Raw (3 page)

My mom has a plant nursery. She once told me that whenever a plant is moved to a new home, it can’t be watered immediately or it dies. For two weeks it needs to be stressed, its survival tested, and only after those two weeks pass will it be ready for the water it needs to grow.

I didn’t expect coming here to be easy. But I am ready to grow. I needed a change. I’m almost twenty.

“Sure you’re okay?” Mom asked.

“Yes,” I said last night, when she called. And for the first time in a long time, I meant it.

I’ve also learned about the Underground. Last year, the final fight was between Remington “Riptide” Tate and Parker the Terror, who was a real nightmare all around. It was a close match, but the Terror lost and later was hospitalized and kept from fighting due to being in intensive care. An older nemesis and opponent, Benny the Black Scorpion, apparently disappeared this year and no one knows where he is or if he’s coming back. Some people think Twister is a contender. And apparently Spidermann—who left Oz Molino, his former trainer, and went with a new one—is rumored to be in good shape too.

Parker and Scorpion used to give Remy a run for his money, but they wore themselves down. It takes discipline for longevity, Pete tells me. Not just the fight itself but the lifestyle you build to support yourself in a positive way.

I’m embracing the lifestyle with gusto.

The guy—Steel Eyes—has been in the gym every day. He speaks to no one. You’d think it was too much effort to do so, effort he seems to prefer laying on the punching bag. Straight from those eight-pack abs and to the punching bag with a dull thud. He’s new in town, I think. Nobody knows. He keeps earbuds in to shut out the rest of the world. I recently snuck a peek at the log page where we sign in; he signs his name as
Cage.

Caged is the way I felt when he looked straight at me on our second day.

Recognition flared in his eyes when he saw me in my exercise clothes, and something like excitement kindled in his eyes too. In that stupid moment I felt as if it was excitement to see
me
. He’s got eyes the oddest color I’ve ever seen—metallic, really, a shimmering steel—and he was standing outside the gym door as if waiting for someone. I saw him, felt an odd little prick of nervousness, then pulled out my card to get in. He started after me, pulled his hood up a little higher to cover his face, and eased into the gym when I did.

I stopped before we got farther than the desk. “He’s with me,” I told the ladies, and he grabbed the pen by the log and signed his name.

“Thanks,” he said under his breath as we headed into the gym area.

I nodded, and suddenly it felt as if I’d had butterflies for breakfast for some reason.

It’s been like that every day now. And every day, I’ve caught him looking at me as he trains. Every day a little longer.

The guy punches hard. He doesn’t stop. Other gym members, especially some of the ones training near the bags, seem threatened and keep talking about him.

He’s got a chip on his shoulder, that one.

Who the hell does he think the bag is?

Who pissed off the kid?

He’s not a kid. He’s a 195-pound-plus, six-foot-plus
man
. At least a few years older than my twenty. Maybe . . . twenty-three?

He plays around a lot with the bags. He teases and bounces around them, and hits like he lives for that punch. But when someone speaks to him, the playfulness is gone and he puts up a wall that has pretty much kept everyone away for the past few days. The air he exudes is implacable. Determined. And way too intimidating for anyone to miss. Way too intimidating for anyone to call him out on using me to enter the gym. Nobody questions him. They let him be and keep on training, all while shooting covert glances his way.

I’m getting ready to leave for the day when he stops the bag and approaches.

“Hey.”

My eyes widen when I hear his voice clearly. A deep, male, dark-thunder voice.

Oh no, buddy, you’re not breaking our unspoken code of silence,
I think in alarm.

“What’s your name?” he asks me, eyebrows low as he studies me.

“Reese.”

He nods, and thankfully walks away. I’m left feeling a little funny, uncomfortable. I’ve never felt so discomforted by a guy. I exhale, turn around, and head outside, briefly noticing that Cage is taking off his gloves as if he’s getting ready to leave too.

♥   ♥   ♥

RACER CALLS ME
Ree. Just Ree. Though he can’t really pronounce the
R
s well yet, so it sounds like Wee. Which is adorable. And embarrassing.

He can speak better than that, but I think it’s his pet name for me. The little bugger loves me. The one lone dimple on his cheek pops out whenever I appear. I straddle him on my hip when I pick him up after the gym. “Did you have a good time today, Racer?”

He just nods and looks at me, with the dimple.

“What?” I pretend I don’t know what he’s waiting for, then I go, “Ooooh! This?” I pull out the Popsicle.

He reaches out one chubby hand.

“Give me a kiss or you don’t get it.” His kiss is wet and sloppy, but it delights me to no end. Almost like my dog Fluff’s kisses.

Brooke wants to get pregnant again. I know that with the lifestyle of the fights, she’ll find it hard to watch over two babies. But Racer is older now, and smart. And very, very mischievous.

We stop by the park, where I always sit down to give him some lunch. Riley, one of the team, meets me with the stroller.

“Hey, stranger,” he says.

“Hey.”

“Borrowing babies to pick up guys?”

“That’s right. But there’s none to pick up around here. No good ones.”

Like Miles
, I think.

“Here you go, little man.” Riley sits Racer in the stroller and they bump fists.

“I can’t believe he does that.”

“Yeah, you can. His dad would bust a vessel if he didn’t know how to bump fists by now.”

“What does he have in store for him next? Shadowboxing at the age of four?”

He laughs and heads off.

“Thanks, Riley.”

I feel a prickle in the back of my neck and turn to see Steel Eyes looking at me. He’s doing push-ups on the ground, army-style, quick and sleek, his head raised to look straight at me. Straight at me with such intensity and confusion, I catch my breath. He stops the push-ups and eases to his feet.

He looks at Racer, then at me.

He looks confused.

“Wee, my fut!”

“Food. Right. You want to get to the fruit bears, don’t you?” I turn to open the container of food as well as a bag of healthy dried fruit nibbles, and when I look at the spot Cage occupied, he’s gone.

I search the park and see him hit the running path. People pass by on rollerblades. Others throw balls. There are people walking and running, and couples on blankets making out or having lunch.

And Cage trotting and punching the air like his life depends on it.

I narrow my eyes and look at his profile a little more closely.

He gives me this rebel vibe. Like he’d rather say
I’m sorry
than
may I
, and maybe not even the “sorry” at all. There’s a fierce passion in his features and a kindled fire in his eyes. I admire passionate people. People who burn out everyone around them, they’re so passionate, they want so much, they crave so much.

Drops of moisture cling to his forehead, and not for the first time, I find myself wondering about him, things I shouldn’t admit to wondering about. Even to myself.

I stare until he disappears into the trees around the trail, and then I notice Racer has handily climbed out of his stroller. The little bag of dried fruits is right there, where he used to be eating. My heart turns to lead in my chest at the sight of the Racerless stroller. And then the dread slams into my midsection.

Leaping to my feet, I scan the park. Racer is already running a thousand miles an hour after a Labrador that’s chasing its own tail and then chasing some phantom shadow, running from one end of the field to the other like it’s never run in its whole life.

“Racer!”

I can’t put the blanket and everything back into my bag fast enough. In fact, I don’t. I just leave everything there and run after him the moment the dog spots Racer and
charges
after him. The dog is off a leash and three times the size of Racer.

I see a familiar figure leap up to a nearby tree branch and grab what looks to be a tennis ball stuck between the leaves. He tosses it to the ground.

The dog grabs it and scampers off, fast as a bullet.

Racer starts after him with a giggle of delight.

He doesn’t get very far. Cage scoops him up under his arm and brings him over. “You lose something?” he asks as he sets Racer on his feet before me.

Did I lose something? I think dazedly.

My breath.

My head.

Part of my soul just now, to be honest.

My heart is a kettledrum, still.

I could’ve lost Racer in the park!

The dog could’ve mauled him!

Brooke told me he was restless and irreverent toward dangers, but I never thought looking after an adorable little kid like him could actually be
hard.

But it wouldn’t have been hard if I’d been paying attention to Racer rather than the guy standing two feet away from me, and far too close for comfort, now.

Cage watches me struggle to compose myself. “Thank you,” I tell him, then I drop to my haunches in front of my charge. “Racer.” I look at his happy blue eyes and feel my body tremble. “Don’t do that again. If you want to pet the dog, I’ll go with you.”

“Why?” he challenges, eyes bright and twinkling.

“I couldn’t see you, and I was scared you’d get hurt.”

He tilts his little head upward and eyes the guy, squinting beneath the sunlight.

Cage is looking at him too, and then at me. He looks fascinated all of a sudden. And that face of his is so distracting that I have to force myself to look at something else, so I stare at a spot past his shoulder.

“Wee’s my fwend!” Racer says proudly, extending out his arm to Cage. I quickly realize Racer is giving him his fist.

“He wants to fist-bump,” I hastily explain to Cage.

Cage takes in Racer in his Superman tee and his perfect little jeans. “You’re a cool little dude.”

He makes a fist—his huge and tan, Racer’s white and plump—and their knuckles bump.

Cage lifts his eyes and then looks at me. And I make the mistake of being caught blatantly staring at him when he meets my gaze. His dark, intent stare is a little hot and confusing.

Obviously he and I are not going to fist-bump, and for the life of me, I can’t draw anything but a blank from my brain. I seem to have forgotten how to speak.

The pheromones are in the air and my body is acting funny. Why is my body acting funny?

I’m not talkative, but this guy is
worse.

“Did you grow tired of the gym today?” I ask him.

Geez. Could you come up with a duller question, Reese?

He still looks a little fascinated, but there’s a subtle difference in his expression when I mention the gym. Grows a little darker for some reason. “No sparring partners. Too full.”

I nod. “I can be your partner,” I blurt. “Tomorrow.”

Sable eyebrows go up. “You spar?”

I raise my chin a little tauntingly and nod. “I’ll learn.”

Suddenly I feel really energetic.

I sweep Racer up in my arms. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say, and turn back to the stroller and our stuff, walking quietly. I think I feel his gaze on my back, so I distract myself with Racer and fish the dried fruit from the stroller seat. “Do you want more of these?” I ask Racer, showing him the bag.

He shoves my hand away and tries to run off again. “I want to find the dog.”

I sweep him up with effort. “Okay, but hop in here and I’ll push you real fast.”

He stops squirming to get free and obeys and lets me sit him down, grinning over my shoulders at something.

Or someone.

I turn back to Cage, who’s watching us with a half smile on his face that does more for me than anything halfway should do, and I smile wanly and feel his eyes on my back as I push Racer down the path.

“That’s not fast, Wee! Fastew!” Racer says.

Shit. Really? My ass is going to bounce like crazy.

I lean over to him. “When we round the corner, please, enough embarrassing Reese in front of a boy for a day.” I ruffle his hair and then look ahead in search of the Labrador.

Maverick

T
he hotel business center has a dozen dormant computers save for the one I’m using. Surfing the net for trainers in the Seattle area. Writing a new list. I started at the top and am at the lower tiers now as I write down the second name, then scan for another half hour. Fuck, I’m quickly running out of options.

I log out, tear the page off the hotel notepad, and stare at the two names I’ve got on the list. I rub my jaw and reread the addresses and locations.

I fold the page, shove it into my jeans pocket, grab my bottle of water, and head out to the bus stop.

I make two stops.

Two more doors closed in my face.

I plant my hand flat on the last one, gritting my teeth and slamming my palm into it.

“Come the fuck on, man!” I yell.

No response.

Jesus.

Motherfuckers.

I drop down on the sidewalk and lean my head back against the wall, scowling.

I’ve got three days to find a coach. Three days to make fighting even possible.

I dig into the front pocket of my jeans and pull out the penny I found outside Hennesy’s. I curl my palm around it, willing it for a change of luck or something even better—a goddamn chance.

♥   ♥   ♥

I GREW UP
with my mother in Pensacola. Near the beach. She wanted me to enlist in the army. Turns out, I was never good at being disciplined. “When I named you Maverick, I didn’t know you’d take it so to heart,” my mother playfully chastised when I left the corps.