Chapter 22
Fuck it all. Mariah. Here.
The black slacks that hugged her curves and a gray shirt that skimmed her chest down to a trim waist were business casual clothes designed to drive him insane.
Despite his appreciation for her attire, all he wanted to do was peel every last garment off. Damn it. He was in trouble.
Hell, his hands ached with his need to see if they would truly fit around that waist. Her rich brown hair was pulled back in a low ponytail, showing off the soft skin of her neck that begged to be kissed, licked, and tasted.
Not going to happen. Ever. She'd made her decision clear.
Even worse, when Linc was in there with Mariah, Vaughn's power had gone all Geiger counter, crackling and buzzing through his brain like a cloud of deranged hornets.
Now, outside of the changing room, he leaned on the cement wall and did whatever mental tricks he could muster to pull himself together for this fight and prepare to deal with that stupid Neanderthal. The last thing Vaughn needed was a distraction.
Mariah West was a massive distraction. More specifically, how his power responded to her was a massive distraction.
Shit.
Even now, his power wanted to ping back to her location, find her, wrap that invisible bubble of protection around her. Even worse, with his stress level so high, he could use a stiff drink or four. He licked his lips, shook his head. No.
What about Mariah? What the hell was she doing here? When he had a chance to talk with her later, he'd tell her to... to what? He had no right to dictate her activities. His opinion meant nothing. He wasn't anything to her. And she was... what? Someone he'd like to get to know more, sure, but for all the reasons they had parsed, getting to know her wasn't going to happen. Therefore, he was nothing to her and vice versa.
Or at least, nothing he'd admit to. And that was the crux of the entire problem. Christ, could this evening get any worse?
"Hey, asshole."
His gut clenched. A whiff of burnt matches irritated his nose.
Wyatt Brand.
"What the fuck are you doing here, Brand?"
Wyatt's eye twitched. "Hanging with my cousin. I'm his corner man."
"Since when did you become a corner guy?"
"It's a free country. People can do what they like. Besides, I'm a fan." He adjusted his black jeans. "A fan of that tasty doctor. She digs me, you know. It's nice being here with her."
It took every ounce of willpower not to drive Brand's face through the back of his skull. "You came here to make a pass at Mariah? After threatening her at the ranch?"
"She got to see me as I defended my property. Probably turned her on."
"You're one messed up dude." Vaughn leaned forward. "Friendly warning: stay the hell away from her."
"You can't touch me or you get the big DQ tonight." He swiped a knuckle past his nose. "Hey, good luck out there tonight. You're gonna need it."
"What are you talking about?"
An insincere grin contorted his features. "Let's just say Linc has a secret weapon in his corner."
"What?" Maybe Linc was juiced. Wouldn't put it past the dirty fighter.
"Can't tell you." A strange, red glow flashed across the guy's eyes. Had Vaughn imagined it? Possibly. His nerves were stretched like a thin wire. But something about those red eyes reminded Vaughn of the creature on the ranch. Shit.
Wyatt snickered. "That's for you to find out. If you're lucky, they'll call the fight before he kills you."
"Whatever. I don't have time for empty threats." Or head games right before a bout.
He nodded to the inspector approaching. "Sooner or later, it'll be your funeral."
Unable to do anything without disqualifying himself from the fight, Vaughn knocked shoulders against Wyatt as he pushed into the locker room. Holy fuck, he wanted to destroy that man.
Why? Because the guy was a dick? No law against that.
Because Brand had the stones to come out here and make a pass at Mariah, when Vaughn's feeble attempt had crashed and burned?
Slumping on a bench, he scrubbed his hands over his face. Damn it. He needed to get a grip on his brain, his emotions, his ability to fight... or he wouldn't end up losing. He could end up dead.
* * *
Mariah's colleague, John Brandeis, was stitching up a fighter in the locker room. The woman who had lost the bout before Vaughn's fight had sustained an impressive cut above the eyebrow, and John was up for suture duty.
Which left Mariah to monitor the fight between Vaughn and Linc.
The shouts of the spectators swelled around her, anticipation driving them into a frenzy. Linc had a reputation for devastating his opponents, and, according to Angelo, Vaughn hadn't fought locally in a few years. The crowd welcomed Vaughn home.
But the crowd also wanted blood.
Vaughn's blood.
Her job placed Mariah firmly in a lose-lose situation. If she stopped the fight to protect Vaughn, he would never speak to her again. Fighters despised anyone who ended the fights. But if she didn't intervene, Linc could inflict serious damage. Or kill Vaughn. This fight was no joke.
The lights dimmed. Zips of adrenaline shot ice and heat through her veins.
Linc walked out from backstage, hoodie pulled over his head, AC/DC's "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap" blaring over the PA system, and he swaggered like the champion of the entire world. The crowd roared as he ripped off the hoodie. Linc sneered over her while the cutman smeared Vaseline on his brows and cheekbones.
One of his entourage grinned and licked his meaty mouth. She groaned. Wyatt Brand.
She'd rather eat mud than be around that guy. After the incident at the hospital and then again at the ranch... God, he was so creepy, especially how he scanned her up and down. Didn't matter that she had the blazer on. She crossed her arms.
After Linc entered the octagon and his crew went to the other side of the ring, the music changed to the screaming angst-filled chorus of Linkin Park's "Numb." The shouted vocals and streaking guitar chords fit with the thick, angry mood.
Vaughn came out shirtless, letting the crowd see all of him. Raw. Sweaty. Powerful.
When he stopped a few feet away from her, she gulped. His dark blue Spandex fight shorts covered him from his narrow waist to the top of his solid thighs. As for the front of the shorts? Give that man a standing ovulation, ladies.
As if sensing her perusal, he turned his head and winked. Like today was no different than any other day.
What if every day held a view like this? Quit it. She needed to concentrate on the fight and do her job.
He entered the octagon, the announcer bellowed the introductions and rules, and the ref lowered his hand.
Instead of touching Vaughn's outstretched glove, Linc feinted and kicked his leg. Pain turned to brutal focus as gold glinted in the furious depths of Vaughn's dark eyes.
He withstood a flurry of jabs from Linc and sidestepped when the guy shot to his knees in a takedown attempt. A well-placed kick to the ribs knocked Linc on his ass, but the guy jumped up like he felt nothing.
Mariah held her breath and wiped her sweaty palms on her pants.
During the next furious exchange, Linc missed a bunch of shots, almost like Vaughn fought a half step ahead of the guy. Must be great reflexes.
Then, Linc's fist connected with Vaughn's cheekbone, and Vaughn staggered and hit the cage wall.
Linc laughed.
Vaughn raised his gloves to defend himself.
Mariah's heart pounded, each thud a miniature of the blows the men exchanged. Her head ached.
Linc's fist shot out and caught Vaughn again on the left cheek, knocking him to the mat. In a flash, Linc had top mount position, pounding away until Vaughn flexed his torso, rolled, brought his legs up, and clamped them onto Linc. The individual cords of muscles in Vaughn's taut calves and thighs shook with effort to pull Linc down and away from his face.
Mariah's own legs burned, locked as they were while she watched.
The crowd screamed. Her ears rang. Linc drew back a massive fist and dropped it down on Vaughn, who deflected the brutal face blow at the last minute.
As Linc leaned forward, his forearm forced Vaughn's trachea inward, pushing harder and harder. Vaughn's face turned beet red. Sweat and blood from a cut on his forehead rolled down his temple. He couldn't breathe. If the brutal pressure continued, the cartilage would be crushed.
She didn't move.
Thank God the bell rang and the ref stepped in.
The men separated, but not before Linc spun and caught Vaughn in the upper arm, Vaughn's grunt of pain audible over the gasps of the crowd.
She studied the men in their corners and then checked over to the ref. The official shook his head. No need for Mariah to enter the cage; both men would fight another round.
Oh, God. Could Vaughn survive five rounds?
The Latin script on his chest rose and fell rapidly as he sucked in lungfuls of air.
The bell rang. She held her breath as Linc drove Vaughn back with hands that fell like deadly bricks. Even worse, for some reason, Vaughn kept glancing over at her, opening himself up to even more brutal blows to the face and kicks to the legs.
Why the hell wasn't he paying attention to the fight? He needed to defend himself or Linc would kill him.
"Hi, Mariah."
She jumped.
Hot, foul breath blew by her.
"Wyatt, move away. You can't be here. I'm working." She continued to monitor the fight. When his hand drifted over her lower back and below, she flinched away. Damn this guy. Another brief headache stabbed her in the temple.
"How about breakfast in bed tomorrow?" He chuckled.
Seriously? She hazarded a quick check. Yeah, he was about to put his other slimy hand on her. Although she wanted to yell at him, she had to concentrate on keeping the fighters safe. Make that one particular fighter. When Vaughn's focus drifted over to her again, Linc tagged him in the ear. Vaughn stumbled back into the cage, shaking his head like he needed to clear it.
A lump formed in her throat. Oh, God. She'd never gotten this emotional over a fight.
Wyatt's hand closed on her shoulder. Gross. Mariah leaned away. "Get away from me now or I'll have security called."
"After you witness Taggart get beat to death, maybe you'll be more interested in me." Wyatt's voice grated along her nerves.
"Get out of my space. Now." She put as much force into her words as possible.
She waved to get Angelo's attention, ten seats over. The promoter's brows shot up as he shoved out of his seat and motioned for nearby security personnel to join him. With a determined scowl, he waded through the crowd toward her.
A tingle of warmth seeped over her. Like fine chain mail. Light but secure. Followed by that headache. A compulsion forced her gaze back to Vaughn. He squinted at her and shuffled his feet to move sideways and avoid a lethal roundhouse kick.
Wyatt tightened a hand on her waist. "You'll be crawling back to me soon. Very soon."
Having his breath on her neck made her want to scour her skin with bleach. "Leave me alone or you're going to be in big trouble."
His laugh, like a sack of rocks tumbling, made her grit her teeth.
"No. You'll be in trouble." He snickered. "And pretty boy is getting his ass handed to him up there. Hope you're ready to do some CPR." He pointed as Linc unleashed another hammer of a fist into Vaughn.
Angelo slid between her and Wyatt, pulling her away from the jerk and setting her behind the considerable bulk of his body. Security grabbed Wyatt and removed him from the arena.
She patted Angelo's arm and stepped away to refocus her attention on the fight.
Just in time for her to watch Vaughn eat a knee to the face and crumple to the mat, courtesy of a snarling Linc.