Fight For Her (MMA Fighter Romance Book 1) Read online

  I couldn't help but grin as I thought of the big man trying to navigate the insanity of early childhood.

  Gray: What's your stand on toilet brushes?

  I froze, staring at his text. Toilet brushes?

  Me: Is this code for something?

  Gray: Relationships.

  What? I leaned my hip against the counter.

  Me: Not sure if I'm a good person to ask. I went on one not-date and the guy gave me crabs.

  Gray: I’m trying to figure out how that’s possible since we didn’t even kiss.

  My lips turned up and I pressed the phone to my chest, took a deep breath. My thumbs raced over the screen.

  Me: Does this mean I can’t get that kiss I’ve been thinking about all day?

  My finger hovered over the Send button only briefly before I scrunched my eyes shut and pressed down. There. I did it. I paced over to the cupboard and got down a glass, filled it with ice and water from the fridge dispenser. God, I wasn’t even thirsty! I paced back across the room and nibbled on my thumbnail, staring at my phone. I hadn’t lied to Gray. I had been thinking about kissing him through my entire shift. He’d said I’d be in his bed soon and the images that conjured had my nipples tightening and I felt my whole body flush at the idea. I ached between my legs in a way my vibrator was not going to soothe.

  It was a miracle that my job was busy and distracting enough to keep my thoughts off getting in my car, driving over to his gym and jumping his bones. It probably wouldn’t look good for him to have a woman in scrubs come in and tackle him to the ground.

  Although, in his job, being tackled to the ground was all in a day’s work. I’d done a search for him online and so much information had come up. His fights, every detail of his career, some bad stories with his father. Old photos, everything. It was obvious why he was wary of people knowing about him and their motives at meeting him. The media spun the information in ways to sell, including the baby with the film star, but I knew the real Gray, at least a little bit, to be able to separate fact from fiction.

  Men sought his autograph and both sexes stood in photos with him. A picture with the champ. Women practically tossed themselves at him, scantily clad and eager to be seen and perhaps win the affections of the Grayson Green. The Green Machine. I’d laughed at that title because it didn’t suit the real him at all. A stab of jealousy had made me bitter toward the busty women in the pictures, but nowhere in his online profile did it mention girlfriends, past or present. These women, who tried to climb his body like a monkey, only had his attention long enough for a photo. He wasn’t looking at them the way he focused his dark eyes on me. He didn’t even really see them. Just smiled for the camera, and after the brief amount of time I’d known him, I could tell the smile wasn’t even genuine.

  He was good at what he did. Exceptional, actually. He was one of the best in the industry, if not ever, based on the articles.

  My mind shifted to how good he was at tackling. I so needed to be tackled like he'd done in the gym, but perhaps in a bed instead. At the least in a less public setting. I’d been in a sex drought for years and hadn’t cared all too much. I’d had my vibrator to keep me company and been reasonably satisfied. I barely remembered when sex had been decent with Jack. Last night I’d tossed and turned, wondering what Gray’s lips felt like, whether he’d be gentle or demanding, if he’d press me up against the wall while he was kissing me and—

  My cell rang and I jumped a foot. Gray.

  “You want to kiss me?” he asked, his voice a deep grumble. I practically melted into a pool of goo at the sound and I loved the fact that he asked that without even saying hello.

  “Um, crap.” I shut my eyes, took a quick breath and said the truth. “Yes.”

  The line was quiet for a minute, but I could hear music in the background. Based on the crazy beat, I had to assume he was in the gym. Or out at a dance club, but I couldn’t picture that with him. “Shit, Emory. That one word is the hottest thing I’ve heard in a long time.”

  I crinkled my brow. “Really? All I said was yes.”

  “It means that we’re more than just people who coincidentally meet in a park.”

  “You make it sound like we’re practically lovers.” I walked over to my junk drawer, pulled it open and started weeding out expired coupons from the pile, wedging my cell between my ear and my shoulder.

  “I know.”

  I dropped the phone into the pile of junk. In my haste to grab it, I bumped my hip on the drawer and shut it, phone inside. “Shit!” With fumbling fingers, I yanked it back open and pulled out the phone. “Gray? Sorry, I dropped the phone.”

  “Look, I’ve got to go.”

  “Oh.” I heard the pout in my voice.

  “Emory,” he groaned. “I’m at the gym with a bunch of guys still on the mats and when I hang up the phone, I’m going to have to sit here in my office for a few minutes and pretend to do paperwork before I can head back out there to coach.”

  “Oh,” I repeated. Then I realized what he meant and I flushed hotly, savoring this little rush of power I had over him. “Oh! Then I guess I shouldn’t tell you what I’m wearing.” I was cruel and I knew it.

  “No,” he hissed. “Goodbye, Emory.” He hung up, and I laughed as I did a little happy dance on the steps up to bed.

  GRAY

  Emory was a distraction. Plain and simple. I hadn’t been able to leave my office for twenty minutes after our phone call the night before because I had a hard-on that could pound nails, just from having her tell me she wanted to kiss me. Just a kiss! I usually fucked them and forgot their names by now and I was losing my mind just from the idea of kissing Emory.

  My first training session of the day was at six thirty and a restless night of sleep from thoughts of a very introverted nurse had me in the ring as a fighting partner.

  “Dude, what crawled up your ass and died?” Reed asked when I’d pushed him through not only a five-mile run on the treadmill, but an all-out sparring session. We sat on the edge of the mat to cool down. I pounded water and wiped my sweaty head with a towel. The guy was almost half my age and he was toast, arms resting on bent knees, his breath coming in harsh pants. His dark hair was dripping wet, his skin on his tattooed arms were slick with sweat. He wanted to be an MMA champion. He could get there if he tried hard enough—and he paid me to see that happen.

  My muscles ached from pushing him—and myself, but I needed something, anything, to burn off this restless energy. I’d had to take my dick in hand in the shower the night before to ease the discomfort, but it had only been temporary. Blue balls was something new to me. Waiting for a woman was new to me. Desperate just for a kiss was absolutely new to me.

  “You’re weak,” I muttered.

  He laughed, but then groaned. “You’re old,” he countered.

  “Yeah, but I fucking kicked your ass.” I schooled him and he knew it. Keeping his ego in check was just as important as teaching him to fight. I wanted my fighters cocky, but not assholes.

  We slapped hands, then I stood and headed up to my apartment to shower. I first went over to my cell on the kitchen counter and sent a text to Emory.

  Gray: Have dinner with me tonight.

  When I heard the phone ring an hour later, I thought it was her and answered it without checking the screen. I should have known better, should have known Emory would cloud my judgement.

  “Didn’t think you’d answer.”

  The voice on the line had my back stiffening. Jesus, would the asshole ever leave me alone? “What the fuck do you want now?”

  “That’s how you treat your father? I call twice in one week. Whatever happened to family ties?”

  I refused to be baited. Whatever feelings I had a moment before about Emory were crushed beneath my father’s grating voice.

  “What do you want?” I repeated. “That’s the only reason you’re calling.”

  “You hung up on me the other night. It’s time to talk.”

  The last th
ing on earth I wanted to do was talk to my dad. After his call the other night, I’d blocked him out, just like I always did. I pushed him and the fucking memories that went with him down deep. The running, the workouts, even sparring helped, but he had a knack to bring it all back like a scab ripped off and a wound began to bleed again.

  “That fight next month with Reed Johnson. I saw he’s one of yours.”

  Reed was training for his third competition this year. He was two and O so far and if he kept his head on straight, would have another victory.

  “What about it?” I replied, my words a sharp bite. I went to my kitchen and leaned against the granite counter. Nothing was out of place. No crumbs. Not even a coffee cup in the sink. Emory was right, it was ridiculously clean. God, I didn’t want to think of her when I was talking to my old man, but she kept popping into my head at odd times, and when it happened, it felt like Christmas morning. Christmas morning for those who had Norman Rockwell childhoods, not a fucker for a father.

  “I’ve got money riding on it. Don’t blow it.”

  I shook my head and laughed, then pinched the bridge of my nose. That’s all he wanted from me—another bet. “Yeah, that’s why I’m training him to be the best, so you can make your money.”

  My dad barked out a laugh. “You think I’m betting on your guy? Hell no. I’m betting on Ramirez. Just keep doing a fuck-up job of your life and your kid’ll blow it and I’ll rake in the dough.”

  I pulled the phone away from my ear, slowly shook my head. “Fuck you,” I muttered. I heard my old man’s miserable laugh as I pushed the End button. Yeah, no sunshine and unicorns in my family.

  How I could let my dad push my buttons after all these years was something I’d never understand. He was a fucking asshole and I’d walked away after high school graduation and never looked back. Somehow, he kept getting my unlisted numbers and called just to fuck with me. But betting against me? This was a new low and it was hard to handle. I wanted to punch the shit out of something and that’s why I had the gym downstairs. Instead of taking that shower, I punched the button on the elevator to go and hit the bags and work off some of the anger.

  A few hours later, with my anger tamed and my muscles sore, I finally got that shower. After, I climbed into my car to head to a lunch meeting across town. The ping of a new text came from my pocket. I hit the air conditioning to high and grabbed the phone.

  Emory: Is this a date? You said I’d know for sure when you asked me out.

  I grinned, remembering my words. Whatever angst lingered from the shit with my dad slipped away as I typed.

  Gray: It is if you say yes. Otherwise it's a not-date.

  I put on my seat belt.

  Emory: I will be in my scrubs and gross, so I will want a redo.

  I shook my head and shut my eyes briefly at her humor.

  Gray: You can have a redo. Definitely. As many as you want.

  I didn’t hear from her right away, so I set off for my appointment. She was probably on some kind of quick break, so I didn't expect to hear from her right away. But five minutes later, my cell pinged again. I pulled into a strip mall lot to read the text.

  Emory: I forgot. Someone is bringing me dinner. Long story. Come over at 7:30.

  Later, when I walked up the sidewalk to her place a few minutes early, I knew the man and the boy sitting on Emory’s steps were part of the long story.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  EMORY

  Not used to attractive men waiting for me on my steps, I stopped short as I walked up the sidewalk toward my house. I couldn’t help but ogle the two men sitting there. Gray leaned forward, his forearms resting on his knees. The other man I’d never met, but was most likely Marco’s uncle. The boy sat on the step above and the family resemblance was strong. Marco’s hands waved in the air, animated and lively as he talked. While the man was focused on his nephew, Gray watched me as I approached and I felt the familiar flutter at the sight of him. I was becoming used to the sensation and I wasn’t afraid of it any longer. He was so relaxed, so at ease. So flippin’ hot. And he was here for me. Watching me. Taking a deep breath, I walked toward them once again. His dark eyes raked over me, from my work clogs, my scrubs and to my messy ponytail. I could only imagine what he thought of me dressed like this, in the outfit I considered man-repellant.

  Gray stood, slipped his hands in his pockets. Once he saw me, Marco’s uncle got to his feet as well. Marco, too, only after a gentle nudge on the head.

  “Hi, Miss Emory!” Marco’s youthful exuberance had him knocking the men out of the way and jumping down three steps to give me a hug. The other men held back, clearly having learned about boundaries unlike the boy, although I wouldn’t have minded if Gray grabbed me so eagerly. Over Marco’s head, I glanced up at him. His eyes gave away nothing about his feelings, but I hoped to discover them once we were alone.

  I looked down at Marco’s upturned face. “Hello. Have you been busy?” It was impossible not to smile at him.

  His hair was mussed and his cheeks were flushed. He wore shorts, T-shirt and sneakers once again. After spending the day in a well air-conditioned hospital, the air was hot and muggy. Already after seven, the temperature hadn’t dropped out of the eighties.

  “I’m Frank, Marco’s uncle.”

  The man came down the two steps at a much more sedate pace than his nephew and held out his hand, smiling. About six foot, he had the same black, curly hair as Marco, yet his eyes were a pale blue. The contrast was quite striking with his olive complexion. Standing next to Gray, he was lanky, long legged, yet fit. He had the perfect build for a rower. I put him in his late twenties and with his wicked smile, I could only imagine he had to fight off the ladies.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” I replied. His grip was firm, his eyes were kind. He did not have an accent like his father, so I had to assume he was born here.

  “We have your lights replaced and your dinner is in that bag.” He pointed to a large brown grocery sack sitting by the front door. “While my father couldn’t be here, he asked me to give you his contact information. If you need anything at all, please call.”

  I glanced down at the business card he handed me. It was for Casale’s Restaurant. I flipped it over and there were several phone numbers handwritten on the back.

  “Thank you. You and your father have been very kind.” I turned to Gray and my heart melted a little. “Hi,” I murmured.

  Gray gestured hello with a quick tilt of his chin, the corner of his mouth tipping up. He wore worn jeans and a white T-shirt that hugged his torso snugly, showing off his lean muscles. A bodybuilder he was not, but there was no doubt to his strength. The fact that his biceps bulged was completely inconsequential.

  “I see you’ve met,” I told Gray, nodding to Frank.

  “Yes,” he replied. “Frank and Marco were just putting the new bulbs in when I got here.” His eyes narrowed when he finished, almost as if he were angry.

  I didn’t know him well enough to understand the expression, so I looked to Frank and redirected the conversation. “Would you like to stay for dinner?”

  It was only courtesy that had me offering. I really wanted to get Gray to myself. I’d been anticipating it ever since his text earlier. To say it made a crazy afternoon in the ER a little better was an understatement. The way my heart had skipped a beat every time I thought about him in my house had me questioning whether I should be hooked up to the heart monitors. Was I crazy to ask him into my house? Was he expecting to spend the night? God, I'd been wondering these things all day and I still had no idea.

  Frank looked between Gray and me. Grinned. He playfully grabbed Marco by the neck and pulled him into his side. “The meal is for you. With my father’s thanks. With my thanks,” he said, his intent clear. “Gray, it was a pleasure meeting you.” By the look on Frank’s face, he knew who Gray was. “Say goodbye, Marco.”

  “Bye, Mr. Green Machine, Miss Emory,” Marco said with a little wave. They walked away, Marco’s little
legs pumping to keep up with his uncle’s long gait. A car passed on the street and a siren wailed in the distance. The sun had dropped behind the row of houses across the street and the air was heavy. Hot. And I was alone with Gray.

  Once the duo rounded the corner, I turned to face Gray, who’d been watching me. “Mr. Green Machine? I really am the only person who doesn’t know who you are, aren’t I?”

  He shrugged. “One of the few.” When I frowned, Gray ducked his head so he could look me in the eye. “They don’t really know me, Emory.”

  GRAY

  I watched as Emory dropped her work shoes in an old milk box that sat on the porch, then unlocked her door. I followed her inside, holding the food bag. By the weight of it and what Frank had said, there was plenty.

  The row house was narrow, about twenty feet across. The living room had comfortable furniture, well worn and lived in, plants, framed artwork on the walls, family pictures on side tables. It was…lived in, unlike my place, which seemed cold in comparison. I remembered her mentioning this was where she grew up, so the place had been in her family a long time. It suited her well, for it felt…comfortable. This was a home where parents loved their kids, helped with homework, watched their soccer games. It only reminded me of the differences between us.

  She glanced at me with those expressive eyes and now they held a hint of nervousness. “I always take a shower right after work and get out of my scrubs.” She tugged at the bottom of her top as she scrunched up her nose. “You don’t want to know what kinds of things I saw today.”

  “Yes, I do,” I countered in a quiet voice. I really did. I wanted to know what she saw, who she interacted with, the kinds of cases she had, the problems she had to deal with. I wanted to know it all.

  She looked surprised. “Oh, um, okay. I’ll be down in a few minutes. The kitchen’s straight back.” She pointed, then went up the steps. “Ignore my breakfast dishes in the sink,” she called as she went upstairs.

  I took a few seconds to admire her ass beneath her blue scrub pants before I headed toward the back of the house. It was getting harder and harder to keep my hands off her.