Fighting for What’s His: A Warrior Fight Club Novel Page 3

  “When do you start?”

  “I have a week of orientation starting on Monday, and then I’ll get assigned to an editorial team and learn more about my actual schedule.”

  The excitement was plain in her voice, and it made Billy think about how long it’d been since he’d last felt that excited for something new in his life. He was damn grateful that he’d been able to parlay his experience as a Ranger into private investigating, because he knew for a fact that a lot of post-service Rangers struggled. First, because it was fucking hard to go from life-or-death to a nine-to-five. And second, because while the spec ops guys were among the most elite soldiers in the military, they didn’t have the kinds of readily transferrable skills as someone whose occupational specialty had been in communications or IT or engineering or medicine.

  Not to mention that sitting around doing nothing was not good for Billy. This he knew for sure. But being a P.I. wasn’t his passion. And he wasn’t even sure what was. Not anymore.

  “What will you be doing?” he asked, forcing himself out of his head.

  Her smile showed off more of that excitement. “I’ll be working for the Washington Gazette as a photographer, doing a mix of on-the-streets assignments and photo editing.”

  “That sounds impressive,” Billy said. Even as the back of his brain added, And potentially dangerous…

  She shrugged, but the gesture wasn’t convincing in its nonchalance. “I’ll probably be assigned to pretty fluffy stories at first.”

  “Even if that’s true, people could use more feel-good stories in the news these days,” he said, taking a bite of his toast and washing it down with a sip of coffee. She’d made it perfectly.

  “That’s true,” she said.

  “Did you go to school for photography?” he asked, wondering what had led her down this path. His curiosity in the whys behind people’s behavior was part of what made him enjoy private investigation. Even though what he learned was sometimes painful for his clients.

  “Yeah. I studied journalism and visual arts because I wasn’t sure what direction I wanted to go in with photography at first. But it didn’t take me long working in the museum field to realize I wanted to do something with greater immediate relevance. And then interning with a newspaper confirmed what my gut was telling me. I wanted to capture history in the making.” She sipped at her coffee as a soft pink filtered into her cheeks, like maybe she thought he’d find what she said to be stupid.

  He didn’t. Not at all. In fact, that sentiment portrayed her as being pretty damn similar to her brother. Both of the Curtis siblings wanted to make a difference in the world.

  And Billy knew first-hand how important journalists of all kinds were from having worked with them on the front lines. It could be a pain in the ass to have a journalist embedded with your platoon, but it took a lot of fucking courage to carry nothing more than a pen, voice recorder, or camera into a war zone.

  His gut squeezed around the toast and coffee he’d eaten. Because the thought had him imagining Shayna as one of those war correspondents, and…no. It made no goddamn sense to imagine such a thing. Or to let it impact him so badly.

  “I think that sounds great,” he managed, pushing off the stool and feeling all kinds of off-balance.

  He cleaned up his mess and put everything away where it belonged. The only thing out of place in the whole room was the cup Shayna was using and the chair upon which she sat. A lot of years in the Army, with its constant and often surprise inspections, had made him into a neat freak. And then losing control of his life three years before had turned up the knob on that particular character trait. By a lot. He needed things where they belonged or it drove him fucking nuts.

  He eyeballed her empty mug, and then gave into the urge. “Done with that?”

  “Oh, uh, yeah,” she said.

  Billy made quick work of rinsing and tucking it away in the dish washer.

  Shayna pushed off her stool and grabbed her iPad. “I need to bring in the rest of my things from the car,” she said. “I know your guest room is also your office, so do you want to show me where to put stuff so it won’t be in your way?”

  “I can bring it in for you. Where’s your car?”

  “You don’t have to do that,” she said, her gaze flickering to his shoulder again.

  He frowned and shoved down a tendril of anger. Did she think he couldn’t do it? “Nope, but I’m offering.” And, truth be told, he wouldn’t mind the break from being in her presence, because something about Shayna Curtis sent his thoughts—and his body—in directions he shouldn’t and didn’t want to go.

  “Well, okay. Then I’m about five cars down the block. The silver CRV with New York tags. I’ll grab my keys.” She made quick work of retrieving her keyring from upstairs, then held it out to him. “Thanks. I’ll need to use my own vehicle for work from time to time, so everything needs to come in.”

  “Got it,” he said, coming closer to grab the keys.

  Those blue-green eyes peered up at him, questioning, appreciating, maybe even admiring. And it was all suddenly more than he could handle. “Can I help?”

  “I’ll handle it,” he said, partly speaking to himself, which was why the words came out more harshly than he intended. Damnit. How long was it until fight club again?

  “Okay.” She stepped back from him as if she knew he was a pressure cooker about to explode.

  Damn it all to hell, she wasn’t fucking wrong. Not that it was her fault. It wasn’t. And it meant he needed to get his shit together.

  Billy forced a smile. “Let’s get you settled in so you’re all ready for your new gig.”

  Chapter Three

  By the time Billy got across town to the Full Contact MMA Training Center, he was nearly desperate to release some of the pent-up frustration and restlessness that had been barreling through his body all damn day.

  Walking through the front door of the gym was a little like coming home. The familiarity of the modern reception area, with its cases of trophies and ribbons filling one whole wall. The scents of air conditioning and cleaner and sweat and determination. The symphony of sounds—equipment clanging, weights dropping, feet beating out a rhythm on treadmills, boxing gloves hitting their targets.

  Just the promise of release was enough to fire a shot of relief through his veins.

  And he had Warrior Fight Club, which met at Full Contact every Saturday, to thank for every bit of it.

  He’d belonged to the WFC for almost two years, and it had done more than anything else he’d tried to screw his head on right. Talk therapy was fine. It was whatever. He didn’t hate it but it just put him further into his own feels. And that was generally the last place he wanted to be.

  Whereas his fists took him way the hell out of his head—while also proving to himself that, despite his injuries and his pain and the loss of his military career, he could still take care of himself and, when necessary, others, too.

  He wasn’t surprised to find that he was the first one there. He’d left way earlier than he needed to, but he’d had to get away from Shayna.

  He’d brought her belongings in from her car just like he said he would, and when he’d expressed surprise at how many cameras she owned, she’d shown him each one and explained its advantages and uses. She’d been cute and almost contagiously enthusiastic while she’d done so. But she’d created such a disaster in his office—he really needed to stop thinking of it that way, didn’t he?—that he’d just gotten the hell out of there rather than risk waving his freak flag at her.

  It was all for the best, because now he had time to pound out a few miles on the treadmill before anyone else arrived. He was on his fourth mile when a deep voice pulled him from his thoughts.

  “How’s it going, Billy?”

  He turned to find a big mountain of a man grinning at him as he dropped his bag of gear to the floor. Moses Griffin, who was also a Ranger, though they hadn’t been in the same battalion.

  “Hey, Mo. It’s goi
ng.”

  Mo palmed a dark hand over his bald head, the movement emphasizing the bulk of the man’s biceps. “That good, huh? Did your company arrive yet?” He got onto the treadmill next to Billy’s, feet straddling the belt.

  “Roger that,” Billy said. Mo had been there the day Ryan had called in his favor, and he and a few others had heard Billy vent about it. But now that he’d met Shayna, he felt a little bad about having done so. “It’ll be fine, though. She’s cool.”

  She’s beautiful. And interesting. And uses hilariously random curse words.

  Mo’s eyebrows went up and he slanted him a glance as he adjusted the settings on the machine’s LED screen. “Glad to hear it,” he said, his tone flat.

  Which wasn’t really like Mo, who seemed to have two settings: happy and gregarious, or sarcastic as fuck. He was just one of those guys who came at life with humor and optimism, and who looked at every stranger as a friend waiting to be made. Billy had always admired that about him. But today, something seemed off.

  “You okay, big guy?” Billy asked as Mo started running.

  “Yeah, I’m fucking fine,” he said, not really sounding fine at all. Billy arched a brow, and it made Mo laugh. “Okay, so I’m not. Got rejected from a job I applied for and I’m in a mood over it.”

  “Shit, I’m sorry, Mo. Is it that time again?”

  “My contract’s up in about six weeks. I have some other irons in the fire, but this one looked sweet.” He shrugged. “Something will come along.”

  He tacked on that platitude almost like he was keeping Billy from being the one to say it.

  The two of them had something in common when it came to their post-service jobs—they’d both chosen things that gave them flexibility and kept their routines from being all about the same-old, same-old. After years of living right on the edge of life or death in high-adrenaline, high-stakes operations, monotony was enough to drive men like them insane.

  So Billy had chosen private investigation, where he could control which cases he took or didn’t. And Mo had been doing government contract work since he’d retired five years ago. His current position with the Department of Defense had been his longest, at a year.

  “You still feeling the contractor route?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. I’d like to do something that feels like it makes a damn difference. You know?”

  “Hell, yeah. I get that.” Billy’s favorite cases involved tracking down missing persons, because he felt like what he learned mattered. But as good as he was at investigating—and he was—he’d more fallen into it then felt called to do it.

  At first, he hadn’t cared about that distinction. But lately, it was on his mind more and more. Especially since Ryan had shared the news of the death of another of their friends.

  Why did I survive the trap when so many others didn’t?

  Before they could say anymore, Noah Cortez came into the gym, bag of gear hanging on one muscular shoulder, big grin on his face. “Am I late to this party, or what?” he said, dropping his bag next to Mo’s.

  Billy hit five miles and jumped his feet onto the rails as he powered down the machine. “Right on time,” he said, clasping Noah’s hand when he extended it.

  And, Jesus, what a difference a couple of months had made in the former Marine’s life. An IED had given him a traumatic brain injury that’d damaged his left ear and eye, and when Billy had first met Noah right here at Full Contact about four months ago, the guy had been a gaunt shell battling some serious depression. Now, he’d put on a good thirty pounds of muscle. The dark circles were mostly gone from under his eyes. And he walked taller, like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders.

  “How’s your girl?” Mo asked, moving to the younger man’s good side.

  The expression on Noah’s face hit Billy uncomfortably in the chest because he’d never once felt the fundamentally happy way Noah looked. He’d seen Noah and Kristina together, and it was crystal clear that they were a match of the happily-ever-after kind. Billy was happy that so many things had turned around for the younger man—Noah had fought for it and deserved it. But it was still a sucker punch to realize you might never find that for yourself.

  “She’s too fucking good for me, but otherwise she’s great. Busy now that the new school year’s underway,” Noah said, pride plain in his voice.

  And for some reason, that had Billy thinking about Shayna. About the excitement in her voice as she’d talked about her new job and wanting to do something meaningful. About the enthusiasm she’d demonstrated as she’d shown him her equipment.

  To be that young and fresh again, your whole life stretching out in front of you full of potential and possibility. As jaded and world-weary as he was, even though he was only six years older than her, he could barely imagine it.

  “When are we gonna get to hang out with her again?” Mo asked. “It’s been too long. You gotta come up for air every once in a while.”

  “Oh, right. Halloween,” Noah said, not taking the bait even as Billy snickered.

  Mo frowned. “That’s over a month away, son.”

  Noah chuckled. “No shit, but Kristina gave me marching orders to invite you all when I saw you tonight. We’re going to throw a Halloween party at my parents’ house. So you officially all have plans or Kristina will track you down. Feel free to bring dates.” He looked at each of them expectantly.

  “How about roommates?” Billy asked as he wiped down his treadmill.

  Noah’s gaze suddenly felt too observant. “Your buddy’s sister? Absolutely. How’s that going?”

  “She arrived yesterday, but she seems cool.” He took a long pull from his water bottle to avoid any looks they might be giving him.

  “She’s cramping his style,” Mo said, smirking.

  “No,” he said, almost reflexively. “She’s just…keeping me on my toes.”

  Mo arched one dark eyebrow. “Is she now?” He waggled his eyebrows at Noah, who laughed.

  “Not like that, assholes,” he said, wiping the sweat from his face. Even though she was fucking attractive. There was no denying that.

  Noah scratched at his chin. “There’s a story there.”

  “There’s definitely a story there,” Mo said.

  Billy rolled his eyes. “Fine. She broke into my house when she got there yesterday because I was late and it was fucking pouring. And I thought she was an intruder so I pulled my gun on her.”

  He wasn’t sharing the bit about the towel. That was all his.

  His dickhead friends burst out laughing. Mo laughed so hard, he had to jump his feet onto the rails.

  “How did she break in?” Noah asked, clutching his stomach.

  Billy scowled. “She picked the lock.”

  Noah’s brows went up. “Resourceful.”

  Mo nodded and grinned. “Ranger brother teach her that?”

  “Yeah. I should’ve known, too.”

  “Did she flip out about you pulling the gun?” Noah asked.

  “No,” Billy said, realizing just how fucking cool her reaction had been. “She teased me about it and made me agree that we shouldn’t tell her brother.”

  Mo and Noah traded impressed looks. “I like this girl and I haven’t even met her,” Mo said. “When are we rectifying that?”

  “Any time,” Billy said. “She’s new to D.C. so she’d probably appreciate making some friends.”

  Just then, Coach Mack, Hawk, and Colby arrived, and Billy was glad for the interruption. Because he felt like talking about Shayna was making him think about her in ways he really shouldn’t.

  He greeted each of the new men in turn. John “Mack” McPherson was in his forties and had started WFC about a decade before. Leo Hawkins and Colby Richmond were two of Coach Mack’s original members, and they often helped instruct and supervise training within the club. And, of course, all three of them were veterans, because that was the only requirement for membership.

  Which was a big part of the reason that WFC meant so much to
Billy. The worst part of losing his career hadn’t been his injury, as bad as that had been, it’d been the loss of his community, the place where he belonged.

  WFC had given that back to him. These guys had been where he’d been. They knew what it was to be out there serving. And they understood the struggles you faced coming home—even if you were physically whole—like no one else.

  Finally, all the chit chat was out of the way, and they got down to business. First, with an ass-kicking workout of free weights, and then with class and matches.

  And Billy was so keyed up that he won every round.

  She lived next to a cemetery.

  Shayna discovered this when she took a walk around the neighborhood to see what was nearby. She’d found a few convenience stores, a pharmacy, a couple of schools, and a fantastic-looking Indian restaurant.

  And a sprawling cemetery, part of which was the final resting place of famous writers, diplomats, and politicians, and part of which was the Soldiers’ Home National Cemetery, the country’s first national cemetery, founded even before the more famous Arlington.

  It had been created to bury the thousands of dead soldiers from nearby Civil War battles. And at the edge of the cemetery was the cottage where President Lincoln had spent the hot summers of his presidency, watching as more and more graves filled the surrounding fields outside his front door.

  It was a cemetery.

  And, camera in hand, Shayna had stumbled into it, lured by the beautiful gardens, unusual little chapels, and haunting statuary.

  For the span of several long minutes, she found it hard to take a breath.

  Because the last time she’d gone to a cemetery, it had been for her brother’s funeral. Dylan. The middle Curtis sibling. Who’d died helping Shayna.

  She’d never gone to visit him again.

  Shayna couldn’t feel him there. And the empty hollowness felt like an accusation. It’s your fault he’s not here. It should’ve been you.

  The tightness in her chest made her a little dizzy, and she realized that she was gulping for breath. Bracing her hands on her knees made it a little easier to breathe, but also caused the camera she wore strapped around her neck to swing down.