Ryan
Every part of my body aches.
Hell, it even hurts to breathe.
Last night I fought for what seemed like hours. Guy after guy stepped into the cage with me, hoping to knock me out. First were the preliminary rounds, which I won easily. I even let a few of the guys get some solid punches in so it’d be a good show.
Then came the final round with that Esteban dude. He growled a few times. I don’t think anyone had the balls to tell him humans don’t growl. It didn’t matter, though. I don’t back down. Esteban got in some pretty good shots. I haven’t been challenged that much in a long time, not even with Mateo. But Esteban was too slow, too aggressive, and lacked any strategy.
I stunned him with my jabs. And when he let his guard down, I was there to take advantage of it. It was clear from the shocked look on his face that Esteban had never faced a challenger who wasn’t afraid of him. Especially a gringo.
When I caught Dalila glance at me with a disgusted expression on her face, it just spurred me on more. I wanted to show off, to show her I wasn’t a loser.
It didn’t matter, though.
She missed the final fight.
I saw her walk out of the club with her friends, leaving her boyfriend behind. In that split second with my attention averted, my opponent landed a sucker punch to my ribs. It was a painful wake-up call that the girl who’s invaded my thoughts didn’t give a shit whether I lived or died in the ring.
Or cage, as it were.
I was winning until some random idiot in the crowd thought it’d be a good idea to use the ceiling as a shooting target. The ref stopped the fight as the crowd of people started pouring out of the club. We were left there waiting in the cage until someone let us out. The management said they couldn’t declare a winner. They handed me fifty pesos for fighting as a consolation prize.
Fifty measly pesos.
I’m lying on the mat in my little makeshift bedroom in Sevilla. Mateo drove me here after the fight, apologizing the entire time for failing to get me a big payout. He was proud of me like a big brother. I couldn’t get him to shut up as he recapped the fight in the voice of an announcer going through a highlight reel.
A knock at my door makes me wince. I know it’s Mateo coming to check on me. He said he’d come by today and make sure I was alive. He also warned me I’d be sore and stiff, and he was right. I should make myself move or get dressed, but I don’t want to.
“Go home, Mateo!” I call out to him.
“It isn’t Mateo,” a girl’s voice comes from the other side of the door. “It’s Dalila.”
“Dalila?”
“Sí.”
I manage to get out of bed long enough to open the door. Standing in front of me is the bossy girl who hates heroes. This time her dark, shiny hair is perfectly straight instead of that natural curl she wore last night. I wonder if her hair is as silky to the touch as it looks. Too bad I’ll probably never find out.
The girl has proved to be a distraction, but that doesn’t mean I’m not attracted to her. Flirting with her might not be smart, but it feels good.
The sound of Dalila sucking in a horrified breath makes me take my eyes off her hair. “You look like death,” she says.
“Matches how I feel, I guess,” I mumble.
“You shouldn’t have fought last night. It’s not good to get your head punched so many times in one night. You could have a concussion.”
“I’ve never been one to make smart decisions,” I tell her. “Why start now?”
She doesn’t smile or laugh. Instead, she stares at me as if I’m some sort of alien. I’m used to stares from people. Time is ticking by. I don’t know what to say, and I have no clue why she’s here.
“I, um, wanted to bring you back your shirt.” She pulls my shirt out of her fancy leather purse with shiny metal buckles on it. “I figured you’d need it.”
I take it from her. “Thanks.”
“You can put it on,” she says, eyeing my bare chest riddled with bruises.
“I’m good,” I say, holding the shirt in my hand. I’m confused though. “You came all the way over here to give me my shirt back?” I ask, wondering if she has an ulterior motive.
She shrugs. “I guess.” It doesn’t escape my notice that her eyes are focused on my bare chest.
I toss the shirt on my bed. I might not have much, but I work hard at being fit. Going shirtless doesn’t bother me one bit. And if it rattles her even the slightest amount, there’s no way I’m going to miss that opportunity. Better her than me.
She clears her throat as her eyes travel from my chest to the cut on my lip. “You need to clean that,” she says, gesturing to my face. “You could get an infection.”
I don’t tell her that at this point I don’t give a crap if I get an infection. Or die.
“Thanks for bringin’ back my shirt.”
I start to close the door, but she shimmies her way inside. “Have you talked to your family back home?” she asks.
“Why?”
“People talk.” She stands in front of me with her hands folded in front of her. “Do you know anything about the shooting last night? Like who started it?”
“Nope.” I ask her, “Why all the questions?”
She stands there staring at me with those dark brown eyes that remind me of melted milk chocolate. “It just seems weird that you showed up when Las Calaveras and Los Reyes del Norte cartels are in some kind of power struggle. Then last night I find out you’re related to a crooked cop . . .”
Wait one second. “Back up. Who told you he was crooked?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Well, if you think I’ve been sent here to be some sort of spy or something like that, think again.” A chuckle escapes my mouth. “I don’t even like my stepfather enough to have a full conversation with him.”
“Do you know if he’s working with the cartels? Does he know a guy named Santiago Vega?”
So that’s why she’s here. She doesn’t give a shit about giving me back my shirt. All she wants is to pry information out of me. I’d bet the fifty pesos I made last night that her rich boyfriend or father sent her here as a spy to find out what I know.
“I don’t know if he’s working with the cartels. And honestly I don’t care. Tell your boyfriend I’m just here to fight, not get caught up with some cartel or be a damn spy. I don’t know who Santiago Vega is, either. If that’s all you wanted—”
“That’s not . . .” She takes a deep breath, her chest moving up and down like she’s doing some sort of calming exercise. Her entire demeanor changes and she pastes on a friendly smile. “I’m sorry. Let’s change the subject. Have you eaten today?”
“Does it matter?”
“Of course it matters. I can see the bruises on your body and the blood on your face. You need nourishment to heal. Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
She’s taking this fake caring thing way too far. “I don’t take orders. From anyone.”
“Cut the ego trip for five minutes, Mr. America.”
“My name’s Ryan,” I call out.
She leaves the room and all I want to do is tell her not to come back. It’s not about ego. The only person I trust here is Mateo, even if he did set me up to fight last night. He did it to help me make money because he knew I was broke. His intentions were good even if the outcome was a big fat failure.
I’m still standing in the middle of my room when Dalila comes back. She’s carrying a wet rag in one hand and something wrapped in foil in the other.
“Sit down,” she orders.
I could argue. I’ve been taking care of myself since I was eight and don’t need anyone else. Especially someone who’s only here to get information out of me.
“I’m fine,” I tell her.
She eyes my bruised body. “I’ll help you.”
Fuck that. I shake my head. “Playing nurse to me isn’t going to make me change my story. I’m here to train with Juan Camacho and make money. That’s it. So you can just go back to whoever sent you here and tell them I know nothing.”
“Shut up, Ryan,” she interrupts as she steps so close to me I can smell her sweet perfume that reminds me of wildflowers. “I’m here because there’s something about you that intrigues me. I don’t know why. I hardly know you and to be honest you’ve got a crappy attitude. Now if you want me to stay and help you . . .” She points to the mat on the floor. “Sit down.”
Her brutally honest words coming out of that perfect heart-shaped mouth rock me. While my head tells me to push her away, there’s something comforting about her being here. The truth is that I don’t want her to leave.
“Fine,” I say, then sit on the mat and wait for her to tend to my wounds.
When she kneels beside me, I briefly wonder what it would be like to have a girl like Dalila in my life. She’s probably used to being treated like a princess. I can tell from her expensive jewelry, the designer clothes, and the way she holds her head high as if she doesn’t carry heavy burdens in life.
Her hand reaches up and she starts wiping the side of my lip with the cloth. Her touch is gentle and warm, reminding me of what her lips felt like when she kissed me at the concert. “Tell me about your life, Mr. America.”
She’s trying to get information out of me again. If I had my guard down, I’d probably fall for it. “There’s nothin’ to tell.”
She sits back on her heels. “Everyone has a story.”
“Mine’s a pretty shitty one.”
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?” she asks as she leans forward and examines my brow.
“No.” At least none that I know of. My stepbrothers don’t count.
She smells so damn good I could breathe in her scent forever. And when she bends over to tend to the cut on my cheek, her cleavage makes my groin twitch. If she’s trying to distract me, it’s working.
“Tell me about your parents.”
I take her wrist and hold it still. I can feel her pulse quicken in my grip. “I don’t want to talk about me.”
I need her to back off because I’m not about to be manipulated by a girl who has the ability to make me lose my senses.
“I’ll talk about myself, then.” She looks at my hand still holding her wrist. I slowly let go and let her continue nursing me as I concentrate on a spot on the back wall. It’s better than focusing on the way she’s staring intently at me. “I have three younger sisters,” she says in a soft, feminine voice that fills the room. “Two of them are twins, and they’re always getting in trouble. Margarita is only thirteen but she wants to be older. She’s boy crazy and has a crush on a different boy every week. My mom is an amazing gardener. She’s obsessed with flowers and is the best cook I know. She’s old-school, so I can’t really share everything with her. My parents want me to go to medical school to become a heart surgeon.” Her hand falls to her side and she looks down as if she’s too vulnerable to look at me right now. “So that’s my plan.”
“What about your father? What does he do?”
I sense her hesitating the slightest bit before she says, “He’s a lawyer. Now it’s your turn to tell me the truth about your stepfather.”
“How do you know English so well?”
She moves her attention to the cuts on my hands. “My father made it his business to hire the best English teachers in Mexico.”
“Is he connected to the cartels? Or maybe that boyfriend of yours?”
“What? No!” She straightens her shoulders and looks regal and proud. “I don’t know anyone with connections to the cartels,” she says in a frosty tone.
I hold my hands up. “All right, calm down. No need to get all freaked out on me.”
“I don’t freak out.”
“Good. I’m just here for the chance to train with Juan Camacho.”
There’s silence for a while. When she sits back on her heels again she says, “There’s no way Juan Camacho will train you. He doesn’t train anybody. He hardly leaves his house.”
“I guess that makes me a fool, huh?”
She shrugs. “I guess so. But miracles do happen, so you never know.”
“Miracles don’t happen in my world. I’d owe a big fat favor to anyone who could get Camacho to train me. I’m running out of hope fast.”
“What happens if Camacho never shows up? Will you go back to the US?”
“I don’t know.” Just the thought of crawling back to Paul and my mom depresses the hell out of me. I’ll continue to be the loser they always knew I was and become a professional shit shoveler after high school. The thought is beyond depressing. “Thanks for dropping off my shirt. I need you to stop playing nurse and leave.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re trying to get info out of me and I just don’t have any,” I say. “I’m not here to make friends, especially with a bossy girl who’s as manipulative as she is pretty.”
Her mouth opens wide and she sucks in a breath. “I’m not manipulative. I need to find out who you are, besides a boxer with a killer left hook.”
I look down at the bloodstained rag still in her hand. “I’m a boxer looking for a trainer. Nothin’ more.”
She stands and tosses the rag on the floor next to me. “Uh-huh,” she says in a sarcastic tone.
“You don’t believe me?”
“No.” She starts heading for the door. “And one day soon I’m going to find out if you’re lying to me.”
“And if I am what are you going to do about it?” I challenge. “Kill me?”
“I guess you’re just going to have to find that out when the time comes,” she teases before letting herself out. “See you later, Mr. America.”