Caged (Mastered, #4)(58)

Shut it, Dante.

Would it kill you to give him something? So he knows you’re happy outside the ring?

Fuck.

“I’m a long way from that stage, but I am, ah . . . seeing someone.”

See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?

Fuck off, Dante.

Phantom laughter echoed in his head and then vanished. People would think him certifiable if he admitted it was more than just his dead brother’s voice; it felt like part of Dante’s conscience hadn’t moved on but had remained with Deacon all these years.

“Tag mentioned to me that you’d met someone.”

Gossipy damn family.

“So? Tell me about her,” his dad prompted.

“She’s . . . smart. And strong.” And gorgeous, and sweet, and funny, and sexy, and I’m so crazy about her it scares the shit out of me.

“What’s her name, and how’d you meet?”

“Her name is Molly. We met at Black Arts when she took my kickboxing class. She’s the office manager for Hardwick Designs—that’s Ronin’s wife Amery’s business.”

“How long have you been dating?”

“A couple weeks. But I’ve known her for almost two years.” Why had he shared that?

“I’d like to meet her.”

I’m sure you would. “She’ll be at my next fight.”

“There’s an added incentive to go.” His dad chuckled. “I imagine you won’t be bringing her home to meet your mother. Does that mean I can’t tell her you’ve met someone?”

“Why ask? You’ll do whatever you want. But Molly isn’t up for discussion with either of you.”

“You sound happy. That’s all I care about. But I won’t speak for Julianne. Take care, son, and keep me informed on the fight.”

“Will do. Later.” Deacon hung up.

He ran his palm over his bald pate. His head was wet. Why did talking to his dad make him sweat?

Because you’re still convinced he’s judging you.

Christ, Dante. He is. You’re dead, and I still don’t measure up to you.

Bull. Your perception has always been majorly skewed.

Way to remind me I didn’t get the math brain.

Quit brooding. I got the brains. You got the heart. Which one of us is still alive? So you tell me which one is more important.

The voice disappeared again, leaving him feeling bereft.





CHAPTER FIFTEEN



AFTER Deacon found the semiprivate room at Dave & Buster’s and exchanged the customary hand-jive, half-bro hugs with the Black Arts MMA crew, he focused on the birthday boy—who wore a Burger King crown, for f*ck’s sake.

Beck grinned. “Like the crown? Ivan’s idea. I’d tell you to get on your knees . . . but you’d take it the wrong way, D.”

“Ya think?” Deacon looked around. There were monitors in this section that gave a live overview of the different game areas. “Dave and Buster’s? What are you? Ten years old?”


“Piss off, Deacon. This place rocks. Besides, it’s a tradition. Twenty-fifth year in a row I’ve spent my birthday in an arcade.”

Deacon swiped his light beer off the table. “So you didn’t discover video games until you were twenty?”

“Not even on my worst day do I look ten years older than I am, unlike some bald-headed dudes, so f*ck off, ass-monkey.”

“Can you guys tone down your lovers’ quarrel? I’m trying to figure out what to eat here,” Blaze complained.

“But their bromance is legendary,” Ivan deadpanned.

“Fuck both of you.”

Deacon looked around the table. Beck, Ivan, Sergei, Blaze, and Fisher. Surprisingly, Blue—not Gil—rounded out the group. Then again, if Beck and Maddox had words, Gil wouldn’t be invited since he and Mad were so tight.

“You looking for someone in particular?” Beck asked.

“The creepy guy who ties balloon animals at kiddie parties. Thought he could fashion that big dick you’ve always wanted.”

“Bite me.” He smirked. “Unless your jaw hurts too much from taking one on the chin from Courey earlier this morning?”

A chorus of oohs echoed back to him.

“Ha-f*cking-larious, douche bag. No. I just thought . . . Never mind.”

Beck swigged his beer. “Yes, I invited Ronin, Knox, and Riggins, but they all had other plans.”

“Riggins never comes to nothin’,” Blaze pointed out.

“Training at Black Arts is a hobby for him. If he’s not being paid for his medical assistance with the fighters, he’s not hanging around with us. That’s who he is.” Beck shrugged.

“Where’d you find him?” Deacon asked.

“I didn’t find him. Knox did. So I assume they were military buddies or Riggins works for GSC, the same security place Knox does.”

Or Knox and Ronin recruited him from Twisted—not that Deacon could share that suspicion.

“Dinner’s on me tonight, so pull that damn menu away from Blaze,” Beck said. “The redheaded imp will bankrupt me.”

“I hate when you call me imp.”

“Dude. You’re like five five, and you weigh a buck thirty-five. Imp applies.”