Sin and Ink, page 14
Then I fucked that up, too.
Jesus. I quit mid-Farmer’s Walk and set the dumbbells down on the floor. Straightening, I tip my head back and stare blindly up at the ceiling. Will my johnson not to tent the front of my running shorts. It was ten on a Sunday morning in Jake’s, not my usual 6 a.m., so other people are here working out. Damn if I’m going to grant them a show of How to Let Your Dick Call the Shots.
Snatching up my water bottle off the floor, I drink about half of it. Maybe trying to drown out the reel of images from last night and early this morning. I didn’t unlock that door until almost three o’clock, after I’d given her two more orgasms, and I’d been balls-deep inside her another time. The party had still been going strong, and thankfully, no one had noticed our absence. But, yeah, I hadn’t been thinking with my responsible head, and taking that chance had been foolish.
And my fear is I would do it again in a nanosecond.
Even after telling her about my promise to Mom.
Even acknowledging that I was only honoring the letter of that vow, not the spirit.
“So, the rumors are true,” a smooth, deep voice drawls. “I’d heard Hard Knox Gordon is still in fighting shape. I’m glad I came down here to check it out for myself.”
Lowering my bottle, I turn, but not to identify the speaker; I already know who’s behind me. Israel Clarkson, three-time former BFC heavyweight champion. Well, four-time, counting another win in the years since I’ve retired. A thick, muddied mixture of joy, sadness, and anger roils in my chest as I meet the familiar brown gaze. Joy, because I missed the veteran fighter who’d also been a friend as well as my fiercest competitor. Sadness for the same reason. And anger, because it didn’t require the deduction skills of Sherlock Holmes to figure out why he stood in a Chicago gym thousands of miles from his Florida home.
It’s been more than two weeks since Jake first broached the subject about returning to the BFC to fight Israel. I should’ve guessed he’d been up to something, since he hadn’t been nagging me about an answer.
Now I knew what that “something” was.
“You make it sound like you just happened to be in the neighborhood,” I say, arching an eyebrow. “More like you were called and told to get up here so you could kick my ass into agreeing to this exhibition match.”
“Okay, so Jake might’ve been the source of those rumors.” Israel grinned, completely unashamed of playing errand boy for my ex-trainer. “When Jake Reece asks—” I snort at the “ask.” Right. Most likely ordered. Israel smile widens, confirming my assumption. “Like I was saying, when Jake asks me to come and talk to an old friend, how can I deny him?” Israel crosses his arms over his massive chest. “Especially when said friend hasn’t reached out to me in two years.”
I smother the urge to fidget like a young boy found peeking into the girls’ bathroom. When I left the BFC, I also stepped completely away from the world of MMA, including the camaraderie. When several fighters visited the shop a few weeks ago for tattoos, that was the closest I’d come to it. I don’t even watch matches on TV. It hurts too much.
“Sorry.” I don’t offer excuses; I have none. None that are good enough.
Israel lifts his shoulder in a half shrug. “I get it.” And from the understanding in his steady gaze, I believe he does. Good. Diving into my feelings in a gym reeking of sweat and disinfectant doesn’t equate to my idea of a great morning. “Make up for it by hearing me out.”
I glance over at the office tucked in the back corner of the gym, and through the large window with the warped blinds, Jake isn’t even trying to pretend that he isn’t staring at us.
“Why don’t we go to Jake’s office so he doesn’t have to try and read lips?” I drawl, irritated and touched by both of the men’s meddling and concern. It’s hard to tell strong, tough men like Israel and Jake to mind their own damn business when it’s obvious they care. But my mind is made up. I’m not returning to fighting. That’s my past. And staying away is my penance.
We cross the gym, our progress slowed by several of the guys who’re working out stopping us to fawn over Israel and shake his hand. When we finally enter Jake’s office, I’m once more amazed at how scrupulously neat he keeps it. No papers scattered across the desk or trash overflowing from the can. It just reinforces that Mr. Clean image in my head.
“Israel.” Jake stands and rounds his desk, clasping the fighter’s hand and hauling him close for a half hug and slap on the back. “Sit down.” He hikes his chin toward me. “You, too.”
Chuckling, Israel sinks to one of the thrift-store chairs in front of the scarred desk, and I take the other.
“Well?” Jake presses, retaking his seat. “Did you talk some sense into him? Tell him this is an opportunity of a lifetime that the BFC rarely, if ever, extends to fighters? That he’d be a fucking idiot to pass it up?”
“Uh, no, we didn’t get that far,” Israel says, voice wry. “But—” He turns to me, waving a hand in Jake’s direction. “What he said.”
I snort. “You didn’t have to fly all the way to Chicago for that.” I meet Israel’s unwavering gaze. “And I could’ve saved you the trip with a phone call, even though I’m glad to see you. My answer’s no. I’m not coming back.”
“No one’s asking you to—” Jake growls, but Israel shakes his head, and my former trainer bites off the rest of his tirade.
“This isn’t about you coming back to the BFC, to fighting. Look, most of us get why you retired. Losing Connor…” A shadow flickers across his face, but then it’s gone in the next instant. “We can sympathize, but none of us could possibly understand all that you, Connor’s wife, and your family suffered. But, I also know you, Knox. You’re a fighter, through and through. A natural competitor. A lot of these guys, yeah, they train hard and get into this because of some supposed glory. But you’re like me. It’s your passion. Hell, man, I could tell that just by watching you condition out there. You might tell yourself you’ve stepped away, but you haven’t. Not for real.”
I don’t say anything. Because as much as I resent it, he’s striking at the heart of me. Addressing the part of me that whispers maybe returning wouldn’t be a betrayal to my family, to my brother’s memory. He’s speaking to the selfish side of me that wants the exhilaration, the fierce, primal joy of stepping into a ring and facing another competitor. Of pitting my power and mind against his and coming out the best, the strongest.
“You can’t be cool with the way you left things. Like I said, I understand why, but I know it can’t sit well. Not with you.” He turns fully toward me, propping his elbows on his thighs. “And to be honest, man, it doesn’t with me, either. I hold this year’s championship title, but I didn’t beat the champion to get it. You won our last match, and I’m not satisfied until I can take the best, take you. I’m not going to lie. I want that chance.” He pops up a finger. “One match. One time. That’s all Reyes and the Powers That Be are asking. No one’s pressuring you to return to the sport full-time. Just this one exhibition match. You’ll not only earn some money to put toward your shop, another shop, or your family, but you can go out the way you want, and not how circumstances dictated.”
I clench my jaw, throwing up mental blocks to prevent his words from stealing in and burrowing into my head, my heart. But those barriers might as well be made of smoke. He’s hitting every weak spot in my armor. Everything he’s saying, I’ve said to myself over the past two years. More often in the last few weeks since Jake brought the offer to me.
And Israel’s right. How I walked away… It does leave a bad taste in my mouth. I’ve called it retirement, but in the secret recesses of my mind, I know what I did—I quit. And I’m no quitter.
But Connor… I thread my fingers together between my legs and stare down at them as if they contain the answers I’m seeking.
Accepting this match would be me putting myself first again. Being selfish again. Mom doesn’t just blame me for Connor’s death; she blames the sport, too. She would lose her shit if I returned to it. And Eden… She witnessed her husband die in the ring; she’s never come out and said it, but I know she’s not a fan of it anymore. Understatement of the damn century.
“There’s another thing to consider,” Israel continues, voice quiet. “Reyes intends to donate a portion of the proceeds from the fight to a fund that will pay for the college education and training for a promising high school senior, securing him a spot in the BFC after he graduates. He’s naming it the Connor Knox Scholarship Fund. Connor was the first fighter to die in a BFC ring. Reyes doesn’t take that lightly.” He sighs. “Announcing the scholarship along with the return of his brother and BFC champion to the ring would bring in money not just from tickets but sponsors and endorsements. I’m not trying to make this into emotional blackmail—”
“Isn’t that what it is?” I grind out. Because, goddamn, it’s working. A scholarship in Connor’s name? He would get a kick out of that. Who am I kidding? He would fucking love it. And Israel’s right. A sensationalized fight between the current and former heavyweight champions—the latter who also happens to be Connor’s brother—would bring in mad money. Money that would, at least in part, go toward the fund. I can’t ignore that.
Just like Reyes and Israel intended.
“Maybe,” he concedes. “Yeah, it will bring the BFC a ton of publicity, promotion, and money. It won’t hurt my career at all. And I’m not denying it’s going to make us at least a half-million dollars richer. But it’s also going to do some good, and if you want to honor Connor, this is a way to keep his name and legacy out there.”
I close my eyes, my head bowing.
It’s not the money; I couldn’t give a damn about that.
But Connor having a legacy. Not dying in vain without the world knowing how smart and great a man he was…
“All right.” I raise my head and meet first Jake’s gaze, then Israel’s. “I’ll do it. I’ll fight.”
Chapter Ten
Knox
A couple of hours later, I hike my duffel bag over my head and shoulder and push through one of the double doors of the gym. My muscles pull tight, but it’s good. The stretch gives me a bone-deep satisfaction. Israel and I spent an hour-and-a-half in the ring. And though I’ve sparred with other fighters in the gym over the last two years, none have been on Israel’s level. That fierce surge of battle, of intense focus and, yeah, joy—there’s no other word for it—had risen in me, and a part of me that I’d forced into a coma-like sleep didn’t just wake, but came out swinging blows.
Yeah, I missed it.
And Jake, standing next to the ring, arms crossed and wearing a shit-eating smirk, knew it, too.
Fucker.
My own smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth as I step out into the late Sunday morning sunshine.
“Whoa. A smile. If I realized working out had this kind of effect on you, I would’ve suggested you take off from the shop to get more hours in the gym a long time ago,” the husky voice that cried out my name only hours ago drawls.
And like then, it’s a hook-punch to the jaw, harder than any jab Israel could throw.
Eden pushes off the hood of my truck and strides toward me. Several questions bombard my brain at once: What is she doing here? How did she know where to find me? What’s wrong? Is something wrong with my brothers, Mom?
But once I notice her expression is too relaxed for her to be delivering bad news, they all take a backseat to one thought.
God, she’s so fucking beautiful.
Her thick, long hair is piled up in a bun on top of her head, revealing the slender, elegant column of her neck. Above the tight-fitting T-shirt that cups her perfect breasts, a purplish bruise mars her skin. A wild song of almost brutal possession sweeps through me, and I curl my fingers into the strap of my bag to keep from stalking the few feet that separate us, cupping the back of her neck, and pressing my mouth to that mark. Anyone catching sight of it would guess exactly what it is; does Eden realize it’s visible? Or does she not care? My stupid, ass-blind heart latches on to the latter. I should warn her to cover the mark up before someone questions how she came by it—or, rather, who gave it to her. But the primitive, jealous side of me wants everyone to know it was my mouth that put it there. Mine. Just like the woman.
Fuck.
I drag a hand over my beard. Only anguish and disillusion lay down that crooked, rutted path. Last night had been an aberration, an anomaly. A mistake that I’m trying to regret. If I had any loyalty, any integrity, I’d regret it. But after being in that tight, snug body, I can’t.
Eden stops in front of me, her long skirt swinging around her feet. When she turns her face up to me, I inhale her scent, recalling how much richer and muskier it is between her thighs. My gut clenches, and blood pumps to my cock. If I hadn’t changed my shorts for jeans after showering in the locker room, Eden would have a front row seat to where my thoughts have drifted.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, arousal roughening the question. Shit. When am I not hard around her?
Something flickers in her eyes, but it’s gone before I can decipher the emotion behind it. At one time, I believed she was shitty at hiding her thoughts, but maybe I was wrong. Or she’s just become better at hiding from me.
I hate that possibility.
“It’s funny, really. I happened to be in the neighborhood, and just when I passed by, you walked out,” she says, voice as dry as a Nevada summer day in the desert. Yeah, pretty damn dry. Yet, that emotion flashes in her gaze again, and this time, I decipher it before she manages to conceal it again. Discomfort. Uncertainty.
For the first time since we’ve known each other, Eden is nervous around me.
I hate that possibility, too.
“Let me try that again. Why are you here?”
A small half-smile quirks a corner of her mouth. “I want you to come with me.”
“I did. Two times last night,” I growl, the words escaping me before I can contain them.
I’m close enough to hear the catch in her breath and glimpse the heat flare in her eyes. Her gaze drops to my mouth, and I’m battling the urge to lower my head and taste that soft gasp for myself.
“I walked right into that one, didn’t I?” she whispers. Shaking her head, she clears her throat, and continues, “Well, I came to find you—”
“How did you?” I interrupt, frowning.
“I called Jude, and he told me to look for you here.” My frown deepens, but she waves a hand. “Don’t worry, he’s not suspicious about…about…”
“Us fucking?” I supply.
A tinge of red slashes across her cheekbones, almost concealing her freckles. But her chin notches up. “Yes,” she says softly. “About us fucking.”
Damn. Hearing that word on her lips. It’s like she reached into my jeans, wrapped her fingers around my dick, and gave it a good, hard pump. And that the color in her face only deepens, makes it even sexier, hotter. One night. One night. The reminder tracks through my mind, but the leash on my control and will when it comes to her is ragged, tenuous.
“Anyway.” She crosses her arms. Then drops them. Then looses a little, low chuckle. The laughter holds a bit of self-deprecation, and once more that nervousness emanates from her. “So, listen. I won tickets to a Cubs game a couple of weeks ago. They’re playing the Nationals, and the seats are right behind the dugout. V and Shana could care less about baseball, and Jude and Simon had plans. That leaves you. Since I’m not going alone, you’ve been nominated to tag along with me.”
Stunned, I stare at her. “We’re going to a Cubs’ game?” I repeat. A fist of emotion lodges in my throat, which, logically, I get is an overreaction to someone offering to take you to a ballgame, but…
Baseball, games… It had been our thing—my dad’s and mine. Jude and Simon hadn’t cared for the sport, so it’d become my special time with my father. Where the usually quiet, reserved man who worked nearly sixty hours a week would loosen up, relax, and become a boisterous, laughing, often obnoxious fan. And I’d felt special because he’d been that way with me.
I blink, bringing myself back to the present and away from one of the happiest times of my past.
“I need you to follow me back to my apartment,” Eden continues, already heading back to her car that I now notice is parked behind mine.
“What?” I ask.
“Move your ass, Knox. Daylight’s wasting.” She glances over her shoulder at me, giving me a shy, slightly self-conscious smile that punches into my chest, grabs my heart, and squeezes it.
It’s a thing of pure beauty. And, it’s for me.
Does it make me an asshole that a fierce, greedy satisfaction howls within me? Maybe. Probably. But damn, it feels good. It makes me feel…like hers. Even if only for this brief moment.
And this brief moment has me walking after her.
A half hour later, a vise grip squeezes the fuck out of my chest at the sight of the people already congregated under the world-renowned, huge, red-and-white sign that reads Wrigley Field Home of Chicago Cubs.
“The game starts at one-thirty, and it’s already one, so we’re good on time,” she says, staring out her window.
Good. I’m afraid of what’s on my face. What it reveals.
“Since this is my first game, I intend to milk the whole experience—hot dogs, beer, foam finger. I might even pull a Miley Cyrus with that finger if I have enough beer.” She snickers, but I remain focused on the road and maneuvering through the thick, Sunday game traffic and into the parking lot.
Once I find a space and park, she hops out, but I’m slower and quieter as we walk the couple of blocks to the stadium. The last time I stood outside this place was with my father years ago. Sixteen years, to be exact.
If I close my eyes, I can still feel the warm May breeze on my face and arms. Can still smell the Irish Spring soap he used as long as I could remember. Can still hear his deep, gravel-rough voice griping about the Cubs’ chances against the Cincinnati Reds.
