Eve
“This is bad ass.” Ryder throws an arm around my shoulder for a side hug. “I can’t believe I’m backstage at The Blackout.”
I tilt my head back to see his face. Even though he’s only seventeen, he’s at least six inches taller than I am. “I’m happy it worked out and we got you in.”
Tonight’s a double whammy of awesomeness because this a rare Saturday night show for Ataxia at The Blackout. They usually headline the club on Sunday nights, but tonight they’re opening for a bigger band that has drawn an insanely huge crowd.
Backstage is exactly how I imagined it’d be. Band members throw back beers, talk too loud, and curse even louder. Groupies are staggered throughout the room in their micro-minis and five-inch heels. All of it screams rock-n-roll and promises a night to remember.
“Seriously, Eve, this is so fuckin’ cool.” Ryder’s eyes dance around the room, taking it all in as if he’s recording it to be stored in the I’ll-Never-Forget-This-Night file.
“Hey, don’t thank me.” I nod to Rex, who’s sitting on the couch across the room, tuning his guitar. “He put you on as a roadie to get you back here.”
Ryder’s hold tightens for a quick couple seconds. My chest swells with warmth, and I look at Cameron, who has his eyes trained on his son in a sweet, but still glary, stare.
Cameron motions across the room with a chin lift. “Might want to go ask the guys about settin’ up, Ry.”
“Yeah, totally.” He grins down at me and then his dad before he lets me go and heads over to Rex.
Another arm drops to my shoulders, this one bigger and familiar. It’s been only a week since we outed our relationship status, and things have been pretty good. Being jobless has freed up a lot of my time. Days I spend figuring out what I want to do with my life, and my nights are spent with Cameron.
I had to take a substantial loan from Raven, which I fought like crazy to avoid, but when I laid out all my options, I couldn’t turn down what she was offering. She inherited a ton of money from her dill-hole dad and has sworn to give every bit of it away to help others get on their feet. I swear I’m going to pay her back. She swears she won’t accept a dime.
“He’s in heaven.” Cameron watches as Rex gives Ryder the rundown for setting up and breaking down their equipment.
“I’m glad.” I tilt my head back to see his face. “You only turn eighteen once.”
Cameron’s jaw gets hard, but this time I expect it. There’ve been a few times that Ryder’s birthday has come up, and every time seems to get a negative reaction out of both men. I want to ask, but I also want him to volunteer the information when he’s comfortable sharing. Ryder’s actual birthday isn’t for another few days, and this little impromptu gift couldn’t have come at a better time.
“We should go find somewhere to sit. The place is filling up fast.” I don’t want to interrupt so we slide from the room without saying bye and head out into the crowded club.
Cameron tucks me to his side. The bar is already packed. We squeeze through the multitude of people to get to the tables that run along the standing-room-only section near center stage. Once we emerge from the crowd, we spot Blake, Layla, Mason, and another guy who looks familiar at two high-top tables that they’ve pushed together.
“Room for two more?” I hug Layla and playfully shove Blake, who’s built like a damn tank, so isn’t affected at all.
Layla gives me a sad smile. “I wish Ataxia would play somewhere else. I hate it here.” She speaks softly enough for only me to hear.
“I know it’s hard.” I give her another hug, wishing like hell it would be enough to wipe that sad look off her face.
She’s been so worried about her friend Mac, who was a bartender here and suddenly disappeared. She left a note saying it was time for her to move on, but Layla thinks there’s something more going on. I don’t blame her. I could never skip town without at least saying goodbye to Raven. Although Layla and Mac weren’t as close as Raven and I, my gut sours at the thought of going through what Layla’s going through. Being left behind without so much as a goodbye is the worst kind of rejection.
Feeling eyes on me, I look up to a scowling Mason. “Mase.”
He nods toward me in recognition. Polite, but I know he’s figured things out. He may look like nothing more than a perfect body with a tan and a smile, but the guy’s no idiot.
Cameron squeezes my hand and gets my eyes. He leans down and drops a kiss on my jaw. “Don’t worry, babe. He’ll get over it.”
I nod and he pulls back.
“Wade, I didn’t know you ever left the gym.” Cameron addresses the other guy at the table before he flags down a waitress.
“Thought I’d get out and see what all the fuss is about.” He takes a swig of his beer and jerks his head toward Blake. “And this fucker wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
“Bull crap, man. Ever since you moved to Vegas, you’ve been dying to weasel into my old stomping ground and pick up where I left off.”
“Well, that shouldn’t be hard to do.” Layla’s voice and expression is all fake sugar and acid. “Figure he plays Eeny Meeny Miney Mo and he’s got a ninety-nine percent chance of nabbing a chick who you’ve seen naked.”
Blake’s cool-guy expression turns bitter, and I muffle my laugh. I absolutely adore the fact that Blake found a woman who can stand toe-to-toe with his shit talk.
He pulls Layla to his side and kisses the top of her head. “Don’t remember any naked women, Mouse. Your sexy ass has burned away the memory of all the other women.”
She goes soft and leans deeper into him.
I can see the make-out session brewing and swing my gaze to Wade. “That’s where I know you from. You fought Blake last month, right?”
“Wade, this is Eve.” Cameron introduces us.
“Nice to meet you. Yeah, Blake got lucky. Won’t happen again.”
“Talk all the shit you want, man. We’ll get a rematch soon enough. Don’t come crying to me when I knock you out. Again,” Blake says.
Cameron interjects and Mason jumps into the conversation, which soon leads to a who’s-fighting-next debate. I tune them out when I see people moving around on stage. I focus on Ryder, who fits in perfectly up there with his punk rock hair, eyeliner, and jeans that seem tight but still sag off his hips.
“. . . when Cameron gets his fight.”
The words stab through my concentration.
I turn to Mason. “What did you say?”
Cameron’s body tenses at my side.
Mason’s mouth lifts with a small grin that doesn’t look all that friendly. “Cam’s fighting Faulkner.”
Layla’s eyes are wide on Blake, who suddenly finds the label on his beer bottle the most interesting thing in the room.
“When do you find out if the board approves the fight?” Wade chimes in. “Be a kick-ass card, man.”
The waitress swings by, dropping off new drinks and setting down a scotch for Cameron and a Corona for me.
Cameron shrugs. “I’ve been approved, but official word waits so they can announce it at a press conference.”
I jerk my head to Cameron. “What are you talking about? You’re going back into the octagon?”
“He is,” Mason says, “pending medical and board approval.”
Medical? I keep my eyes on Cameron. “What does that mean?”
Cameron opens his mouth to answer.
“Brain damage is no joke, Eve.” Mason jumps in, earning a scowl from Cameron. “Gotta make sure his noggin can take another hit, or they’ll be signing his death certificate.”
Death.
Cameron drops his chin, and his knuckles go white around his glass.
I lean in. “Hold on. Explain—”
The lights flash and electric guitar blasts through the speakers. A roar from the crowd makes the rest of this conversation impossible, and I hope I can calm my nervous stomach enough to enjoy the show.
Cameron back in the octagon. Why would he do that? Raven told me once that a thirty-year-old fighter is a retired fighter. It was something she was looking forward to so she wouldn’t have to worry about her husband. I’m sure there are exceptions, but Cameron is thirty-eight.
Back into the octagon. With them throwing words like brain damage and death around, I have too many questions and not a single answer. I watch Ataxia play but don’t hear the music. My thoughts are on the man at my side and why the hell the president of the UFL would even consider taking this kind of risk.
~*~
Cameron
“Good show, huh?” It’s my third attempt at conversation since we left The Blackout. She’s blown me off twice, and if she refuses to acknowledge me this time, it’s three strikes you’re out.
Mason—that little shit—and his convenient confession at the club didn’t seem to fuck up the night completely. Eve still seemed to enjoy the show well enough. She didn’t bounce around and sing into her thumb as I’ve seen her do in the past.
Ryder did his duty as roadie like a champion and was flyin’ high when he left the club to hook up with some friends, probably intent on bragging his ass off while celebrating his birthday. Eve really hooked it up for my boy.
I pull into my garage and throw the Maserati into park. She doesn’t move, her head still turned away from me and gazing out the window, this time at nothing but the interior wall of my garage.
“Yvette.”
She jerks her head around to face me, eyes tight.
I fight the urge to grin at her expression. A pissed-off Eve is feisty Eve, and damn, she’s fun when she’s feisty.
“Talk to me.”
“I hate it when you call me that.”
“I know.”
“But you do it anyway.”
I scratch my jaw. “What can I say, doll? I like pissin’ you off.”
“Psht.” She shakes her head and turns back to her window.
“You wanna sit starin’ at the wall all night or go inside and talk to me about what has you so upset?”
Mason bringing up my fight with Faulkner was clearly done to get under Eve’s skin or, more specifically, to drive a wedge between us. The fact that everyone at those tables knew about the fight except her clearly isn’t sitting well with my little ball buster.
“You’re gonna fight?”
There it is. “Yeah.”
She turns to me. “Why?”
“Old rival, back from the dead, callin’ me out—”
“You could say no.”
I chuckle, surprised she doesn’t know me better by now. “Never turn down a challenge.”
“What did Mason mean—?” She smacks her hands on her thighs. “Would you stop looking like someone farted in your face every time I say his name?”
I roll my lower lip into my mouth to keep from smiling. “Go on.”
“It got me to thinking. You know you’ve never really talked much about your career.”
“Talking now.”
“Why do you need medical approval?”
“It’s mandatory. All fighters have to pass a basic physical.” The lie tastes sour on my tongue. “I haven’t fought in a while. They just want to make sure I’m healthy enough.” Lie, lie, lie.
“What about the brain-damage stuff?”
Damn. I take a deep breath. “It’s not a big deal.”
“That’s a non-answer.”
This isn’t a conversation I’m ready to have, but what she’s probably thinking is worse than the truth. “Back when I fought for the UFL, I got a chipped tooth. Pretty common, didn’t think much of it. I went to have it taken care of and moved on. A few months later I started getting headaches, fevers, just didn’t feel right. Blew it off, thinking it was a bug. I remember being so damn tired, and then it was like I couldn’t communicate. Someone would ask me something. I’d answer them, but the words would come out all fucked up.”
Her hand goes to her chest. “That had to be scary.”
“I thought it was fatigue.”
“So what was it?”
“One night I woke up, and my body was flopping around in the bed. I remember thinking I was having a seizure, but I couldn’t speak or stop the movements. Like being prisoner in your own skin.”
“Oh my God.”
“D’lilah called 911. An ambulance ride, MRI, and a biopsy later determined I had an infection in my brain. They had to go in and remove the damaged brain tissue. Didn’t know what part of the brain was fucked up, so they couldn’t predict how I’d come out.”
“How did you come out?”
“I had to relearn how to speak, walk, write. Luckily the brain compensates, and it didn’t do anything too permanent, but I was in rehab for a long time before I could even consider going back to work.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“UFL didn’t need the liability. They had concerns about what a concussion would do to my already fucked-up head. They let me go.”
“So this infection that you had no control over ended up robbing you of your fighting career?”
And my daughter. “Basically.”
“How were you not angry?”
“Oh, I was.” The memory of the rage I felt after losing my career and my daughter in the same day makes my hands shake. “But that anger lit a fire under my ass. I swore I’d make it back into the octagon no matter what it took.”
Her head swivels from side to side. “That’s why you took Gibbs’s job.”
“Yes. This puts me a lot closer to the cage than promoting ever did.”
“Smart. Stupid, but smart.” She chews on her bottom lip. “Wait, if you’re rehabilitated, why won’t the board just let you fight?”
“I still struggle with certain things. Memory, impulsiveness, shit like that. They’re also worried if I fight I’ll damage my brain further.”
“Is it life threatening?”
“Afraid that’s part of the unknown, doll.”
“Oh.” She looks down her hands balled in her lap. “Were you going to tell me?”
“Probably not. Not a fan of exposing my weaknesses.”
“Not that. About Faulkner.”
“I haven’t even talked to Ryder about the fight yet. Then I’ll have to tell D’lilah.” And with our history, she’ll be all over my ass. And now Eve, who I’m sure will give me her opinion on the matter whether I want to hear it or not.
I rub my eyes, so damn tired and envious of my early years with the UFL when I never had to answer to anyone. Every decision I made was based on what was best for my career. Nothing else. But look where that got me.
“Yeah.” She turns a sad smile to me. “I understand. They’re your family. They should know first.”
“Babe . . .” I don’t know what to say, but I hate the way she’s slumped in on herself, head tucked and hiding behind her hair.
An angry Eve is fun, but a hurt Eve is torture. Her dad did damage of which I’ve only managed to scratch the surface. I’ve seen the devastation flash in her eyes, and I don’t want to be the reason for that look.
“Inside, doll.” I pull her hand to my lips. “Need to get those clothes off you and put you in my bed.”
Her eyes flare and a tiny smile ticks her lips. I push back my victorious grin. I’ve never in my life been with a woman so sidetracked by sex. It’s the one thing I’ve learned that she’ll drop anything for.
My mouth all over a naked Eve is the best way to put an end to this conversation. I wonder how many orgasms it’ll take for Eve to forget our talk altogether. Sex-induced amnesia? It’s a cheap shot, but I’m excited about the challenge.