Strong Hold Read online

  Zack had never talked about the Okami fight with anyone, never expressed his feelings of guilt or self-loathing. But Torment seemed to understand everything he couldn’t say.

  “You might want to keep an eye on your fighter,” Torment continued, looking over his shoulder. “Looks like she’s about to 12-6 Marty and get herself kicked out of the gym.”

  He looked up and saw Shayla poised over her opponent with her elbow in the air. A 12-6 was a downward elbow strike in which the elbow went from straight up to straight down and was illegal under the Unified Rules of Mixed Martial Arts because of the serious injuries that could result from its use.

  “Jesus Christ. What did he do to piss her off?” He raised his voice to a shout. “Shilla. Stand the fuck down.”

  “She hates that name.” Sadist chuckled. “We gave it to her when we saw her potential. We wanted to keep her motivated. Torment came up with a random number of fights she had to win to be able to change it—a number she’d only achieve if she made it to the top of the amateurs—and that became the Redemption rule.”

  “You’re a bastard,” Zack said to Torment. “Anyone ever tell you that?”

  “I’m a man who gets what he wants.” Torment gestured over to the mats, where Shayla was very clearly not standing down and Marty was in need of imminent saving. “I thought you were, too.”

  16

  Shayla

  “Let’s go tell the promoter you’re here.” Sadist pushes me gently through the crowd in the ex-machine shop in Jack London Square, a popular venue on the Bay Area’s underground fight club circuit.

  Both he and the Predator, a permanent fixture in the underground fight scene, are taking a risk by coming out to support me tonight. Underground fighting is illegal in California and a big risk for any professional fighter or licensed amateur. The CSAC can take away a fighter’s license or impose any manner of penalties for even showing up at an underground fight, much less participating. Not that it stops anyone. There is nothing like the raw, gritty, electric atmosphere of an underground fight.

  “You shouldn’t have come.” I look back over my shoulder, half expecting to see a flash of yellow, but after Sadist changed his name, he had to lose the trappings that went with his Rampage persona, and that included his trademark yellow happy face tank top.

  “We weren’t going to leave you here alone with him. He’s not part of your team.” He shoots a glance at Zack, who is talking to Blade Saw. Of course, once the team heard I was fighting tonight, they came out in force, despite the risks. In addition to Sadist, Blade Saw, and the Predator, my entourage includes Homicide Hank and Doctor Death.

  After I register, I warm up in the corner until the whistle blows, signaling the start of the first match. The fights are rotated through various locations, and this venue is rougher than most. Four metal poles with a thick rope strung around them mark the boundaries of the ring. Worn mats have been spread over the concrete floor, and the air smells of wood chips and diesel with a hint of sweat. Huge spotlights set up around the perimeter of the ring provide the only light.

  The first few fights result in lots of blood, broken noses, and a few broken bones. Rank amateurs never know when to hold back. Their fights are usually over in less than a minute with one or sometimes both fighters being carried out of the ring to the medic, who has a temporary station near a workbench in the far corner.

  “Looks like there is only one other woman here tonight,” Zack says, coming up behind me. “She’s in your weight class, so you should be evenly matched.”

  There are no weight classes in the underground. It is a free-for-all where smaller or lighter fighters compete against larger, heavier opponents. The only rules are that men are not allowed to fight women, and the fight ends when someone either passes out or taps out to indicate they give up. Given Zack’s protective nature, I’m surprised he set up the fight, especially with the risk that I might be up against a fighter heavier than me.

  “It’s hard not to think about the last four fights.” I grimace when one of the fighters in the ring staggers backward and whacks his head on the metal post as he falls. My hand flies to my head, and I feel for the nonexistent bump. I’ve had a few headaches since my fall, but nothing I can’t handle.

  “You’ve done some good training over the last week. You’ll be fine.”

  “That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me all week.” Zack has been nothing but professional since our awkward conversation at my apartment, pushing me harder in training than I’ve ever been pushed before. Although it is what we agreed, I hadn’t expected him to be so distant or so cold. And I certainly didn’t expect him to be so mean. From his impatience and sarcastic, cutting remarks to his brutal routines, he makes even Torment look chilled out, and that’s saying something. I can’t joke with him, much less talk to him, and I have felt his emotional absence like a hole in my chest.

  Pain flickers across his face so quickly, I wonder if I saw it. “Nice isn’t going to win you the title belt.”

  My name is called, and I check my tape. I’m not wearing fight gloves, but I have taped my hands for the extra power it gives my punches and to compensate for the weakness left over from my horrific accident in New York.

  “I know. I just…” I hesitate to say what’s on my mind. But I’m in the underground. There are no rules here. It’s a place where you can fight any kind of fight, even if it’s inside you. It’s a place where you can take a risk. “I miss you.”

  Embarrassed, I turn to leave, but before I can even take a step away, Zack’s warm hand covers my nape. He pushes my ponytail aside and presses his lips to my skin. No words, but the gesture tells me so much more.

  My pulse kicks up a notch, and warmth floods through my body. “That was better than a shot of adrenaline,” I whisper.

  “Whatever you need.” He kisses my neck again, and then gives me a playful smack. “Now go kick some butt.”

  I look back over my shoulder and glare. “I hope the irony of giving me a demeaning slap on the ass as you send me off to battle in an underground fight ring isn’t lost on you.”

  Zack chuckles, and between his laughter, the cheers of the team, his confidence in my ability, and the endorphin rush from his secret kiss, I am burning with energy when I step through the ropes.

  My opponent, Elsa Blome, is a tall, blond woman with strong features. She is about two inches taller than me with a commensurately long reach, and her low level of body fat makes me want to give up the protein bars and just live on shakes. Someone shouts out “Evil Elsa” seconds after the whistle blows, and she gives me an evil grin.

  We touch fists, and everything fades away except the woman in front of me. Adrenaline surges through my body, heightening my senses and throwing Elsa into stark relief. Usually, the adrenaline rush is accompanied by a sliver of tension and a heaping dose of anxiety about how the fight will impact my standing on the circuit. But I feel none of that here. In the grand scheme of things, this fight doesn’t matter. I am fighting tonight because I want to fight and not because I have to win.

  I track the smallest movement of Elsa’s eyes, the flex of her bicep, the slight tremble of her thigh as she presses forward with a kick that I easily evade. Taking advantage of her loss of balance, I smash my fist into her cheek. She recovers quickly, and I am forced into fight stance to fend off her attack with an overhand left, followed by a right. Blood trickles over my brow, and as I wipe it away, I catch sight of Zack now up against the ropes, his face taut and hard.

  Too late, I realize my mistake. Even the smallest lack of focus can be an opening, and Elsa takes the opportunity to sweep my injured leg and smash it with her instep as I fall. As if she knows my leg is my weakness, she jumps and smashes her heel down on my shin in a move that would be illegal in a sanctioned fight. Somehow, I manage to knock her off balance as I go down, and we both hit the ground hard.

  Pain fuzz
es my brain, and I am wrenched out of the ring and flung back into the nightmare that was the evening Damian decided to destroy me.

  “I need a drink.” Damian tosses the bat aside and crosses the room to his vodka bottle, still sitting on the floor beside his chair.

  I suck in one painful breath after another. Even though I just want to lie here and die, a part of me won’t give up. Despite the mind-searing pain, I am still driven by the need to escape, and an opportunity has just presented itself. I am beside the door. All I have to do is open it. Even if I can’t get down the two flights of stairs to the street, someone will hear me scream.

  Pushing myself to my feet with my good arm, I grit my teeth against the pain and unlock the door. Damian’s head whips around as the dead bolt thunks into place.

  I freeze. Just for a moment. And then I yank open the door.

  The hesitation costs me. Damian manages to cross the room just as I reach the top of the stairs. I open my mouth to scream, but I can’t take a deep enough breath before the pain in my ribs cuts off my voice.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” He grabs my uninjured hand and yanks me toward the door.

  “Let me go.” My voice is a harsh whisper, my throat bruised from the moment he wrapped his hand around my neck. “I won’t tell anyone what you did. I’ll leave, and this will be over. You won’t have to see me again. I’ll even leave the company if you want. Just…please. Let me go.”

  “Shay!”

  Zack’s voice yanks me out of the memory. He has one hand on the ropes like he’s about to jump into the ring, but I have come a long way since I left Glenwood. I don’t need to be protected anymore. The fight only ends if I tap out or pass out. And I’m not ready to do either.

  I grit my teeth against the pain and push myself to my feet. My vision blurs, and I shake away the cobwebs. Elsa is up only a half second later, and I move in to strike. It’s the kind of risk I don’t usually take in a fight. With my brain still fuzzy and my mobility hampered, I’m vulnerable, and my usual tactic would be to fall back and wait for an opportunity to get her on the ground where I have more control. But this is the underground. I’ve taken one risk tonight. I can take another.

  Elsa throws a couple of low kicks, gunning for my sore leg, but I go on the offensive, stuff a takedown, and land a hard knee in her stomach. I go in hard with a right hook and follow through with punch after punch, forcing Elsa to backtrack. She is in all kinds of trouble. I hammer her with punches on the ground and sink in a rear naked choke until she taps out.

  The Redemption team cheers, and the ref holds up my hand in a victory salute. Two fighters help Elsa out of the ring. Blade Saw jumps up and down, pumping his fist in the air, but it’s Zack’s smile that lights me up inside. At least it does, until his gaze focuses on something behind me, and the smile gives way to a shout.

  “Bitch. That wasn’t a fair fight.” Someone grabs my ponytail and yanks me backward. I fly into the ropes, bounce forward, and throw myself to the side, grateful for the skill and training that allows me to stay on my feet to meet my attacker.

  But there is no fight. Zack is in the ring, pounding on the dude who grabbed me like he’s going for the gold.

  The crowd lets out a collective gasp. Zack’s fight name reverberates through the shop. Even after four years of retirement, he is magnificent. The fighter in me can’t help but appreciate the speed of his takedown, the power of his fists, the ripple of his muscles, and the brutal submission that gives my attacker no option but to surrender before I can even protest that Zack is fighting my fight.

  With his bones at risk of breaking, my attacker taps out. Zack releases him right away. He pushes to his feet and glares down at the idiot who I now recognize as one of Elsa’s friends. Fighters are a protective alpha bunch. In all probability, Elsa’s friend didn’t like to see blood streaming down her face, and although there isn’t anything he can do in a sanctioned fight, the underground is curiously far more forgiving.

  “I think we’re done here.” I put a hand on Zack’s arm, knowing he’ll only just have started coming down from the zone. I have only just started coming down from mine.

  As if he is oblivious to the fact that we are still in the ring, he slides one hand behind my neck, pulls me close, and kisses me. Deeply. Fiercely. Possessive in his touch. The crowd goes wild, but not as wild as the pounding of my heart.

  I pretend not to notice Sadist’s smug expression as Zack’s arm lands on my shoulders as soon as we are clear of the ring, nor do I respond to Doctor Death’s question about how long we’ve been getting it on. Instead, I let Zack help me limp through the crowd, past the notebooks and body parts being offered up for his signature, the people desperate to know if he’s coming out of retirement, and the fangirls wishing they were me.

  “I could have taken him,” I say when we stop near the entrance where I’ve stowed my fight bag and clothes.

  “I know, but when he grabbed you, it wasn’t really a choice.”

  “Nice to know that much hasn’t changed. I felt like I was in high school all over again.”

  Zack’s lips quiver at the corners, and he gestures to a chair near the door. “Have a seat and let me check you over. You took a bad bump to the head. Not good after you just had a concussion.”

  “It was a very minor concussion and an even more minor bump.” I sit on the chair, and Zack kneels in front of me, sifting his hands through my hair.

  “You looked dazed for a few moments after you fell.”

  “Stop worrying.” I lean forward and press a kiss to his forehead. “It only lasted a few seconds. I have a hard head.”

  His forehead creases in consternation. “Maybe we should get you checked out again. Coming so soon after that concussion—”

  “Zack.” I cup his face in my hands. “I went back to the doctor and got the all clear after my four days off. He knows what I do. He said a few bumps on the head were okay. If I was really worried, I’d tell you. Okay?”

  He grunts an affirmation, and I release him.

  “Are we good? Can we get out of here now?”

  “What about your leg?” He runs his hands down my leg, from my fight shorts to my ankle and back again, practiced and efficient.

  “You seem to know what you’re doing.”

  Zack shrugs. “After I retired, I got my high school diploma, a degree in exercise science, and a DPT specializing in sports medicine physiotherapy. I was going crazy sitting around the house reliving the fight over and over again.”

  “You have a degree?” Emotion wells up in my throat. We had both talked about going to college when we were young, but Zack dropped out of high school to look after his sisters and never had a chance to go back.

  He nods, but I see the swell of pride in his chest, the ghost of a smile on his lips.

  “That’s fantastic. I’m so happy for you. Why aren’t you working as a physio?”

  He squeezes my calf, his hands warm and strong. “MEFC came to me with the recruiting job just after we found out Viv’s leukemia had returned, and I negotiated her medical insurance as a condition of my employment. I didn’t mind giving it up. I enjoyed working with athletes, but recruiting keeps me more directly involved in the sport.”

  “Well, you can keep up your skills with me.” I wince when he touches a particularly sore spot.

  Zack frowns and runs his fingers over that area of my shin again. “Is that the hardware in your leg?”

  “Yeah. It usually doesn’t bother me.”

  “It’s working its way out.” He takes my hand and runs my finger along my leg where there is a ridge under my skin. “You might want to reconsider getting it removed.”

  “It’s fine. The orthopedic surgeon who did the surgery four years ago said it wasn’t necessary. And I don’t want to go through another operation with months of downtime.” I also don’t want to rehash old me
mories. Better to keep everything locked up inside.

  “It’s not broken or sprained,” he says, standing. “I think you’ll have some bad bruises. We’ll get some ice on it right away.”

  I nod at the crowd that has gathered behind Zack as I pull on my track pants. “Maybe not right away. Your fan club is waiting.”

  “They can wait. My girl needs me.” He pulls me to my feet.

  “How about I grab an ice pack from the medic while you spread the Slayer love “around?” I suggest. “But no butts or cleavage. Even friendship has limits.”

  Zack talks with his fans, signs autographs, and poses for pictures while I ice my leg at the medic station. After we’re done, I pack up and we head out into the night. During the day, Jack London Square on the Oakland waterfront bustles with activity from the busy farmer’s market to the trails for rental bikes. At night, there is a different kind of buzz. Couples walk in the moonlight, and groups of friends head to the open-air movies and restaurants that line the water’s edge. The air is soft and warm and fresh with the scent of the ocean.

  As we pass the edge of the machine shop, Zack grabs my hand and pulls me into the alley. Next thing I know, I am up against the side of the shop, deep in the shadows, Zack’s body plastered against me as he kisses me hard, stealing the breath from my lungs.

  “What’s that for?” I ask, gasping for breath.

  “Proud of you,” he says. “That was a great fight. You don’t know what it does to me seeing you in the ring like that. I loved watching you dance, but I really love watching you fight.”

  “You’ve been holding that in all this time?”

  “Wasn’t easy.”

  I give a half-hearted shrug, although I’m happy dancing inside. “I did let her drop me in the first minute.”

  “It’s all about the finish.” He feathers kisses across my cheeks, sliding his lips along my forehead and down my nose to devour my mouth again. “And sweetheart. That was one hell of a finish.”