In Your Corner (22 page)

He scrapes his hand through his hair. “I’ll take you home.”

“I’d rather take a cab.”

“Still can’t accept help?” His jaw tightens and suddenly we’re back to the question game that so devastated me two weeks ago.

“This is who I am,” I say with a quiet voice that belies the turmoil inside. “I’ve been this way for as long as I can remember. I learned to be independent and self-reliant by necessity. I learned to trust only myself because inevitably people let me down. You want me to give that up. You want both of my feet over the line. You want me to give myself completely to you. I tried, and it terrified me. Clearly, that’s just not something I can do.”

“People change.”

Shayla races past us wearing fight shorts and a spandex bra top. Her hair is scraped back into a ponytail and all traces of her makeup are gone. She tosses the keys to me and then yells “Rampage, you’re going down,” as she hits the patio, fist pumping in the air.

“Maybe on the outside they change,” I say to Jake as I tuck the keys into my purse and pull out my phone. “But at heart, they are always the same. We just have to find the person who will love us for who we are.”

“You think I let you down?” He looks at me aghast. “You think I gave up on you?”

“No. True to form, I did it all by myself.”

***

“’Manda! Where you been? You missed a lot of classes. Fuzzy is foaming at the mouth.” Rampage drops his duffel bag and gives me a big hug as I step through the doors of Redemption a few days after Blade Saw’s party. He is freshly showered and looking very unlike his fighter self in a pair of designer jeans and a fresh white shirt.

“Busy at work.”

“Poor ’manda.” He pats my head and the gentle gesture almost tips the bubbling cauldron of emotions I am so desperately trying to hide.

“Um…I just came to empty my locker and get you and the other guys involved in the Hellhole case to sign some documents. Are they around?” My heart pounds in fearful anticipation of encountering Jake. Although Shayla assured me he wasn’t going to be in tonight, I still can’t stop myself from shooting covert glances down the hallway and toward the locker room.

Rampage shakes his head. “Everyone’s gone to the Protein Palace. I’m heading there now if you want to join us.”

“Protein Palace?”

He throws an arm over my shoulders and leads me back to the door. “New establishment. Run by a coupla retired MMA fighters. Protein is their specialty—protein shakes, grilled meat, eggs, and every supplement you could want. Very popular, especially before big events since everyone is dieting and trying to make weight. They’ve decorated the place to look like a ’50s-style diner. You’re gonna love it.”

I look up at a grinning Rampage. “Sounds…healthy.”

An hour later, I am squeezed into a tiny red vinyl booth between Rampage and Blade Saw. Clearly the owners of the Protein Palace forgot to take into consideration the size of their prospective patrons. The booth would comfortably fit Rampage alone, but with the place absolutely heaving, it’s three to a seat, or two, after I’m squished to death. But Rampage was right. The place looks like a ’50s diner with its shiny, red vinyl stools and booths, glistening chrome, and sparkly tiles. The waitresses wear mini dresses and scoot around on roller skates. But the music is decidedly modern and consists solely of fight songs blasted at a high decibel level through tinny speakers.

“Oh. My. God.” I grab Rampage’s arm. “Is that Pierre Peterson?” I point out the number one ranked heavyweight UFC fighter in California. “And is that…Tommy the Terminator?”

Starstruck, I momentarily forget my mission as Homicide Hank, sitting across from us, points out some other famous fighters standing around the old-fashioned jukebox.

“Does the press know about this place?” My eyes widen when two more big name fighters walk past, brushing up against the wheatgrass planters in the glass brick wall beside us. The diner smells of grass, grass, and more grass. If I close my eyes, I can imagine I’m on a picnic, but with bad food.

“Yeah, but they usually show up closer to the big events when the hype starts to build. You can’t get in without having a California State Athletic Commission card or as a guest.”

A huge, muscle-bound giant bumps shoulders with an even bigger, more muscle-bound giant beside our table. They stop and growl at each other. Knuckles crack. Biceps flex. I huddle down in my seat.

“Isn’t it dangerous?” I whisper, as the giants glare at each other. “I mean, all this testosterone in a small, enclosed space…”

“Big risk if they get in a fight,” Homicide says. “They could lose their license or get seriously injured and have to drop out of an event. There are a lot of close calls, but in the end, the risk isn’t worth it.”

As if on cue, the giants step down and go on their way. I release the breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

“So what are you having?” Blade Saw hands me a menu and I peruse the selections:

Tin
of
tuna, side of steamed mixed veg

Boiled
egg
whites, side of steamed mixed veg

Steamed
chicken, side of steamed mixed veg

Whey
protein
shakes, all flavors, with your choice of: waxy vol, wheatgrass, omega-3 capsules, flaxseed oil capsules, L-glutamine, cod liver oil.

“Maybe just a plate of grass.” I point to the wheatgrass display slash decoration on the wall beside us and repress the urge to moo. “And…I wonder if they have any steamed mixed veg.” Why, oh why didn’t I eat before I went to Redemption? I am craving a thick, juicy burger covered in cheese and a plate of greasy fries. Maybe even a milkshake. Nothing like food to beat the blues away.

Rampage, so not getting the joke, frowns. “It doesn’t taste good on its own. Better to have it in a protein shake. It will help build up those scrawny arms.” He circles my upper arm between his thumb and forefinger. Point taken. I order a chocolate whey shake with a helping of grass and a scoop of waxy vol simply because I have no idea what it is. I am daring tonight.

And sort of happy. The fighters don’t seem to care that Jake and I have split up. They treat me the way they have always treated me. My hair is ruffled numerous times. My shoulder is slapped. I am poked and teased and included in every conversation.

Soon, I am sipping on my grass and waxy vol shake and trying not to gag as I celebrity spot with Homicide. Ten points for pros. Five points for amateurs. Minus five points for mistaken identity. I score ten points for spotting Don “the Man” Smith over by the protein shake bar chatting with Drake and Shayla. Drake catches my eye and gives me a wink. My lips twitch with a smile. My world might be off kilter, but Drake hasn’t changed.

Fuzzy joins us and leans against the wall of wheatgrass. He growls at me for missing Get Fit or Die and tells me I’m going to suffer next week. When I dare to tell him I cleaned out my locker and I’m leaving the gym, I am lambasted with a ferocity that makes even Rampage cringe. By the time Fuzzy is finished, I have promised to attend every class offered at Redemption, train for the amateurs, volunteer at the registration desk, and hand over my firstborn child. Fuzzy gives me a warm smile and pats my head. Everyone at the table cheers, and I buy the next round of waxy vol shakes.

More Redemption fighters gather around our booth. A discussion about the benefits of the Paleo diet ensues. Basically it involves eating only meat. I tell them they should have no problem since they all behave like cavemen. Rampage throws up his arms to beat his chest and whacks me in the head with his elbow. Stunned, I slide down on the seat and stars flash in my eyes. A worried Fuzzy brings Drake over. Drake diagnoses a minor concussion and says I need a shot of Busta Bicep. He extracts me from my cozy nest of sweat and muscle, and escorts me to the protein bar.

“I don’t have a concussion,” I say as I sit on the wooden barstool.

Drake laughs. “True. But I wanted to get you away to apologize. I was out of line the other day at your office. It’s just hard seeing you with Renegade when I know he didn’t make you happy before.” He commandeers a bag of ice from the “bartender,” a pumped-up version of Hulk Hogan who can blend a mean wheatgrass shake while tossing scoops of waxy vol like there’s no tomorrow.

Brushing my hand away, he holds the ice pack against my head and gives me shot of a noxious-looking green and brown slime-like liquid.

“Spinach, whey, and acai,” he says. “Delicious and full of vitamins.”

“I’d rather have a beer. Maybe two or three.”

He holds the drink to my lips. “Try it. Visually it lacks appeal, but it has a good nose and a rich bouquet of flavor.”

With a sigh, I take a sip and shudder. “It tastes as disgusting as it looks.”

“Try again. It’s better the second time around,” he says softly. He holds the glass up again and I take a second sip. This time my nose wrinkles and I gag. “Definitely worse on the second taste.”

I glance up. Drake is watching me with a searing intensity that reminds me of our intimate history. Fun and laughter and hot, kinky sex. Easy. Relaxed. No demands. No commitments. We never had one fight because in the end we both knew the score. So why am I not with Drake instead of lusting after a mercurial fighter who isn’t satisfied with just my body, but who wants my heart and soul as well?

Drake strokes a finger over my cheek. “Miss you.”

“Miss you too.” And I do. I miss him for the fact that he was easy to be with. There were no emotional swings. No confusion. No fear. He was safe, familiar. Undemanding. He wanted nothing from me I couldn’t give. And he made me feel good.

He lifts the ice pack and runs his hand over the injured part of my head, now pleasantly numb, then strokes his hand gently through my hair. The tender, caring gesture makes my heart squeeze, but not in a good way. I want Jake’s hand in my hair. I want Jake’s finger on my cheek. I want Jake holding the ice pack and making sure I’m okay.

“Five more minutes and then we’ll break for fifteen and do it again. That way you won’t be going to work with a bruise on that beautiful head.”

As I study Drake, all blue eyes and fine, chiseled charm, his mouth tips up at the corners and he traces a pattern over my knuckles with his fingertip. “If you keep looking at me like that I might need to give you some personal medical attention.”

My cheeks flush and I drag my eyes away. “This isn’t such a good time. Jake and I just broke up.”

“I heard.”

A disturbance by the door distracts me from our conversation. God, what if it’s Jake and he sees me talking to Drake? Or would he care? I try to look through the sea of fighters, half hoping it is Jake come to find me. Or to save me from temptation. But when the crowds part, I see only the door closing and a new arrival waving to his friends. A pang of longing washes through me. I just want to go home.

Ten minutes later, I say good-bye to the Redemption team, now thick around Rampage’s table. Drake insists on walking me to my car. He throws a casual arm over my shoulders as he tells me about the time he brought squeamish Makayla to a private club where they only served meat rare. My laughter dies away when he grips my shoulder hard and tips his chin in the direction of my car.

“Renegade is here.”

I suck in a sharp breath and then smile when I see Jake leaning against my vehicle. “Hi.”

His eyes narrow. “I should have known you’d be with him. You never waste any time.”

My smile fades. “He was just walking me to my car.”

“He was doing more than that inside.”

I look at him aghast. “You were there? Why didn’t you come over?”

His eyes flick to me, but there is no warmth in his gaze. “Didn’t want to interrupt your intimate moment.”

“Jake…”

Ignoring me, he stalks over to Drake. “I warned you before. You don’t seem to get the message.”

Far from being afraid, Drake laughs and holds his ground. “Last I heard you weren’t together. Which means there is no message I need to get.”

My breath leaves me in a rush. What the hell is Drake doing? Does he have a death wish? He might as well slap Jake in the face and challenge him to pistols at dawn.

“What the fuck?”

“You don’t get her,” Drake says, his arm tightening around my shoulder. “She can’t handle emotional intimacy. That’s why she pushed you away. You wanted more than she could give. I didn’t push. I accepted her for who she was. And in the end, it looks like I made the right decision. She’s with me right now, not with you.”

“Drake.” I wrench myself away and glare. “What the hell are you talking about? We’re friends. Nothing more.”

Wham
. Jake lands a punch to Drake’s jaw before my brain has even registered he has moved. He strikes hard and he strikes fast, letting loose an uppercut that has Drake reeling backward into the cars. Desperate to stop the fight, I lunge forward, grab Jake around the waist, and try to pull him away.

“Stop. Stop. Don’t hit him.”

“My fight.” Jake rips my hands off his waist and pushes me to the side, then throws himself at Drake. Oh God. This is worse than anything I could imagine.

But Drake is now as much into the fight as Jake, throwing Jake against a car and pummeling him with his fists. The car bounces and shakes and then Jake twists and frees himself, knocking Drake to the ground. Drake hits the cement hard and then Jake is on top of him, and they are rolling on the ground. My stomach clenches and bile rises in my throat. This isn’t MMA fighting, with its rules and moves and procedures. This is street fighting, and if anyone reports Jake, it will be the end of his dream.

Fists fly. Blood spatters. Even at the cage fight, I have never seen Jake like this. He is violence with a capital V. Pure, uncontrolled, seething rage.

Terrified to leave them alone, I text Fuzzy. Almost instantly the door flies open and Fuzzy races across the parking lot with Obsidian, Homicide, Rampage, and Blade Saw following close on his heels.

“Fuck.” He rakes his hand over his fuzzy head when he spots Jake and Drake now on their feet, bruised and bleeding but not slowing down in the least. “Rampage! Get her out of here.”