Passing His Guard (Against the Cage #2) (2 page)

“Get up!”

The metal rasp of curtains being yanked open sent a blast of bright Nevada sun beaming onto Aiden’s face. He squinted against the unwelcome light and lifted his arm, shielding his eyes from the blinding assault.

“What the fuck, Coach?”

“Don’t you ‘what the fuck’ me, boy. Easton’s at the gym waiting for you and he’s pissed as hell.”

“Aww shit . . .” he muttered under his breath and lifted his head, squinting to see the alarm clock on the nightstand—5:50 a.m. Trapped beneath a tangle of arms and legs, Aiden tried to wrest himself free without waking the women on both sides of him.

Marcus, his surly coach, wasn’t nearly as considerate. “Come on, ladies,” he announced, kicking the foot of Aiden’s bed. “Up and at ’em.” As he made his way across the bedroom, he swiped up the clothing off the floor and began tossing it at the women. When it began raining bras, panties, shirts, and miniskirts they began to stir, stretching lazily beside Aiden. Bare breasts rubbed against his ribs, long legs dragging over his as they reluctantly untangled with moans of protest.

They didn’t seem to care they were no longer alone. Apparently, modesty was a foreign concept to these women. Aiden, on the other hand, would have preferred not having a cranky Marcus glowering at him while the woman on his right slid her hand between his legs to grab his—

“Uh-uh!” Marcus barked, kicking the foot of his bed again when the blonde tried to slip her hand beneath the covers. “This disco stick is done dancing, sweetheart. Get dressed and get out—now.”

Damn . . . Coach must really be pissed. It wasn’t like him to be so gruff. The man normally had the patience of Job, which was something Aiden always admired about the guy—so opposite his own father. The girls booed and whined about getting tossed, but they were smart enough not to push the old guy, who looked like he was about to lose his shit. They began exchanging bras and sorting out whose clothing belonged to whom as they dressed, making no attempt to cover their nakedness from Marcus’s scowling view.

“It’s not even six a.m. yet,” Aiden complained, scrubbing his hands over his face, trying to wake up.

“Cole’s been at the gym since five.”

“He still bitchy?”

“As ever. He’s the jackass and you’re the jack-off. I swear between the two of you, you’re gonna force me into early retirement.”

Once dressed, the blonde turned and kissed his cheek. “See you later, Disco.”

“Call me,” the brunette added, planting a lip-lock on his mouth. They took another moment to search the floor for their shoes. The girls held on to each other for balance as they slipped into their stilettos and wobbled precariously toward the door. Marcus stood by the entrance, ushering them out. Whether their instability was from sleep deprivation or intoxication, Aiden wasn’t sure. He tipped his head, his gaze following the girls as they walked away, appreciating how that black miniskirt hugged the blonde’s barely covered ass.

Once they were out of view, he glanced at a glaring Marcus, whose arms were crossed over his burly chest as he shook his head in disgust.

“What?” Aiden grouched.

“You’re better than this, Kruze. Getting trashed every night and crashing in hotel rooms with your latest piece of ass.”

Maybe he was better than this—once—but he left that guy back in New York along with the Armani suits and five-thousand-dollar-a-plate dinner parties. “Don’t judge me,” he growled, throwing back the covers, mindless of his own nakedness. “You’re not my father.” Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he stood and then promptly grabbed hold of the nightstand to steady himself against the spins. Fuck, he was still drunk.

“Son of a bitch . . .” Marcus muttered under his breath, dragging his hand over his hairless head.

Once the topsy-turvys slowed down, Aiden made his way to the foot of the bed and snagged his own clothes off the hotel floor.

“You’re right,” Marcus snapped. “I’m not your dad—thank God. But I am your coach, which means you do
what
I say
when
I say, and right now I’m telling you to get your ass in that shower. Wash those women off and be ready to leave in fifteen minutes. You’ve got a fight in two days. What the hell were you thinking? I can’t believe you, staying out until God knows when, getting shit-faced, and whoring it up.”

He wadded his clothes in his hand and had the decency to hold them over his groin as he shuffled toward Marcus, the self-appointed doorkeeper. The old man was tough as nails and hard on his fighters, but that was nothing compared to the bear he’d become since his niece, Katie Miller, had taken a rather abrupt and unexpected departure back home to Wisconsin. Not that Aiden let it stop him from kicking the hornet’s nest as he passed the guy, knowing full well he was going to pay for it once they hit the gym.

“Whoring implies there was payment for services rendered. That right there was for free. YOLO . . .”

CHAPTER

 2 

F
ff-fff . . . fff-fff . . . fff-fff . . .
Aiden exhaled in succinct time with his punches as they connected with the heavy bag. Cole Easton, aka “the Beast of the East,” stood on the other side, holding it steady. The man was an MMA god—and his best friend. It was a damn shame what happened to him. These last seven months had been a living hell for the guy, and just when it seemed like there was finally a light at the end of the tunnel . . .

“You heard from Katie yet?” Aiden asked before laying another round of rapid punches into the bag.

“Nope.”

Fff-fff . . . fff-fff . . . fff-fff . . .
“You gonna call her? Straighten this mess out?”

“Nope.”

Fff-fff . . . fff-fff . . . fff-fff . . .
“You wanna talk about it?”

“Nope.”

Aiden didn’t envy his friend. Easton was going through some tough shit right now, and it didn’t help that he’d fallen for his physical therapist, who just happened to be his coach’s niece. What he wouldn’t give to know what happened between those two to send that gorgeous woman running back to Wisconsin.

Fff-fff . . . fff-fff . . . fff-fff . . .
“You know you’re a fucking idiot, right?”

“Yep.”

“Kruze!” Coach bellowed across the gym. “Warm-up time is over, dickhead! Del Toro is here! Get your ass in the ring!”

“You really pissed Coach off,” Cole muttered, unhelpfully stating the obvious.

Fff-fff . . . fff-fff . . . fff-fff . . .
“Yep.”

“Looks like I’m not the only fucking idiot around here.”

Del Toro was putting his mouth guard in place when Aiden slipped between the ropes. Heading to the opposite corner, he took a moment to stretch out a cramp in his calf muscle. Shit, he must be dehydrated. So, admittedly it probably hadn’t been the best idea to drink a bottle of Jägermeister and then head back to his hotel for a threesome. But what the hell, right? He grabbed his bottle of Gatorade and drained it before tossing it into the trash near the lockers. “You see that, old man? Nothing but net,” he proudly proclaimed, raising his arms in the air as if he’d just won the middleweight title.

Marcus rolled his eyes, but the twitch of his top lip told Aiden the cranky-ass was trying really hard to stay mad at him. Not a feat easily accomplished when he turned on his charm.

“Nice shot, Disco,” Del Toro called, stepping into the center of the ring and knocking his gloved fists together a couple of times, the universal language for
Get your ass over here and let’s do this
. Nikko “the Bull” Del Toro was no fucking joke. The guy could pound—and if you didn’t have good stand-up, the Bull would pound your ass into the mat.

“Thanks, man.”

“Too bad that’s the only shot you’re gonna land today.” The ex-marine’s challenging grin only made him look meaner, the scar on his top lip pulling tight. Stony gray eyes met Aiden’s—hard and determined. There was something in that stare, or maybe a lack of something, that put Aiden on edge. The guy always seemed like he was holding his shit together by a thread. He pitied the dumb bastard who ever clipped it.

“We’ll see about that,” Aiden muttered before slipping in his mouth guard.

Easton took a seat next to Marcus, and they whispered back and forth, their eyes locked on him. “Let’s see what you’ve got,” Coach called out, signaling him to get the show on the road. Del Toro wasted no time assuming his fighting stance: knees bent, arms up, and fists clenched. He swung for Aiden, narrowly missing his jaw.

Motherfucker . . .

“He’s got a long reach!” Easton yelled, “Don’t let him range you!”

Del Toro dropped his guard, and Aiden couldn’t resist. He shot in as Cole yelled from the sideline, “Dammit, he’s baiting you!”

But it was too late. He swung for Del Toro’s face as the fighter’s arm came up, deflecting the blow, which left Aiden open to take an uppercut. The blow to his jaw was fast and solid. It rocked him back a couple of steps and sent a few stars bursting behind his eyes.

“Fuck!” Easton yelled from the sideline. “Are you still drunk, Kruze?”

Maybe . . .

“Because that is the oldest shit in the book and you just fell for it. You do that in the cage two nights from now and you are going to lose this fucking fight!”

Well, that right hook killed the remainder of Aiden’s buzz and effectively pissed him the hell off. He tipped his head to the left, then to the right, cracking his neck back into place, and then nodded to Del Toro, silently complimenting his striking. The fighter gave him an arrogant, lopsided grin and relaxed his stance, confidence overruling common sense. Kruze took a step forward and wobbled just enough to incite Del Toro’s famed killer instinct. But when the Bull came for him this time, Aiden was ready. He ducked as the powerful fist came at him and brought his leg up, sending a hook kick slamming into Del Toro’s ribs. Air whooshed from the guy’s lungs, the momentum sending him forward just enough to bring his face in line with Aiden’s fist. He slammed an uppercut into the Bull’s jaw that took the fighter to his knees.

“Stop, goddammit!” Cole yelled, voice booming off the metal rafters, as he jumped to his feet. “Do either of you two assholes know the meaning of the word
spar
? If you want to kick each other’s asses, save it for the cage!” He turned to Del Toro and pointed at Aiden. “He has a fight in two days! I don’t want him stepping into that ring with a fucking concussion! And you—” He turned his wrath on Aiden. “Del Toro is training for a rematch with Kennedy, so how about you don’t break his fucking ribs? Give me those gloves!”

“Oh, shit . . .” Coach muttered, no doubt wishing he hadn’t handed Aiden’s training over to the light-heavyweight champion. “Katie is going to have my ass.”

Cole pinned Marcus with a steely glare. “Katie isn’t here now, is she?”

Aiden didn’t miss the accusation in that snarled growl or the guilty grimace on Marcus’s face.

Cole climbed into the ring with a surprising amount of agility for a guy who hadn’t even been able to walk six months ago. He’d taken an illegal flying side kick to the back after winning the light-heavyweight title, shattering his spine and what they all had thought would be his career. It was nothing short of a miracle the guy was standing in front of him right now—a miracle in the form of a physical therapist named Katie Miller.

Del Toro pulled off his open-mitt gloves and slapped them into Cole’s waiting hand. He shot Aiden a
sucks to be you
smirk and rose to his feet.

“Go get those ribs checked out,” Easton told the fighter before turning his full attention to Aiden. “Now I don’t have a guard in, so if you hit me in the fucking mouth, I’ll kill you.” That being said, the Beast of the East knocked his gloves together and they squared off.

There had to be some kind of mistake. This could not be the same Aiden Kruze, son of Sen. Bennett Kruze and Lady Madeline Kruze, that Ryann was searching for. Yet the similarities were striking. His eyes, for one—those amber irises flecked with dark brown and gold were unmistakable. Even from across the gym, she could see their unnaturally bright hue that seemed to glow with a predatory glint, reminding her of a giant cat. He was larger than the man in the photo. Perhaps not in height but definitely more muscular, and his hair . . . still the same tawny color, it was considerably longer and disheveled. Not one rebellious strand cooperated with the other.

Aiden stood in the center of the ring as one fighter handed another his gloves and then exited the ring. He moved a little slow, seeming to guard his left side. The two men in the ring began sparring, and watching them fight was like observing a well-choreographed dance. Aiden moved fast and fluidly, ducking and dodging more punches than he was throwing. His opponent seemed stiffer, but what he lacked in footwork he more than made up for in skill and power.

Ryann had never been an MMA fan. She knew of the sport, understood it was a combination of mixed martial arts styles along with boxing and wrestling, but she’d never seen an actual fight. Watching Aiden in the ring sparring with the other man, she had to admit being a bit awed in the basest, most primal way. The Darwin in her stood up and took notice of what was, without a doubt, the most beautifully well-built man she’d ever seen. Heat flooded her veins, centering in all her feminine places as she stood there watching these two men exchange blows. She was so engrossed in the mock-fight playing out before her that she didn’t even see the third man approach until he was right beside her.

“You lost?”

“Excuse me?” She startled, taking a step back to put a little more distance between her and the man towering over her.

“This isn’t Snap Fitness, lady. Women aren’t allowed in here.”

What a sexist jackass.
“Oh . . . I was umm . . . was looking for someone.”

The man crossed his beefy arms over his chest, and his dark brows drew tight. Eyes the color of steel, and just as hard, stared her down. The scar slashing through his cheek didn’t do the guy any favors. He looked too mean to be called handsome, though she figured some women would find him so—if they were into that
I’m going to eat your liver with fava beans and a bottle of Chianti
sort of thing. Ryann, on the other hand . . . not so much.

“Let me guess,” he said, rolling his eyes in disgust. “You’re looking for Disco.”

“Who?”

Instead of answering her, he made half a turn toward the fighters and yelled, “Hey, Disco, you’ve got another banger here to see you!”

She looked behind her. Was he talking about her? What the hell was a “banger”?

Aiden turned to look her way. His attention shifted from the brute standing beside her to Ryann. When her eyes briefly locked with those amber jewels, she momentarily forgot to breathe. Something sparked between them, an instant connection held suspended in time—until the man he was sparring with punched him in the face. Ryann gasped, sucking in a giant gulp of air. Aiden stumbled back a step and swiped the back of his gloved hand across his now bleeding lip. He spit out his mouth guard, sending it tumbling across the mat. “Goddammit, Easton! That was a cheap-ass shot and you know it.”

“Then keep your eyes on me, asshole—where they belong, instead of on that tail making eyes at you.”

Ryann stiffened indignantly. She wasn’t making eyes at him, and she sure as hell wasn’t anyone’s tail. The man beside her chuckled, seeming to take great delight in watching Aiden take one in the mouth. His dark, throaty rumble made the fine hairs on the back of her neck prickle and she shot him a disapproving scowl. “Think that’s funny, do you?”

“Immensely. Serves the bastard right for breaking my rib.”

She glanced back at Aiden to find him slipping between the ropes. The moment his feet touched the ground, he headed her way at a determined clip that did funny things to her pulse.

“That’s enough, Del Toro. Leave the lady alone.”

Aiden’s attention was fixed on the man standing beside her. It wasn’t until the other fighter chuffed and ambled away that the full weight of that imposing stare became centered solely on her—up close and personal. Her heart actually missed a beat, which was so clichéd she might have laughed out loud if her lungs hadn’t quit working. As his gaze swept over her, making an unhurried head-to-toe assessment, she swore to the Almighty she could actually feel everywhere those eyes touched. They lingered on her breasts without apology. Her nipples hardened in response, and she prayed they weren’t showing through her rayon top, but she suspected her plea had gone unanswered when a crooked grin tipped his mouth.