Killer
The door to an empty cage opens and two men enter. My mouth falls open in shock. The men are both fighters, both clearly in peak physical condition with cut, sinewy muscles and a lightness to their step that takes years of training to perfect.
Hundreds of fighters have passed through these doors over the last two years, so that’s not why I’m gaping. It’s the raw sexual appeal of the man wearing snug-fitting black Lycra shorts with red lettering, lithely bouncing on his toes, that draws me in. His entire torso is covered with ancient-looking tattoos—arms, chest, back, heck, there’s even one on his neck, stretching up one side. I’ve never seen anything so menacing, yet so erotic.
My eyes flick up to the fighter’s face. Killer.
“Holy crap,” I murmur. He looks like a lethal jungle cat, sharp gaze fixed on his opponent. He is the very definition of sex; every movement, every sinewy ripple, every fluid step, sends a rush of blood to long-dormant places in my body.
Gabriel laughs. “I know. Wait till you see him in action, minha filha.”
I smile at Gabriel’s endearment. He calls everyone dear to him “my daughter” or “my son.” I don’t speak Portuguese. I only know what it means because I asked once.
“This is only sparring with no grappling. The trainer told them to stay upright so his striking could be assessed,” Gabriel adds, but my eyes are glued to the screen. I don’t want to miss a single second of Killer in action.
The sound is off, but the bell must ring because the men start moving. Watching K fight is hauntingly beautiful. Like a predator stalking a kill. Every action he takes is effortless, deliberate. He moves so fast there is little time for his opponent to react. K hits and kicks the other man over and over, each strike lashing out and retreating like the flick of a whip. I’m mesmerized by his body.
A few minutes later, the two men tap gloves and the film ends.
“I need to watch it again.”
Gabriel hits play and the clip starts over. It takes four more times through for me to study K’s positioning, two just to stop staring at his beautiful face.
I move behind the keyboard and tap until the screen is frozen on K standing on one leg.
“See, right there.” I point to the screen. “His left knee slightly hyperextends when he delivers a kick with his right leg. Eventually, if he’s not careful, he can tear his posterior cruciate ligament.”
Gabriel squints. “I don’t see that. He seems fine to me, minha filha.”
Grinning, I pat the older man on the back. “I know, but trust me. Other than that, he’s perfect.”
Gabriel turns to me, and this time it’s his turn to smirk. “Perfect, eh?”
My cheeks heat up, fire racing all the way to the tips of my ears. “I-I don’t mean…”
“Relax, Britt. Eu falo pelos cotovelos.”
I tilt my head, confused.
Gabriel gives me a small smile. “It means I’m only joking with you.”
“Right.” I shift uncomfortably in my seat. If Gabriel knew what I was thinking when I watched K fight, I’d die of embarrassment.
“Okay, Britt. You can go. We can study his ground game tomorrow. Jiu-jitsu, meu favorite.” Gabriel grins and claps his hands, rubbing them together in anticipation. “Killer, he trained with Rafael.”
I nearly choke in surprise. “With Rafael? Rafael Lima?” K mentioned training in Brazil, but failed to mention Rafael Lima. Rafael is the most famous jiu-jitsu expert in the world, second only to the Gracie family.
“You will catch flies with your mouth, meu querida. You are shocked and you’re right. He is very young to have so much training from the masters.” Gabriel shrugs. “But he does, and he’s here with us. Our job is to make sure he gets to use his potential in the cage.”
“He doesn’t need us for that,” I mumble. Thankfully, Gabriel already left his office and doesn’t hear my comment.
I head back to my own little room and sit at the computer. Fascinated and needing to know more, I bring up K’s file and I read the scant information I find.
Who is this guy?
I don’t even know his real name. Killer Bishop. That’s what the file says. His date of birth shows he turns twenty-eight later this year, which makes him a little less than four years older than me. No address, no phone number, no hometown, no medical file. It’s as if K didn’t exist until he showed up here. The league requires him to provide all of that information to go pro.
Even though I should be afraid, I should stay detached from the man who throws up every red flag in the book, I’m not. K is a complete mystery, and I’m enthralled. He’s a mystery I intend to solve.
Killer