Exclusive excerpt from my mixed martial arts WIP!
I'm about 15K into the first book of a new series, tentatively titled Black Dog.
It's about two old friends (and on-again, off-again lovers): ex-Marine and former pro boxer Eddie Roscoe (think Michael Fassbender) and gym owner Danny Bannon (inspired by the gorgeous Gerard Butler) whose lives are turned upside down when a scared, secretive teen runaway (modeled on a young, adorable James McAvoy) shows up at Eddie's diner.
Who is this kid, and why does he want to train as a fighter? You'll have till later this year to find out, but here's a little something to whet your appetites till then...
By closing time, my anxiousness had grown too strong to ignore. I put on my jacket and walked down to the gym. No cars in the parking lot except Danny’s ’72 Riviera and a green Volkswagen bug I’d never seen before. I swiped my card and went in.
“Don’t pull your arms in so tight, you’re just asking to get pinned. Yeah, that’s the way.” Danny’s voice carried down the hall. I crept up to the doorway and hovered there, watching Danny coach Tom and another guy, both grappling on the mat. Tom was on the bottom but battling furiously for dominance, kicking and pushing. “Get your knee between his legs, shift your hips for leverage.”
Then came one of the most neatly-executed sweeps I’d ever seen, with Tom flipping his opponent over and wedging his forearm against the other guy’s throat. His opponent tapped the mat and Tom promptly rolled off. “Great job, kid.” Danny gave Tom a hand up. “See? I said you could do it.” He clapped the other guy on the shoulder. “Thanks, Rick, I owe you one. Go hit the showers, both of you.”
No point hanging back now, especially with Tom’s big blue eyes zeroing in on me. “What’re you doing here?” he said, combing a handful of sweaty hair off his forehead.
“Just wanted to see what you were up to.” My smile couldn’t have felt any more fake if I’d drawn it on with a black marker. “That was pretty good for only a couple lessons.”
“He’s a quick learner.” Danny laid his hand on the kid’s shoulder. Territorial much? “Go on,” he said to Tom, “I still have to clean up in here.”
I watched Tom amble down the hall, waiting for him to disappear into the locker room before I opened my mouth again. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Danny froze in the middle of snagging a spray bottle of bleach off the supply rack. “Pardon me?”
“Why’re you training him to fight?”
“I wasn’t aware I needed your fucking permission.” He grabbed some paper towels, dropped to his knees and started wiping down the mats. “For the record, he came to me—and a good thing, too. Have you seen those scars on his back?”
My hands curled into fists. “How the hell did you see them?”
“This is a martial arts gym. Guys roll around on the floor. Their shirts hike up.” That green gaze met mine, and he snorted. “Get your mind out of the gutter. I’m not the one who was studying to be a priest.”
He was daring me to deck him, but I breathed deep until the impulse passed. “Leave him alone. He doesn’t need to get in any more fights.”
“I’m teaching him to defend himself. There’s no law against that.”
“Great. Then you can shoulder the blame when someone sends him to the hospital.”
“Someone already has.” He stood, lips pressed into a tight line. “Remember all those times I showed up at school with fresh bruises on my face? And none of the teachers did a fucking thing about it?”
I remembered, with that same hollow ache inside I used to get as a kid, witnessing the scared look on Danny’s and Jimmy’s faces whenever their dad picked them up at my house. The same look I’d seen on Tom’s face. “You think his old man’s been abusing him?”
“What do you think?” He put the cleaning supplies away, then wheeled around to face me. “You should help coach him. You were always a better boxer than me.”
“Teaching him to beat up other people won’t help him get over being beaten.”
“Maybe not, but it’ll make him feel safer.” Sweat sheened his face and throat down to the V of his blue fighting kimono. The strong, musky smell drifted toward me, the crotch of my jeans growing tight. “What’s the matter? Don’t think you can handle it?”
I blinked hard, trying to swallow around the cotton in my mouth. “Last time we saw each other, you threw me out of your house, and now you want me to—”
“Can’t hold a guy responsible for what he says when he’s shit-faced.”
“I’ve heard that one before.” More times than I could count, in fact. How many empty apologies did he expect me to swallow?
“You don’t want to believe me? Fine.” He looked like he was about to walk away, but instead he drew back and threw a right cross. My hand came up to block it on pure instinct, his fist smacking my palm. “Looks like Eddie the Surgeon’s still got it.”
Heat flooded my face. “Fuck you.”
His other fist came flying at me. I ducked, then countered with a punch of my own, dancing back on the balls of my feet. Danny just grinned and kept on coming, punching and jabbing, keeping me on the defensive.
Finally I landed a blow that sent him sprawling. “Enough,” I barked. “I’m sick of your stupid—”
And I hit the mat with a thud that rattled my teeth and knocked the air from my lungs. He’d played his signature move, cutting my legs right out from under me.
I had about two seconds to catch my breath before Danny pinned me to the mat. I squirmed and pushed and threw elbows, but it was no contest. Danny had twenty pounds on me, and he knew where I’d try to block him next before I even moved. All I could do was tap out.
Only he didn’t let go. He gazed at me with a spark of something both dangerous and gentle in those clear green eyes, shifting his hips until his hard cock pressed against mine. Then he leaned in and kissed me.
Black Dog, Book One in my new Bannon's Gym series, coming this summer - hopefully before Authors After Dark - from Cat Grant Books. :)
It's about two old friends (and on-again, off-again lovers): ex-Marine and former pro boxer Eddie Roscoe (think Michael Fassbender) and gym owner Danny Bannon (inspired by the gorgeous Gerard Butler) whose lives are turned upside down when a scared, secretive teen runaway (modeled on a young, adorable James McAvoy) shows up at Eddie's diner.
Who is this kid, and why does he want to train as a fighter? You'll have till later this year to find out, but here's a little something to whet your appetites till then...
By closing time, my anxiousness had grown too strong to ignore. I put on my jacket and walked down to the gym. No cars in the parking lot except Danny’s ’72 Riviera and a green Volkswagen bug I’d never seen before. I swiped my card and went in.
“Don’t pull your arms in so tight, you’re just asking to get pinned. Yeah, that’s the way.” Danny’s voice carried down the hall. I crept up to the doorway and hovered there, watching Danny coach Tom and another guy, both grappling on the mat. Tom was on the bottom but battling furiously for dominance, kicking and pushing. “Get your knee between his legs, shift your hips for leverage.”
Then came one of the most neatly-executed sweeps I’d ever seen, with Tom flipping his opponent over and wedging his forearm against the other guy’s throat. His opponent tapped the mat and Tom promptly rolled off. “Great job, kid.” Danny gave Tom a hand up. “See? I said you could do it.” He clapped the other guy on the shoulder. “Thanks, Rick, I owe you one. Go hit the showers, both of you.”
No point hanging back now, especially with Tom’s big blue eyes zeroing in on me. “What’re you doing here?” he said, combing a handful of sweaty hair off his forehead.
“Just wanted to see what you were up to.” My smile couldn’t have felt any more fake if I’d drawn it on with a black marker. “That was pretty good for only a couple lessons.”
“He’s a quick learner.” Danny laid his hand on the kid’s shoulder. Territorial much? “Go on,” he said to Tom, “I still have to clean up in here.”
I watched Tom amble down the hall, waiting for him to disappear into the locker room before I opened my mouth again. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Danny froze in the middle of snagging a spray bottle of bleach off the supply rack. “Pardon me?”
“Why’re you training him to fight?”
“I wasn’t aware I needed your fucking permission.” He grabbed some paper towels, dropped to his knees and started wiping down the mats. “For the record, he came to me—and a good thing, too. Have you seen those scars on his back?”
My hands curled into fists. “How the hell did you see them?”
“This is a martial arts gym. Guys roll around on the floor. Their shirts hike up.” That green gaze met mine, and he snorted. “Get your mind out of the gutter. I’m not the one who was studying to be a priest.”
He was daring me to deck him, but I breathed deep until the impulse passed. “Leave him alone. He doesn’t need to get in any more fights.”
“I’m teaching him to defend himself. There’s no law against that.”
“Great. Then you can shoulder the blame when someone sends him to the hospital.”
“Someone already has.” He stood, lips pressed into a tight line. “Remember all those times I showed up at school with fresh bruises on my face? And none of the teachers did a fucking thing about it?”
I remembered, with that same hollow ache inside I used to get as a kid, witnessing the scared look on Danny’s and Jimmy’s faces whenever their dad picked them up at my house. The same look I’d seen on Tom’s face. “You think his old man’s been abusing him?”
“What do you think?” He put the cleaning supplies away, then wheeled around to face me. “You should help coach him. You were always a better boxer than me.”
“Teaching him to beat up other people won’t help him get over being beaten.”
“Maybe not, but it’ll make him feel safer.” Sweat sheened his face and throat down to the V of his blue fighting kimono. The strong, musky smell drifted toward me, the crotch of my jeans growing tight. “What’s the matter? Don’t think you can handle it?”
I blinked hard, trying to swallow around the cotton in my mouth. “Last time we saw each other, you threw me out of your house, and now you want me to—”
“Can’t hold a guy responsible for what he says when he’s shit-faced.”
“I’ve heard that one before.” More times than I could count, in fact. How many empty apologies did he expect me to swallow?
“You don’t want to believe me? Fine.” He looked like he was about to walk away, but instead he drew back and threw a right cross. My hand came up to block it on pure instinct, his fist smacking my palm. “Looks like Eddie the Surgeon’s still got it.”
Heat flooded my face. “Fuck you.”
His other fist came flying at me. I ducked, then countered with a punch of my own, dancing back on the balls of my feet. Danny just grinned and kept on coming, punching and jabbing, keeping me on the defensive.
Finally I landed a blow that sent him sprawling. “Enough,” I barked. “I’m sick of your stupid—”
And I hit the mat with a thud that rattled my teeth and knocked the air from my lungs. He’d played his signature move, cutting my legs right out from under me.
I had about two seconds to catch my breath before Danny pinned me to the mat. I squirmed and pushed and threw elbows, but it was no contest. Danny had twenty pounds on me, and he knew where I’d try to block him next before I even moved. All I could do was tap out.
Only he didn’t let go. He gazed at me with a spark of something both dangerous and gentle in those clear green eyes, shifting his hips until his hard cock pressed against mine. Then he leaned in and kissed me.
Black Dog, Book One in my new Bannon's Gym series, coming this summer - hopefully before Authors After Dark - from Cat Grant Books. :)
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