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  “Am I hurting you?”

  Even as the question dropped from his lips, she wrapped her right arm around the back of his neck, grabbed her left bicep with her right hand, and pulled him down so their cheeks pressed together. When he felt her left hand slide under his neck, ready to crush his throat, he flipped her, easily escaping the submission. He could have let her have the win in front of her class, but there was a small part of him that couldn’t stop fighting, even though he’d hung up his gloves.

  Did it really make a difference? She hadn’t even made an effort to come after him or contact him after their night together. Walking away had been the hardest, most gut-wrenching decision of his life, but he had always believed he had done right by her. He had given her the only gift he had to give—he had let her go. And she had gone. Two days later, she’d been on a plane to New York, and one year later, she was with another man.

  “Class dismissed.” Shayla looked away, smiled at her class. “I’ll see you all next week.”

  “You did well,” Zack said, looking down at her as the girls walked away. “But you left yourself vulnerable at the end.”

  “Story of my life.”

  He leaned forward, palms to the mat on either side of her shoulders. “I want to hear all about your life, Shay. Everything.”

  “From the night you used me and threw me away?”

  Bitterness laced her tone, and he knew finding his way through those walls was going to be an uphill battle, especially when he had walls of his own.

  In those last moments before he’d slipped out of their bed and out of her life, he’d held her against him, breathed in her scent, felt her heart beat slow and steady in her chest, and wished he were a different man with a different past and the hope of a future where he could be everything she needed him to be. Now silence stood between them. Secrets he could never share.

  “I never wanted to hurt you. Leaving you was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, and I’ve regretted that decision ever since, but I had nothing to offer you. You had a chance to go to New York and make something of your life. I didn’t want to take that from you.”

  “So you took my choice from me instead?” She pushed herself back to her knees. “You destroyed me. I loved you. You were my world. My breath. The other half of my soul. And once you were gone, I was lost. I’d never felt pain like that, and I have no intention of ever opening myself to it again. It leaves you vulnerable. And when you’re vulnerable, the worst things can happen.”

  “I don’t want to fight with you,” he said. “Not after I’ve found you again.”

  “Dammit.” She scrambled to her feet. “You didn’t find me. I wasn’t lost. If you really wanted to see me, it wouldn’t have been hard to track me down. You could have read about me in the news, called Matt, or even watched my performances online like I watched your fight with Okami…”

  She trailed off when he stood, angry with himself for still feeling the pain of that wound and perversely disappointed that she hadn’t been there to heal him when he had needed her most.

  “Zack.” She reached out, her tone softening. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…”

  “It’s fine.”

  “No, it’s not.” She touched his hand, covered it with her own. “If it was, you’d still be fighting.”

  He pulled his hand away, loving and hating that she still knew him so well.

  “I almost called Viv and Lily to get your number—”

  “You wouldn’t have reached them,” he said abruptly. “They moved to Seattle shortly after you left.”

  “How are they doing?” She gave a wistful smile that made his heart hurt, because if he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine they were back in Glenwood having a conversation about everyday things.

  “They’re doing fine.”

  “I still miss them,” she said.

  They missed her, too. Viv especially, because she and Shayla had been closer in age with only three years between them. Lily was a year older and Zack one year older than her. Viv was also the most outgoing of the three siblings and the peacemaker of the family. A creative soul who flitted from one project to the next, Viv had shared a love of music with Shayla as well as a willingness to take risks that Lily could never understand. And yet it was Lily, with her springy dark curls and dry sense of humor, who could make Shayla laugh. Lily who had been their rock when Viv was first diagnosed with leukemia.

  He hesitated, wondering if he should tell Shayla about Viv’s illness. But if she did ever reach out to them, it would be better that she knew. “Lily works as an accountant. Viv runs a jewelry business from home. They moved to Seattle because Viv had leukemia and it was easier to get treatment in the city, but she’s in remission now.”

  They had suspected something was seriously wrong in the weeks before he’d left Shayla, and he’d already started preparing for the worst. One of the reasons he’d decided to train in Seattle was so he could be there if Viv needed him. It wasn’t a burden he had wanted Shayla to bear.

  Her hand flew to her heart. “Oh my God. Poor Viv. It must have been so hard for you and Lily.”

  And just like that, she was in his arms, compassion her undoing.

  It was clearly meant as a friendly hug, but Zack couldn’t stop himself from holding her tight. She fit so perfectly against him, felt so right in his arms, he almost couldn’t believe they’d been apart for seven years.

  He rested his cheek against her head, closed his eyes, and pretended it was real.

  7

  Shayla

  After a sleepless night trying not to think about Zack and the feel of his arms around me, I drag myself through training the next day and almost get myself knocked out by a newbie with a powerful right hook. By the time I arrive at the Protein Palace later that night, I have a pounding headache, and I’m looking forward to being distracted by the antics of the Redemption team.

  Once a ’50s-style burger joint, the Protein Palace is now run by a couple of retired MMA fighters who serve up protein in every way, shape, and form. With its shiny, red vinyl stools and booths, glistening chrome, and sparkly tiles, the restaurant has retained its ’50s charm but smells of wheatgrass and whey instead of ice cream and grease.

  Sadist waves at me from a table in the corner. The team meets at the Protein Palace on Thursday nights for protein shakes, and then we move on to the clubs and bars. After my devastating fight on the weekend and the shock of seeing Zack again, the alcoholic part of the evening can’t come soon enough.

  “She’s rocking the Protein Palace today,” Sadist says, eyeing my clothes. Unlike the Redemption crew, who wear T-shirts and either shorts or jeans, I’m ready to party in a Nirvana T-shirt over a tulle skirt, thick-soled shoes, and my favorite black fedora.

  “Someone has to give the Redemption team a bit of class.” I take a seat beside Jimmy “Blade Saw” Sanchez, Redemption’s very own James Dean but with Latino style, and give a wave to the rest of the guys crowded around the table.

  “So, what’s the deal with Slayer?” Darkly handsome Blade Saw is two-fisting protein shakes tonight and alternates between straws as he talks. “He’s still kicking around. I thought the recruiters came in with a contract all ready to sign, and bam, someone’s lucky day.”

  “Our girl here got the bam all right.” Sadist grins. “Zack asked Torment for all her fight stats.”

  “He did?” I stare at Sadist, aghast. “MEFC doesn’t recruit fighters on a losing streak.”

  “Maybe he’s trying to ‘recruit’ you in the other sense of the word.” Blade Saw snickers, setting off a chain reaction of juvenile sexual innuendo from the other fighters at the table. It’s like I’m in high school all over again.

  “Give it up. She only has eyes for me.” Donald “Doctor Death” Drake, fresh from chasing waitresses around the café, pulls up a seat at the table and puts his arm around my s
houlders. The blond-haired, blue-eyed, chisel-jawed heart surgeon is a part-time ring doctor at Redemption and sometime fighter. Just like me, Doctor Death dreams of one day going pro. Unlike me, he spends the rest of his time feeding his sex addiction. Unfortunately, he always seems to go for women who are wanted by other men, and suffers the inevitable consequences.

  “Who?” I pretend to search the restaurant, and Doctor Death gives an irritated huff.

  “Just because I’m beautiful is no reason to turn me down.” He preens, smiling at himself in the mirror on the wall.

  I open my mouth to make a snappy retort when pain stabs through my skull—the third time today. Just a flicker and then it’s gone, leaving a dull ache behind.

  “You okay?” Doctor Death’s doctor radar must have kicked in, because his smile is quickly replaced by a worried frown. “Makayla told me what happened. Sometimes concussions don’t present right away.”

  “I’m fine. Really. I have a hard head. And it’s not like I lost consciousness or anything. It’s just a headache. I’m probably dehydrated.” At least that’s what I keep telling myself. A few missing seconds doesn’t count.

  “I have to swing by the hospital tonight,” he persists. “I’m happy to take you so you can get checked out.”

  “Would I make it there with all my clothes on?”

  “My reputation precedes me.” He puffs out his chest and chuckles. “Women have been known to tear off their clothes in my presence, and if you feel the need, I won’t stop you. But in my medical opinion, it would be better to wait until after you’ve had your head checked. Subdural hematomas really put a damper on vigorous sexual activity. We can have more fun if you’re conscious.”

  A disturbance near the door draws our attention. Zack is here. How irritating. This was supposed to be my night to get drunk and forget he ever walked back into my life. But chances are he’ll never make it to our table. Already, the crowd is three deep around him with no end in sight, and there are fangirls clinging to him like flies.

  Zack’s star power keeps him occupied and away from our table for the next hour. He signs napkins, arms, cheeks, and even the curve of one woman’s ass. Before long, he is steered to the wall bearing the Protein Palace logo to pose for pictures with his fans. I don’t want to watch him, but I do. I’ve never loved anyone the way I loved Zack. I opened myself fully to him. I gave him everything, and he filled me so completely, I never wanted more. Every time I see him, the memories come flooding back. Ten years of happiness destroyed by one night of pain.

  “He’s been checking you out,” Doctor Death says, a scowl marring the perfection of his handsome face as he stares at Zack, posing with two eager fangirls.

  Zack looks devastatingly gorgeous tonight in his tight, black skull-print T-shirt, stretched deliciously over his muscular chest, and a pair of well-worn jeans, snug in all the right places. From the way the fangirls have latched on to his biceps, I’m not the only one to notice.

  “I heard a rumor you had a history together,” Doctor Death continues.

  “We grew up in the same town. That’s about it.”

  Zack catches me watching him, and in that second when our gazes connect, I remember every reason why I loved him. The way the gold flecks sparkled in his dark eyes when he was happy, the way he watched over me, his easy laughter, the feel of his body against mine, his lips on my lips, his breath on my skin, his hands—God, the things he could do with his hands—the steady beat of his heart as we lay together making dreams for a future we would never have.

  After Zack finishes posing for pictures, Fred “Bulldog” Jenner, a heavyweight fighter from a rival gym and one of Sadist’s fiercest competitors, challenges Zack to an arm wrestle. Such is how fighters entertain themselves when they’re training. No fights in case of injury, no excessive drinking because of calories. But when fighters are pumped, as they usually are at this time of day, they need an outlet, and the Protein Palace has a special table set aside for the occasion.

  Zack graciously accepts the challenge. Although he and Bulldog are evenly matched in height—two or three inches over six feet—Bulldog is actively training and must outweigh Zack by at least fifty pounds of solid muscle. Still, Zack clearly hasn’t let himself go as many retired fighters do. There isn’t an inch of fat on his toned body. And God, those biceps…

  Not wanting to be left out, I join the crowd around their table. Although this is just for fun, there is more at stake than just a friendly arm wrestle. Zack was a big, big name in the sport, and Bulldog is shooting for the pros. A win over Zack sends a message that Bulldog is the man to beat. Out with the old and in with the new.

  My heart thuds in my chest when Bulldog clasps Zack’s hand. Although it makes no sense, I want Zack to win. He started from nothing and worked hard to get to where he is, and no one knows that better than I do. Despite what happened between us, I am a secret Slayer fangirl, too.

  Biceps flex. Hands grip. A hum of excitement winds its way through the crowd. Bulldog grunts, and his arm shakes. Sweat beads on his forehead. He shifts in his seat, and his chair scrapes over the tile floor. The air thickens with the primal scent of testosterone. I’m surprised I don’t suddenly grow a beard.

  Someone turns up the music, and the Black Keys’ “Everlasting Light” plays through the speakers. Zack’s lips turn up at the corners. He lifts his gaze and smiles at me.

  Because this was our song. We both loved this band with its steady beats, old-time sound and meaningful lyrics. “Everlasting Light” was the song Zack strummed on his bass while I practiced at the studio late into the night. It was the song he asked the band to play when he danced with me at my grad. It was the song he sang softly to me after we made love. I believed the lyrics as if they were his words. I believed he wanted to be everything to me. They were the last words I heard him say. They are the last words I want to hear now.

  A sigh escapes my lips, and although there is no possible way he could have heard me over the music or the chant of the crowd, his face tightens, and the gold in his eyes fades to black.

  Wham. Bulldog’s hand goes down. Sandy lifts Zack’s arm in a victory salute. The crowd cheers, and people surge forward to congratulate the victor.

  “Who’s next?” someone shouts.

  The crowd hoots and hollers, and names get bandied about. The noise makes my headache worse, and I turn back to the Redemption corner, looking for Doctor Death. Maybe I will take that ride.

  A chair scrapes over the floor. And then a table. People shift to the side as if to give way.

  My pulse kicks up a notch, and I know, even without being able to see through the crowd, that he’s coming for me. I want to run. I want to hide. But pride and my stupid thudding heart hold me in place.

  “How about it, Shay?” Zack saunters up to me, all smiles after his win, like we weren’t just fighting yesterday in the gym before I found myself in his arms. “You want to take me on? I remember you actually won one of our arm wrestling competitions.”

  “I cheated.” A lump rises in my throat at the memory of leaning across a table and kissing Zack on the lips to distract him so I could win.

  “I remember.” He clasps my hand and pulls me close. Heat radiates from him, sinks into my bones. I breathe him in, and I am engulfed in the scent of home—pine trees and flowers and wild heart of the Rocky Mountains.

  “Zack…” I tear my gaze away and glance over at the crowd. “You should get back. I think your fangirls are worried.”

  His voice drops, sexy and low. “They should be.”

  “Don’t let me keep you,” I say, pretending not to have heard him. “As soon as I find Doctor Death, I’m heading out.”

  His cheeky smile fades. “You and Doctor Death?”

  “He’s giving me a lift.”

  Disappointment flickers across his face, but he rallies quickly. “I can take you where you need to go. I
think he’s a little busy right now.” He tips his head to the restroom hallway where Doctor Death is giving one of the waitresses the benefit of his surgeon’s hands.

  “I guess I’m driving myself.”

  “I’ll walk you out.” He doesn’t wait for my response. Instead, he presses a warm hand against my lower back, and we walk out the door as my Redemption teammates nudge each other and whisper like a bunch of teenagers.

  “My car is over there.” I point to the Volvo at the far end of the parking lot. “I used to have a Jeep, but I left it in New York.”

  “With your husband?”

  I glance over at him, but he’s staring straight ahead as he guides me through the parking lot. The marriage thing seems to bother him a lot, although I don’t know why. Every time I saw him in the news or online, he had a different woman on his arm. Sometimes two.

  “Yes.” As far as I know, Damian is still in New York. He was charged and convicted for the assault, but he managed to plea-bargain his way out of jail. He got a slap on the wrist, and I lost my career and almost my life. A travesty of justice, but that’s how the system works when you’re a famous artistic director with connections in the highest places.

  “Good.”

  I fight back a smile. “I see someone still has a jealousy problem. How can you be jealous of a man you don’t know?”

  “Because he had you.” He stops beside my car and pulls me close, brushing his thumb over the sensitive skin on the inside of my wrist, sending my pulse skittering out of control. I don’t want to feel anything for him, but I do. I should pull away, but I can’t. I need to make him understand how he made me feel, but I don’t have the words.