Lorelei James: Unwound

Why don’t you just admit it? You don’t have a qualified professional fighter.

Fuck that. He’d figure something out.

Feeling at loose ends in nearly every aspect of his life, he called Amery’s cell phone for the tenth time and hung up when it kicked over to voice mail. He was getting tired of her dodging his calls.

That’s because she’s done with you.

With the voices in his head wreaking havoc, he decided to pursue a more productive mind-set, like spending time in his Zen garden, when two knocks sounded on his office door. “Come in.”

Martel, his UPS courier, bounded in. “Afternoon, Mr. B. How’s it hangin’?”

“Low. You?”

“High. I start my vacay tomorrow. A week in Cancun.” He thrust the cardboard box at Ronin. “Same-day delivery. Signature required on this one.”

He signed the electronic pad and missed the rest of what Martel said because the package was from Amery. He squinted at the block lettering. Jesus. Even her writing looked angry. Especially the PERSONAL notation in the corner—angrily outlined three times with red marker.

As soon as the door shut, he used a carton cutter to slice through the tape. His heart raced as he folded back the cardboard edges and yanked out the bubble wrap.

His heart stopped when he saw the contents: two coils of black rope. The rope he’d left at her place the last time they were together. The rope he’d seen on her floor last week.

He upended the box on his desk. No note. Just the rope. And a pair of scissors.

She’d made her message loud and clear. She wanted no part of him. No reminders of their time together. She was cutting all ties.

Ronin dropped into his chair and stared at the black bundles as fury hit him as hard and fast as a freight train. His current anger-management program—beating the fuck out of a speed bag—wouldn’t dampen his rage this time. He needed something else. Something . . . real.

A plan took shape in his mind. It would require every bit of his focus, leaving him no time to think about anything—or anyone—else, which is exactly what he wanted.

After he retaped the box and shoved the package under his desk, he hit the intercom for the training room. “Shihan? A word in my office, please.”

Knox walked in a few minutes later. “What’s up?”

“Did you talk to Deacon today?”

Knox uncapped his water bottle and drank deeply before answering. “No. I saw him, but he didn’t stop to talk. Is something wrong?”

“He’s got family stuff going on next week in Texas, so he pulled out of the fight Thursday night.”

“Shit.” Knox flopped into the office chair across from the desk. “How much money is tied up in the event?”

“Twenty grand.”

“Shit,” he said again. “This is why we’ve stayed out of the fight-promotion business.”

“I’m aware of that. I’m also aware that Blue runs events like this all the time, and we’ll come across as unprofessional if we can’t pull it together.” Ronin didn’t give a damn about the money. The dojo saving face was all that mattered to him.

“You worried advance ticket sales will drop off when we change the fight matchup?”

“Some. But that’s why there’s the disclaimer about fight matchups being subject to change without notice.”

Knox gave him a contemplative look. “The easiest thing would be to drop the last bout altogether since it’s the only pro matchup.”

“We’re not dropping the main bout. I’ve already got someone who can fight in Deacon’s place.”

“Who?”

“Me.”

“Hilarious. And here I thought you’d lost your sense of humor in the last week.”

“I’m not joking.”

Knox’s smile died, and he changed into that steely-eyed former soldier. “Fuck that, Ronin. You don’t have to do this.”

“Not a matter of have to. It’s a matter of want to.”

“With all the shit that’s happened in the last week, you are not in the right frame of mind. Let me represent the dojo.”

Ronin leaned forward and didn’t bank the rage fueling him. “Are you suggesting, Godan, that I don’t have the skills to adequately represent the dojo I own?”

“Jesus, no. I’m questioning why you’re doing this.”

“Because I can.” Ronin shoved the updated schedule at him. “Find replacement instructors for the times I circled. I’ll give Shiori a heads up and let her know she’s taking over Deacon’s classes.”

Knox opened his mouth to argue but thought better of it. He asked, “What else can I do?”

“Call Clint. He owes me a favor.”

“Maybe this is obvious, but Clint is retired from the UFC because his body couldn’t take it anymore. And he’s five years younger than you.”

Ronin shrugged. “One fight won’t kill me. But I’m not an idiot. I’ve no doubt I’ll feel every one of my thirty-eight years and then some after the final bell rings.”

“How long has it been since you’ve stepped foot in the ring?”

Hadn’t been that long ago, but he wasn’t sharing that information. “Between you and Clint . . . figure out a training regimen that will get me up to speed fast because Blue is one tough motherfucker.”

Knox stood. “I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t question your decisions.”

“Noted.”

After Knox left, Ronin headed to the training room.

Fuck finding Zen.

• • •

Six nights later

FIGHT night was a blur.

Ronin remembered getting in the ring believing he was the most impervious motherfucker on the planet. Acting like he’d bring the pain. Welcoming the physical punishment Blue Curacao would dish out.

But somewhere in the middle of the second round, Ronin’s focus shifted. He fought back with minimal effort. He embraced the feeling of numbness after his opponent’s blows connected with his body. Every drop of blood he lost cleansed him. Everything around him dropped into slow motion, so when he saw the powerful right cross headed for his jaw, he didn’t bother to block it.

He hit the mat and the lights went out.

People poked and prodded him. He answered their questions by rote. He’d been in this situation enough times that he gave them the responses they were looking for. He made it out of the ring on his own steam and promptly passed out in the locker room with only Shiori and Knox as his witnesses.

“Ronin.”

Go away.

“You managed to walk in here on your own after the medical team checked you out, so I know you can hear me.”

Ronin opened his eye—the one that wasn’t swollen shut. “What?”

“You’re smiling? Are you actually happy that you got your ass kicked?”

He choked out a simple “Yes.”

“Why? Brother, he knocked you out.”

“Not until the third round.” He slowly pushed up from the cot. Fuck. Every inch of his body hurt. The sadistic side of his brain smugly said, Good . The part of his brain with the pain receptors responded by kicking into overdrive.

“Why are you wearing that scary-ass smile?” Knox demanded.

“Getting beat means it’s a perfect setup for a rematch. I’ll probably have to fight a few other bouts to pump up interest.”

“Bullshit,” Shiori spat. “You said one fight, Ronin. One .”

“I changed my mind.”

Knox shook his head. “Sensei, you’re not a pro fighter. These twenty-something guys will be gunning to kick the shit out of an eighth-degree jujitsu master.”

“They’re welcome to try.” Ronin chugged half a bottle of water and spit it in the bucket. “I’m going home.”

“You had a knockout, which equals concussion,” Shiori snapped. “You need to go to the ER.”

“This wasn’t my first fight. I’ve lived the doctor’s advice: rest, painkillers, and alternate ice and heat for swelling.” Ronin pushed to his feet and swayed.