Lady and the Champ (57 page)

“This is awful,” she mutters as she carefully cleans me up. She’s grabbed a first-aid kit from somewhere—maybe a cabinet in the bathroom, I don’t know—and opens it, sorting through its contents. There’s some antiseptic and bandages, gauze, little packets of ibuprofen. She applies the antiseptic, which stings like fuck, and then carefully tapes me up with Band-Aids and gauze. I probably need stitches, or at least some butterfly clips. Staples. Super Glue. Something.

It’s not until she shifts her attention to my banged-up hands that I get a glimpse of the look on her face. There are tears on her cheeks that she’s been ignoring. I reach up and wipe them away. My touch seems to break something in her; she chokes back a sob.

“Oh, Cain, this is my fault. I should never have…” She breaks off, closes her eyes, and I can tell she’s focusing all her strength on getting herself back under control. When she opens her eyes again, she turns her face down and fixes her gaze on my bloody knuckles.

I lean forward and kiss the top of her head, then stroke her hair with the hand she’s not working on. “Hush. We made this decision together. It’s not your fault.”

“Yes, it is.”

“You think you forced me to say ‘I do’? You think you’re even capable of forcing me to do that?” I let my tone turn light. “Or anything, for that matter.”

She manages a slight smile. Good girl. “No. But I convinced you Pop would leave you alone if we got married, and now look at you.”

I shrug. “I’ve had worse.”

She shakes her head. She’s rubbing the cuts on my knuckles a little too hard, and I wince. “Sorry,” she says, then, “But there’ll be more. He’s not going to let this go. You’re in danger, I’m in danger—I mean, we both were before, but this has just made everything worse.” Finally she tosses down the bloody paper towel and puts her face in her hands. “Goddammit, Cain, I fucked everything up. Can’t you see that?”

I take her shoulders gently in my hands and lift her so she’s looking into my face. “Look,” I say, “I’m not going to divorce you, or get an annulment, or anything else just to placate your fucking father. I’m sick and fucking tired of having someone else tell me how I’m going to live. I’m particularly sick and tired of having that someone be fucking Phil Spada.”

“Cain…”

But I’m not done. I put a finger over her lips. “I don’t care what we have to do. We can move out of state. Fuck, we can leave the goddamn country—I don’t care. Whatever it takes to get away from him. To get
you
away from him. I want you safe. I want out from under his thumb. And most of all, I just want to be with you.”

The tears are sheeting down her cheeks now, but she’s not sobbing. A vague smile makes its way onto her mouth. “I thought this was just an arrangement.”

I shrug. “Whatever.” I’m not ready to make any emotional declarations. I’m not sure I know how. But I cup her face again, kiss her gently. “I’ve got a bad spot on my ribs. You want to look at it?”

She nods. I pull my shirt off over my head and lean to one side so she can work her magic.

As she carefully explores my ribs—they’re not broken, as I suspected, or even her gentle exploration would have me hitting the ceiling—I realize the pain, the frustration, and the anger are all morphing into something else. My dick is at rigid attention, because of course everything boils right down to sex with me. Or at least with my dick. Even the shards of pain as her fingers press into my skin are doing nothing but making me that much hornier.

“Nothing’s broken,” she says unnecessarily, although she doesn’t know I already figured that out. “Do you want me to wrap this up and maybe make you a sling, or—”

I grab her and kiss her before I can tell her no, I do not want a fucking sling. Her mouth is soft and yielding, then harder as she responds. She reaches up, her fingers clamping on my biceps.

Tipping her head back just enough, she manages, “Cain… You’re hurt. Maybe we shouldn’t…”

“Fuck that,” I growl, and kiss her again. In spite of the discomfort of my ribs, the aches in my hands, and the throbbing in my head, I stand and swing her up into my arms. Because couch or no couch, there’s no fucking way in hell I’m having sex with her in the ladies’ bathroom.

Instead I carry her into the main part of the bar. The tables are mostly empty, but the chairs are sitting on them, upside down. I shove them off inelegantly, paying no attention to where they land. Salt and pepper shakers go flying along with a napkin dispenser. I sit Jess on the table and move between her legs, finding her mouth again, kissing her hard.

She makes no more protests, but loops her arms around my neck, pulling me closer. I pulse my hips between her thighs, feeling her heat even through her clothes and mine. I’m past thinking about anything else right now; all I want is her. All I want is to be inside her.

There are clothes in the way, the angle is all wrong, and I’m bleeding again above my eye. I can feel it. But I’m not going to stop. I start dragging at the snap and zipper of my jeans, doing what I can to get them out of the way as quickly as possible. She cooperates, pulling at her own clothes. Why didn’t she wear a dress today? Seriously, is that too much to ask? I mean, she should be prepared to have me fuck her in a bar, right?

The thought almost makes me laugh, but when I smile into her mouth she bites my bottom lip and I’m not thinking much anymore after that. My jeans finally come loose and hit the floor with a rattle of belt buckle. She starts wiggling, and I step back a little to give her room to work her way out of her own jeans. While she’s doing that, I shove a hand up her shirt and palm her breast. The jut of her nipple against my palm is familiar by now, a hot, thrusting nub. I pinch it. She gasps. As her jeans slide completely off, I lean forward and bite her nipple right through her shirt.

“God, Cain…”

And then I’m inside her, and she’s not talking anymore. She’s so hot, so slick. It hurts for me to thrust into her, but I don’t let that stop me. I can taste my own blood in her mouth as I kiss her. My fingers comb into her hair, holding her head stationary as I press her mouth open with mine, as I bite her tongue.

I realize as I accelerate my pace that she’s started to cry again, but her hands are clutching at me, nails digging into my back. I’m probably bleeding there, too, but it doesn’t matter. She wants something from me—needs it—and I’m more than happy to give it to her. It feels like she’s trying to claw her way into me, like she thinks there’s safety there.

I can’t guarantee her anything. I also can’t make a coherent thought. So I just hold on to her, and she buries her face in my neck while I pound into her, her legs wrapped around my hips, her arms strapped around my torso. Her teeth latch on to the muscle of my shoulder, biting down. I grunt at the pain, but I don’t mind it. I can feel her hips thrusting back against me, hard and desperate. Her teeth clench harder on me, and suddenly I’m coming deep inside that clutching heat, and then she clamps down on my cock and starts to pulse, her voice coming out in a wordless, grating breath.

“Cain…” she says, but nothing else.

I tighten my arms around her. “It’ll be all right, Jess. I promise. You’re mine now. I’ve got you.”

I hope to hell I’m telling her the truth.

 
W
e’ve been
home from our honeymoon for a week, and it’s been fairly quiet since the incident when Cain went to the grocery store. It seems ridiculous that a trip to the store ended so intensely, but it did. And Pop, in trying to drive us apart, actually pushed us closer together. It’s like it’s him and me against the world, or at least against Pop. We talk more, spend time just getting to know each other instead of fucking day in and day out. I’ve been happy to discover Cain and I actually have things to talk about, things in common. That I really enjoy spending time with him.

It’s been occurring to me lately that I might actually be in love with him.

It’s also been occurring to me that I might have a stomach bug. At first I thought food poisoning, but I didn’t have a fever, and it went away after about two in the afternoon, only to start up again the next morning. Then I thought stomach bug, but again, the symptoms didn’t quite fit.

I finally let myself put two and two together, after several days of denying it out of sheer desperation. And now I’m not sure what the hell I’m going to do. I have no idea how Cain might react. Not to mention my father. To say he will probably flip his shit is one of the biggest understatements ever understated.

Right now I’m standing next to the ring at Cain’s gym, watching him spar and train with Paul. Paul seems like an okay guy, although he keeps giving me the side-eye like he can’t figure out why I’m here. He saw the ring on my hand, saw the matching one that Cain took off before he wrapped his hands and gloved up. Surely he, too, has put two and two together—that is, if he didn’t know already. I’d figured the news would travel pretty fast among Pop’s cronies. Either way, he doesn’t seem inclined to ask any questions.

Watching Cain train is interesting and even educational. I’ve always known a little about MMA fighting, since I’ve seen it on a regular basis since I was about ten or twelve, but I’ve never had the opportunity to dig into the art behind it. And it is an art—melding several kinds of fighting styles from kickboxing and regular boxing to jiujitsu to Greco-Roman and freestyle wrestling and several other disciplines I’d never heard of before. Paul throws out names of holds and moves and Cain responds immediately, knowing exactly what he’s talking about. They spar, using boxing and kickboxing moves, then go to the floor, grappling in a variety of wrestling moves. Sometimes Paul slows them down, demonstrating each move and flowing through a sequence so Cain can see all its parts and how they fit together.

Cain focuses on it all with an intensity I don’t see in him often. He talks in monosyllables, mostly, like his mind is totally absorbed by what he’s doing. He nods a lot, and though he doesn’t always look right at Paul when Paul talks, I can tell he’s taking in every word.

When they finally wrap up, Cain is sweaty and breathing hard. He shakes himself off, flinging sweat droplets around the ring, onto the mat beneath him. He flexes his hands, and I can tell they hurt. Whether from bruises or cuts or stiffness, I can’t tell.

Cautiously I move through the ropes to join him. Paul has retreated to his corner and has shed his gloves. He’s pulling the tape off his hands.

I reach for Cain’s still-taped fists and start to do the same, peeling the tape back a bit at a time. He watches for a minute and then grins at me. “It’s going to take forever that way,” he says, and grabs an end of the tape and jerks it back.

“Doesn’t that hurt?” I ask him.

“Not yet. It will when you get to the skin.”

“I’ll be more careful with that part, then.”

He shrugs. “Suit yourself. Sometimes I’d rather just get it off. It’s not that bad. Maybe lose a little bit of hair—that’s about it. It’s like…” He pauses. “Getting your eyebrows waxed?”

I laugh at the apt comparison and follow his instructions, figuring he’s done this a zillion times before, so I probably shouldn’t argue. When I reach the last few inches, I slow down a little.

Cain, chuckling now, grabs the end of the last stretch of tape and just jerks it off. Then he loops the tangled tape around my own wrists and ties it into a sloppy knot.

“What’s that for?” I protest.

He laughs again and ducks a little to kiss me. He tastes sweaty, smells sweaty and musky and on the verge of actually ripe. He needs a shower. Behind us I vaguely sense Paul watching, maybe a little too closely. I don’t care. Pop already knows what’s going on between me and Cain and has already made his opinion on the matter abundantly clear. So who cares if Paul approves or not?

I rub my thumbs over Cain’s where he’s holding my hands. “You know,” I tell him, “you could just pick up and go any time if you want. I wish I could.”

“I told you, babe, we’ll do what we have to do. It’ll work out.”

He seems more smug even than usual. I wonder what’s up. Then I get lost in the look he’s giving me. Maybe it’s just wishful thinking, but his eyes seem warm, open, with a caring in them I’ve never seen before. He squeezes my hands. “Come on back to the locker room with me. I have something for you.”

I wonder what he could possibly have for me in the locker room. If the place were empty, I’d figure it’d be some crazy sex. But I don’t think he’s going to do that right now. There are about five other guys working out today, and I doubt he’ll risk having one of them walk in on us.

However, he doesn’t seem too concerned about taking me back to the locker room. There’s another guy in there who looks like he’s fresh out of the shower. He makes a noise of protest, and I avert my eyes, but apparently Cain gives him some kind of signal, because when I look again, the other guy has put his pants on—rather haphazardly—and is hurrying to get his shirt over his shoulders and his feet in his shoes.

“That was mean,” I tell Cain in a low voice.

“Eh, he’ll survive.” Cain sits down on a bench and grabs a towel out of his open locker. He scrubs some of the sweat off his chest and out of his hair. “Sorry,” he says. “I’d go ahead and take a shower, but I don’t want to wait with this.”

“With what?” I ask as he turns away again, reaching back into the locker. He takes out a manila envelope. It has papers in it, I can tell. Not a huge stack, but not unsubstantial either. I can’t see anything written on it. “What is it?” I ask as he hands it over.

He nods toward it. “Open it. Take a look.”

I study his face for a second, looking for some kind of clue there, but he just cocks an eyebrow and crosses his arms over his elbows. So I open the envelope and pull out the contents.

It’s a catalog from UCLA. Inside the catalog is a sheaf of papers with specific classes, including the schedule for the upcoming semester. A couple of them even have a syllabus included.

I stare at it for a minute, unable to process exactly what I’m looking at. Then I notice the class information pages all have my name on them, with the number of credits listed for each class. There’s also an invoice. It’s marked “Paid.”

No, this can’t be what I think it is. I look up at Cain, dumbfounded, feeling the edges of my eyes going hot.

He’s got a smile on his face like nothing I’ve ever seen on him. It’s gentle and open and loving and insufferably smug all at the same time. Gently he says, “You need to follow your heart, babe. This will get you started.”

“You…signed me up for classes?”

“Yep. You’re all set for that degree. I want to see you as a PA.” He leans forward and kisses my forehead. “You’ll be great at it. I mean, you’re great at taking care of me, right?”

Hot tears slide down my cheeks before I can do anything to stop them. I can’t believe he’s done this. “Cain… I don’t know what to say.”

He kisses me again, this time on the mouth, and uses a thumb to smooth the tears off my face. “Say you’ll be there for the first day of the semester, and that you’ll give it all you’ve got and make straight As.”

I shake my head, unbelieving. “I’ll be there for the first day of the semester, and I’ll give it all I’ve got. I’m not guaranteeing the As—these are hard courses.”

He grins. “You can do it. I know you can.”

I look down at the papers again. These
are
hard courses, but just looking at the names of them makes my heart flutter with excitement. I can’t wait to get started. But…

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“This is everything I’ve ever dreamed of, but what about you and your dreams? Isn’t there something you want to do? Beyond fighting? Beyond…” I pause, second-guessing myself, but in the end I go ahead and say it. “Beyond following my father’s orders?”

He nods slowly. “There are things I’ve wanted. When I was a kid, all I wanted was a family. Then I just wanted a place—somewhere—somewhere I felt like I belonged. Then it was winning my first fight, then it was coming to LA where I could send my career farther up the professional circuit.” He pauses, shakes his head a little. “Fighting is all I know, Jess. It’s all I’ve ever done. There shouldn’t be any shame in making a living at what you’re good at.”

I grasp at his arm, desperate to get my point through to him. “But, Cain, you deserve everything you’ve ever wanted. And you could be so much more than just a fighter.”

His eyes flash for a moment and his mouth presses down to a thin line. I wonder if I’ve said too much. Inadvertently insulted him by implying that exactly what he is isn’t enough for me. But then his expression shifts, and I can tell he’s mulling something over. Finally he takes my arm and leads me toward the back of the locker room, into a corner. There’s no one else there, but I get the impression he doesn’t want to take a chance on anyone overhearing us.

“Here’s the deal, babe,” he says as he sits on a bench and gestures for me to do the same. His voice is low but urgent. “I’m not going to be your dad’s lapdog much longer.”

“What do you mean?”

He’s silent a moment then gives a decisive nod. “I got the new fight schedule and my instructions. Your dad wants me to throw the next fight—the one he keeps holding over my head. But I’m not going to throw it.
I’m winning it
.”

It takes me a few seconds to absorb what he’s just said. “Cain, you can’t. He’ll kill you. He told you that last time you won a fight you were supposed to throw.”

“I know he’ll want to. But I’m going to take the money, and take you, and we’re going to get the hell out of here. Go live our own lives. Make something real, just for the two of us.”

I’m crying again, but this time it’s in fear, not gratitude. “Cain.
He will kill you
. It doesn’t matter what we do or where we go, he’ll find us. Find you. Then where will I be? Back under his thumb, but this time I’ll be…” I break off, realizing what I was about to say. I bite my lip. God. I can’t tell him that. Not yet.

Or can I? Maybe it’s the only thing that’ll get through to him.

“You said you wanted a family.” My voice is low and shaky. I grab my purse and start fishing through it. “What if you had a family? Would you really want to risk your life? Risk your health? Your brain? What if you had more than just a wife to come home to?”

“But I don’t, so it’s a moot point. And, I mean, of course I want to come home to you after every fight, but what else am I supposed to do?”

I’ve found what I was looking for in my purse, and I take it out, gripping it tightly. My hands are shaking. “You don’t have a family now, but you will.”

I hand him the pregnancy test. I just took it this morning, and the double blue line is still clear as day.

He takes it hesitantly, as if he’s not sure what it is. I scoot a little closer to him, desperate to make him listen. “Cain, it’s just you and me right now, but it won’t be for long. And I want you to be able to come home with me to take care of our baby.” He’s still staring at the little plastic stick, and I can’t tell what he’s thinking. He looks like somebody hit him in the head. “Cain… I love you.”

His gaze finally shifts up to me, and I move back away from him sharply, adrenaline tightening my diaphragm. For the first time since we started this crazy ride, I’m actually afraid of him. There’s something in his eyes I can’t make sense of. I swallow hard, every sense going on high alert.

“You’re pregnant?” The words sound choked, like he can barely get them out. “How…” He stops, closes his eyes, swallows.

What the hell, Cain?
My first instinct is to lash out, to remind him harshly that he was the one who wanted to forget about the condom, not me. And guess what happens when you decide to ditch a condom? But I take a slow breath and make myself calm down. His hand holding the test is shaking.

I lay a hand on his arm, feeling the shivering in his tendons. “Cain—”

“Why?” he says then, his tone hard and brittle as he jerks back from my touch. “When?”

I’m flustered, but I manage to find words. “It has to have been at least a couple of weeks. Maybe it was right after the wedding, but I’m not sure.”

He scrubs at his forehead. “Oh my God.
Shit
.”

He doesn’t seem to be able to put enough words together to make a sentence. It’s scaring me. Is he upset? Overwhelmed? Is he mad at me?

I reach for him again, hoping to be able to calm him down. “Cain… It’ll be—”

But he’s not even listening to me anymore. He shoves to his feet, pacing the locker room. I can’t make anything out of the expression on his face. He seems infuriated, but there’s something else. Something rawer.

“This is too much, Jess. It’s just too much.”

“We can handle it together—”

“What the hell do you think a kid’s going to grow up like with me as a father? I never even
had
one! How am I supposed to do this? How are
we
supposed to do this?”

He wheels on me, and suddenly he throws the plastic stick across the room. It hits a locker behind me, and I hear it slide to the floor. I wince. He’s staring at me.

“I can’t be a father. I don’t know how. How am I supposed to know how? How the hell is this ever going to work? We don’t even know if we’re okay yet, and there’s going to be a baby now? God, I should have
thought
about this.”

His words have all become a blur, and I’m not even sure what he’s saying anymore. I’ve gone into flight-or-fight mode. And there’s no way I can fight him, so I just flee. As fast as I can, running out of the locker room and into the gym.