Uncaged Love: Volume 6 (Uncaged Love #6) (6 page)

For a second, I flash to that night when Colt and I were shot. One of the men slammed a tire iron across Colt’s shin, but Colt simply took it away and threw it over a fence.

But my breathing comes rapidly anyway. Mom puts her hand on my back.

One of the boys smashes a taillight. The headlights are already broken, the bits scattered on the road.

“I’m going out there,” Hudson says, and leaps up from the sofa.

But our mother stands in front of the door. “Oh, no, you’re not,” she says. “Those boys have a weapon.”

“You want me to call the police?” I ask. I jerk my cell phone from my jeans pocket.

“Yes,” she says. “Let them handle these hooligans.”

I dial and watch out the windows, then quickly snap a shot of them and their car. It’s odd they are willing to do this in broad daylight when anyone can see. They notice us and get back in their car. With a roar, they take off down the street. Their license plate number is covered with something.

But this is an island. There will only be so many beat-up red Dodge trucks.

“They’re gone,” I say to Hudson and Mom.

I tell the operator that I want the police as Hudson goes outside to inspect the damage. Mom stays in the doorway, squeezing the dish towel. Her face is tight with concern. She turns to look at me.

“I’m on hold,” I say. “Good thing it’s not an emergency.”

Finally I’m patched through. I tell the woman about the vandalism and she says she’ll send an officer along. I look out the window. Hudson is kicking at the pieces of broken plastic.

“Why would they do this?” Mom asks. “They already beat him in the match, right?”

I don’t answer. I know exactly why they did this. It has nothing to do with Hudson, and everything to do with me.

Chapter Nine

Hudson decides to face Akoni alone, so I stay with Mom. She’s spooked about the incident, even though the officer who came along said she was “pretty sure she knew exactly who was responsible.”

I don’t have a speck of faith that anything will come of that. Breaking out some headlights is a pretty minor charge. Silly thing to do, really, although it occurs to me that this was exactly how the night Colt and I got shot began. They broke out the headlamp of Colt’s Harley. Does nobody do anything original for intimidation?

Not that it is going to work on me. Pretty much nothing scares me anymore, not after what we have already survived.

I go back to Mom’s dining table while she washes dishes. She’s already waved off my help, saying she needs to do something domestic to calm herself down. With the time it takes her to rinse out a few salad bowls, I’m guessing they might be clean enough to hold surgical instruments.

I have no intention of telling her what went down at the boxing match with me and the spectators. I’m still not sure myself. My hurricane seems like it has gone back to its old state, before Colt, before training, when I was uncontrolled and unexpectedly violent. Like a storm.

I wish Colt were here. For a moment, I wrap myself up in the misery that I ended up alone here in Hawaii to wait out the wedding. I sit there brooding so long that I’m startled when Mom sits down next to me and covers my fidgety hands with hers.

“Worried about the wedding?” she asks.

Actually, that’s a whole new wrinkle in the ceremony, if those punks show up. But I don’t think that’s what she’s asking.

“Not really,” I say. “You all seem to have it under control. I just have to show up in the dress, right?” I imagine the jerks shredding my Audrey Hepburn gown and cringe.

Mom misinterprets my expression. “Would you like to go over the plans? It seemed like you wanted me and Zandalee to handle the details.”

“No, I want you to do it. I really do,” I say quickly. “You guys will come up with something way better than I would.”

She picks up one of my hands and peers at it. “You been doing some hard training?”

I look down. My knuckles are swollen, and I have several cuts. I hadn’t even noticed. “It’s always tough,” I say. “Akoni’s bags are different from mine. I have to adjust.”

I swallow at the lie. But I can’t worry her. I’ll figure out how to handle these boys when I can get alone with Hudson and figure out who they are.

I have something else I want to talk to Mom about. “You remember that first day we saw each other, and you told me you used to fly into rages when you were a girl? That you broke some boy’s ribs?”

She lets go of my hands. “Yes, I remember.”

“How did it stop? I mean, you’re so calm now. When did it go away?”

Mom pulls the salt and pepper shakers across the table and absently wipes the tops with her dishcloth. “I removed myself from situations where I might get triggered,” she says. “I guess when you get old enough, you have enough life experience that less gets to you. You can handle things logically rather than overreacting.”

I sense there is a lot more to her story than she is telling. “Did it get worse before it got better?”

She pushes the salt and pepper away and flattens her hands on the table as if it’s difficult to keep control of them. Her long earrings swing below her upswept hair. “I have managed to avoid anything that would get to me. Living here helps.” She looks around her kitchen and I follow her gaze. Colorful curtains, painted walls, ceramic plates hanging on wire racks. Everywhere your eyes land is something cute or bright.

She’s surrounded herself with happy things.

“Do you date anybody?” I ask her.

She stiffens. “No. That’s exactly the sort of thing I have to avoid.” She stands up, as if signaling she won’t talk about this anymore.

I get it. I won’t push.

“So, do you like cleaning houses?” I ask. “We could help if you wanted to go to school, learn to do something.”

“I’m not proud,” she says. “Cleaning houses is good honest work.” She stands up and walks around the room, touching various bits of art on her walls. “It gives you a real sense of accomplishment when you take something that needs attention and make it perfect.”

I believe her. I can see her point of view. But when she reaches out to adjust one of the curtains, her hand is shaking. And I think — my mother has something to hide.

Chapter Ten

When a few more days pass in Hawaii without incident, I start to relax. Training with Hudson is fun. I focus on my punches, and Akoni helps me improve my close-in fight strategies. He’s still punishing Hudson for the match by making him do endless squat kicks. Hudson can barely walk at the end of each day.

Akoni doesn’t ask me if I’m going to take on matches again. Everyone is very careful about emphasizing only what’s in front of us. Besides, it’s natural that I wouldn’t take any chances with the wedding only a couple weeks away.

Colt defeats his championship challenger handily, as was expected, and makes preparations to join me in Honolulu. The Cure and Eve don’t plan to arrive until a few days prior to the wedding.

I send my wedding dress off with Zandalee for safekeeping and The Cure arranges for a courier to place my ring in a safe-deposit box. These things help me relax that nothing will destroy the few things I’m responsible for, although I feel certain the confrontation with Exterminator and his friends is over now that they’ve had their moment of acting out.

All this is probably why Hudson and I don’t see it coming when we cross through the trees after a long day of working out and are blocked by four young men. Even though Exterminator isn’t with them, I recognize them from the match. And I’m pretty sure one of them was there when Hudson’s lights were smashed.

Hudson and I are both tired from our day. We’re not looking forward to taking on four bigger, stronger boys. I halt and hold my hand out in front of Hudson to stop him too.

We’re almost exactly halfway between the streets, so I know they’ve been here waiting.

“What do you want?” I ask them.

Nobody answers. The four of them look eerily similar, all with close-burred heads and scruffy mustaches. They must all see the same tattoo artist because their arms have near-identical skulls and roses in slightly altered configurations.

I want to ask them if their mother dresses them all the same, since every one of them has on black fight shorts and a T-shirt with the sleeves cut out. But I hold back. No point in antagonizing them. In my experience with hotheaded fighters, a moment like this is only going to end in blows. I’d rather use the time until the first hit comes to assess them and come up with a strategy.

If they are only boxers, I definitely want to come at them with kicks and sweeps. It’s easier to take on more than one opponent with big fast moves. I have four weapons — six with my elbows — to their two fists.

Hudson speaks first. “You need to back off,” he says.

One of the boys laughs. “You need to check your sister.”

I have no idea what he means by that. “Hudson is not in charge of me,” I say. “I act on my own.”

And that action is about to be to take them on. Judging by their thigh and calf muscles, they have focused on upper body. I figure as soon as one makes a move, I’ll cut under him and take on two of the others. Hopefully Hudson can handle at least one of them. Nobody’s wearing gloves, and possibly nobody but me knows what it’s like to hit somebody bare-fisted. It will shock them, how much more it hurts. That surprise will be my opening.

But Hudson’s going to have the same problem.

I sigh. I really don’t want to go into this. I don’t really want to go full hurricane, uncontrolled. Last time it took a crowd to pull me down. I need to defend myself, but I don’t want to get into it hardcore with anyone. I can seriously hurt people.

I flash to the vision of my stepbrother Rich, bleeding on the floor of the bathroom the day I ran away. I’m long past getting over how I feel about him, but it’s still a sight that haunts me. Here in this wooded block, I’ll be in the awkward position of both taking them down and having to call for their medical help.

“You really don’t want to start something,” I say. “I can’t control what happens.”

They all laugh this time. “You think a little pipsqueak like you can take on all four of us?” one asks.

“Were you at the fight or not?” I ask. “How many people did it take to stop me, and how many people got injured?”

This shuts them up for a second. Hudson turns to me curiously. “What are you talking about?”

“You were pretty out of it,” I tell him. “I got in a little altercation.”

None of us have moved. I keep my knees and arms loose, ready but not in fight stance.

I weigh the wisdom of trying to go around them, or pushing through, or just waiting them out. Damn. I hate this. Why are there thugs all through the fighting circles? Obviously hotheads are attracted to the sport. But they probably aren’t about the competition, just the high of the fight.

And a tussle like this probably works just as well for what they’re after.

“You have to learn to respect the rules of the fights,” one of them says. “You interrupted the match.”

“The match was over,” I shoot back. “Boxers need to live to fight another day.”

“That’s not how we see it,” a second guy says. “We see a chick interfering with our system.”

“Is that what we’re getting at?” I ask. “The ‘chick’ part? You can’t handle that a female fighter took on so many of you?”

One of them steps forward, fists up. “I’m totally fine with hitting a chick in the name of equal rights.”

I step closer too. “Then take the first shot.”

For a moment, he’s quiet and still. I think he’s going to back down. Then he snaps, and time moves slowly for me as I see his arm swinging upward for a jaw shot.

I block it easily and sweep his legs, sending him straight to the dirt.

I whirl around, expecting the others to join in, but they are all laughing and holding their bellies.

The guy leaps to his feet, and I start to get an idea of his training level. He doesn’t do it the most efficient way, to protect himself as he gets up. He’s barely done any real work with a coach at all.

I glance over at Hudson, and see he’s noted it too.

The guy isn’t done. He comes at me again, this time with a fake and then a jab. It’s coming at my ribs, so I take it. Then I spin out and let the toughest part of my body, my elbow, deliver a hard clock to his chin.

This makes him mad, and he lunges for me. God, he’s clunky and slow. I duck and turn, and he misses me by a long shot. While he’s scrambling for his balance, I kick him twice hard in the belly.

I can feel the blow I took to the ribs, but I know he can feel what I’ve done too. His hands must be screaming. I’m used to fighting through pain. It’s part of training. The kind he probably lacks.

The other three guys don’t seem in any hurry to jump in, but I keep my eye on them. I don’t antagonize this guy, just stay low and ready for whatever he might try next.

But he brushes the dirt off his knees. “This is lame,” he says. “Let’s go.”

I have a thousand things I want to call out after them, not the least of which is a warning to leave Hudson’s property alone. They seem to realize they can’t win with me and don’t want to risk the embarrassment of multiple attacks getting taken down by a girl.

Hudson hasn’t moved from where he stands. I can tell he wants to go after them, shout something, but he follows my lead. They wander out of the trees.

I finally drop my hands. This feels so much like the night in LA that I’m lightheaded. Striker, Lani, and Annie walked off only to let the hired punks take over the dirty work. Work that ended in gunfire, something no amount of kicks and hits can defend against.

I realize I’m breathing fast and work to bring it down.

“You okay, Jo?” Hudson asks. “You’re really pale.”

I force myself to shake it off with a shrug of my shoulders. “I’m all right.”

We take our time picking through the woods, ready for a renewed attack at any moment. Then we hear a crash and breaking glass. Then another.

“There goes my car again, I bet,” Hudson says, and starts running.

He’s been parking at my rented house so we could walk together, but now we realize that in doing so, we tipped them off to where I live.