The Fighter Duet: Two Full-Length, Red-Hot New Adult Fighter Romances (22 page)

“Slayde?” I started to go to him, but Derek cut me off.

“What the HELL are you doing here?” Anger flared in his deep voice, hotter than his concern for Stuart.

His sudden rage made me pause. My heart beat too hard; it made my arms and legs weak. I’d never seen Slayde like this, and Derek was seething.

Slayde appeared to be in shock. “I got out. They let me go on—”

“Of course they did.” Derek’s voice was disgusted. “Murderers always get out, don’t they?”

“It was an accident—”

“The ‘Slayer Death Attack’ is no fucking accident. It’s a trained fight move.”

His words were like a foreign language to me—one I didn’t want to understand.
Murderer? Slayer Death Attack?

“It was a long time ago,” Slayde’s voice was flat. “I was out of control.”

I tried to approach my love. I was afraid, and I wanted him to hold me. I wanted him to be okay, but Derek snatched my arm, jerking me back. “What are you doing?”

It was so sudden and violent, Patrick stepped forward, touching his shoulder. “Easy, partner. What’s this about?”

“Are you
with
him?” Derek’s grey-blue eyes flashed from me to Slayde. “Don’t you fucking know who she is?”

Slayde looked at me, but he was crumbling. I could see it—as if he knew the answer before it was given. His voice was barely above a whisper. “Who… is she?”

Derek stepped in front of me, his tall form and broad shoulders creating an unwanted shield between the man I loved and me. His voice was pure judgment.

“She’s the widow of Blake Woods. The man you beat to death five years ago outside a bar in Princeton—”

Slayed doubled over. His fist went to his mouth, and those pale blue eyes met mine with such anguish. He stood up fast, pushing through the glass doors out of the gym. The noise of his abrupt departure echoed in my ears, but my heart had stopped.

My vision clouded over, and I couldn’t seem to move. Everything was falling apart, shattering with my insides into a million pieces. Confused, I tried to look up at Derek, but I was blinded by his words.

“Why did you say that?” I couldn’t breathe. I was drowning in the answers my brain was fighting to reject.

Patrick was with me, scooping me into his arms. “Hold on, Ken. I’ve got you.”

Mariska’s voice was far away. “I don’t understand. What just happened?”

Derek answered her slowly. “Five years ago I helped put Slayde Bennett and his accomplice Stitch Alana away for the second-degree murder of Blake Woods and Max Marconi.”

He paused for a moment before driving the meaning home. “Blake was Kenny’s husband.”

It was the last thing I heard before my world went black.

F
ive years ago
...

S
titch was
on his fifth beer, and I’d finished my fourth shot of whiskey. It wasn’t working. Bitterness smoldered in my chest, ready to ignite. With every breath the burn grew stronger.

“They fuckin’ invited Compton.” My jaw was clenched. “He fights like he’s on fuckin’ Quaaludes.”

“Fuckers are scared,” my friend said. “They passed you over because they know you’ve got more talent than
all
those assholes. They’re afraid of losing their careers.”

He patted my shoulder leaning forward into my face. I pulled my arm back with a snarl. “Your breath stinks.”

The bartender stopped in front of me. I pointed down. Another shot of whiskey. My friend laughed, and I raised the short glass. A skinny punk slammed into my arm, knocking it out of my hand.

“What the fuck?” The rage was burning behind my eyes now. Two steps and this asshole would be eating my dirt.

“You talking to me, motherfucker?” The idiot actually got in my face.

“Ah, shit.” Stitch’s low voice hissed beside me. “Keep moving, lowlife.”

Too late. I was out of my seat. “I’m talking to you.”

We were nose to nose. He was my height, at least twenty pounds lighter, and he wore a white tank that showed off skinny arms covered in ink. I couldn’t wait to wipe the floor with this wannabe badass.

Stitch had my arm, pulling me back and speaking to the fucker with a death wish. “Take your drink and go.”

The punk’s eyes narrowed. He was a snake, I could tell it. A sneaky fucker. The type to pull a shiv out of his boot when your back was turned.

It didn’t matter. The burn in my chest demanded blood. My fists clenched, and I had to get that release. I needed to pound his lights out.
One more word, motherfucker.

Just as fast another chump joined him. This one was equally stupid. “What’s your name, shorty?”

Stitch bristled. “Stitch.”

Explosions of laughter flew in our faces. The skinny punks fell against the bar, and I heard the seconds ticking in my brain, the countdown.

“You some fuckin’ Hawaiian alien, short stack?” The new guy’s arm was around Punk #1’s shoulders, hanging on him like a loose coat.

“I’m Hawaiian,” my friend growled. “And when I finish with you, you’ll have more stitches than skin.”

“OUTSIDE!” The bartender’s roar was right at my face.

“With pleasure,” Punk #2 said, leaning too close to my friend. “I’ll use shorty to clean the grease off my boots.”

“Then you’re gonna suck my dick.” The other one leaned into my nose.

Stitch caught his friend by the neck, hauling him to the side exit. I grabbed #1 by the arms and threw him against the wall after them. He rolled through the exit, but I caught the sneaky gleam in his eye.

The alley was hot and dark, and it smelled like dog shit. It had been raining all day, and now the black asphalt was slick. Cigarette butts dotted the clumps of weeds against the brick wall.

Stitch had already landed several blows on Punk #2. To his credit, he was letting him stand, pretending he had a chance. I had no such inclinations, but the shithead who’d gone before me was ready. I’d just passed through the exit when a bottle exploded beside my temple.

“FUCK YOU, MOTHERFUCKER!” He screamed, using all the force of his skinny weight to fall on me as I stepped back against the wall. My fists were up just as fast, blocking his sloppy punches.

He landed one amateur, from the country strike to my cheekbone, and in the second it took me to regain my bearings, I saw him shaking his hand and cringing. He’d probably broken his hand.

“That all you got, tough guy?” My voice was crazy with laughter. The demon inside me was awake. He roared in my ears, and the flames blazed from my chest into my brain.

Oof!
The sound of my fist making contact with his torso was like hitting a thick piece of meat—solid and perfect. Gratification tickled in my brain. I needed more.

The punk was screaming insults now, elbows flailing, ribs unprotected. I wanted him to shut the fuck up. That stupid noise scraped against my satisfaction like rubbing a cat’s fur backwards.

Spinning him around so his back was to the wall, my next strike went to his face. An arc of blood sprayed up my forearm as the satisfying crunch of bone echoed in my ears.

He screamed again, and my world went red. Vision tunneled, I was in that place. All that mattered was the swift movement of my fists, the pleasure of making contact over and over, pounding this mass of flesh into submission.

My fists flew like a machine gun. Every contact was a hit of the greatest drug. I was flying high. Bouncing back on my feet, my eyes closed. I let the pleasure roll down my shoulders like warm water.
More.

“Aw, shit,” I heard behind me.

I didn’t notice the flashing lights. I only heard another noise come from the meat in front of me. That did it.

Beating him over and over, I kept going until he stopped making that fucking noise. Then I hit him again to be sure he was done.

“Speak again, fucker. One more word.” My voice was sandpaper growling as I waited.

What used to be his face was now a black pulp in the dark night. My fists were black and sticky, but my entire body vibrated with adrenaline and satisfaction and everything I craved. It was so fucking good.

“Time to go.” Stitch jerked my arm.

I took one step back, and the mass in front of me fell like a tree, straight and slow, ending with a shuffling thunk on the pavement.

My body was shaking and high. The only thing that would make this moment more perfect would be to find some chick and bang her senseless. Lifting my chin, I looked up to the sky as a large drop hit my face. It was raining again.

“Now, Slayer.” My friend jerked my arm, and I took a few staggered steps into his car. I barely registered the sound of tires squealing and red and blue lights flashing into the parking lot.

Stretching back against the leather seat, I closed my eyes as we drove away.

Satisfaction.

* * *

D
erek Alexander stood
in that hallway, looked at me with those gunmetal eyes, and ended my life for the second time—this time for good.

The first time I’d seen him, I was a hate-filled shit who didn’t care. I’d killed because I didn’t value life. I had no respect, and I had no control.

Nothing in my life had given me a reason to believe in anything. I didn’t believe in love. I didn’t believe in the touch of a hand that could quiet the rage consuming my insides like the fires of hell.

I’d gone to that penitentiary ready to face my judgment. I was Slayer the death angel with fists of steel. I was the master of high-volume punching, and I wasn’t about to be anybody’s bitch. Let some asshole touch me. I’d see him in hell whenever it was my turn to bust that fiery hole wide open.

I had no soul. I had no heart. I was a shitless shell of human waste.

Doc took the time to change that. He saw in me something worth saving—not that I’d ever demonstrated any inclination toward goodness.

We shared the same cell for six weeks when I arrived in that hellhole in eastern New Jersey. For six weeks he got down on his knees every morning and prayed. He fucking
prayed
.

He asked God out loud to turn his wasted life into something that would make up for the sins he’d committed. He actually said that. Every goddamned day.

He wasn’t a big guy. He wasn’t intimidating or strong. He was older and skinny. Still, everyone looked up to him. The big guys went to him when they couldn’t take it anymore, and because he had answers, he was protected. He’d found a path to peace in the evil that composed our lives on the inside. He’d found a way to control the rage burning in all of us, and he’d taught it to me. Therapy, mantras, steps to understanding my anger and controlling it…

It was already starting to rain when I got to the pier. I took off running down the shoreline in the direction I’d gone that night so long ago. Only it wasn’t so long ago—it had only been a few months.

When I got there, I dropped to my knees. Then I fell forward on my hands, gripping the wet sand in my fists. Here was where I’d faced my first test on the outside. Here was where I’d passed that test, and here was where I’d found her.

“Why?” I whispered in a broken voice.

I didn’t believe. I was too worthless to believe, but I followed the steps hoping to get some semblance of a life back. Now I was left with less than nothing. It was hard before. Now it was unbearable.

My stomach cramped with the truth. I looked up at the black sky, and the rain covered my face. I wasn’t crying, but everything inside of me was breaking. I was coming apart at the seams, burning up inside.

I wouldn’t recover from this, but I knew I had to face her.

* * *

P
atrick Knight was
outside her doorstep. I stood dripping wet, looking into his angry glare.

“You here to rip my throat out?” My voice was defeated.

He looked down at his arms crossed over his chest. A band of ink circled one of his muscled forearms. “I’m here for her. Whatever she needs right now is what I’ll do.”

With a nod, I reached for the doorknob and stepped into an apartment once filled with love. I stopped as rainwater dripped from me to the floor. I took off my shirt, then I took off my wet jeans. My dark boxer-briefs were all that was left as I crossed the living room, stopping at her door.

With a guilty hand, I opened it, and my heart broke. Her small body was curled tightly at the head of the bed. A pillow was clutched to her chest, and she was shaking with sobs. I almost couldn’t hold myself back from comforting her, but I did.

I was the reason she was in that position. I had no defense.

Her eyes blinked, and she saw me. My chest twisted as she flew at me, fists raised. “Killer!” She screamed, hitting my chest over and over. “Murderer!” Her voice broke as she collapsed against me sobbing.

My head bowed. I couldn’t change what I was, still my elbows bent as I held her, sliding to the floor with her as everything inside me shattered again.

She pushed against my arms and slapped me. It didn’t even hurt compared to the pain twisting behind my ribs. She slapped me again and then covered her face with her hands as she cried more. Her knees bent and she pressed her eyes against them. Seeing her this way was tearing me apart.

I reached for her, and she shoved my hand away. “Were you
Slayer
when you killed him? Did you use your signature death move?”

Standing slowly, I let her see the truth, the ink I’d been so careful to conceal. On my left ribcage was a large teardrop—the life I’d taken. Below it were praying hands and the letters
R.I.P
.

Quietly, I answered her. “I was so out of control back then. When I went to the bar that night, I was gunning for a fight. He just happened to be the first punk to cross my path.”

She blinked up at me then and stood quickly, hitting me again. “You beat him to death!” She cried. “You killed him like a dog. Just like
that
dog!”

Those words seared through me. It was true. I was as vile as the man who’d raised me. I would never move past who I was or what I’d done.

Yet I loved her. I loved her with everything inside me. For a short time, she’d saved me from being that person. She’d calmed the noise in my head and healed my rage with her love. She’d made me believe in second chances.

That’s where I was the fool. It was never meant to last. I’d lost her before I even knew she existed.