Shadowboxer: Tapped Out Book 1 Read online

  Carly and I were getting outta Dodge.

  I did the best I could with my puffy face and finished getting ready, zipping up my thin jacket to the chin in deference to the biting cold that waited for me outside. The January cold snap was particularly brutal, and I wasn’t exactly dressed for the weather. At least I didn’t have far to walk, since Vinnie’s was in the same neighborhood.

  Shouldering my backpack, I headed out, head held high. I walked to work the same way, despite the sting in my eyes from the snow that bordered on sleet. In this area of town, if you put your head down, you were asking for trouble.

  I was, but not that kind. I’d already had enough to last a lifetime.

  As I approached Vinnie’s, dodging a guy walking a dog while rollerskating—in the snow, no less—I scanned the people down the block out of habit. Never making eye contact, just surveying my surroundings. The tuft of blond hair stood out, mostly because it rose head and shoulders over everyone else.

  Then the blond guy looked at me. Into me. And the sharp wrench of my gut had nothing to do with my injuries.

  The sheer punch of his face ripped away my breath. With dawning recognition, I tried to snatch my gaze away. He’d stolen it, compelling me in a way I’d never experienced.

  Somehow I managed to turn away and reach for the door. The cool handle pressed into my hand. Now I was hallucinating in broad daylight. It couldn’t be him. Why would he be here? This wasn’t his neighborhood. The Cage was on the other side of town.

  Bottom line, I wasn’t ready for it to be him. All these months of plotting and planning couldn’t come down to a chance meeting when I looked like I’d played Dodgeball with a brick wall. He’d never take me seriously like this.

  Hell, I wouldn’t take me seriously in his position either. How could I pose a reasonable challenge to him in the ring when I already appeared whipped?

  So I wouldn’t let it be him, even in my mind. I’d just keep walking and maybe this whole clusterfuck of a day would turn into a bad dream that I’d wake up from, gritty-eyed and dry-mouthed and grateful as hell that it wasn’t reality.

  Ignoring the pinch of heat along the back of my neck, I strode inside the bar. I didn’t look back to see if he was watching.

  I already knew he was.

  Three

  She turned away before I glimpsed much of her face. Just a curve of cheek, hidden by near-black hair. Eyes as heavy and bruised as the clouds that rolled across the sky, full of snow. She hurried inside the bar I’d walked past yesterday, the one with the sign.

  That sign slapped up on the glass with fraying masking tape had drawn me back, for reasons I still didn’t fully understand. It drew me toward a nondescript bar and a nondescript girl, yanking me closer like a magnet.

  Whether I’d end up being pulled in or repelled remained to be seen.

  I pushed open the heavy wooden door, my gaze fixated on the pane of glass emblazoned Vinnie’s. My gut fisted, and I nearly turned around. I didn’t need the cash. I’d won most of my fights since the beginning of the year. No one got rich off of amateur bouts, not even close, but I was an anomaly on the circuit. My fast fists and surfer looks brought comparisons to Van Damme. I didn’t give a shit what they called me, if it meant more green in my pocket.

  A couple of the locals had tried to bribe me to throw some fights, and that hadn’t gone down so well. Since then, they’d decided to invest in the winning team: me. The promoters knew I lured in the crowds. Some of my corner crew worked for peanuts, figuring I’d turn pro and they would ride my coattails all the way. They were wrong, but I wasn’t about to tell them that.

  I would never make serious money fighting in amateur leagues, but I was doing okay. And living life my way, with my own money and my own fists.

  So why was I at Vinnie’s Taproom? Did I really want to sling drinks for a bunch of angry drunks in my precious free time?

  Maybe. Maybe I just wanted to get out and talk to people. See if I could meet a woman who didn’t have anything to do with the lifestyle. I’d met a few prospects when I ventured out to have a drink a few weeks ago. Showing up at a bar when I’d been fresh out of a match and still thrumming with adrenaline had been kind of stupid. Most times, I isolated myself after fights, because that natural chemical spike could convince me to do dangerous stuff.

  Including taking home a chick I didn’t want to see over breakfast in the morning, just to get my rocks off. But I never made them leave. I bruised faces and occasionally broke bones for a living, but I’d never left a woman feeling bad about herself. My dignified Long Island upbringing hadn’t left me even though I now lived in a walkup in Brooklyn.

  Truthfully, my friends from the neighborhood were way more gentlemanly than the privileged fuckwits I’d known back home. Those were the guys you shouldn’t let near your teenage daughter, rather than the hard-edged ones people crossed the street to avoid in the boroughs.

  Wolves, sheep’s clothing. People never fucking learned.

  Not that I could talk. I was the one following a brunette with a battered face, simply because I was intrigued. Because I didn’t have anything better to do.

  I strolled up to the bar and shook off the snow that had collected on my bomber jacket. It was one of the few relics I had from my old life, and it had even more scars than I did. Women told me it made me look dangerous. Then they got me naked and saw the checkerboard of bruises and welts that decorated my torso on a daily basis and usually forgot all about my clothes.

  Leaning against the polished, well-worn wood, I smiled at the blond bartender on duty and opened my mouth to speak. The words disappeared under the shout of indignation from the back room. Female, from the high-pitched quality. Sort of like a weasel in heat.

  Almost instantly, I knew it was her.

  “Gimme a freaking break, Carmine. I’m no worse now than I’ve been a million times before.”

  I couldn’t hear Carmine’s reply, but I guessed it couldn’t have been good, judging by the next deafening noise that erupted from the squealer. I glanced at the blond, whose pale pink lips had rounded into a surprised ‘O.’

  “Unhappy employee?” I offered her a wide grin as I rested my arms on the bar. I’d shoved up the sleeves of my jacket and shirt, and her gaze dropped to my forearms. I’d gotten that look before and counted on it to get me laid. If I’d seen her before the brunette, I might’ve considered it. “If so, my timing seems especially fortuitous.”

  She blinked, making me think she didn’t know what I meant. Inwardly, I sighed and tucked the frustration under another smile. I’d been in the MMA game for three years, but it hadn’t completely erased what some people thought of as my snooty style of speech. I might be a college dropout, but I was an Ivy League one.

  “I’m here about the job in the window.”

  Before she could answer, the door to the back room swung open hard enough to hit the opposite wall. Out strode the most furious chick I’d ever seen.

  I’d correctly nailed her identity. One sidewalk starer, reporting for duty.

  She’d twisted up her long dark hair to show off her face. That might’ve been a good thing had she not looked like she’d recently collided into rough concrete, lips first. They were swollen and split, but I could tell they were a good size even when they weren’t torn open. She had dark eyes and lashes and winter-white pale skin, which revealed all of the assorted marks and wounds—most of them fresh—that made her look so disturbingly…broken.

  Once upon a time, I’d wanted to patch things together, but I’d discovered I was better at breaking them. So maybe that was why she called to me. Or that magnet pull was still in full effect.

  “Screw you, Carmine,” she called over her shoulder, offering a raised middle finger salute. “Shove your job and your attitude with it.”

  Carmine responded in kind, and she sneered without saying anything more. She gathered her stuff from under the bar, coming up short when the blond grabbed her arm. “Mia, come on. We need you here tonight. W
e’re already down a person. What are we supposed to—”

  “He won’t let me work tonight, Shell. Did you miss that part?” Mia sketched a finger over her face. Even the unpolished nail on her index finger was broken to the quick. This babe didn’t mess around.

  Anger flared in my gut and I rose to my feet. Had Carmine done that to her? From what I’d seen on the street, she’d been a little messed up, but I hadn’t gotten a close look. Could be their fight had been physical before it turned verbal. If so, the asshole was about to get a taste of my fists.

  A real man never hit a woman. Never. Not for any goddamn reason.

  “Why don’t you ask this guy to fill in?” Mia sneered again and jerked that same finger in my direction. A second later, her gaze followed suit. Then she let her arm drop limply to her side as if I were the one with the busted face.

  “What?” I patted my chest. Nothing twinged or twanged more than usual, and I hadn’t sparred yet today. That would come tonight. I had a few bruises, most of them under my clothes, and a cut near my eyebrow, but I’d certainly looked worse. And I looked way better than she did.

  “Fox,” she muttered. “Frigging figures.”

  Disgust shot through me at the use of the ridiculous nickname. I’d rather take a fist to the teeth than hear that crap. Rather than look at Mia, I glanced at the blond. She’d started polishing the bar with a dirty rag, her mouth set in a hard line. Personnel issues obviously weren’t important enough for her to risk missing a blemish on the already damaged wood. Apparently, neither was my nickname. The likelihood that Shell knew about the underground fighting scene was slim, but I took enough chances on a daily basis without running my mouth.

  Since I didn’t intend to discuss out in the open how Mia knew who I was, I grabbed her arm and tugged her through the pass-through. She stiffened under my hand. Hardened like stone was a more accurate description. Great. I’d probably hurt her again.

  I gentled my grip and lowered my face close to hers. She was tall for a woman, but no match for my height of six-foot-three. “How do you know my name?”

  Trepidation swam through her expression. Then she gave me a smile cocky enough to belong to the most confident fighter I’d ever faced. That was saying a lot, considering I’d stared down some arrogant bastards.

  “Word travels.”

  Uh huh. Sure it did. But I didn’t dwell on the unlikelihood of her statement. Even with her face all fucked up, she yanked my chain—and mine was pretty thick. Not bragging, just fact. I hadn’t had sex for a while, and while I wanted to meet someone, I wasn’t looking for a soulmate or some ridiculous shit like that. My dad always said my mom was his, and he’d regularly used her for a punching bag. He probably still did, but I tried to see them as rarely as possible.

  I pressed my lips against her ear, intending to continue our conversation at a lower volume. “Does it?”

  Mia elbowed me back, putting a definite distance between our bodies. Hers was slight and angular, but her stomach muscles flexed against her tight tank. I’d been trained to watch people closely, to grab lots of details fast. That wasn’t just for curiosity’s sake. My safety—hell, my life—depended on how quickly I could assess an opponent. This chick was bruised and battered, absolutely. A little too skinny too. She was also fucking ripped.

  “We just met. I’d rather not have your tongue in my ear.” She pushed past me, thumping my stomach with her oversized bag. Whether or not that was intentional was up to interpretation. Judging from the venomous glance she directed over her shoulder before she shoved open the door and stepped outside, my interpretation was intentional times five.

  “She’s prickly.” Her coworker shrugged.

  “I noticed. How’d she get that face full of bruises?”

  The blonde shrugged again. “Think it’s something domestic. I don’t ask. Not my business.”

  I stared at the closed door for all of half a minute, watching the steady flutter of snow through the single square pane of glass. Then I followed, job forgotten.

  Curiosity was a fucking bitch.

  Four

  Fox lurking around meant one thing. I had to get out of here.

  Fast.

  The temperature hovered at about ten degrees and the wind roared. Snow flew straight into my sore eyes, intensifying the sting that drops couldn’t cure. I should’ve tried to bring down the swelling, but I’d been stupid enough to think being on time would make up for the state of my face.

  Moron. I should’ve known Carmine would only tolerate so much.

  A couple of scrapes were one thing. A pair of busted lips, messed up eyes and a full complement of cuts and bruises probably qualified as over the top. With more makeup I could’ve covered up most of it, but naturally, I’d been low on concealer too. Lately my luck ranked solidly around zero, with occasional detours into negative territory.

  Blowing out a breath, I brought my gloveless fingers to my mouth. My knuckles were screaming so I probably couldn’t have pulled taps all afternoon anyway. See, I could find a positive side. This wasn’t a complete crisis. I could find another job like Vinnie’s in the neighborhood. I’d just have to put more effort into my appearance. Most of the females who worked in these joints caked it on and I could too. The lack of preplanning wasn’t ideal, but I’d dealt with much worse.

  Underlined, starred, and bolded.

  I was more worried about Friday’s fight. That afternoon’s sparring session had left me more banged up than I’d anticipated. I had a few days to rest up—well, around my training schedule anyway—so I’d handle it. Even though the locker room tricks had worked my last nerve, I’d grown adept at swerving around roadblocks. At least I was used to them.

  But coming face to face with Fox, the man I intended to convince to fight me next month, had thrown me for a loop. Or ten.

  Fox trained at The Cage, the roughest, rowdiest gym in all of Brooklyn. They had top of the line equipment and physical therapists on site, along with classes in most of the martial arts. The Cage hid its ties to the underground MMA community, though anyone with two-fifths of a brain could figure out they were connected. Even so, people in this neighborhood took care of their own, and they didn’t want their weekend entertainment to get closed down.

  Not while blond, blue-eyed, clean cut Fox kept whaling on guys twice his size and winning.

  Those fighters didn’t have to bribe guys to watch their bouts by promising them they’d get to see big tits, long nails, and maybe some blood too, if they were lucky. But women fighters didn’t work out at The Cage though technically, the gym catered to both sexes. To say the environment was somewhat hostile to the so-called fairer sex was an understatement.

  Considering women weren’t encouraged to train on the premises to fight each other, they sure as hell wouldn’t be encouraged to fight a man. Especially the one everyone wanted to take a nice juicy bite out of lately.

  Fox was good, no doubt about it. I’d been studying tape of him long enough to know. I was just better. Faster, leaner. And I wanted it more. No, needed it. The urgency burned on my tongue, saltier than any mouthful of blood.

  The money I could win from a fight with Fox would get Carly and me out of New York. We’d find a safe place, somewhere I’d never have to use my hands or mouth to pay for our future again. Carly could go to college and be part of the same kind of small town we’d grown up in. Not exactly the same, but close enough.

  Once we’d tucked ourselves away in Happyville, I’d put the design classes I’d been taking online to good use. Maybe I’d even change my identity entirely, so I could finally stop living in fear that someone would recognize me and figure out why I was running.

  Footsteps approached behind me, too heavy and too close. I whirled, lifting my fists. The snarl that left my lips at the sight of the guy who’d owned my thoughts for months wasn’t planned, but I liked the way it stopped him in his expensive boots. My lip curled at the sturdy designer footwear keeping his toes dry and warm while my own feet were
freezing and almost numb in holey tennis sneakers.

  “You looking for Armani? If so, you’re out of range. Manhattan’s behind you.”

  Fox smirked, his obvious surprise fading into amusement. He’d been blessed with a face made to smile. Seductive lips, high cheekbones, and blue eyes that edged closer to aqua added up to a hell of a shock when someone stepped into the ring. With his patrician features and white-blond hair, he didn’t look like a fighter. More like a model. Or maybe a yachtsman, who sat on the bow of his ship with a cigar in his mouth and sneered.

  He was exceptionally good at the whole sneering thing.

  “Thanks for the directions. Actually, I was looking for you.”

  I gave myself a moment to collect my thoughts. They scattered like the fluffy snow under his feet as he came closer and got right up in my personal space. “That so?”

  “Yep.” His hands were tucked in the pockets of his leather jacket, but his fingers poked against the weathered material. He was probably fisting those hamhock-sized paws of his. I had the same habit, when my knuckles weren’t so sore I could barely move my fingers. “How do you know the name Fox?”

  Despite how he towered over me, I craned my neck to meet his gaze. I never missed a chance to assess an opponent’s expression. Just because we were on a city street instead of inside a cage didn’t mean we weren’t adversaries.

  “Why, you’re famous ’round here.” I let the hint of Southern creep into my voice intentionally to throw him off. Other than the slight enlargement of his pupils, he didn’t react. Since it was almost dusk, even that might’ve been a trick of the light. “Aren’t you?”

  The smirk returned, and this time, he added a tilt of his head. If he was trying to figure me out, I wasn’t about to make it easy for him. “Statement or question. Can’t you make up your mind?”