Lady and the Champ (56 page)

“You know…” he ventures after what seems like a very long time, “I’ve never had anything quite like this.”

“What do you mean?” I want to see his face, but there’s not much point trying. It’s too dark, and I’d have to shift positions. I’m way too comfortable to move even if it means I can’t evaluate his expression.

“It’s kind of…” He seems to be groping for words. “It’s like family.”

“You never had a family?” It occurs to me I know almost nothing about Cain’s past. Everything I know about him begins when he first entered my father’s orbit.

“Not so much,” he says with a shrug, as if it’s no big deal. “My mom died when I was a kid—drunk driver. My dad… She said he died, but I think he just walked out on her. Anyway, after she died, I went into the system and I never managed to get back out.”

The words, delivered in a flat, matter-of-fact tone, bring tears to my eyes. “God, Cain. I’m so sorry.”

He offers another shrug. “Nothing you could do about it. Nothing anybody could do about it. I was acting out, a mess—nobody wanted to take that home with them. Just a fact of life.”

I wonder if anyone in his life has ever genuinely loved him. It’s too sad a question even to ask.

“I wonder if it’s worse,” I say quietly, “to not have a family at all or to have a family like…like mine.”

He draws me a little closer, kisses the top of my head. “I don’t know, sweetheart. There were foster families who seemed to care, and then there were families who didn’t give a shit as long as they got their check from the government. Some of the other kids… Well, let’s just say that’s where I first learned how to fight.”

I can’t even imagine. I’m already an emotional mess, and I have to fight back the tears just thinking about what his life must have been like. Still, I manage to ask him the next question in a steady tone. “What made you decide to fight professionally?”

His voice is very quiet. “Only thing I was any damn good at.”

Now I really am crying. I try to keep myself still in his arms, but I know he can feel it. He starts lacing his fingers through my hair in slow, soothing strokes.

“Hey, now,” he whispers. “None of that.”

“I can’t help it.” I can barely get the words out. “It’s just all been too much.”

He shifts behind me, turning so I have to move off his lap and down to the sand next to him. As his eyes meet mine, I can tell he’s genuinely concerned. “I know it’s been a long couple of days. But it’s all going to be all right. You’ll see.”

I shake my head. He keeps saying that, but it’s hard for me to believe him. This whole plan seemed so sensible when I thought of it; now it seems like a pointless act of rebellion that’s going to get us nowhere. “Pop’s going to kill me.”

His hand closes hard on my wrist. “No. I won’t let him.” Before I can protest, he’s kissing me hard, then he draws back, grasping my other wrist. “You don’t belong to him anymore. You’re mine. And I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

“You can’t make any guarantees.”

“Oh, yes I can. You’re my wife. I’m responsible for you now. And nobody is going to lay a goddamn hand on you. Not even your father.”

I nod, but I don’t answer. I know we’re still in danger—the texts and messages from my father made that all too clear. But right now, right here, I just want to believe him. And when he kisses me I lean into it, losing myself in the taste and the feel of him.

The kiss is different from any we’ve ever shared before. Gentle. He strokes my face with one hand while he slowly, meticulously explores my mouth with his tongue. His hand cups my breast, his thumb circling my nipple, and I start to melt.

I’ve never been with anyone who knows how to hit my sexual buttons the way Cain does. Granted, I’ve never been with anyone enough times for them to learn me the way Cain has, but it’s more than that. He just seems to
know
, without being told. And yes, he’s pushy and domineering, but with him I feel protected, not threatened. I don’t know what makes the difference. All I know is that the idea of spending the rest of my life with him doesn’t scare me.

It probably should.

You can’t choose who you love.
And that thought should scare me, too. Because who had ever said anything about love?

He slips his hands down my bare belly, fingers moving under the edge of my bikini bottom. They’re questing but not too urgent—just making their way slowly toward where we both want them to be. Moving a little in the sand, he shifts so he’s under me and I’m straddling him. I can feel his erection through the cloth of his swim trunks, and he starts to thrust his hips under me. I wonder if either of us thought to bring a condom with us, then decide it probably won’t matter much either way, not after what we did at the county clerk’s office.

He answers the question, though, drawing one out of his pocket and holding it up. I give him a twisted sort of smile and take it from his hand.

“I know,” he says. “I probably shouldn’t have done that.”

“No. Probably not.” I don’t bother to point out that I made no effort to protest at the time. To be honest, it had been a surprise, but in the long run I don’t mind. I kind of like the idea of having his baby.

But what does he think about that? He’d been the one who’d decided to bareback it, so I have to assume he’s okay with the idea, too.

That’s a thought for later. Or never, since most likely nothing will come of it. I lean over him and kiss him—his mouth, his face, his neck—moving my hips so his cock rubs up and down between my legs. It feels good—not just the sensation but the lack of urgency. It’s languid and easy, and he goes with the flow.

I can hear the waves lapping against the sand, and I match their slow rhythm. It’s a little too slow, to be honest, but I stay at that pace for a long time, just reveling in the way his body feels against mine. In the moonlight I can barely see the outlines of his tattoos against his skin. Stroking his chest, his arms, I can barely feel them here and there, vague lines just under the skin.

Finally I can’t stand it anymore. He seems to have reached the end of his endurance as well, his hands closing tighter on my arms, the movement of his hips more urgent, low, anxious sounds coming from him.

I reach down between us and find him, then push down his trunks. My bikini bottom is so scant it’s no effort at all to move it out of the way. I ease the condom over him, letting my fingers trace the heavy veins in his cock as I roll it into place. He gasps and says my name in a harsh whisper.

“Cain,” I answer, and kiss him as I slide him inside me.

I can feel the water on my toes now, as the tide comes farther in. It caresses my feet as I move on him, bringing him deeper and deeper, until finally we both break apart with a low, shared cry that echoes the sound of the waves.

We lie there for a while, just quiet in each other’s arms. It’s so different from anything else we’ve ever shared, and in those moments I feel as quiet and at peace as I ever have in my life.

I can’t help but hope it’s a sign of a new beginning. For both of us.

* * *

I
n the morning
we dress quietly, moving around each other like it’s some kind of choreographed dance we’ve done every morning for years. Cain catches me at one point and kisses me, caresses my breasts, but he doesn’t push it. I wonder why, since he always seems to want sex, but then he says, “We’re going out for breakfast.”

We do that, eating crepes and fruit on a patio where we can watch the ocean. The strawberries are sweet and unbelievably juicy, the crepes so light they’re like eating air. After, Cain talks to the concierge, and within an hour there’s a car outside.

“Where are we going?” I ask him. Sightseeing is fine with me, but I can tell he’s got something specific on his mind. He just smirks at me, though, and doesn’t tell me a thing. Typical. I’ll let him get away with it for now.

Eventually we’re in the main part of town, and the car pulls up in front of a jewelry store. I catch my breath, realizing what he’s up to. Hearing it, he gives me a grin.

“Didn’t think I was going to forget, did you?”

“I didn’t think it was important. I mean, we signed the papers.”

“No way is my wife walking around without a wedding ring.”

Well, okay, then. I follow him inside.

We squabble over the rings for a bit. He wants me to wear a big diamond; I want no such thing. A plain gold band is more than enough for me. Finally he tells me to wait in the car.

“Fine,” I tell him. I normally don’t like being ordered around, but when Cain does it I don’t mind nearly as much. “You come out with a big diamond, though, and you’re sleeping in the bathtub tonight.”

He kisses me soundly. “I’d like to see you try to make me.”

It’s a while before he finally comes back out of the store. I sit in the car, enjoying the warmth and the breeze and listening to the radio. When he emerges from the shop’s door, he’s whistling like he’s proud of himself.

“Get out of the car,” he says, and I do.

Then, to my surprise, he goes to one knee right there on the sidewalk and holds up the small velvet box. He opens it.

It’s not a plain gold band, but it’s not a big diamond either. It’s a band embedded with tiny seed pearls, and it’s one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.

“Cain, it’s beautiful.”

“Good. I was hoping you’d like it.” He comes to his feet and takes my hand, slipping it over my finger. Then he takes another box from his pocket and hands it to me.

I open this one. There’s a matching band inside, wide to complement a man’s finger. It has a single pearl—not too big, but it flashes pink and blue and white in the bright sun. I take it out and slide it on to his finger.

He smiles at me, and it’s the gentlest smile I’ve ever seen on him. Then he lifts my hand to his lips and kisses the ring on my finger.

 
W
e’re
in Cancún for a week. It’s my first trip there, and I have to say it’s a good place. But I don’t think it would have been as good if I’d come by myself. Being there with Jess makes it…special isn’t a strong enough word. Perfect is the only word that comes close.

We spend time on the beach, in town, shopping, and of course having sex. We actually manage to fuck on a bed our third night there. I have to admit it’s a nice change. She feels good between me and the mattress. The next night I feel good between her and the mattress.

And every day, during meals or when we’re just walking, hand in hand, I see my pearl-encrusted ring on her finger and know she’s mine. I see her looking at my own ring, too, with a look in her eyes that reminds me of the way I feel. We’re in this together.

Finally, though, the honeymoon is over. Literally. It’s time to head for home.

Home doesn’t seem like the right word for it anymore. I wonder what Jess is going to do. Does she want to get her stuff from her dad’s place? Does she even want to risk seeing him? We talk about it a little on the plane, but like me, she doesn’t want to think about it too much.

Finally, as we’re collecting our luggage at LAX, she says, “Just take me to your place. We’ll figure it out from there.”

It was a late-morning flight back, so it’s still daylight when we stop at my place. Big problem, though—we’re both hungry, and there’s nothing in the fridge. My bachelor life never lent itself well to having a well-stocked refrigerator, and I don’t think Jess wants to cobble anything together from a jar of mayonnaise, three beers, and a bag of coffee beans.

“I’ll go pick up some things,” I tell her, giving her a kiss as I set my suitcase down. If I sit or, worse, fall into bed with her, we’ll never get out of here, and we’ll both starve. Somebody will find us eventually, tangled in each other in the bed, like mummies or something.

It’s a terrible image, but I find it hilarious, and I grin down at her. She’s in my home. She’s my wife. I can’t quite get my head around it.

“I can go with you,” she says, and yawns so wide I can see her tonsils.

“No, you take a nap.” I kiss her again. “Anything in particular you want?”

“Bacon,” she says. “And…maybe a big thing of frozen lasagna.”

It’s not what I expected, but… “I could murder a big thing of frozen lasagna.” One more kiss, and I force myself back out the door and to my car.

Even after a week in Cancún, everything seems so bright. It shouldn’t; the perpetual smog over Los Angeles should see to that. But I’m in such a good mood all I can see is the sun and the cloudless sky as I head down the freeway.

I’m not thinking about much of anything as I get out of the car and head into the supermarket.

Then a hand grabs me by the shoulder and turns me around, and I’m looking right into the face of Carmine Romano.

“Welcome home, asshole,” he says, and punches me in the face.

I stagger, mostly because he caught me by surprise. He takes advantage and follows up with a kick to my ribs. Before I can get my balance back, he’s grabbing me by the arm and dragging me across the parking lot.

There’s a dark car sitting out at the edge of the lot, away from the other cars, in the shadow of a batch of bushes and palm trees. I know without being told who’s there. And I’m right. As we approach, the driver’s side window rolls down, and I’m looking at Phil Spada’s face as he watches me be “escorted” into his presence.

He gets slowly out of the car as we get closer, shooting his shirt cuffs under his dark pinstripe suit jacket. His face is almost completely neutral, but his eyes are on fire. I know I’m in for a beating. Or maybe just a bullet between the eyes.

My first thought is that I wish I could see Jess one last time.

“Hard to believe you decided to show your fucking face around here again,” Spada says when Romano shoves me toward the car. This time I’m a bit more prepared and manage to keep my balance.

“Why not? I live here.” I drag my composure back around me along with a healthy dose of smartassery. “Nothing illegal about going home and going to the grocery store.”

Spada gives Romano the barest of nods, and Romano punches me again. I taste blood, and the pain flares across the side of my head. But I refuse to react to the pain. Instead I let it wash over me then turn slowly back to face Spada. “You gonna let him keep me out of that next fight? The one that’s supposed to net you what—a million and a half?”

Spada’s mouth thins. “You’re damn lucky you’ve got that fight, McAllister, or you’d be dead right now.”

“Oh, really?”

For the first time ever, I see Spada lose his composure. He takes a single step forward, fists clenched, and I see his jaw tighten as he bares his teeth. His eyes look like they could shoot lasers at me. I almost flinch, but I hold on to it. If I can stay calm, I’ve got one up on him.

“You…” He starts and then lets the word die while he swallows and visibly forces his hands to relax. “You have the fucking
nerve
to talk to me like that after what you did.”

“What’d I do?” It’s kind of fun, actually, seeing how far I can push him. Won’t be as fun when he decides to shoot me in the head, but it’ll be over quick.

He backhands me. That I didn’t expect at all. Spada’s threatened, cursed me out, and verbally humiliated me, but he’s never—never—physically attacked me. That’s beneath him. He has people for that.

“You touched my daughter without my permission. You know she’s promised elsewhere.” I notice he’s careful not to look at Romano as he says this. “And what do you do? You betray me. This is worse than the fuck-up at the fight, Cain. Way worse. And the only reason I’m not having Romano beat the ever-loving fucking
shit
out of you right now is that I need you for that fight.”

Of course. It’s all I’m good for. Just a body to be pummeled for Spada’s profit. I just stand there and take it.

“Now.” He’s regained his composure now, at least for the moment, and adjusts his cuffs again. “I’m going to tell you how this is going to go down.”

I start to say something but think better of it. Instead I nod stiffly, teeth clenched.

“You’re going to finish this fight coming up. You’re going to lose. You’re going to make me a lot of money. This purse, however, will be forfeit. And then, when you’re done, you’re going to file for a divorce, and my daughter is going to do as I’ve told her.”

I just stare at him. Then, quietly, I say, “No.”

“No?”

“I’ll fight your fight. But I’m not going to divorce your daughter. That’s a done deal. It’s over. You,” I direct this at Romano, “will never get the satisfaction of touching her.”

Spada’s not happy with my answer. I can see his hands shaking. I’ve never seen him this worked up; that fabled control, the coldness, is barely holding its own against his fury. “Do you have a fucking death wish, McAllister?”

“No. But I have a wife. And I’m not leaving her.”

I figured he’d threaten me a few more times before we get to the good stuff, but apparently he’s done talking. He gives Romano a curt nod. “Take care of him.”

Before I can prepare for what I know is coming, Romano has hold of my arm and has wrenched it behind my back. The back door of the car opens and another black-suited asshole appears. He casually unbuttons his jacket and punches me in the gut.

I double over. Romano has both my arms pinned behind my back now. The stress on my shoulders makes me think one or both is going to pop out of the socket any minute now. He twists almost hard enough to snap bones. The other guy punches me again, smacks me around. My nose starts to bleed. I think I might have a loose tooth. There’s blood in my eyes.

Then Romano lets go, and I crumple to the ground. While I’m still getting my breath back, the car starts and peels off, leaving me a bloody pile of shit in the middle of the supermarket parking lot.

* * *

T
hroughout the incident
, nobody’s bothered to come over to see what’s going on. This part of town, they know better. There’s nothing to be gained by interfering with mob business, except maybe your own early demise. So I’m left alone to get back to my feet, regain some equilibrium, and figure out what the fuck to do next.

There’s not much
to
do, honestly. One thing I do know, though, is that I’m not going home to Jess looking like this.

Home to Jess. It sounds so strange, and yet so right. Never in my life have I felt like I had a real home to go to. Yeah, I had a house, a place I call my own, that has my name on the mortgage papers, but that’s all it was. Now it’s got Jess in it, and that makes all the difference.

I head for the line of buildings on this side of the parking lot, where there are several other businesses. There’s a bar I go to sometimes. I’m not that far from the gym where I normally work out, and the bar is a popular cooling-off spot for me and some of the other fighters. It’ll be closed this early in the day, but that’ll give me some time and space to get myself back together. Plus I know the guy who owns the place, and I know he won’t mind if I use his bathroom to clean up as long as I don’t damage things getting in.

So I’m careful breaking in through a back window; fighting’s not the only thing I learned when I was drifting through the system. The window opens into a storage area, and I make my way through shelves of foodstuffs and liquor until I find the door out to the bar.

I should probably head for the bathroom to clean up, but the lure of the liquor behind the bar is too much. I help myself to a shot of tequila. And another. And then—what the fuck?—a third. Patrón has healing powers.

The hot anger fades to a dull rage. What the fuck was I thinking, to hope anything would change? Nothing has. Instead, the only thing that was starting to give me some hope in the world is about to be torn out from under me.

I should have known Jess’s plan wouldn’t work. But once she’d put it in my head, I couldn’t put it back out. Now I was starting to realize that it wasn’t just because I wanted a way out. It was also because I wanted Jess. And not only because it would piss off her father. I wanted her because she’s Jess. It’s true, but I don’t want to think too hard about it. I’m a little afraid of the conclusions I might come to if I do.

I start to move toward the bathroom, but I haven’t quite cleared the bar when I hear a faint knock from the front door. What the fuck? Nobody should be here at this hour. The bar’s closed. But I go to the front and peek out through the Venetian blinds.

It’s her.

Frowning, more perplexed than ever, I pull the door open just enough for her to slide in.

Before I can ask her what she’s doing there, she loops her arms around my neck and kisses me. I can taste tears on her mouth; she’s been crying. But the kiss is hard and insistent, and I’m not going to push her away just to ask her what’s wrong. Instead I pull her closer. I need the comfort as much as she does. Maybe more, since I’m actually bleeding.

Finally she pulls back and takes in my face. “God, Cain,” she mutters. “Are you okay?”

“Not really,” I admit. I make a vague gesture toward the bathrooms. “I was just going to get cleaned up. How did you know I was here?”

Her mouth folds into a tight line. “Pop called me. Told me to go see how ‘my darling husband’ was doing. And that you’d get way more than this if we don’t play nice.”

She grabs my shoulder and steers me toward the bathroom.

“What does he mean by ‘play nice?’” I ask, although I know damn well what he means.

“He means do what he tells us to.” Her voice cracks a little, and she swallows. “He wants us to split up. Like, yesterday.”

“Divorce?”

“Divorce, annulment—I don’t think he cares as long as we’re not married anymore.”

I’m surprised at the steadiness of her voice. Her face is firmly set, and she’s very no-nonsense as she pushes open the bathroom door and guides me inside. It’s the ladies’ room, I notice, although it doesn’t matter. Except that there’s a small lobby off the main bathroom, and it has a couch. I know for a fact there’s nothing like that in the men’s room of this bar. She sits me down on the couch and goes to fetch paper towels. I hear the water running.

I’m not sure what to say. My head’s starting to hurt along with the cuts and bruises. My side hurts where Romano hit and kicked me. It feels like he stopped just shy of breaking a rib. Good call, since his boss wants me to fight in the very near future. Although he could have picked a different rib from the one that almost got broken the last time Spada’s goons beat me up. I draw a slow breath that’s meant to be cleansing. Instead, it just hurts.

I must be grimacing when Jess comes back into the little lounge, because her face immediately shifts into an expression of concern. I want to rub those worry lines off her forehead, kiss her there, tell her everything’s going to be all right. But I know it might not be all right. I have nothing to give her. I don’t know why I ever thought I did.

She scoots up next to me on the couch and starts daubing blood off my face with the paper towels. Some of the clots break, and I feel fresh blood rolling down my cheekbone, but she catches it, making a soft “shhh” sound like I’m a kid who needs to be comforted. I find it strangely reassuring.