As we begin to circle each other, Tank throws the first punch. It’s wide, but the force of wind from behind it is meant to knock me into next week. I duck, feeling the air shift past my cheek, and his momentum sends him stumbling half a step.
I decide to play with my food for a while. Throwing a quick jab to the ribs, I follow it up with another, then a sharp left hook directly into his jaw. Tank swings again, angrier this time. His movements become more frantic, like he’s trying to swat a fly.
I slip left, pivot, and drive a kick into his thigh hard enough for it to buckle.
He staggers backward. “You little shit,” he growls.
I give him nothing in return. No expression, no words. Just exact precision with the blows I deliver. He charges, trying to use his weight to pin me to the cage. Wrong move on his part. Right before impact, I drop low and slide out from under him. He crashes into the chain-link wall with a grunt.
The crowd roars in appreciation. When Tank turns, he’s panting. Sweat beads down his temple, and blood drips from thecorner of his mouth. He throws a desperate combo, left, right, left. The last one’s got some heat behind it as my head snaps back before another blow grazes my right cheek. Something wet trickles down my face. I know what it is and don’t bother to wipe it off. I give him a toothy grin instead. All he managed to do was piss me off.
Game on mother fucker!
Time to stop playing and end this. A quick feint to his right draws his guard up. He lifts his arms to block the imaginary strike, exposing that soft spot on his abs, which is precisely what I want. I drive a hook straight into his liver. He freezes, his eyes wide, and his mouth drops open in shock.
This is it, the moment every fighter waits for, the last strike before the end.
Before he can recover, I follow with a vicious uppercut to his chin. His head snaps back. Tank’s legs give out from underneath him, and he drops like a dead fish. The crowd erupts, shaking the rafters. I stand over him as the ref counts down. After ten seconds, the ref grabs my arm and raises it above my head.
The announcer’s voice booms over the loudspeakers. “And the winner is…Frostby a knockout!”
Vegas yells what I assume is something congratulatory from outside the cage. The Saint’s Outlaws slam their fists against the metal in celebration.
Does my mind focus on the win? Nope, not even a little bit. Instead, it flickers back to a quiet coffee shop, and the beautiful brunette with hazel eyes. Lifting my arms in victory, I shake off the memory and let the noise wash over me. The fight’s over, but I don’t feel any satisfaction. Only one thing on this planet can give me that, and she’s not here.
CHAPTER 5
HOPE
“Caramel latte and cranberry scone!”
The baristas take turns calling out coffee and pastry orders. I’m on a deadline, but for some reason, I couldn’t focus at home. I needed a change of scenery, and since I thrive in chaos, this seemed like the perfect solution today.
It’s only Tuesday, so I have no expectations of running into Frost because I told him I’m here every Saturday. Not like he’d be here anyway. Frost said he wasn’t from around these parts and was only passing through on his way to meet up with some friends.
A girl can dream, though.
I lift my headphones and slip them over my ears. Closing my eyes, I hum along withRockin’ Around the Christmas Treebefore opening my computer. When I finally look at the screen, an unfinished sentence taunts me as I tap my fingers on the tabletop and will the words to jump out of my brain and leap onto the document.
“Come on, Hope,” Scarlett whines. “I want to get laid.”
“Don’t we all?” I mutter just as a shadow drapes across the table, and I feel a presence behind me.
“Don’t we all, what?” the shadow asks.
I recognize that voice…Frost.His deep baritone voice is engraved in my soul. I’ve fallen asleep the past few days dreaming about that voice. My heart flutters in my chest, and my pussy spasms in response. I glance up from my laptop and freeze.
“Frost,” I whisper breathlessly.
Turning around slowly, I look up and gasp. He looks different… rougher than he did on Saturday. His cheek is swollen, and a blueish-green bruise has formed. There’s a cut above his eye being held together with a butterfly strip.
Frost hands me a steaming cup of coffee. “I assume you’re still a fan of peppermint mochas?”
His devilish smile makes my knees go weak, making me thankful I’m sitting down. My fingers brush his when he hands me the drink. Time stills for a brief moment, and the glow from the overhead light encases him like a halo.
I gesture toward the seat opposite me before I can psyche myself out. “You, uh… want to sit?”
His eyes flick to the empty chair, then back to my face, as if he’s searching for any signs of hesitancy. “I wouldn’t want to interrupt your work,” he says.
