2
IN A BACK room in the MGM Grand, Gabe flexed his fingers, then closed them in a tight fist, testing the snugness of his hand wraps. He adjusted the fabric between his fingers and made a fist again until the wraps felt comfortable. Shoving his gym bag under the bench, he stood and made his way over to the punching bag in the corner. He needed to get loose before going out to take his turn in the fight demonstrations. He was due up in twenty minutes.
There was a fight night in two days, and Craig Darcy, the president of the WFC, had decided that a fighting demo by the league’s champions and the fighters who were scheduled to fight was a good way to boost fan engagement. Gabe didn’t disagree, but he wasn’t big on fan events. He liked his fans, and felt honored they appreciated his work, but he wasn’t in this for the fame. He fought because it was one of the only times he felt whole. He slammed his fist hard into the bag, savoring the momentary flare of pain that burned through his knuckles.
He followed it up with a quick one-two combo, sending the bag swaying. A couple of fighters walked into the room, chatting in low voices Gabe couldn’t quite make out. “Hey, man,” one of the guys called out before he dropped his gym bag on a bench. “Heard Oliveira’s looking for you.”
“Fuck Oliveira,” Gabe said, and punched the bag again, causing the guys to laugh. Despite being relatively new to the league, Leandro Oliveira was the number two–ranked fighter in the light heavyweight division. He was fighting the number one–ranked guy on Saturday. It was rumored that the winner would get their shot at the belt. Gabe’s belt, and he had no intention of giving it up, especially to a cocky bastard like Oliveira. But Oliveira had a big mouth and had used the press conference the day before to call Gabe out, or so Gabe had been told multiple times today. He didn’t pay attention to bullshit. It wasn’t worth his time and energy, and he had no interest in drama.
The guys talked amongst themselves as they changed, and Gabe switched to roundhouse kicks to loosen up his legs. His friend Nick Giannakis walked into the room and plopped down, tearing off his hand wraps in quick, angry movements. Nick was one of the most easy-going guys he knew, and, unlike Gabe, he was good with people and tended to do well in situations involving fans or crowds. Nick had just finished up his demo, leaving Gabe confused about his obvious anger.
“You okay?” Gabe asked, switching back to jabs.
Nick shook his head and tossed one of his unraveled wraps to the ground. “I just talked to Ito. You know how much less he stands to earn from the fight Saturday?”
Ito was a rising bantamweight fighter who was so good he’d likely be fighting for the championship soon. Gabe stopped punching and absently adjusted his wraps again. “No idea,” he said, shrugging.
“Twenty-five thousand dollars.”
Gabe winced. Ever since the WFC had made a deal with athletic-wear company Mereo a few months ago, fighters were no longer allowed to wear any logo other than Mereo’s on their sportswear during fights and events like the demo. In the past, fighters had been allowed to accept whatever sponsorships they could get their hands on, and would wear as many logos into the octagon as they could cram onto their shorts. Each logo might’ve brought in a few thousand dollars, financing the fighter’s training and travel costs. It was an entire revenue stream now closed off to the fighters, and the moderate payout from Mereo they were now getting wasn’t anywhere near what they’d been bringing in from other sponsorships before. The deal had caused Gabe some lost income, but with the sponsorship deals he’d gained after becoming champion, it hadn’t mattered. “That’s harsh. It’s hard enough for unknowns to fund their fight camps.”
Nick nodded as he unwrapped his other hand. “I don’t know how I’d have made it this far without sponsors.” He shook his head. “Seems unfair that Mereo’s paying all this money to the WFC for exclusivity, but the fighters are only seeing a fraction of that money and don’t have a way to replace the income they’ve lost.”
“You talking about Mereo?” one of the fighters across the room asked. Nick nodded. “Man, fuck Mereo.” The fighter held up the black T-shirt that had been issued to everyone, with the Mereo logo on the sleeve and the blue and silver WFC logo on the front. “This shirt costs me ten Gs every time I wear it.” Then he wadded it up and tossed it across the room.
Gabe shook his head, wondering if Darcy knew how pissed off the fighters were with the deal he’d negotiated. Darcy should’ve consulted with them before signing. Then again, who would Darcy have talked to? It wasn’t as if the fighters had a representative or anything. Each guy was on his own.
“Maddox, you’re up,” yelled a producer for the event.
“Later,” Gabe said, grabbing his championship belt and swinging it over his shoulder.
“Watch out for Oliveira,” one of the fighters called out behind him.
Gabe shook his head. “I’m not the one who should watch out.”
Oliveira was the least of his worries as he made his way down the wide hallway to the demonstration area. To be honest, he was more concerned with the presence of Megan Sinclair than some overrated fighter who didn’t know when to shut up. He’d managed to keep from thinking about her much over the last few days. She’d said she’d be attending WFC events for her story, and he’d been wondering all morning if she’d be here today at the demo.
He was used to talking to reporters and skirting around things he didn’t want to talk about, and they’d all been content to focus on the standard-issue answers: his parents’ bad divorce had led him to karate, he’d liked working with kids and had become an instructor, and eventually he’d left to pursue a fight career. It made sense and connected all the dots they needed to build a bio. But Megan had seen through that, and for a split second before reason had prevailed, he’d wanted to tell her exactly what had pushed him into fighting.
If she’d been abrasive or rude, he’d have been able to brush off her questions more easily without feeling like a jerk. She’d challenged him, but despite her direct questions and the way she’d pounced on what he didn’t want to talk about, her eyes had been warm and her smile had been kind. She’d been full of life and . . . happiness. It had radiated from her. Not a happiness that was bubbly and cheerful, but a quiet contentment that seemed to come as naturally to her as breathing. For a minute he’d remembered what it was like to feel that way, and wondered if by talking to her he might be able to steal a little bit of that happiness for himself. There had been a time in his life when contentment had come naturally to him too.
Now he had to chase it in an octagon.
Darcy was onstage talking to the crowd when Gabe walked into the demo area. Darcy noticed him immediately and said, “Put your hands together for the champ, Gabriel ‘The Sandman’ Maddox.”
The fans went crazy and Gabe held his belt up as he made his way to the stage, making them cheer even louder. Handing the belt off to Darcy, he thanked his fans for coming out before turning to the staff trainer, who was already outfitted with sparring pads. He spent a few minutes demonstrating punches and kicks, getting some cheers from the crowd as he landed a few hard ones. About halfway through his allotted time, he thanked the trainer and turned to the sea of faces looking up at him. During the first part of his demo, he’d managed not to look for Megan, but now he couldn’t help it. His eyes searched for her whether he wanted them to or not, but he didn’t see her. Maybe she hadn’t come after all. Relief and disappointment mingled together in his chest.
“I know you all came here to see the crucifix.” The fans screamed and he couldn’t help but smile at the enthusiasm. The crucifix submission was his signature move. “I’m gonna need some help with it. Anybody want to come up and give me a hand?” The fans screamed louder, and Gabe pointed at a boy who looked to be around twelve. He was wearing a black T-shirt that had Gabe’s face on it with The Sandman written in block letters near the top. Years ago someone had written that nickname on a blog after he’d won a few fights by knockout, and the next thing he knew the Metallica hit “Enter Sandman” had become his entrance song. He hadn’t chosen it, but it had stuck.
“How about you? Think you can help me out?” The kid’s face split with a grin when he realized Gabe meant him.
The boy nodded, his friends slapping him on the back and shoving him forward, before he rushed to the security guys posted around the stage, who boosted him up. Gabe took another look around and finally spotted Megan at the edge of the crowd next to Jules. She was wearing a bright pink shirt with a scarf knotted loosely around her neck. A beam of color in the sea of black and gray MMA T-shirts. He should’ve spotted her immediately. She met his gaze and smiled, giving him a wave.
His heart pounded against his rib cage, and he jerked his gaze away. He glanced back at her, giving her a quick nod just to prove to himself that he could look at her without his heart going haywire. But it still pounded and sweat broke out on his brow. Just normal reactions because of the demo. Right.
“What’s your name?” he asked the kid, forcing himself not to look at Megan again.
“Aiden,” the boy said.
“How do you feel about being put in a crucifix?”
“Yeah!” the kid yelled, and Gabe chuckled at his enthusiasm.
“Usually the people I put in a crucifix aren’t so happy about it,” Gabe joked, and the fans laughed. He spent the next couple of minutes demonstrating his signature move. He pretended to charge the kid, gently putting him on his back on the foam mat. Gabe caught the boy’s arm between his calves and pulled it out to the side, while hooking the boy’s other arm with his elbow to secure it. Gabe’s free arm went around the kid’s neck, but he stopped short of squeezing. The kid was still beaming from ear to ear when Gabe set him free, and Gabe couldn’t help but laugh. For a couple of years after the accident, it had been hard to be around kids, but it was getting easier. It was times like this that made him realize he missed teaching kids.
“Looks like you made it through okay. How about a few more?” Aiden nodded, and Gabe spent the rest of his time demonstrating several other holds. Then he signed the kid’s shirt and tossed out a few others that security had placed on the stage.
When his time was up, Darcy came back to the stage and handed the belt back to him before announcing the next fighter, Leandro Oliveira. Gabe left the stage as Oliveira arrived to a mixture of cheers and boos. Gabe was too focused on Megan to care. He needed to talk to her again. The least he could do was apologize for leaving so abruptly, but he also hoped that it’d help get her out of his head. That talking to her again would put him back in control. He headed her way and had almost reached her when Oliveira called out to him.
“Maddox! I’m coming for that belt,” he yelled in accented English, causing a large portion of the crowd to boo.
“Ready when you are, rich boy,” Gabe called back. “Daddy can’t buy you this belt.” Many fighters resented the fact that Oliveira’s billionaire family owned one of the largest banks in Brazil; he’d been accused of buying his slot in the rankings. Gabe had seen fight videos and knew Oliveira was good, plus he respected Darcy enough to know that the rankings weren’t for sale. But he wasn’t above poking that wound when Oliveira called him out with bullshit trash talk.
Oliveira let out a string of curses in Portuguese and moved to come off the stage to get Gabe, but his trainer stepped in, forcing him back. Darcy quickly regained control of the demo, asking him a question about his upcoming opponent. Oliveira stared Gabe down as he answered.
Gabe turned and kept walking toward Megan. He had more important things to do than waste his time on trash talk. In fact, one of those more important things was standing in front of him, glowing.
“Hi,” he said, taking in her light golden-brown skin and her warm hazel eyes. She wore a skirt and high-heeled boots, but she was still a few inches shorter than Jules, and he’d guess nearly a foot shorter than himself. He thought she might be mixed race and wondered what her heritage was. He was surprised that he wanted to know because it meant learning more about her. He never crossed that line into personal territory anymore.
Megan smiled, and he couldn’t seem to stop staring. “Hi, Gabe,” Jules said, leaning over as if to make him aware of her presence.
“Jules.” He gave her a nod, realizing he’d been pretty obvious in his intention. He wasn’t much for games, but sometimes it paid to be more discreet. He turned his attention back to Megan. “I came to apologize for leaving so abruptly the other day. I . . .” Well, fuck. He couldn’t just come out and say that she’d caught him off guard. “I had to go.”
Megan nodded and brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. A nervous tic? His gaze caught on her slender wrist, and he imagined it tied to his headboard, her curvy body naked as she writhed in her restraints, begging him to fuck her. And that was why he couldn’t act on his attraction. She seemed almost wholesome. There was no edge to her, no darkness, nothing that hinted at a need to relinquish control to someone else. She seemed like a woman who expected dinner and flowers, and he was a man who couldn’t give her anything beyond sex. Hard, rough, headboard-banging-against-the-wall sex. He couldn’t help but picture her spread out beneath him, and some of his blood flowed south.
“I understand,” she said. “Care to make it up to me?”
Her smile was soft, but her eyes glinted with challenge, and he found himself trying not to smile. “How?” he asked, taking her bait.
“Give me a second interview. Maybe give me a little more insight into what makes you tick.”
His heart pounded as she casually tossed the words out again. Something told him she wouldn’t be into him tying her up while he came on her perfect tits, or leaving his palm print on her ass as he fucked her from behind. And now that he’d allowed his mind to wander down that path, flashes of debauchery seared his brain. Her long, dark hair wrapped around his fist. Her eyes glittering up at him as she lowered herself to her knees in front of him, gorgeous in her submission. Shit, he was hard just thinking about it. Good thing he was wearing a cup for the demo. “Sorry. I can’t give you any more than I already have.” He took a deep breath, taking in her scent. Vanilla mixed with something flowery. He didn’t know what it was, but he wanted to press his face into her neck and breathe it in until he got his fill. He wondered if her skin tasted as sweet as she smelled.
She tilted her head to the side as she studied him. “Hmm.”
The throaty sound nearly undid him, vibrating down his spine and making him imagine the sounds she’d make if he was inside her. He got the feeling she was playing with him, tossing back everything that had happened in the interview to get a reaction out of him. And dammit, he liked her feistiness and her intelligence.
“Good luck with your story,” he said, knowing he needed to extricate himself from the conversation. He’d come over to purge her from his system, but somehow she’d only gotten deeper under his skin.
“Thanks.” She hesitated for a second, biting her full bottom lip.
Shit, he was really testing the limits of this cup.
“Are you sure there’s nothing I can do to make you change your mind?” She wrinkled her cute nose, and he noticed the freckles sprinkled across the bridge. How had he not seen them before?
“No.” He bit out the word, his voice gruff.
“That’s a shame, but if you change your mind . . .” She reached into her purse and pulled out a business card. “Give me a call.”
He couldn’t tell if this was her coming on to him, but it damn sure felt like it. He searched her gaze, but there was nothing, absolutely nothing, that told him she’d be okay with the fucked-up things he wanted. Things he hadn’t needed in the past, before everything had gone to shit. Dark, twisted things that got him off while letting him keep everything real locked away, like control and submission. The women he had casual arrangements with had all come on to him, usually at clubs after fights, and they’d been pretty forward in saying they were up for whatever he wanted. They were there to scratch an itch, and it was understood that nothing more would come of it. He’d developed an instinct for the type of woman he needed, and sadly, he knew Megan wasn’t one of them. He wouldn’t impose his darkness on her.
He took the card, giving himself one last excuse to touch her. A current ran between them as their fingertips brushed, and he could tell she felt it by the way her eyes widened a little. “Bye, Megan.”
“Bye, Gabe.”
The corner of her pretty mouth turned up in a half smile, and she glowed with a light that promised warmth and comfort and more pleasure than he’d know what to do with. But he knew the cold depths of his darkness, and he wouldn’t dare risk getting close to her and snuffing out that light. He might be twisted, but he wasn’t an asshole.
With visions of her golden body spread out across his bed, he walked away from her. It was one of the hardest things he’d had to do in a long time.