Fight to the Finish (First to Fight #3)(77)
“They’re all *s. All of them. They’ve made Nikki and I feel like nobodies, looking down on us. Hell, your own boyfriend screamed at her, and then turned her in for that stupid prank. Just a prank!”
His hand tightened reflexively, and she squeaked.
“I’m not like them. I don’t kill. I show mercy. But mercy and forgiveness aren’t the same thing, are they? Sometimes, you have to pay for your mistakes before you can be forgiven. Little ways, you know?”
She wriggled a little, testing his hold. He cinched his arm tighter, but she instinctively fought harder, clawing at his arm now in an attempt to find one millisecond of weakness she could break out of. Then he moved up to grip under her chin. His forearm cut into her windpipe, making the effort to breathe around his hand almost impossible. She quit struggling in order to save her breath.
“Yeah, you’ll calm down. If they don’t have uniforms, they can’t compete, right? That’ll hurt. They should have disbanded already. I don’t know why they kept going. The MPs are idiots. Taking Nikki away. She’s innocent!” he said in a guttural voice, and he squeezed with the final word. “One more mistake.”
Seeing stars, Kara knew even if he didn’t intend to, he’d suffocate her. The air was too close. Too thick now. She wouldn’t make it. Weak with lack of oxygen, she went completely lax against him, which forced his hold to shift just enough that she swung her arms back and dug her thumbs into his eyes. Or as close to his eyes as she could reach. Simultaneously, she arched her back away and swung her heel up between them, aiming for his crotch.
Thank you, yoga, for giving me this range of motion.
She missed the crotch, but landed a solid blow somewhere on his inner thigh. And he let go enough that she could fall to her knees and crawl for the door. He lunged for her, landing on top of her and flattening her to the cool concrete of the storage room.
Opening her mouth, Kara fought to scream, but choked on a cough instead.
Gotta get out. Gotta get to the fresh air.
Hysterically, she thought she’d never before considered the stale, humid air of a gym to be fresh before. But she’d have given everything she had for one gulp of it now.
She bucked and fought, rolling with Levi for every inch. Boxes rained down around them, some on top of them. Her temple hit the metal edge of something and she retched, stomach heaving from the pain. But she kept fighting, even as her lungs burned and her limbs weakened.
And from the corner of her eye, she saw the flames rising higher.
*
“WHERE the hell are the uniforms?” Tressler walked back out of the locker room, nearly bashing Greg in the head with the door as he shoved out. “Do you guys know where they are?”
Greg looked at Brad and Graham, then shrugged. “I don’t know. I put mine in the hamper last night to be laundered, just like they said.”
Graham looked around, wondering who actually did the laundering. “I’ll ask Coach.”
“We better find them soon. I’m third up, and I can’t go out there in my damn underwear.” Tressler stormed back in with a scowl. Brad rolled his eyes, shook his head and went to Marianne’s training room. He wouldn’t fight until last and had plenty of time to kill.
Graham was toward the middle of the day, with another potential match later in the evening if his first was a win. He jogged over to where Coach Cartwright and Coach Ace stood, heads together, discussing something.
“Coach, sorry to interrupt. Do you know where the uniforms are?”
Coach Ace raised dark brows, while Coach Cartwright turned in a circle, as if they were going to magically appear within arm’s reach.
“Cook was in charge of those. Or maybe Ms. Robilard. Check with one of them.” Dismissing him, the coaches went back to their discussion.
Okay then. He looked around the gym, spotted Reagan standing beside the site manager—the event staff had been introduced to the teams on day one. He walked over. “Reagan, hey, sorry to bother you.”
“No problem. Al, we’ll talk later?” She took Graham’s arm and walked a few feet away. “What’s up?”
“Looking for our uniforms. They’re not in the locker room like they were yesterday. We were told to leave them in the hampers and they’d be laundered and ready for today.”
“Yes, I gave them to Marianne’s intern. He might have left them in the training room. Let’s go check.” She hooked an elbow with his, partly for stability, he knew, because of the sky high heels she insisted on wearing, and partly because she was just a friendly person. “You’re doing well so far. How are things?”
“Things are good.” He waited for her to ask about the engagement, but she didn’t. So Kara hadn’t shared the news yet. He’d let her do so when she was ready. They entered the training room together, finding a harried Marianne taping Simpson’s ankle and looking around with wild eyes.
“You,” she said, pointing a finger at Reagan. “You have to help me. I’m alone, and I ran out of gauze. I’m using what they have,” she added, waving a hand at the Army and Air Force trainers, “but I like my stuff better. I sent Kara for the extra box in the storage room, and she hasn’t come back. Either she forgot, or she couldn’t find it, or someone abducted her and took her to the Bahamas where she will live forever and ever.”