Taking Him Down. Meg MaguireЧитать онлайн книгу.

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      For Ruthie and Serena, cherished sparring partners in all things wonked and wordy.

      And thanks, as always, to my editor, Brenda.

      Don’t mess with her—she’s been trained.

       1

      “NOT TIGHT ENOUGH. Start over.”

      Though the guy suppressed his frustration well, Rich knew he was getting cussed out in the privacy of the teenager’s head.

      Tough shit, kid. Get yourself a paid fight and you can be the colossal dick for a night.

      The gauze was obediently unwound from Rich’s palm, the elaborate process started all over.

      Mercer cut through the locker room chaos carrying a tub of Vaseline. According to the promotional materials, he was Rich’s trainer. In truth, Rich trained himself. He liked it that way, not having to answer to anybody. But after tonight he’d be committing to a manager, landing a deal with a major mixed martial arts organization. He’d get hauled out of Boston and obscurity and shipped out west to train under a team of MMA specialists. Saddled with a half dozen guys riding his back about every mile he ran, every forkful of food or drop of booze that passed his lips, every last detail that led up to him stepping into the ring.

      Oh frigging well. Price of success.

      “You look good,” Mercer said, crouching and unscrewing the tub’s lid.

      “You look real pretty, too, Merce.”

      “You look calm. If you’re faking it, keep it up.” He smeared Rich’s temples, cheeks and forehead, to reduce the friction when he took a shot to the face.

      When Rich’s hands were finally wrapped and taped to his satisfaction, Mercer passed him his fingerless MMA gloves.

      “Where’s your mouth guard?”

      “Quit fussing, grandma—I got everything organized. Go celebrate for a few minutes.” Mercer’s actual trainee, Delante, had won his first real pro fight twenty minutes earlier, with a skull-thumper of a closing punch. “Get that kid cleaned up for the press and tell him not to mumble.”

      “Fine. I’ll be back.” Mercer slapped Rich’s shoulder and took off.

      Rich tugged on his gloves, gave his fists a squeeze. Nice and snug. He liked the feeling with the medical tape in place, that promise of a proper scrap, no sparring tonight.

      He was a good fighter—a hell of a good fighter, if you factored in how DIY his regimen was—but he had more than that going. He was six-three and had made weight at 204. He was built and goddamn good-looking, and had what his late mentor called “the magic.” That thing you can’t build in a gym or find in a supplement bottle. That thing that made guys want to hit you and made their girlfriends want to wake up in your bed.

      Nobody respected a pretty face inside the ring, and that suited Rich fine. Whatever had people hungry to see him lose, bring it on. Whatever had opponents hating him for winning, whatever had promoters eager to give him another match. Love and hate felt the same when you were high on adrenaline, and your detractors shelled out the same money for tickets as your fans did. That hate-ability plus a solid win tonight and Rich would get signed. Give it nine months and a couple decent matches and he’d be on the magazine covers, courted by equipment and vitamin companies for the right to slap his face on their ads. Whether it’d still be so pretty by then…

      Didn’t matter. Rich would win, he’d sign, his future manager would handle the offers. He’d suck it up and take whatever orders his training team barked, and he’d be successful. Of that, he had no doubt.

      But he wasn’t hungry for that—fame or attention.

      He was hungry for a fight, sure. That was a perk. But the thing that lit a fire in his gut, made him salivate for this moment, was the money.

      Fifteen grand when he won tonight. Down the road, once he signed—twenty, thirty, fifty and up, plus the endorsement deals. And he’d lease his face to whoever offered him the fattest checks, and cash them with no qualms.

      It might not be honorable, but Rich Estrada fought for money. Because fighting was the thing he was good at, the diploma he’d never earned, the only marketable talent he had.

      He fought because if he didn’t, his mom would be dead inside a year.

      THE ARENA WAS in turns dim and blinding, the air pungent with a hundred clashing aromas. Lindsey Tuttle was planted in the thick of it, three rows from the action and close enough to hear every kick and punch and grunt.

      The cage