Underground Fighters Trilogy Boxed Set Page 4

  “Okay. Give me a few more minutes.”

  He sighed, not willing to waste time arguing with her. If she wanted to stay in harm’s way, that was her business.

  He strode over to the duffel bag he’d grabbed from the car while Doc had examined her. Inside were the straps for his hands and the Vaseline he carried in case. He pulled out both, then held them in his hands as he decided which to do first. He didn’t want to get Vaseline on the straps.

  “Can I help?” Rosalyn asked softly from behind him.

  He turned. “You got a mirror? Like a…what do they call them…compact?”

  “Sure,” she said, giving him an odd look. She picked up the bag next to the chair she’d sat on. A small one that had been slung over her shoulder earlier. “What do you need it for?” she asked as she snapped it open.

  He held up the Vaseline. “I need to put this on my forehead.” At her confused look, he continued. “It prevents cuts.”

  “Shame you can’t slather it all over yourself before the fight,” she said, amused. Then, her cheeks turned red as her mind caught up with her words.

  Diego’s mind went a similar place, heating not just his cheeks, but all of him. Her, slathering him with not Vaseline, but something else. Something far sexier. Her soft hands on him, stroking him…

  He cleared his throat and shook the image from his mind.

  “Wouldn’t help much. The bruising and broken bones are always worse than the cuts.”

  Her eyes went wide. “Are there many broken bones?”

  Diego shrugged. “I’ve broken a couple a ribs, a few fingers. Maybe a toe or two, though those were unconfirmed.”

  “No x-rays?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “No. I can’t go to hospitals.” He couldn’t afford it, but even if he could, it would put him on the system. Police and gang members alike would know he wasn’t really dead and come after him. All the fighting, all the pain and misery, would have been for nothing.

  Rosalyn nodded, accepting this at face value. “Well, I hope you don’t get too hurt today,” she said.

  He gave her a sardonic smile. “Thanks.” If it wasn’t today it would be next week. Injuries were unavoidable. But he appreciated the sentiment all the same.

  “How about I put on the Vaseline? I thought I had my compact, but it’s not here.” She snapped the little bag shut with more force than it warranted.

  “Sure,” Diego agreed with a shrug. In a normal MMA fight an official would put the Vaseline on once he’d donned his gloves, so it made sense to get someone else to do it.

  But Diego hadn’t thought it through. He sat on Doc’s chair and Rosalyn moved towards him. She stood close, a little too close. Her presence teased his senses, everything about her distracting and overwhelming him.

  Her scent drifted over him. It was fruity, rich. Like plum brandy. He wanted to lick her skin to see if she tasted the same. Her softness, her sweetness, too. He wanted to reach out, touch her, stroke his fingers over her skin.

  He wanted to kiss her, tease her.

  He clenched his fists where they lay in his lap as he held himself still. She wasn’t his to touch. She never would be. He wouldn’t taint her with his bloody hands.

  “What’s your name?” she asked, voice whispering over him.

  He hesitated. “Diego,” he said after a minute. It felt momentous, saying his real name aloud after keeping it hidden for so long. Like coming back to himself. Like it was a gift to her, something special they shared between the two of them.

  Cool fingers touched his forehead. His eyes drifted shut at her careful touch. It had been so long since anyone had touched him with such respect. So different than a punch to the face.

  She took her time smearing the Vaseline over him, making sure it was evenly distributed. His breathing sped up, and so did hers. She was close enough that their breaths mingled. Temptation loomed.

  He snapped his eyes open. The first thing he saw was her cleavage, right at eye level. He tilted his face up, and their eyes met. Her fingers froze on his forehead. Then, they moved again, sliding up into his hair.

  It was an affectionate touch, and Diego couldn’t stop himself leaning into it, into her hand. She stroked her fingers through again and again, both their breathing speeding up at the movements. Desire built, but Diego didn’t move. He didn’t want to break the spell weaving between them.

  He leaned forward. Some distant warning bell sounded in his mind, but it was hard to hear over the roaring in his ears, the blood pumping through his veins. He wanted this woman. Wanted to claim her. Strip her naked and bury himself in her.

  Forget.

  He stood abruptly, knocking the chair over in his haste. Rosalyn stumbled backwards at his abrupt movement.

  “I have to go fight.” He picked up the straps and strode out the door, leaving her behind. He couldn’t allow himself to be distracted. Couldn’t allow himself to forget who he was, where he came from. His situation now. No matter how tempting Rosalyn was, he had to stay focused on his goal.

  He quickly strapped his hands on the way out to the cage. McCready stood at the back of the room, surrounded by his personal fighters. He used his favourites as bodyguards and servants to do his bidding. Diego had been offered a place amongst them when he’d first arrived here, but he’d declined. He’d only recently escaped the clutches of one powerful man, and he wasn’t stupid enough to make himself beholden to another. Not even for whatever extra privileges they got.

  Spider, standing to McCready’s right, grinned at him as he went. Diego suppressed a shudder at those broken teeth. His suspicion mounted at the smile, almost certain Spider or Weston had something planned for him. He set his shoulders, preparing himself. Whatever it was, he had to be ready.

  He stepped into the cage. Weston was already there, waiting for him. He grinned, a savage display of teeth, and Diego narrowed his eyes. He closed the cage door behind him and the crowd fell silent. Diego shook away all distractions—Rosalyn, Spider, the crowd—and focused on Weston.

  He bounced on his feet, stretched his arms, and waited.

  A whistle sounded, blown by one of the champagne girls at the back of the room.

  Weston leaped forward immediately, his arm drawn back for a punch. Diego spun out of the way and Weston’s fist slammed into the cage, rattling it, tilting it precariously; of course it wasn’t correctly set up.

  Diego aimed a roundhouse kick at Weston’s chest. The blow hit, but barely, Weston blocking it in time. He charged at Diego, getting past his defenses and wrapping a hand around his throat. Airflow was suddenly non-existent. Diego’s eyes went wide in surprise. He met Weston’s gaze, only to find it hazed over with bloodlust.

  Weston was going all-out tonight.

  Diego’s lungs screamed. He reached up and tried to disengage Weston’s hand by find his pressure point, but Weston ignored him. Instead, he used his superior size to lift Diego by the throat and slam him into the ground. Pain ricocheted through him as his back hit the concrete, jarring every bone in his body.

  The jolting movement knocked him out of Weston’s grip and he sucked in a lungful of air. Then, before Weston could grab ahold of him again, he brought his legs up and wrapped them around Weston’s throat, cutting off the guy’s air supply in return.

  The angle bent Diego’s neck awkwardly but he didn’t let the pain stop him. It was minor compared to what Weston intended to do with him.

  Weston’s eyes popped with fury as he glared impotently at Diego. He tried to pull Diego’s legs apart but he’d locked them at the ankles. Weston might be big, but Diego was still strong, and his leg strength trumped Weston’s arms.

  His back pressed against the concrete, scraping along the hard, uneven floor. Diego panted as blood rushed to his head, trying to hold on a little longer.

  The faint sound of metal scraping against concrete sounded.

  Weston grinned.

  Diego’s heart sank.

  Weston threw himself sideways, usin
g his body weight to break Diego’s hold on his neck. Diego scrambled backwards as he lost the advantage and gained his feet. Weston didn’t immediately stand. Instead, he dived closer to the cage, away from Diego. His fist closed around something that glinted in the light.

  Behind him, on the other side of the cage, Spider winked at him.

  Diego clenched his jaw and sucked in a breath in preparation for whatever would come next. He brought his hands up, ready to defend.

  Weston stood to his full height, a head taller than Diego. Never had Diego more wished these fights had weight classes like proper MMA fights. Weston chuckled and brought his own fists up. Whatever had glinted on the ground now wrapped around Weston’s right fist. Brass knuckles.

  Shit.

  He threw a quick glance to McCready at the edge of the crowd, but the boss looked on impassively. The crowd murmured beyond the cage, one of the few reactions Diego had heard from them. Were they pleased by this twist? He couldn’t tell.

  Sometimes McCready authorised weapons being thrown into the cage, particularly if he thought the fight was getting boring. But rarely so early in the game, and rarely so obviously intended to benefit one fighter.

  Diego steeled himself. He had to avoid that fist, otherwise he’d end up with plenty of broken bones. Not only would that suck for his own sake, but it would mean he couldn’t fight for a good few weeks. He’d have to eat into his precious savings, and it would set him back months of work. He couldn’t allow that.

  Weston charged. Diego leaped out of the way. The momentum carried Weston into the cage, rattling it. Diego kicked the back of Weston’s knee as the guy came to an abrupt stop. It jerked, but didn’t snap, and Diego cursed himself for the missed opportunity.

  Weston spun, his right fist swinging around for a lethal backhand. Diego whipped his head out of the way in time and it sailed passed harmlessly. Weston growled in anger.

  Diego eyed him, waiting for the next move.

  He’d never been formally trained as a fighter, only knew what he’d been forced to pick up to survive in prison and as part of a gang. His one advantage had always been his strength. Against Weston, though, that was useless. He had no doubt either Spider or McCready—maybe both of them—had picked his opponent tonight on purpose.

  Diego backed up. Weston watched but didn’t follow, preparing his own move. Before he charged, Diego got in first, sprinting a few steps and then leaping off the concrete. His leg flew out, catching Weston squarely in the solar plexus. It was a perfect hit, but he couldn’t recover himself in time and toppled back against the concrete.

  Weston recovered first, leaping on him even as his lungs bellowed to suck in air.

  He threw his weight on Diego and gave him a swift punch to his side. The snap of ribs sounded through the cage, and Diego felt more than saw the universal wince that travelled through the room. Then, the pain hit him, blinding him with its intensity. Weston got in another punch, this time to his stomach.

  Diego briefly wondered why Weston wasn’t aiming for his face, but then he realised: Weston was toying with him. He wanted this to last.

  But Diego needed to finish it.

  He was under no illusions. This was a fight for his life. He reached up, ignoring the agony of his protesting rib, and dug his thumbs into Weston’s eyes. Weston reared back, leaving his crotch exposed, so Diego gave him a swift kick where it hurt the most. Weston let out a pained groan, and Diego gave him a savage grin in return.

  He didn’t waste time getting to his feet. Instead, he levered himself up and kicked Weston straight in the nose. Blood flew, adding to the stains already dotting the floor.

  But Weston wasn’t done. He lashed out, kicking Diego right on his broken rib. Diego hunched, protecting himself instinctively. Agonising pain made his vision blur and his muscles seize.

  Weston drew back his fist in line with Diego’s face. He narrowed his eyes, then threw the punch down. Diego rolled his head out of the way just in time, causing Weston’s fist to sail into the floor. The man let out a howl of pain as his brass knuckle crunched against the concrete.

  Weston backhanded Diego almost like an automatic retaliation, but with his left hand, not the one with the extra bling. It caught Diego across the cheek, knocking his head sideways. His head rung, his cheek stinging from the impact. He’d have a black eye tomorrow.

  He tasted blood.

  Diego was beaten, bloody, and nearly at the end of his tether. He crawled to his feet as Weston cradled his right hand. They were both nearing their last reserves.

  Weston put his hand down to help himself up, then winced as his right hand complained. Diego didn’t wait for Weston to get up. As he’d been reminding himself a lot lately, he wasn’t a gentleman. Instead, he raised his foot and slammed it into Weston’s face.

  The big man dropped like a stone.

  Diego waited a few seconds to make sure he was really unconscious, then turned to the crowd. His gaze travelled past the shocked spectators and landed on Spider—who looked furious—and McCready, who looked…pleased? Diego couldn’t tell in the low light.

  Polite clapping filled the room. Diego thought that would be it, but it steadily rose in volume. They were actually giving him a proper ovation. But Diego didn’t care.

  He stumbled to the door of the cage and let himself out. He staggered down the aisle which was wide enough that he wasn’t in danger of accidentally touching an audience member.

  He struggled to breathe, a wheeze having started in his chest. Maybe that broken rib had punctured a lung or something. That would be a bitch.

  A figure stood at the end of the aisle, well behind the crowd. But it wasn’t Spider. McCready himself stood there, waiting for him.

  Diego stumbled to a stop, yearning for Doc, and for Rosalyn’s soothing touch. He knew he shouldn’t, but he was at a weak moment and craved something soft, something real.

  But she was gone now. He’d sent her away.

  “Good fight,” McCready told him. He handed Diego a wad of cash. Diego glanced at it, guessing it was more than his usual fee. He’d finally earned himself a bonus.

  He was too weary to care.

  “Thanks,” he said, sounding lacklustre to his own ears.

  “If you fought like that every week, you could have a place in my crew,” McCready told him, conveniently forgetting Diego had already declined such an honour.

  “No thanks. I’m good.”

  McCready shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He paused and leaned forward. “But don’t expect any more bonuses.”

  He strode away, back to where Spider glared at Diego with undisguised hatred.

  Diego made his way back to Doc’s office, wanting a clean bill of health so he could leave and wallow in his misery in peace.

  But the first person he saw wasn’t Doc, it was Rosalyn. Her eyes were wet with tears as they took him in, her hand pressed over her mouth. Even as shit as he felt, his heart lifted at the sight of her.

  She took one hesitant step towards him, then another. And then she was in his arms. He held her tight, grateful she was on the other side to his broken ribs.

  Where she belonged.

  “Why are you still here?” he asked, a little harsher than he’d intended. She was in danger here.

  “I needed to make sure you were okay,” she whispered. “And I’m glad I did. What the hell kind of fight was that? How is it fair that he just—”

  Diego let out a harsh bark of laughter that tugged at his ribs. “If you’re looking for fair, you’re in the wrong place. There are no rules here, no refs, nothing. Once you’re in that cage, you’re on your own. And you’re lucky to get out alive.”

  Rosalyn stared up at him with luminous eyes glinting with a sheen of tears.

  “Why do you do this?” she whispered, pinning him with her gaze.

  “Because I have no choice,” he grit out, then pushed away from her. His ribs screamed, and his cheek less so. He stumbled to a chair and lowered himself into it. And just in time
, too. Because as Doc took a hesitant step towards him, Diego’s mind went black.

  Chapter 6

  “You want me to take him home?” Rosalyn asked incredulously, staring at Diego through the glass window to the office as he gathered his things. He’d insisted on doing it himself to prove he was fine after a minor blackout, but Doc was concerned about a fatal head injury—they were apparently frighteningly common among fighters.

  Doc shook his head. “I didn’t say that. I said someone should. Just to watch over him and make sure. I mean, I think he’s okay. But…” he hesitated. Rosalyn tore her eyes from Diego to glance at Doc. His face was lined with worry as he watched Diego move painfully about the room. “I don’t know whether I can trust myself,” he finished on a quiet whisper.

  Rosalyn’s heart broke at the devastation on his face. There was a history there, one Rosalyn didn’t feel privy to.

  “Can’t you take him home, then?” she asked desperately.

  Doc shook his head. “No. I have no…just no.”

  “And Diego doesn’t have anyone else? A wife? Girlfriend? Friend of any kind?”

  Doc drew in a breath. “Not that I know of. I’ve never seen one, and he’s never mentioned anyone.”

  “A hospital?” she tried.

  Doc’s eyes grew wide with panic, but it wasn’t him that spoke.

  “No hospitals,” Diego growled. He stood in the office doorway, glaring at her.

  “But—”

  “No.” With that, he gently shut the office door in her face.

  Rosalyn turned to Doc. “Why is he so against hospitals?” she asked.

  Doc shook his head. “All the men here are hiding from something. Any public service—cops, hospitals, etc.—might expose them.”

  “What’s his story?” Rosalyn wondered, her reporter brain ticking over with curiosity about this man.

  Doc shook his head. “I don’t know. But even if I did, it’s not my place to tell you.”

  Rosalyn acknowledged that with a nod.

  “Anyway, you don’t have to take him home. I wouldn’t expect that.”