The Look of Love. Crystal B. Bright

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      Gunnar wanted to race to the side and scream at his trainer to keep trying to get his mother. Why the hell was she in the hospital? Why wasn’t that the first thing she’d said to him? Whatever afflicted her, it scared her enough to want him to come home. That fact consumed his thoughts more than anything else. He attempted to look at Chuck again when Tony got in his view.

      “You’re going down!” Tony screamed and stood an inch from Gunnar’s nose.

      Gunnar gritted his teeth. Right now, this hefty man sporting a Mohawk and tattoos covering the vast real estate of his enormous, chestnut-colored body stood in between him talking to his mother.

      Gunnar removed his T-shirt and tossed it to Chuck. The screams heightened, especially from the women. He didn’t pay attention to them. He had a job to do. He kept women out of his personal life so as not to get diverted from his goals, a decision that haunted him since jumping on a Greyhound bus ten years ago.

      The referee spouted the rules and regulations that Gunnar ignored. The sounds in the arena blurred into one muted hum. His laser focus remained on Tony, directly on his eyes. He called this feeling right before he threw his first punch the glaze.

      Chuck had once told Gunnar at the beginning of his career that every time he would start to fight, he got this glazed-over look in his eyes like he couldn’t see anything else but the opponent in the ring with him.

      A single sweat droplet rolled down between his shoulder blades. He planted his feet on the hard mat as he shoved his black mouth guard over his teeth. He tasted nothing but the bitter plastic. The palms of his hands itched in anticipation of what would happen. He had a job to do.

      As soon as the match started, Tony surprised Gunnar by landing a solid punch to his left eye. A whole fireworks display lit up in Gunnar’s head with the contact. He didn’t even notice the pain. The man did carry some power behind his punch. Gunnar had something on him that even Tony didn’t have--a purpose.

      As soon as Gunnar filled his head with images of his mother in a hospital bed with tubes coming from her nose and wires attached to her fingers and hand, a volcano erupted inside of him that he couldn’t contain or control.

      Gunnar gave Tony a roundhouse kick to his head. The contact of the hit against his foot stung. That first strike sent an adrenaline rush through his body that gave him the needed boost for the next move.

      When the big man hit the mat, Gunnar leapt on top of him and pounded his fists in his opponents face and head repeatedly. He heard nothing. Crimson shaded his gaze. He felt Tony’s tree-trunk thighs attempt to hook him under his arms to bring him down. Instead, Gunnar moved down to the mat, cradled Tony’s head in the crook of his elbow and framed the top of his head with his other arm.

      Gunnar squeezed and clamped his legs around Tony’s waist to keep the man still. Whenever Tony moved, Gunnar tightened his arms and legs around Tony’s neck and body.

      For every match, Gunnar kept his mind focused on winning, on his next move. Now, his mind clouded over with thoughts of his mother. What would he and his brothers do if something happened to her?

      Until he felt the referee tapping his shoulder, Gunnar didn’t realize that he had rendered Tony unconscious. He blinked and peered down at the person in his arms. Tony’s blood dripped from his forehead and nose and onto Gunnar’s arm.

      “He tapped out, son. Release him.” The referee grabbed Gunnar’s arm and attempted to uncoil his hold on the limp body. “Stop fighting.”

      Gunnar blinked and unraveled himself from Tony. He sprang to his feet and gazed down at his handiwork. Tony’s body lay motionless, curled in an unnatural position like a discarded marionette, as his trainers and handlers attempted to revive him.

      Gunnar wanted to run from the ring, leave his belt, and get on a plane. He had to wait until Tony’s trainers revived him. In that time, he paced in the ring, waiting for his moment.

      Once Tony rose to his feet, the referee raised Gunnar’s hand as the winner. A bit of relief washed over him. He’d finished work, and in record time. Now he had to go.

      “Did you get her?” Gunnar asked as he climbed out of the ring and headed back to the dressing room.

      He ignored the interviewers who shoved microphones into his face right after the match. From their grunts and groans, he knew they hated his silence.

      “Are you kidding? You just did that match in about seven minutes. I barely had time to breathe let alone make calls for you.” Chuck ran alongside of Gunnar.

      “Guns! Guns! Just a quick question.” An interviewer tried stopping Gunnar’s trek by stepping into his path. “That match seemed too easy for you. Are you ready for Seamus Flannery, the second-ranked contender?”

      Gunnar didn’t answer. He stepped around the suited man and continued to his dressing room. If he didn’t have another man’s blood on him, he would have just thrown on some shoes and caught the next red-eye flight.

      “You can’t just blow off journalists.” Chuck slammed the dressing-room door behind the two of them. “They can make or break your career.”

      “They haven’t so far.” Gunnar stripped. “You talk for me. I’m going to Virginia.”

      “Virginia? You can’t go right now. You need to start training for your match with Seamus.” Chuck started pacing.

      Gunnar couldn’t think about how Chuck felt. As much as he loved his career, Gunnar loved his family even more. With the threat of losing his mother, he would brave going back home to be with her.

      Until he saw his mother and could see that he’d overreacted to whatever he’d heard on the phone, he wouldn’t be able to rest. Then he would find out what woman had posed as his sister.

      “What am I supposed to say as far as booking your next match?” Chuck asked.

      Naked, Gunnar stood in the doorway leading to the bathroom to take a quick shower. “Tell them I’m going home.”

      * * * *

      Eboni Danielson stirred awake with a throbbing pain in her neck thanks to sleeping in a steel and barely padded hospital chair. She should have slept on the couch, but she’d wanted to be as close to her friend as possible. She blinked to get a sleeping Queen Elizabeth into focus.

      Yesterday morning, when Elizabeth had fainted in Press ’N Curl, the hair salon Elizabeth owned where Eboni worked, Eboni had wasted no time getting her friend and mentor to the hospital. Ever the diva, Elizabeth had refused to go until her hair had been styled and her nails had received a fresh coat of deep red polish.

      Elizabeth looked like she’d redone her makeup sometime during the night. Her light brown skin glowed, especially with the morning sunlight streaming through the hospital-room window. Bright red lipstick covered her lips. Even her fake eyelashes looked like they had been curled.

      As a child, Eboni and her girlfriends had all wanted to grow up to be just like Miss Queen Elizabeth. Not only did the woman always look amazing and have the best clothes and cool shoes, she owned not one, not even two, but three businesses.

      The hair salon, more than her flower shop and the clothing boutique, had the most customers in Eboni’s eyes, and the most buzz. Although she didn’t plan to work in a hair salon СКАЧАТЬ