked, “How are you feeling, Del Toro? Are things going well with Dr. Summers?”

Again, his eyes were on her, burning her flesh and heating her blood. It took all her control not to squirm under the scrutiny of his stare. “As good as can be expected.”

Well, that was . . . vague. And apparently it was all he was going to say on the subject.

Marcus nodded, as if satisfied by his answer and expecting nothing more. “Hang in there, son. We’ll get through this. You’re a hell of a fighter, and I knew you’d be my problem child when I recruited you. Now get the hell out of here and keep your nose clean, huh? We’ll meet again in a few weeks.”

Marcus turned to her and nodded. “Dr. Summers, thank you for coming down here on your day off. I appreciate your commitment to my fighter’s well-being.”

“You’re welcome.” She stood and gathered her files, tucking them under her arm. Other than Nikko, everyone else stayed seated. Anxious to get out from under the stares of these men, she wasted no time making her retreat. Heading out the way she came in, Violet rushed toward the back exit at a determined clip. Her gut churned, a knot of emotion rioting inside her.

Her plight for Nikko was taking her down a dangerous road. Sitting in that meeting and feigning indifference had been torture. She wanted to yell at the injustice of it. His career, his reputation, had taken a huge hit. What if he never recovered from it? His career was all he had left. If he lost that, too, it could quite possibly break him.

She was getting too close, too invested. There was caring, and then there was
caring
. She was trying so hard not to cross that line, but God help her, she feared she was fighting a losing battle.

“Clover . . .”

His deep voice called out to her, a harsh strained whisper spoken to catch her attention and not others’. She ignored it, pretending she didn’t hear him. She couldn’t do this right now—couldn’t face him—not until she regrouped and took some time to reevaluate her perspective on Nikko’s situation.

“Clover . . .”

He was closer, his quickened steps echoing behind her. Almost there . . . Just a few more steps and she’d be out the door.

“Dammit, Violet, stop.” He caught her arm steps before she could make her escape and dragged her into an empty office. The lights were off and he made no attempt to rectify the situation, but there was enough ambient light coming in through the window that she could see he was pissed. “Why did you do that?” he demanded, crowding into her, pinning her between the wall of Sheetrock and his towering rock-hard muscle.

“Do what?” She wasn’t sure what he was talking about. In truth she was having trouble concentrating on anything other than the heat of his body blasting against her. His breath brushed her cheek. Her nipples hardened, her breasts felt heavy and tingly, straining to make contact. He smelled so good, his clean masculine scent teasing her nostrils. She drew a deep breath and her nipples grazed his chest, sending little jolts of pleasure straight to her core. He must have felt it, too, because he flinched at the contact, the anger in his eyes flaring into something just as dangerous. A low, hungry growl emitted from his throat. God help her, she was so in over her head with his man.

“Tell me why you did it,” he demanded again.

“Did what?” she snapped impatiently, desperate to get some space between them before she did something totally unprofessional like throwing herself against this gorgeous, broken man.

“You lied for me in there. And I want to know why.”

“I wasn’t ly—”

“Bullshit. And you’re doing it again right now. I don’t want you lying for me, Violet.”

“Then don’t make me a liar, Nikko. Help me help you. Your career is too important to just throw away on the past. You can get beyond this. I believe in you. You just need to believe in yourself.”

“Well, that’s your first mistake, Clover. The last person who believed in me came home in a body bag.”

His words slammed into her with a sniper’s accuracy. He may not have been meaning to, but he was laying siege to her resolve. It wouldn’t take long before one of them cracked. “Oh, Nikko . . .” Violet raised her hand and laid it against his cheek, brushing her thumb over the indent of his scar. She wanted to kiss him, to take away the pain that had such a tight hold on him that she feared he would never break free.

“Don’t,” he told her, his eyes hardening to stone.

Reaching up, he grabbed her wrist and pulled it away, refusing to take comfort from her. He was unreachable. And she feared as long as he refused to forgive himself for whatever was torturing him, Nikko Del Toro would be lost to her. She didn’t know how to reach him. Then again, maybe she did . . . Problem was, she wasn’t sure it was a line she was willing to cross. How much longer could they keep doing this dance?

“It’s not pity I want from you, Clover.”

Apparently, she wasn’t the only one getting tired of it. His grip on her wrist tightened, just enough to walk the line between firm and painful, strong enough to let her know who was in control. He planted his other hand against the wall beside her head. Those sapphire-flecked eyes locked on to her as he brought her hand against his chest. She could feel the contour of his chiseled pecs through his thin Henley. If her heart were a hummingbird, it would have taken flight.

“Feel that?” he asked, sliding her palm over his heart, the strong confident beat keeping a tempo to rival her own. “This is what you do to me, Clover. And this . . .” Trapped by his stare, he slowly slid her hand down his stomach, over his washboard abs that made her fingers itch to stop and trace every ridge and valley. The heat flooding her veins centered in her core, her muscles clenched, the empty ache in her sex almost too much to bear.

His bold gaze dared her to stop him as he guided her hand lower until her palm covered his erection, straining against his jeans. He dragged her hand down his impossibly hard length, pressing it firmly against his cock. “This is how much I want you. How I spend every second in your presence, every night thinking about how good you felt in my arms, how sweet you tasted on my tongue, how tight you felt around my cock . . .”

A shocked gasp broke from her throat at the raw honesty she saw reflected in his eyes.

“No, I don’t want your pity, or your lies, Clover. I just want you. And to know that my sins are what’s keeping us apart is the worst kind of hell I could be sentenced to.”

It was official—this man’s tongue was as silver as his eyes. Her resolve was melting into a puddle between her legs. She gripped his erection through his denim and squeezed until his eyes hooded and a throaty growl of approval rumbled in his chest. Nikko’s hand threaded into her hair, twisting until she felt a sharp tug, angling her head to the side.

“Tell me you want this . . .” he growled, his lips a scant breadth from devouring hers.