One Good Reason (A Boston Love Story Book 3) (12 page)

I know exactly what’s in the box — the same thing I order every time I stop at my favorite bakery in the city.

Double chocolate cupcakes with peanut butter frosting
.

I have to hand it to Luca — the bastard knows my weakness and is shamelessly exploiting it to get me to forgive him.

Still… it would be a shame to let them go to waste…

I sigh as I grab the box and retreat back into my apartment. I only last about thirty seconds after setting it down on the counter before I cave and flip open the lid, inhaling the scent of chocolate with a soft moan. There are four perfect, frosted cupcakes sitting inside, crying out for me to devour them.

Damn
.

There’s a note tucked between two in the middle. I pluck it out and read it as I suck chocolate glaze off one finger.

I’m a dick. Forgive me anyway?

Got a fight tomorrow night — need you there, babe.

8PM. Lansdowne Gym.

He doesn’t sign his name. Doesn’t apologize.

Typical Luca.

But he knows I’ll be there. Just as he knew exactly what kind of cupcakes would be most effective in leveraging my sympathies.

Parker may think Luca is in love with me, but he’s wrong. Sure, we love each other — but it’s familial, not romantic. We’ve seen all the ugly, awful parts of each other. We’ve hated each other. Pushed each other. Forced each other to carry on when the whole damn world seemed to be telling us not to bother.

You can’t love someone who knows you like that.

Or at least…
I
can’t love someone who knows
me
like that.

Luca and I both gravitate toward darkness. Distrust. Destruction.

And, the truth is, you can’t drive out shadows in a windowless room. At some point, you have to let the light in. Find someone who glows bright enough to lessen the burden of your misfortunes.

Luca deserves someone who can bring that light into his life.

Out of nowhere, Parker’s face flashes in my mind. And for the rest of the night, no matter how hard I try, no matter how hard I focus on financial data and executive email streams… I can’t quite seem to banish it from my thoughts.

Later, when my eyes are drooping shut and I can no longer make out the words on my screen, I can’t stop myself from crossing to my dresser, pulling his large black sweater from the back of the drawer where I hid it last week, and tugging it on before sliding beneath the sheets.

I
push
my way through the crowd, my
don’t-fuck-with-me
expression firmly in place. It makes little difference — no one pays me a bit of attention. Everyone’s eyes are on the center ring as the crowd slowly moves inward, jostling for better positions. This isn’t an official fight, so there are no seats or press boxes; the UFC doesn’t sanction underground bouts. But, for a twenty-five-dollar cover charge at the door, anyone can get in… so long as they know where to go, of course.

The gym is well over the fire marshal’s designated capacity, but no one seems to care. Money flows freely as bets are exchanged last minute. Fans trash-talk about the competitors, discuss the odds. I overhear someone saying Luca is expected to take a heavy beating against Dean “Iceman” Bailey, a massive lunkhead from New Jersey with a killer right hook and a twelve-match winning streak under his belt.

Go ahead and underestimate Luca
, I think, pushing past them.
You’ll be eating your words by the end of the night.

From what I hear, there’s a shitload of money on the line. I’ve never been one to place bets, but if I did I’d bet on Luca every time.

Times like this, being petite comes in handy. I duck under arms and between groups like a shadow, finding space to maneuver where there is none. By the time I make it to the ring — a raised, fenced-in octagonal platform surrounded by metal barriers to keep the fans back — the roar of the crowd has reached a crescendo.

Groupies push up against the metal fencing, their boobs straining inside see-through white t-shits. Bouncers make a half-hearted attempt at holding them back from the narrow ringside area where corner men, octagon girls, and coaches gather before the fight. The male fans in the crowd are a little more subdued, but not much — they eye the empty octagon with an anticipatory look, taking stock of the bets they made upon arrival.

They crave blood, tonight.

There’s an uncomfortable flutter of nerves in my stomach; the same one I get every time Luca fights. No matter how often he goes up against impossible odds and makes it out alive, it never gets easier. Tonight, when he’s battling one of the best fighters in the underground circuit, my heart is lodged firmly in my throat.

He’s still backstage, likely getting psyched up and going over his strategy for the match. He likes to be alone, before all his fights. He’s not the biggest fighter, not the strongest or the most muscular in the heavyweight division, but he fights
fast
, he fights
smart
, and he never goes into a fight blind. He says dominating in the ring is as much mental as it is physical.

His sparring partner, Colton, somehow spots me from where he’s standing in the blockaded area by the ring. In a flash, he’s there in front of me, nodding to the nearest bouncer before extending one huge hand and hoisting me over the barrier with a single flex of his bicep.

“Thanks, Colt,” I say breathlessly, when he sets me down. I hear whines of complaint from the groupies along the fence.

“Hey, why does she get ringside access?” a busty brunette squeals.

“Take me, too!” a hopeful blonde suggests.

“What’s so special about
her
?” a redhead sneers.

Colt shoots them all a withering glare. Despite his blond, surfer-boy good looks, he can bring the heat when necessary.

“
She
is with Blaze.”

Without another word to them, he hooks one arm around my neck and walks me to the cluster of metal folding chairs reserved for the fighters’ teams.

“He’ll be happy you’re here,” Colt yells into my ear. I can barely hear him, over the din behind us. “He’s been a total nutcase all week.”

I shrug. “He’s always a nutcase, Colt.”

“Yeah, well, nuttier than usual. You two fighting or something?”

“Or something,” I mutter.

His blue eyes crinkle. “Well, don’t take it out on him too long. He needs to focus.”

“What are his odds?”

Colt shakes his head and his eyes dart across the ring to where Iceman’s coach is standing. “They’re pretty evenly matched, if I’m being honest. Hard to say who will take it. Iceman is brawn and brute force… Blaze is speed and strategy. Totally different approaches. It’s anyone’s game.”

I suck in a breath. It’s one thing to hear shitheads in the crowd talking about Luca losing — it’s another to hear one of his best friends discuss the possibility.

“Don’t worry, Zoe.” Colt smirks. “Fire always melts ice.”

I hope he’s right.

A few minutes later, the crowd has swelled to bursting. I keep my eyes on the ring as the announcer runs up the short set of stairs and hoists his mic into the air. His voice booms like a clap of thunder.

“ARE YOU READY, BOSTON?”

The crowd roars in response.

“I SAID
ARE YOU FUCKING READY
?”

Five hundred people scream at the top of their lungs.

“Then make some noise for our first fighter…. a man built like a glacier… a powerhouse with fists like icebergs… your undefeated champ….
ICEMAN
!”

A rap song blares from the speakers overhead, barely audible over the cheers. From the left side of the gym, a bare-chested man in shiny black shorts cuts a swathe through the crowd, flanked by bouncers on all sides. Fans reach out to touch him as he passes by, but he brushes them off — he’s watching the ring, hyper-focused and frigid as he makes his way up into the octagon.

I feel my eyes widen.

He’s built like an eighteen-wheeler — at least 260 pounds of solid muscle. His head goes straight into his shoulders, foregoing a neck entirely, and his fists are each about the size of my face. Just before he climbs into the ring, he cuts a cold glance at Colt… and then his black eyes slide to meet mine.

I shiver when he stares at me, suddenly understanding his nickname. There’s not an ounce of warmth inside him.

Dropping my gaze, I refuse to watch as he does his victory lap around the inside of the ring, hyping the crowd to new levels. They chant like druids at the alter of their god.

ICE-MAN!

ICE-MAN!

ICE-MAN!

The announcer’s voice blares again. “And now, ladies and gents, your challenger this evening… your very own hometown hero… a man who’ll bring the heat and try to burn his way to an upset… BLAZE BUCHANAN!”

Luca’s entry music always makes me grin. What can I say? The Dropkick Murphy’s
I’m Shipping Up to Boston
is an unbeatable soundtrack choice for a redheaded Irishman from the city. The crowd eats it up, singing along as Luca emerges from the back room and jogs to the stage, two beefy security guards at his sides to keep the fans back. Just before he hops up the steps into the ring, he spots me. His lips curl into a devilish grin.

I smile back and mouth,
Good luck
.

He winks and steps into the arena, all humor fading from his expression as his focus narrows on his opponent. He looks much, much smaller than his 210 pounds, up there next to the human ice sculpture.

Colt’s shoulder bumps mine. “Breathe, babe.”

I bump him back. “I’ll breathe when it’s over.”

The announcer steps out. The referee steps in. The octagon door slams closed. The crowd screams. The fighters start to circle…

I hold my breath and force myself to watch as round one begins.

I
t’s brutal
. Bloody.

Colt was right — they’re pretty evenly matched. Luca moves quickly, ducking punches and striking out strategically whenever Iceman drops his hands, like the sun unleashing a solar flare of pure heat. I cheer as he manages to land several sharp blows to Iceman’s head. Still, the sheer strength of his opponent can’t be dismissed, because no matter how many times Luca hits him, the bastard refuses to go down. By the final round, Luca’s bleeding from his bottom lip, and I’m relatively certain Iceman is actually made of stone.

The crowd is growing uneasy, the longer the match persists without a clear victor. They expected Iceman to take Luca out in one hit — now, with the clock ticking down to the finals seconds, they’re not so sure about the outcome… or the security of their bets.

Both competitors are breathing heavily as they move around the arena. My eyes never leave Luca as he moves sharply to the left, attempting a knock-out uppercut to the jaw. I feel the breath seize in my throat as Iceman anticipates his strike and lunges back, so Luca’s fist hits nothing but air. The forward momentum of the punch pulls Luca off balance, stumbling a few steps toward the closest cage wall. Iceman uses it to his advantage, effectively backing Luca into a corner in the tiny slice of time it takes the smaller man to find his footing.

Fuck.

Once you’re pinned, it’s almost impossible to escape — especially if your opponent is roughly the size of Mount Everest. The audience cheers as Iceman grapples for a solid hold. I watch his big hand flying out, preparing to deliver a fatal blow to the top of Luca’s spine…

And then, the unthinkable — Luca ducks, quicker than I’ve ever seen him, pivots behind the lumbering hunk of ice, and swipes Iceman’s legs out from under him with a perfectly placed roundhouse kick to the back of the thighs. The giant falls like a tree in the forest, face-first onto the canvas mats, and before he has time to find his feet, Luca’s there, delivering a series of sharp jabs to his ribs. His arm snakes around Iceman’s throat in a chokehold as he presses him into the mat, demanding submission.

It’s over quickly, after that.

The ache of worry inside my chest eases as soon as Iceman’s fist taps the mat, crying uncle. The crowd is stunned, their roars louder than ever — some are pissed to see their champion fall, but most are thrilled that the underdog dominated. It’s akin to David taking on Goliath — albeit a bit bloodier. (And I’m relatively certain there were no bikini-clad ring girls pressed up against
David
after he won that biblical bout.)

Colt is whooping in celebration as he pulls me up the stairs into the octagon. We’re barely on the canvas when Luca appears. Dismissing his corner men and clingy cheerleaders without a word, he grabs me in a giant bear hug.

“You did it,” I yell into his ear, returning his tight embrace as he spins me in a circle. “Are you okay? You nose is bleeding.”

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? Because—”

“
Mom
, I said I’m fine.”

I huff.

“Thanks for coming, babe,” he says, pulling back so he can look down into my face. “I know I was a dick, the other day.”

“You think?” I ask, arching a brow.

He smirks. “I’ll make it up to you. You’ll see.”

“You can start by setting me down. You’re so sweaty, I might actually drown standing this close to you. It’s gross.”

With a laugh, he sets me back on my feet. He turns to accept a back-slapping hug from Colton — but not before wiping a sweat-coated arm against my face just to taunt me, the rotten bastard.

“Ew!” I exclaim, dragging my sleeve against the sweat mark. “Now I have to go wash my face.”

Luca rolls his eyes. “Priss.”

Colt shakes his head. “Such a girl.”

I flip them both off.

“Hurry back! We’re going out to celebrate!” Colton scuffs his knuckles against Luca’s head in a playful gesture. “Pretty sure this guy could use a few drinks.”

I laugh as I turn away, calling back over my shoulder, “Oh, get a room, you two.”

Luca’s grin is the last thing I see before the mob of fans closes in around him.

It takes a while, but eventually I maneuver through the dozens of people crowding the octagon and make my way down the stairs. My eyes scan the crowd as everyone slowly funnels out the front doors onto the street — five hundred people trying to exit at once has resulted in a serious traffic jam. I’m searching in vain for a bathroom sign, eyes moving along the walls, when I see something that makes my heart clench inside my chest.

It’s been a while, but I’d recognize her anywhere.

Long, dark hair. Impeccable clothing. Skyscraper heels.

And, most familiar, a set of hazel eyes so like her brother’s it makes my heart twist.

Phoebe West.

She’s standing with a group of girls about fifty feet to my left. A brunette with large blue eyes — who looks so strikingly similar to Phoebe she must be her sister — is telling a story, making everyone laugh. A petite woman with a platinum pixie cut is standing with her back to me. By her side is a willowy brunette who must teach yoga because,
damn
the girl has a rocking body. Rounding out the group is a curvaceous strawberry blond with big brown eyes I can see, even from this distance, are glossy and long-lashed.

They’re all giggling and grinning, clearly having a great night.

I tell myself to walk away, to fade into the crowd before Phoebe has a chance to spot me, but it’s like I’ve lost control of my senses. My eyes move of their own accord, seeking someone else in the crowd… someone with tousled blond hair and a broad chest…

I don’t find him.

Instead, my eyes latch onto the man hovering just behind Phoebe. The way he’s standing — feet planted, arms crossed, eyes hyper-vigilant as they scan the crowd — tells me he’s guarding her from any potential threats. I know who he is without blinking twice.

Nathaniel Knox.

Parker’s best friend; Phoebe’s boyfriend.

Knox Investigations is well-known and well-respected by everyone in this city. Knox is smart, capable, and exceedingly good at his job. Which probably explains why he notices my scrutiny almost instantly.

Dark eyes lock on mine, a question in their depths. He takes a stride closer to Phoebe, never looking away from me, and as I see him bend to catch her attention, I finally snap into motion.

She can’t see me. She’ll recognize me. Confront me about abandoning her last year. Remind me what a shitty fucking person I am for walking away.

And somehow, it’ll all get back to Parker… who I’ve determined to avoid for the rest of infinity…

I whirl and bolt in the opposite direction, cursing myself for being so incapacitated by just the thought of Parker, I let my guard down entirely. Spotting the small, illuminated bathroom sign at the far end of the gym, I race toward it, hoping Phoebe hasn’t spotted me. My black Toms eat up the distance in seconds. When my hand curls around the knob, I ignore the tinge of disappointment in my stomach.