Stone's Cage Read online

  Stone's Cage

  by

  Rebecca Ryan

  Copyright @ 2019 Rebecca A. Moreán

  All rights reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, contact at www.rebeccaryanbooks.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover Design: Steamy Designs, LLC

  For anyone who has turned over secrets

  and their heart, for love

  Stone's Cage

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Epilogue

  COMING NEXT. . .

  THANK YOU!

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Carson Stone

  Remi's Gym smells like blood.

  It's what the crowd wants, and I have to get into that head space. I can hear them chanting my name on the floor: STONE! STONE! STONE! While the pitch grows, disembodied voices start breaking up into rogue screams and yells when Jimmy "The Python" Dedham steps into the cage. He came from boxing. I cut my fucking teeth on wrestling. That’s why Remi's thrown up the octagon cage—it's cage fighting tonight and no one is going to win with an advantage. The fight may be unsanctioned but there are rules.

  Sort of.

  This crowd, that kind of crowd used to get me jacked. Ready to fight. There's autographs afterwards and girls with my face on T-shirts, and they think I'm the best underground fighter there is.

  Outside the stinking locker room, my name begins to reform again into a chant and the opposition is squashed.

  Coach says nothing through all this—just keeps taping my hands. Then come the gloves. A shot of adrenaline runs like lightening through my gut.

  I slam the gloves together and Coach opens the door.

  The crowd roars, parting like the sea, carnivorous disciples so I can get to the cage. There's no corny outfits and I won’t fucking wave the crowd into a frenzy—they're already there. Instead, I grab the top of the steel entrance, do a quick chin up and drop into the cage.

  Five years ago, Coach had an entourage that followed me into the cage, girls in short skirts or shorts and tight, cropped T's, selling shirts and smiling, holding signs with STONE and my face plastered everywhere. I hated it.

  I may not have been born to fight but I've trained to fight and that's what I do. I don’t parade around and rap or ask girls to drop into bed with me. At least not anymore. I don't have to.

  Ask anyone around New York who does the gym scene and they know who I am.

  At least they think they know who I am.

  The Python has his two guys with him, a trainer and a cutter. I've just got Coach—he does both. That's all I've ever needed. He trains and he patches me up—I'm so fucking tired of entourages. Even one more person seems like one too many. I travel light these days—no attachments. No more people.

  The ref is a friend of mine, Tiny. Well, not a friend, but I guy I know and respect.

  Like I said, I fight unsanctioned but not illegal. We organize outside the UFC or the CFFC or the Underground Cage Fighting leagues. Ours is like the Underground Combat League, filling the vacuum after it dissolved. These gym fights are really dirty and really underground. At least they're reffed, and Tiny with his massive chest, pin head face, and eggplant forearms is a good guy. Fair. Sees it all.

  Tiny comes over and offers the same rules I've heard for the last decade.

  No choking.

  No groin hits.

  No spiking.

  No fish hooking.

  No eye gouging, biting, hair pulling.

  The list is long, and few follow it. Remember, crowds want blood.

  The mindset is to win. Win at all costs.

  I look Python in the eye. Last time we fought I beat the shit out of him. A stray piece of jewelry got snagged in his upper lip. He's bigger than he was last spring, probably got himself loaded up on creatine, and I see this time there's no necklace around that massive neck, just a nasty scar that creeps up towards his nose. Three judges stand off to the side. Usually they're sitting and turn over blocks to start the fight, but these guys are just standing.

  Somewhere a bell goes off. The crowd goes berserk, both our names dissolving into a massive roar.

  Python makes his move.

  He body slams me against the chain link fencing. The trick is to stay away from his legs, that's where "Python" comes in. He crushed a guy's pelvis two months ago. Moving up on the fencing, I push with my legs, pivot, slam a knee into his, and pound him to the ground, landing punches as hard and as fast as I can.

  Round 1 is mine.

  Shaking off, I turn to Coach and our station in the cage.

  I remind myself I'm going home two thousand dollars richer tonight, just as I catch sight of a real snake slithering between the crowd and the cage. It's Sly W. collecting last minute bets. Bets, that sometimes, I cheat.

  Coach sees him too and as I stand and let Coach dump water on me and wipe me off with scratchy old gym towels, he seems uneasy.

  "This is clean," I shout at Coach above the roar. But he won't look at me. I hope it's because he's focused on the clock.

  The bell rings again. One minute goes by fast.

  Round 2 is going to be Python's. I'll let him have it. It's good theater. The crowd will go fucking crazy with people in the crowd pummeling each other on the back. He head butts me right away and I take it, but it drops me to my knees. I should have rethought not ducking. I take a punch to the shoulder, driving me right into those tree trunk legs. I duck my head, trying to take punches on the back of my skull, and know he's got me right where he wants me. I'm not going to jackknife out. I think he knows I'm giving this to him.

  Slamming me hard to the ground we both lay there, barely moving, our bodies rock hard with effort: he wants to crush and I need to escape. Python begins to squeeze my chest hard between his legs. His legs are like a vice that does not stop. Meanwhile I swing from behind, trying to get enough leverage to toss him and land back on my feet.

  The crowd screams. His face slowly begins to turn red with effort. I have maybe ten seconds before one of my ribs crack. Like lightning, I shove both hands under the small of his back and arch up. When he pushes down, I use his own body weight against him to slip out, free to kick him in the head. The second kick, he grabs my leg and I'm on the ground again.

  Round 2 is over.

  The 1 to 1 tie drives the crowd to the brink of hysteria. I can hear my name chanted above the feeding frenzy of the crowd while Coach hoses me down with a large gallon jug of water. I spit out my mouthguard and he douses that as well.

  Sly W. is nowhere to be seen. The fact I know he's making money off this makes me want to kill that little weasel. I have a hate-hate relationship with the guy. I need him to tell me when to throw a fight. And
then I take home more money.

  I see girls along the back standing on old bleachers, trying to do a kind of cheerleading thing and I wave. They scream. Jesus, I'm tired of this shit.

  Coach is telling me something, but I can’t hear him, my ears are too inflamed from the head punches and tinnitus has kicked in.

  I want it over. I need to end this.

  Round 3 starts with the bell and ends two minutes short of the required five when I knock the Python out. He'd landed a punch to my nose though before his drop to the floor. Blood drips down my chest as Tiny raises my arm while Jimmy the Python pulls himself up from the matt. We shake hands and embrace like we're old friends. We're not. But it's the show, the sportsmanship we honor, and I go through the motions.

  I wipe the blood out of my eyes. My nose is numb but the iron smell is stronger for me than for anyone in the crowd. I grab the winnings from Remi, a couple of thousand plus. What nobody knows except Coach is that I'll go to the bank on Monday, cut a cashier's check, and send most of it to my sister, Cassie.

  The fight next week will bring in close to three thousand. And I'll do the same with that, leveraging any scrap of honor I have left for the chance to help her. There's been talk that Shreves, the gang boss, wants me to throw it, but Coach keeps a wary eye on me and I don’t dare. The last time Sly baited me to throw a fight, I did, and I got seven grand. Every penny went to Cassie but Coach didn’t talk to me for two weeks. I've got to keep it clean.

  And that's why I can’t look Coach in the eye when he pounds me on the back in congratulations, why I throw down the towel smeared with blood and I walk out into the alley into the grimy New York street light, not feeling like an Underground Combat Fighter, but like a fucking asshole. I stand there for a moment before the groupies come, hands in pockets, gearing up for celebrity I don’t deserve.

  I only get the three grand if I win. Sly W.'s been telling me Shreves says my purse will be twelve grand if I lose. They have the whole fight set up.

  Assholes.

  Lily Watson

  I hide in the alley waiting for the fight to be over. This is where I'm supposed to find gang members—the back of some ratty gym named Remi's. It was loud in there, an organized roar, but people flooded out from the front twenty minutes ago—I watched them from my spot under the fire escape, crossing the alley opening in waves. About twenty people have congregated near the back door, waiting for the winner to emerge. After watching two people toss vials of crack, I'm beginning to think this was a bad idea. A very bad idea.

  A little light above the doorway flickers and holds as the door opens and a white guy steps out, a head taller than most of his fans.

  He just stands there in a cropped, sleeveless hoodie, jeans slouched down around his hips. They are ripped at the knee. His boots are huge, black things with an inch of black tread. I just stare at his boots and think, who needs boots like that in a city? A chain for his wallet hangs down the back of his jeans. With his face in shadow, I can’t see much until he steps out from under that one naked lightbulb.

  I step back further into the shadows as my heart flutters. He's muscled and even in the bad lighting I can see where his arms and chest are defined under the hoodie. Fiercely wavy blond-brown hair, a square jaw in the truly heroic tradition, and with light blue eyes I can’t see until he looks directly into mine, and he does something to my insides.

  Those eyes are like a jolt of electricity and something wet and warm seeps in my panties. We stare at each other and then I realize he can't really see me—I've already disappeared under the fire escape. This is best, I tell myself, but my heart slams under my chest so hard I shake. He is gorgeous. Absolutely gorgeous.

  In this part of New York, her alleys are sticky with stories of stabbings, shootings, gangs and brutal beatings. I've heard a lot in the last two weeks. But, I think, as I pull my long T-shirt sleeves over my hands, there are a lot of resilient people here, trying to take back their corner of the city. I need to keep hope alive.

  I take a breath and am just about to approach him and try to get a look at his arms, when the door to Remi's Gym crashes open and even more people spill out into the alley. I am excited, scared, cold and hungry. It's after one in the morning in a torqued New York back alley, and there's an autograph party going on. With drugs and god knows what. Not exactly what I'm looking for.

  I just don’t know which side he's on, and I can't see his forearms where the tattoo would be. I stand in the dark and wait.

  He pulls those sleeves down further before he picks up a Sharpie, so I won’t get a peek. The people demanding his attention seem almost crazed and a wave of panic runs through me. I need to not be here right now. If one of those crazy fans roots me out, I could be in trouble. The smell of fear is easy to sniff out and something I'm sure they love to track.

  The cross street where the alley opens is now my immediate goal. If I turn around suddenly, my shoes on the gritty ground, wet with a heavy fall rain, might give me away. He's still signing autographs, his groupies jumping up and down, and he signs anything presented: one girl's arm, a lot of fake, cheap boxing gloves, a sock, some paper. That Sharpie's ready for whatever. They're loud, yelling his name and waving arms and a few have T-shirts with his face on them. I manage to decipher "Stone! Carson Stone!"

  Carson Stone. That name came up before in searches. He must be one of them, one of the gang. A Hook.

  And there's probably more right here, right in front of me.

  But I don’t really know what to do next—I didn't think that far ahead—and there's too many people around. Being anonymous is harder than you think. Being invisible is even harder. There's another gym I can scope out tomorrow night, a place called Hobie's.

  Stepping out from the fire escape, trying to act like I am just a part of the crowd, I shove past people, and walk right by Stone, determination in each step. But just as I pass, I pause for an instant. He has a scent. Fleshy and citrusy and absolutely delicious. This catches me off guard and I tip my chin to my chest, trying not to snare his glance. This isn't why I am here, and I have work to do.

  But he does see me. His head snaps up and I see those eyes for an instant before I turn away, knowing he's staring at my back. I can feel his stare bearing down between my shoulder blades. The hair on the back of my neck stands up, and I glance over my shoulder and see him shift his weight. Goosepimples start behind my right ear and tingle down the outside of my arm. Those blue eyes blaze.

  Taking a quarter spin to the right at the end of the alley, someone shouts, and I run. I don't know if I'm running from fear or from him.

  Chapter Two

  Carson Stone

  I'm stiff tonight from the fight yesterday, but working out felt great. It's after midnight and I'm closing up Hobie's, Coach's gym. Everything burns—my knees, hips, stomach, shoulders, back. My arms are still rock hard, pumped with blood, and my hands feel numb. I'd cut myself earlier, busted a knuckle open. I'd been hitting the punching bags too hard again. First the body-sized one, then the speed bag. I can really get into a rhythm with that one. Almost an out of body experience. What the suits call "flow." Yeah, I get in the flow when I turn that speed bag into a blur. In the fucking zone.

  Coach came around with tape, but I like the feel of the leather coming back to meet skin. I've learned to train with my bare hands. When you train with bare hands and then get taped for a fight, it feels like you've dipped your hands in steel.

  I turn the key in the lock, and I hear this sound again, for the second time. A kind of sighing cry and for a moment I just think it's someone's window cranked enough to let the wind howl. Shoving the key in my back pocket, I turn to go, my sneakers completely silent on the damp, gritty asphalt. Then there's a third small cry. The last thing I need is a cat to take care of. This is what I tell myself anyway. And then I hear it again. A kitten maybe. I turn around, retracing my steps.

  I start pulling at the trash cans. And then I feel someone stiffen, but I don't see them. I just sens
e something frightened pulling back. As I push the trash cans apart, she's just sitting there. This girl is sitting on the concrete, in the drizzle, her hair completely wet, looking up at me. Her skin is so dark, all I can see are her eyes, large, caramel colored, flecked with gold. I just stare at her.

  "What the hell? What are you doing?"

  She stares at me and draws her knees tighter to her chest. Suddenly, I recognize her. It's the girl from the alley last night. The one that left without an autograph. The one who didn’t belong there.

  "It's midnight. This is dangerous." I take a step back and adjust my weight evenly.

  "None of your goddamn business," she says, wriggling a little. "Leave me alone."

  Pressing the light on my keychain, I lean in for a closer look.

  She's in some kind of trouble. I don't know what, but she shouldn't be sitting behind trash cans in a back alley at night. This is not a good thing. I dig my hands into my gym pockets. She's just a kid.

  Shit, I feel a wad of money in my left pocket, cash not earmarked for Cassie. I could take this girl home, I could feed her. I have money to do that.

  Suddenly there's a movement under her sweatshirt, something undulating like a gritty, urban version of Alien, and a tiny head appears. A little orange tabby kitten with rain inspired cowlicks opens its mouth for a fifth cry. Taking a hand, she shoves it back under her hoodie.

  Okay. She can’t stay here. "All right," I say. "Listen, this is what we're gonna do. You're gonna walk behind me."

  "I'm not going anywhere with you. I don’t know you from shit."

  I nearly laugh. It's like she doesn't know how to swear.

  "I get it," I say, realizing how young she must be. "You shouldn’t trust me anyway. But listen. You just follow me, ten, twenty feet behind. Whatever you want. Then, if you feel unsafe, or that you want to leave, you can."

  Silence. Her hoodie does a twist and she sucks in her breath sharply and winces.