Nate (Cocky Cage Fighters, Book 6)

Nathan Lewis always finds himself at the wrong place at the wrong time.

Burdened by his guilt, Nate’s unable to let go of his painful memories. He keeps to himself, refusing to let anyone else in for fear that they’ll learn the truth.

When a nosy reporter starts investigating his past, the skeletons Nate’s kept locked up tight in his closet start to rattle, threatening to surface and ruin him.

Alyssa Grant is only looking for a front page story to advance her career. Recently widowed and now raising her son on her own, she has no intentions of getting involved with a man, especially not one who uses his fists for a living. But she quickly realizes that there’s more to Nathan Lewis than he reveals. Like Alyssa, he’s also grieving from a loss that he blames himself for.

Only the deeper Alyssa digs, the more she begins to realize that a horrible accident from Nate’s past may turn out to be more than it seems, putting his life, and the lives of everyone around him, in danger.

Now that Nate has something worth losing again, he refuses to go down without a fight, in or out of the cage.

Nate

Standing alongside the stretch of blue mats at the local YMCA, I quietly offer helpful suggestions to the kids who are practicing how to escape from underneath a wrestling opponent. 
Ever since Jude and Linc started their community outreach program, I’ve tried to help out coaching whenever I can. Today, the group of forty kids is currently divided in half to take turns with two disciplines, karate and wrestling, which is my specialty and how I earned my scholarship for all four years of college. Throw those two areas together with Muay Thai, jiu-jitsu, taekwondo and you get mixed martial arts. But nothing we teach at the Y is remotely close to the brutality of cage fighting; mostly we focus on self-defense and non-combative grappling. 
"Excuse me, sir," a small voice says from beside me. I glance down and see a skinny little guy with glasses and a buzzed brown haircut standing at attention in his khakis and a green polo shirt. His hands are actually clasped behind his back. 
"Hey, how's it going?" I ask. "You signing up for today's seven to nine-year-old group?" Based on his size, while he’s thin, he seems like he could fit in the same age range as the other kids today. 
"No, sir. I'd like to inquire as to whether or not I may be permitted to observe from that seat on the bleachers," he replies properly, pointing to the spot behind us that he’s referring to. 
"Um, sure," I say to the tiny looking professor. "Do you need a release form to take home and ask your mom or dad to sign so you can participate next time?"
He shakes his head. "No, sir. My father is deceased, and my mother says that all conflict should be resolved peacefully without violence." 
Wow, way to put my big foot in my mouth. 
"I'm sorry," I tell him, because there's nothing else to say to a boy who's lost his dad. 
"I appreciate your sympathy, but I was not particularly close to my father. He spent most of the first six years of my life abroad, proudly serving his country." 
Bless his itty, bitty heart. That might very well be the saddest shit I've ever heard, making me ashamed of the daily pity parties I usually throw myself. 
After making his assertion, the tiny professor marches over to the first row of bleachers and takes a seat, pushing the bridge of his glasses up his nose with his index finger while sadly watching the other kids grapple. 
I shake my head and continue coaching the kids on the mat, completely forgetting about the straight-laced guy until half an hour or so later when I hear it ---- the rapid, click-clack of prohibited high heels quickly stomping across the gym floor. My head swivels in the direction and…
Dammnnn. 
A brunette in a painted on electric blue dress with an hourglass figure is heading right for me, her eyes blazing with anger, looking madder than a hornet's nest. Her thick, waist-length, coffee-colored waves trail behind her, making her look like she’s walking down a runway. 
"What are you doing in here?" she asks, stopping abruptly and squatting down to talk to the little professor, who is still sitting on the bleachers. I lean back so far I nearly fall down trying to see up her skirt just a little further. 
When she glares over and notices my attention, I straighten before she storms up to me, coming to a stop just inches away from my face. Her arms cross over her chest, lifting her full bosom. The move instantly draws my eyes to the line of her tempting cleavage. Those succulent tits and the fact that she smells like hot and delicious cinnamon, the oh-so-familiar scent of Big Red gum leaves me completely thunderstruck. 
"Are you the one in charge here?" she asks through clenched teeth. 
My extremely neglected cock stirs excitedly in my nylon pants, thinking about how it would love to be in charge of her pretty little mouth. It’s been a lonnng time since I’ve gotten laid. Scratch that, it’s been years since I’ve even been interested in getting laid. And now, out of all the people in the world, it has to be this woman? I’m not sure what it is about her, but she’s pushing all my buttons and making me want to push hers. And I bet I could push the fuck out of her button with my fingers or just the tip of my tongue until she screamed my name…
I have to clear my throat and dirty mind before responding to her question. "Why, yes, ma'am, I’m one of the coaches. What can I do for you?" 
Those gorgeous eyes, turquoise like the Caribbean Sea, narrow. "Don't call me that. I'm not that old." 
"Yes, ma'am," I tease, trying and failing to suppress my smile, causing her scowl to deepen. "So how can I help you today?" 
"You could leave," she replies. 
"Ah, what?" I ask in confusion. I need to stop staring at her plump red mouth and imagining a certain…phallic object sliding in it and start concentrating on the words coming out of it instead. 
"How dare you come barging in here, forcing your barbaric sport down these kids' throats? They're too young to understand the consequences of their actions when they use their fists instead of words. My son doesn't need bad role models like you trying to make fighting look cool!"
"Whoa, put away those claws, kitten," I say, holding my hands up in front of me and reeling back from her verbal attack. "This is a voluntary activity that requires parental permission before kids can participate. We're not making anybody join. And I bet you don't know the first thing about mixed martial arts, so you really shouldn't be judging it until you do. Or do you not approve of teaching kids to be open-minded?" 
She huffs in response. "I'm reporting you and your little activity to the sports director and demanding that he prohibit this brutality," she threatens, hands now on her curvy hips. I want to put my own hands on those hips and grip them hard while I fuck her from behind…
I’ve clearly lost my mind and need to get laid ASAP. The backup of jizz in my balls is apparently becoming downright toxic to my bloodstream. 
Wait, what was she going on and on about? Oh, right. She’s gonna report us.
"Knock yourself out. Mr. Watt's approved our program himself, ma'am." I can't help but grin at the hostile lady. She's feisty and sexy as fuck. My previously empty spank bank is now half full again thanks entirely to her. Speaking of spanking, I would love to slap that amazing ass of hers for, well, pretty much anything…
"Oh, you think you're so cute and funny, don't you?" she asks. 
"I do believe I have been told such a thing a time or two," I reply, trying to stop grinning, but it’s impossible after she called me cute, even if it was in a roundabout, sarcastic way.
"Oh, please," she says with an eye roll. "Look here, Mister..." 
"Nathan Lewis, but you can call me Nate," I fill in for her, holding out my hand. She looks down at it in disgust, refusing to shake it. Can’t say I blame her since, in all probability, the dirty appendage is gonna be busy treating my cock like a Shake Weight while thinking about her in a few hours. 
"I don’t want my son in here again with you barbarians, Mr. Lewis. Do you understand?" 
“Yes, ma’am.” 
With a throaty, indignant growl that rumbles through my dick, she storms off, shouting, "Let's go, Grayson!" as she passes by the tiny professor, who’s standing at attention in front of the bleachers. He scuttles behind her, his back straight as an arrow.
"What's her problem?" Jude, my good friend and technically my boss since he’s half owner of Havoc, asks when he wanders up after her exit. 
"She thinks we're bad role models," I tell Jude. And I have to admit that those words of hers actually stung a little. 
"Well, then she's in the minority since over three hundred other parents have enrolled their kids at six different Ys," Jude replies. 
At our gym, we have a few beginner classes for kids and adults. Jude along with Linc, who is the other owner of Havoc, thought it would be pretty cool if we could start a community outreach, teaching free classes to kids at the various YMCAs in the area who can't afford our outrageous membership fees or kids that just want to see what it's all about. Like the little professor. 
"The woman practically hissed at me before she threatened to talk to Watt," I tell Jude. 
"Ha!" he says followed by a bark of laughter. "That should be real fun for her." 
Fun is something that I'm betting is missing in that uptight lady's life. 
Then I remember what her son said, about his father being gone, and I feel guilty for all my naughty thoughts because my heart aches for her. She's way too young to be a widow; and unfortunately, I know just how painful it is to lose someone you love way before their time.


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