Fighting for Control (Against the Cage Book 3) (11 page)

Softening her tone a touch, she said, “You didn’t mean to do it, did you?”

He didn’t respond, not that she expected he would. But he didn’t need to. She could see the pain that flashed in his eyes, feel his shame descending on him like an oppressive blanket of contempt and self-loathing. She stood and walked around to the front of her desk. Sitting in the empty chair beside him, she reached over and laid her hand on his.

“How long have you been experiencing rage blackouts?”

When his eyes shot to hers, they were hard as steel—cold as ice. She resisted the impulse to move back to a safer distance. It was hard to believe this was the same guy who’d charmed and flirted with her last night. She’d been given a rare glimpse of the man behind all this pain and suffering. Without intending it, he’d solidified her connection to him, investing her more deeply in the wounded Marine turned MMA fighter, making her more determined than ever to help him.

“How do you know that’s what happened?” he demanded.

“Because, Nikko, they’re common with people who are struggling with severe cases of PTSD. I know you don’t want to talk about what happened to you, but if you’d let me, I think I could help you.”

He uttered a curse, ripe with disgust, and jerked his hand out from under hers. Standing, he began pacing the length of her office, reminding her of a caged animal. She watched him in silence, giving him time to process his thoughts and work through his internal struggle. Abruptly, he stopped and leveled her with a stare that made her breath catch in her lungs. “You think I want you knowing how fucked up I am? Believe me, ‘help’ is
not
what I want from you, Clover.”

She didn’t have to ask what he wanted. She could see it in the way those liquid-silver eyes dragged over her with blatant intent, hear it in the seductive rasp of his voice. She knew what he was doing, and still she couldn’t deny his effect on her. He was deflecting the conversation and trying to distract her from what was clearly an uncomfortable, taboo topic.

With that same practiced cool he so often laid on her, she said, “It’s all I have to offer you, Nikko. And if you value your career, I suggest you take it.”

His brow quirked in surprise, and wry amusement tugged at his top lip. “Are you threatening me, Clover? Because if you’re trying to scare me, it’s going to take a hell of a lot more than a woman half my size to do it.”

“I will not sign off on this psych eval.”

Now he scowled. Perhaps the gravity of the situation was finally dawning on him. “Why the hell not?” he barked.

Violet exhaled a frustrated sigh and her temper snapped. “Because, Nikko . . . it’s a lie. I will not enable your avoidant behavior or be complicit in your denial any longer. You need help. I tell you what”—she stood and snatched the papers from her desk and shook them at him—“you find me the guy in this profile, and I’ll get married again.”

Nikko froze. Those silvery eyes locked on her like a heat seeking missile. “Again . . . ? Were you married before?”

Holy shit, did she really just say that out loud? How embarrassing . . . how totally and utterly unprofessional. “It doesn’t matter, Nikko. My point is this guy doesn’t exist.”

He stood there a moment studying her, and her jaw nearly hit the floor when he said with dead-calm seriousness, “I used to be that guy.”

Foot, meet mouth
. . .

Ho-ly fuck!
So his little four-leaf clover had been married. And by the blush staining her cheeks right now, he’d be willing to bet she hadn’t meant for that little nugget to slip out. Well, touché, because he hadn’t meant to say what he had, either. She wanted to know how he’d passed that psych eval with flying colors? Easy, he just answered it like he would have before his whole world went to shit.

He wished he could say this little discovery didn’t bother him. Hell, he was hardly one to judge, since he was divorced himself and had a fourteen-year-old daughter. But still, the thought of someone else having claim to his clover twisted his gut into a knot. The bitter emotion tightened in his chest. He recognized it for what it was—jealousy. It wasn’t a welcome feeling, nor was it one he seemed able to control. It didn’t matter that he was being a hypocritical dick.

From the way she’d talked yesterday, he never would have guessed she’d been married before, and he couldn’t help feeling like she’d deceived him by withholding the information. The thought didn’t escape him that she might have been testing his reaction to the subject, or trying to see how easily he’d scare off. If that had been her intention, he’d failed that test—miserably—because he hadn’t been able to beat feet out of that restaurant fast enough.

But before he’d unceremoniously bailed on her, she’d had more than ample opportunity to divulge her divorcée status back when she was busy confessing to paying her parking tickets and monitoring the expiration dates on fucking coupons. Apparently, her matrimonial experience hadn’t been traumatic enough to cure her of the notion, since she’d had no trouble blurting out that she wanted to get married and have children. Perhaps tagging on the word
again
to that tidbit of information would have been helpful.

“How long ago?” he demanded.

Her brows drew tight in a little frown at the growl in his voice. “Nikko, now isn’t the time to discu—”

He took a step toward her, stopping just short of arm’s length. He didn’t trust himself to get any closer. “How long, Violet?”

She hesitated in answering, and then exhaled a sigh of defeat. “Six months—the divorce was final six months ago.”

Six months
. . . He quickly did the math in his head, remembering the woman sitting beside him on the plane crying her beautiful eyes out. Then it clicked, and the knot fisting in his gut clenched tighter. “That day on the plane . . . Holy shit, you’d just gotten divorced, hadn’t you? That’s why you were crying, why you said you’d had a horrible day. That’s why you were moving to Vegas, and
that’s
why you wanted to have sex with me. My God,” he growled in disgust. “That’s what I was to you? A revenge fuck? Seriously?”

Whether justified or not, he was furious. It was one thing to use him for pleasure, but retaliation? It cheapened what they’d shared together, twisted what had been an incredible memory for him. It made him feel like he didn’t know this woman at all. And the truth of it was he didn’t, really—not in the ways that really counted. Why did the fantasy always have to be so much better than the reality?

Violet took a step toward him, then must have thought better of it, because she didn’t take another one. The scowl on her face didn’t hide the guilt in her eyes, nor the shame and regret. “Nikko, we’re not doing this here. Not now. This is supposed to be about you—”

“You’re damn right it’s about me. It’s about how you used me to clean your slate. How was it, Clover? Were you thinking of him the whole time? Comparing us? Did it feel good to get back at your husband? Did he make you come as hard as I did?”

He knew he was being a prick, knew his words were cutting her deep, but he was too far gone to care—too caught up in the jealousy of knowing she’d belonged to another and the pain of his own failed marriage. The memories of Celeste’s infidelity ripped open and were spilling out faster than he could sort the past from the present and delineate the difference between his wife’s multiple affairs and Violet’s one-night stand with him—until Violet’s hand connected with his cheek. Hard. The sharp sting was a welcomed pain, far easier to deal with than the emotional shit. The burn helped banish the past from his mind, leaving him only in the present with a beautiful woman glaring up at him. Tears glistened in her eyes—eyes full of shock, anger, and heartache he was responsible for putting there.

Dragging his hand through his hair, he exhaled a sigh. “Fuck, Clover, I’m sor—”

“Get out!”

He winced at the raw anger resonating in her voice, so powerful and brave for such a little thing.

“I mean it, Nikko! Get out of my office right now! How dare you stand there and judge me. You have no idea what I was going through, and we were never supposed to see each other again! What happened between us was—you know what? Never mind. It’s not worth my breath, and I don’t owe you any explanations, any more than you owed them to me last night. Maybe you were right: I can’t help you.”

By the finality in her voice, and the look of utter outrage in her shimmery violet eyes, he knew she meant every word. Clover was nothing like Celeste. There were no waterworks, no hysterics, no manipulative techniques to try to get him to understand and stay. Nope. In fact, it was just the opposite. Clover was throwing him out. He’d let his temper get the better of him. His jealousy had overruled his judgment, and he’d shamed not only himself with his behavior, but her as well, and he could tell she wouldn’t get over it anytime soon.

His heart dropped into his stomach, and that panicked feeling one experiences right before one falls crashed into him. He didn’t want to leave her like this, but something told him that, if he stayed, he’d only be making it worse. He’d hurt her with his carelessly spoken words—badly. And just like with all his other mistakes, he couldn’t take them back.

It wasn’t until faced with the very real possibility of losing his connection to her that he realized just how much he didn’t want to let her go—personally or professionally—because there was something about Violet that touched a part of him no one else had been able to reach. He wanted to talk to her, wanted to open up to her, but that part of him had been locked away for so long, he didn’t know how to let her in. Unable to speak past the lump of regret in his throat, he nodded his acquiescence and headed toward the door, feeling every bit the asshole those tear-filled eyes accused him of being.

H
ey, Nikko, what’s up?” Kyle asked, finally picking up his phone.

“I need to spar. You up for going a few rounds?”

Silence.

“That a no?”

His friend sighed. “Fuck, man, you know you’re not supposed to be sparring. If Dean or Coach finds out—”

“They’re not going to find out. Listen, man, if I don’t hit someone, I’m going to
hit
someone.”

“Shit . . . All right, I tell ya what. Will is just getting ready to pull some lasagna out of the oven. How about you come over, have supper with us, and we’ll head to the gym and go a few rounds after that?”

“I don’t know, man . . .” Nikko wanted to fight. He wasn’t looking for a dinner date. “I’m not the best company right now.”

The fighter chuckled. “As opposed to when? Dude, I hate to break it to ya, but you’re no picnic any day. Come have supper with us. Regan found out Will was cooking and already wrangled himself an invite. It won’t be weird, I swear. You know Will won’t mind.”

Nikko knew she wouldn’t care, but that wasn’t the point. He was in a bad fucking mood and didn’t want to subject anyone else to the unpleasantness of his company. He’d already made a big enough ass of himself today, and being banned from sparring only made things worse. At least then he had a way to exorcise his demons. Now that shit was just building up and he had no outlet.

“Listen, if you want me to put my ass on the line for you, you can at least have dinner with me. That’s the deal.”

Nikko sighed. Right now, his mind was a sea of tumultuous thoughts stirred by the wind of his emotions and the undercurrent of his past. The storm raging inside him could only be quieted one way: he needed to get in that cage—bad. If eating supper at Kyle’s place and pretending he was a normal human being for the next hour or two was what it took to make that happen, then so be it. “I’ll be over . . .”

“Great.”

The guy didn’t have to sound so damn pleased with himself. “I’ll see you in a few minutes,” Nikko grumbled.

Turning his car around, Nikko headed back into the city and shot up a quick prayer that he could keep his shit together. Since leaving Violet’s office, he’d been driving around, too restless to go home and too edgy to be safe out in public. He felt like a pressure cooker with no release valve. Out of desperation, he’d called Kyle, figuring if there was anyone who’d be willing to break the rules, it was that guy. Kill had his own issues, struggled with his own temper control, so he of all people would understand Nikko’s need to fight.

When he pulled up to their modest, yellow-and-cream-colored two-story, the lacy curtains in the kitchen window were brushed aside before falling back into place. Parking his Challenger in the turnaround of their driveway, Nikko cut the engine and headed up to the house. Before he reached the door, Willow had it open and was waiting for him with a big welcoming grin on her face. “Nikko, come in. Glad you could make it.”

“Thanks, Willow.” He stepped inside and tensed, knowing the inevitable was coming. She wasted no time throwing her arms around his neck and giving him a big hug. Some people were huggers, and those who weren’t had to learn to live with it if they planned on spending any time with Willow. It didn’t escape Nikko’s notice that last night he’d been a lot closer to Clover than this. Yet that trapped, suffocating feeling hadn’t come over him. In fact, he’d wanted to get closer, a hell of a lot closer.

“I’m glad you decided to come for supper,” she said.

“Thanks for letting me crash it.”

“It’s no problem. You know you boys are always welcome.”

And that was one of the many reasons the guys in Coach’s camp adored Kill’s sister. She treated all the fighters like they were family. Admittedly, it’d been hard to get used to at first, but little by little, their comrade was starting to grow on him and, damn, that girl could cook.

As they stepped into the entryway, the unexpected report of gunfire echoed from the living room. Nikko flinched. Shots rang out—then tense curses and yelling for backup and to take cover. And just like that, Nikko felt the grip on his sanity begin to slip. Darkness edged around him, his head buzzing with that familiar hum of a hornet’s nest.

No!
He gave himself the mental command to shut down his thoughts before they got away from him.
Not here. Not now.

Willow must have noticed he wasn’t following her anymore because she stopped. Glancing over her shoulder, she shot him a concerned frown. “You all right?”

No.
“Yeah . . . What’s going on in there?” He nodded toward the living room. The phantom scent of blood stung his nostrils, the coppery tang assaulting his senses, and mental images flashed in his mind like a slow-motion movie reel, churning faster as the projector warmed up.

Keep your shit together, soldier. That’s an order!

“The boys are playing Call of Duty. You want to join them? We have another controller.”

Nikko shook his head, forcing one foot in front of the other and stepping into the hall.

“Cover me, dammit! They’re closing in!” Regan shouted. The report of automatic fire filled the room.

“I’m trying, but I’m getting flanked! I’m hit!”

“That’s all right,” Nikko mumbled, as he fought through the haze of memories rapidly closing in on him. “It’s not so much fun once you’ve played the real thing. Too bad life doesn’t have a Restart button like those damn games.”

“Yeah . . .” she agreed, smiling sadly as the shadows he was all too familiar with touched her eyes. No doubt, she was thinking of her own loss—another senseless tragedy.

Shit, was he a killjoy or what? He hadn’t been here five minutes and Willow looked like she wanted to cry. Explaining that one to Kill oughta be a real treat. But that woman was good at hiding her emotions, missing only a beat before painting that bright, beautiful smile on her face again and yelling, “Hey, guys, Nikko’s here. It’s time to eat. How about you shut off the Xbox and join us?” Then to Nikko, she said, “If you don’t mind, I could use your help in the kitchen opening a bottle of wine.”

Was he that transparent? Had she seen how close he was to slip
ping off the edge, and was she taking pity on him by trying to distract
him? Hell, did it really matter at this point? He’d take any help he
could get to cling to the present and prevent another scene like the one that went down last week. “Sure, Willow, whatever you need.” Did his
voice sound as wooden and hollow to her as it did to him? He hated
being like this—feeling like a ticking time bomb just waiting to go off.

Out of the blue, Violet’s words returned to haunt him.
If you’d let me, I think I could help you.
Yeah, that offer was made before he’d lost his shit in her office today and gotten himself permanently booted. But still, he couldn’t help but wonder if there had been some truth to her offer. The question hovered in his mind, a painful temptation daring him to reach out and take the help she was offering.

But what if he were right? If it didn’t work, all hope would be lost.
It was one thing to be like this because he chose to be. Refusing help still left the possibility of healing hovering on the horizon. But if he accepted what Violet was offering—granted she would still see him,
that is—and took the risk of letting her in, letting her try to help him, and she failed, it would be his end. He’d have no chance of ever recov
ering, and Nikko wasn’t sure he could live with that kind of finality—wasn’t sure he could pin that kind of hope on another person.

It wasn’t fair to do that to her, because if Violet failed, and she more than likely would, he knew she would blame herself, as well. Yet the thought of spending the rest of his life wondering when the next rage blackout would come, or what his next trigger would be, seemed an equally unbearable proposition as living without hope. He was damned if he did and damned if he didn’t.

Willow handed him the bottle of wine and the opener. “Hope you like Merlot. I personally think it goes great with Italian food.”

“Anything is fine.” Nikko took a deep breath, savoring the scent of freshly baked bread and rich, buttery garlic, banishing the remnant of the metallic tang from his senses. The smells wafting from the oven helped clear his mind, giving him something tangible to cling to. It helped that the sounds in the living room didn’t carry into the kitchen. “The lasagna looks great,” he commented, unwrapping the foil from the bottle as she pulled the pan from the oven.

“Thanks. It’s my mom’s recipe. She always made it for Kyle. It’s his favorite.” Her voice softened with a touch of nostalgic sadness.

“How do you do it, Willow?” The question came out before he could bite it back. It wasn’t like him to ask anything so personal, but she knew loss, and, on that level, he felt a connection to her. Kill knew loss, too, though, like Nikko, the guy had his own unhealthy ways of dealing with grief. But Willow seemed so . . . balanced, so put together. If you didn’t know it, you’d never guess the heartbreak she’d endured.

She didn’t ask him what
it
meant. To keep from having to look at
her, he focused his attention on opening the bottle. He made it a habit
not to engage i
n serious conversation and was uncomfortable doing so
now, but he was also desperate for answers, tired of feeling this restless
ness inside him, tired of craving a peace that seemed unattainable—except for when he was with Clover. And
that
caused a whole
other set of issues. It was unexplainable, and he didn’t understand it, but somehow, for some reason, that woman seemed to be his calm in the storm—his oasis. When he was with her, that empty ache in his heart didn’t hurt quite so much, that void—that hollowness—seemed to disappear, even if only for a little while.

“I’m not going to lie to you, Nikko. It wasn’t easy. It still isn’t. I have to make a conscious decision every day not to let my grief control me. When Kyle moved back home after the accident, he didn’t know what to do with me. I was a fourteen-year-old girl who’d just lost her parents. I was a wreck. He was a wreck. But one of the best things he did was put me in counseling. I didn’t want to go, but he made me do it, anyway. He didn’t know how to help me, so he made sure I had someone in my life who did. It didn’t work overnight, but my psychologist gave me the tools I needed to help myself, and eventually it got a little better. And I have people in my life who love me. Don’t underestimate the healing power of love—whether it’s from friends or family or someone . . . closer.” Her gaze darted away and he ignored the slight blush coloring her cheeks. “I know you don’t like talking about what happened to you, Nikko, so I won’t ask. But maybe you should, you know, let
someone
in.”

Pop! The cork came free of the bottle just as Kyle and Regan entered the kitchen.

“Hey, Nikko, glad you made it. Wow, Will, this smells amazing! Totally worth covering your ass . . .”

“Thanks,” she laughed, carrying the lasagna pan over to the table.

Kyle took the seat with his back to the stove, and Regan sat across from him, no doubt ensuring whichever of the two chairs Willow ended up in, he’d be sitting beside her.

“I’ll just grab the garlic bread, go ahead and start dishing up.” She set the Caesar salad beside the pan and gave her brother the spatula before heading back to the stove. Nikko carried the wine over and sat down.

“So, Regan,” Kill asked, piling his plate full of lasagna while his friend dug into the salad. “You coming down to the gym with us after supper?”

Willow turned her attention toward the table as she pulled out the garlic bread, shooting a questioning glance Regan’s way. His eyes briefly darted toward her, then back to his task. Before the guy could respond, Willow yelped and the pan clattered inside the oven. They all jumped to their feet, but Regan was the first one there, ushering Willow to the sink.

“Get the first-aid kit,” he told Kyle, turning on the faucet. Her brother veered left, heading out of the room. Regan crowded in behind her, his arm coming around her back and grabbing her wrist to hold her hand beneath the stream of water. With his free hand he inspected her burn.

“Regan, it’s fine,” she protested.

“The hell it is,” he growled, his voice low and seemingly meant for her ears only. “Baby, the top of your hand is burned.”

“I’ll be okay,” she whispered. “It’s my fault. I wasn’t paying attention to what I was doing. Nikko,” she called for him, craning her head and trying to see him over Regan’s shoulder, but there was no way Regan was letting her go. “Will you please pull that bread out of the oven before it burns?”

“Sure.” He grabbed the pan from the middle rack and turned the oven off as Kill came into the kitchen carrying the medical kit. He wasted no time displacing Regan, who had no choice but to stand down. But by the tight clench of his jaw, Nikko could tell the guy wasn’t happy about it.