Raw

  Katy Evans’s USA Today and New York Times bestselling The REAL series strips away everything you’ve ever believed about passion—and asks the dangerously enticing question “How REAL is what you feel?”

  “Sweet, scary, unfulfilling, fulfilling, smexy, heartbreaking, crazy, intense, beautiful—oh, did I mention hot?! Evans [takes] writing to a whole new level. She makes you FEEL every single word you read.”

  —Reality Bites on REAL

  “Edgy, angsty, and saturated with palpable tension and incendiary sex, this tale packs an emotional wallop. . . . Intriguing.”

  —Library Journal on REAL

  “I have a new book crush, and his name is Remington Tate.”

  —Martini Times

  “I loved this book. As in, I couldn’t stop talking about it.”

  —Dear Author on REAL

  “Remy and Brooke’s love story is one that has to be experienced because until you do, you just won’t get it . . . one roller-coaster ride that you’ll never forget!”

  —Books Over Boys

  “Seductive, wild, and visceral.”

  —Christina Lauren, author of Beautiful Bastard, on MINE

  “Steamy, sexy, intense, and erotic, MINE is one that will have you hanging off the ropes. And begging for more.”

  —Alice Clayton, author of Wallbanger

  “Getting inside Remy’s mind is one hell of a ride. . . . You may love Remy now, but after you read his side of the story he is going to consume your heart.”

  —Book Angel Booktopia on REMY

  “Completely mind-blowing . . .”

  —RT Book Reviews on ROGUE

  “Apart from being one of my most scorching reads of the year, the ‘realness’ of the love story took me totally off guard, and held me captive until the very last word.”

  —Natasha is a Book Junkie on ROGUE

  “[An] amazing, beautiful story that pulls at your emotions and makes time disappear. . . . I have a whole new level of awe and amazement for the talent that is Katy Evans.”

  —The Blushing Reader on ROGUE

  Praise for Katy Evans’s Manwhore series

  “Talk about addictive. This book consumed me from the very beginning to its pulse-pounding end. If you’re looking for a book that is just fun, super addictive, and sexy as hell, this is the book to pick up right now.”

  —Vilma’s Book Blog

  “A soul-searing romance, Manwhore seduced every one of my senses, weaving its way under my skin in an unforgettable way. An absolute favorite of mine.”

  —Angie and Jessica’s Dreamy Reads

  “Intense, captivating, and deliciously romantic.”

  —The Reading Cafe

  “The sexual tension between Malcolm and Rachel is off-the-charts hot! Lucky Rachel—I want my own Saint!”

  —Monica Murphy, author of the Billionaire Bachelors Club series

  “Spoiler alert—Katy Evans has the goods and she definitely delivered.”

  —Smexy Books

  “I knew back when I read REAL that Katy Evans would be a writer to watch. But I had to wonder how she would ever come close to creating a dynamic character like Remy again. Well, Malcolm Saint turned out to be every bit as intriguing and enigmatic—but in his own sophisticated way.”

  —Harlequin Junkie

  Thank you for downloading this Gallery Books eBook.

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  To big dreams and the even bigger people who chase them

  LEGEND PLAYLIST

  “Street Lights” by Kanye West

  “Unbreakable Smile” by Tori Kelly

  “Rollercoaster” by Bleachers

  “Resistance” by Muse

  “Feels Like Tonight” by Daughtry

  “Geronimo” by Sheppard

  “Favorite Record” by Fall Out Boy

  “Beautiful Life” by Nick Fradiani

  “I Won’t Give Up” by Jason Mraz

  “Madness” by Muse

  “Beautiful Now” by Zedd

  “Fight Song” by Rachel Platten

  ONE

  SEATTLE

  Reese

  My mother drops me off at the airport. I’m wearing my favorite pair of jeans and my favorite top. For luck, I guess.

  “You sure you’ll be all right?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Reese.” She stops me before I can get out of the car, taking my hand. “I love you. . . .”

  “I love you too.” I smile at her.

  She leans over to hug me, and I close my eyes and cling for an extra beat. She smells of lemons. Like home, like everything I know.

  “Do you have your passport, ticket confirmation . . . ?”

  I nod, and hop out and get my suitcase.

  I turn and wave goodbye to her, a pang of homesickness already hitting me as I watch her drive away.

  Inhaling, I step into the airport on my own for the first time in my life.

  Between boarding and flight times, it takes over four hours for me to arrive in Seattle. The plane circled an extra half hour until the rain stopped and we were authorized to land. It’s wet and green. My cousin Brooke meets me outside the terminal.

  “Reese!” With a tall ponytail, skintight spandex running pants, and a killer body beneath, she looks like she could’ve stepped out of Sports Illustrated. “So glad to have you.” She hugs me tight before introducing me to a tall, curly-haired man standing next to her. “This is Pete.”

  “Nice to meet you, Reese,” he says as he reaches for my suitcase. “Welcome to the team.”

  “Thank you for having me.”

  If Brooke has any reservations about having me around for the whole summer, she doesn’t show it. She’s excited and talkative during our ride, answering all my questions on how I can help her with her three-year-old, Racer.

  At the tip of the cul-de-sac we reach their sprawling waterfront home in Lakehaven, with its stucco facade, sweeping rooftop, and manicured lawn.

  I’m speechless, taking in the interior of the house with wide eyes as she gives me a brief tour. Smart technology everywhere, five bedrooms, a kitchen fit for a restaurant. It’s got high windows and a lot of natural light, with views of Mount Rainier across a glistening stretch of water.

  Brooke leads me down the hall to the guest bedroom. The hall has framed pictures of famous athletes, and among them, there’s a picture labeled riptide and I try not to gape at it, because I know Riptide is her widely known husband, former boxer and now MMA fighter. Even people who’ve never heard about MMA fighting seem to know who he is. Mom says they call him RIP too, because he kills his opponents. Not literally kills. Well, I hope not. But he buries them in the ground. Online, the articles say that he’s a fighting machine, and the best there’s ever been.

  We finally reach my bedroom and I am tempted to ask Brooke if she’s ever lost her way in her own house. The room’s double the size of my bedroom back home, exquisitely decorated in light tones, with a tinge of pastel blue on the curtains and on the bedspread.

  “Here’s a gym membership card; we buy them by the dozen for the team. You’re part of the family now.” She winks. “Food in the fridge, clean towels in the bathroom, bed has brand-new sheets. Cell phone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. Your mom gave you my number, right?”

  We confirm each other’s numbers. It’s been a while since I talked to her. I’m normally shy and not very talkative at all. I guess Brooke knows. I’m sure my mom has filled her in on everything that’s happened in my life, from birth to now, just as she
let me know that Brooke married Remington “Riptide” Tate.

  They’re a power couple in the wellness and athletic worlds, a power couple in their own right.

  My mom thought I’d be invigorated spending time with them and their team as they work the underground fighting circuit this summer. She suggested I come when I asked her to let me figure out what I wanted to do with my life.

  And now here I am, trying to find who I am.

  I start unpacking, neatly putting my things into a drawer, and after I hang some of my clothes in the closet, I pass the window and stare out at the water as Brooke approaches a tall, dark-haired man hoisting a little kid up on his shoulders. I know it’s her husband and son.

  I haven’t seen little Racer since Christmas, and I’ve never met Brooke’s husband, but he’s got a presence as big as his reputation, even from here. Remy Tate is as big as a mountain, and seated on his shoulders his son seems to be on top of the world. Many things have been said about the famous Riptide, hot and masculine prevalent among them. Racer is pummeling the top of his father’s head, and Remy is holding him by his little feet, staring out at the long dock and toward the water as Brooke comes up and puts her arms around Remy’s waist.

  I smile when I look at them. They travel so much due to his fighting schedule, I don’t see them that often, but we’re family. They look at peace, and happy. Racer starts squirming over his dad and pointing out at the water as if he wants to get on a boat.

  Racer. My ticket out of town. Someone to worry about other than me.

  I think of Miles and a prick of pain hits me. Maybe being away will make him miss me. Being away will make him realize he feels something other than friendship for me.

  We communicate, but not as much as I’d like.

  Hey I got here safely

  Good. Enjoy yourself, Reesey

  Thanks I’ll be good

  I wait to see if he asks me anything. He doesn’t. I curl up in bed, staring at my phone, then text my mom to let her know I’m in Seattle.

  TWO

  SEATTLE

  Maverick

  Not in a million years, kid.

  No.

  NOT INTERESTED.

  Get the fuck out of my face!

  Four cities in two days, and more doors slammed in my face than I can count. I sling my backpack over my shoulder, pick up my duffel bag, and scratch another name from my list.

  Hopping onto a bus and hopping off thirty minutes later, I scan the mix of both commercial and apartment buildings down the block, then knock on my last door.

  “Coach Hennesy?”

  He’s a tall man, his hair like salt and pepper, clad in sweats, with a yellow timer hanging from his neck. He gives me a questioning look.

  “I’m your next champion.”

  He laughs, but then he must see something in my face. In my stance. Thirst, resoluteness, guts. Maybe I’m wearing my balls in my eyes. He falls sober and swings the door wide open. “Come on in.”

  He doesn’t ask for my name.

  Guess with one look, he knows he’ll find my name in the dictionary, right next to “determined.”

  He leads me to his garage. “Where’d you train before?” he asks.

  “Self-taught. I watch videos.”

  He scoffs, then shrugs. “Okay, let’s see what you’ve got.”

  I eye the equipment across the room. The heavy bag hangs from the ceiling, the leather worn from other fighters before me. There’s a boxing dummy in the corner. Speed bag. Weights. A whole private gym set up here. I drop both my bags, then unzip my backpack and start to put on the gloves without bothering to remove my hoodie.

  “Take that off; I need to know what you’ve got. Need to see your form,” Hennesy says.

  I clench my jaw. Slowly unzip my hoodie. Take it off and glance past my shoulder, shifting to keep my back from the coach’s view. The guy is clearing the fighting area. Good. We can get down to business. He walks to me when I face him.

  “Give it over.” I hand over my hoodie and he tosses it aside, then crosses his arms and looks at me. “Speed bag first.”

  I inhale, position myself before the speed bag, and hit. Wham.

  I keep on hitting, lightning fast, my fists making the bag fly.

  I would have warmed up first, but I’ve been doing this for days, and I won’t stop until I’ve got myself a coach—and not even then.

  I’ve got momentum now, and I pick up speed, my arms moving back and forth, working the speed bag until it’s moving so fast you can’t even see it.

  I’m starting to sweat; it’s stuffy in here, but I can’t stop. I need him to take me on. I need one yes to get me in the ring. Just one yes and I’ll do the rest.

  “Time.” Hennesy stops me. He signals to the boxing dummy and the heavy bag. “Let’s see you pound the bag.”

  I swing out and slam my knuckles on the bag, putting everything into my fists. Thack, thump, thud.

  Hennesy’s composure starts to crumble with excitement. “Holy shit, boy!”

  I’m getting into it. I’m in the zone, where it’s just me, the leather brown bag, my fists, and nothing else but slamming the spot I’m looking at.

  “I’ve seen enough.” He stops the bag from swinging. His eyes are glassy. “Fill this out.”

  I pull off my right glove and grab a pen as he slaps a piece of paper onto a desk at the corner. I bend down to fill out my name and contact information and realize, too late, that I exposed the tattoo on my back.

  “You’re his boy.”

  I freeze midsignature.

  A second ticks by. Then two.

  I slowly set the pen down and take one last look at the paper. I might not get to fill it out after all. I turn.

  His face has paled.

  I wait it out for a few beats. Maybe he’s different. Maybe he can deal with it.

  He tosses my jacket at me. “Get out. Nobody wants to see you fight.”

  I frown fiercely as I catch my jacket in my fist and edge forward, equally mad now. “That’s too damn bad. ’Cause I’m fighting anyway.”

  I keep my eyes on him as I pull off my left glove, shove my arms into my hoodie, and zip up.

  I walk out and the door slams behind me. I clench my jaw and shove my gloves into my bag and spot the old, black gloves inside too. I push them down into the bottom of the duffel bag and zip it up.

  The season starts in a week and a half. No coach? No fight. I can’t even get into a gym.

  But I won’t let anyone or anything keep me from the ring.

  I pick up a penny from the ground.

  And I spot a girl in workout clothes across the street, tying her shoelaces. She’s a step away from the gym door. I straighten, pull my hoodie over my head, and cross the street, following after her like I belong.

  THREE

  “HE’S WITH ME”

  Reese

  Today is the first day of my very own personal boot camp. One day spent with the Tates and the good news is, there are no tempting Snickers bars in sight. Only green food with organic labels on them. All fresh. Fruits, lean meats, all I need to finally—finally—lose the ten annoying pounds I’ve been carrying with me for the past few years. They come with feelings of insecurity, dissatisfaction, and frustration. They are proof of me having absolutely no willpower against my hunger pangs or my cravings. A reminder of why I didn’t go to dances, or—despite my love of the beach—head out in a swimsuit to take in some sunlight. I plan to work out like a fiend.

  When I get back home, I’m going to walk into a crowded room with a great smile and sans my Himalayan butt, looking so pretty Miles Morris is going to drool in his mouth at the sight of me. He’ll admit that it’s always been me and only me for him, and he was too blinded by our friendship to notice.

  And I’m going to sleep with him—the first time that I will ever sleep with a guy—and I’ll do it with no insecurities about him seeing me naked because I’m going to look beautiful and slim and, most of all, sure of myself. So su
re of myself I’d do it in broad daylight for him if he asked me to.

  Pulling my T-shirt a little lower as it rolls up my hips, I start panting and drop the treadmill speed a little bit. If I don’t, I’ll have to crawl my way to day care to pick up my little package and, carrying him back home, I’ll be trailing my tongue on the sidewalk. No, thanks.

  I’m on a healthy living boot camp.

  Brooke says I look like Jennifer Lawrence and that she envies my hourglass figure. It’s like my torso was cinched with a corset since I was born. Curvy. But I’ll take Brooke’s athletic physique any day. Genetics made my hourglass figure, but athletic physiques take more than genetics; they take hard work and I admire that.

  I press the treadmill speed a little bit faster and survey everyone inside the bustling gym. But my eyes come back to the guy who slipped into the gym after me.

  He’s at the far end of the room, pummeling a heavy bag. He looks totally concentrated. He’s the only fighter here who’s not talking to anyone and not with a trainer.

  I’d say he looks friendless, but it’s more like he doesn’t want to be bothered and doesn’t need friends: he’s got his fists.

  The beautiful boy is getting attention from everyone in the gym by now. Maybe because he’s really working out the heavy bag, causing the chain holding it to rattle. But I think, for the most part, it’s because he crackles with passion for what he’s doing. And looks sooooo good doing it too.

  To my right, I spy one of the front-desk attendants walk into the weights and cardio area. A second one joins her, speculating. “No membership,” I hear.

  One heads back to the desk, the open-plan concept making the reception area visible from my treadmill, and she picks up the phone and hangs up just as quickly. “They’re coming,” she says when the second attendant joins her behind the desk.

  I keep walking, now focusing on the guy. He’s a badass. I’ve never seen someone hit a bag so hard, and he’s not bothering anyone. Nothing seems to exist to him except that bag he’s hitting.

  I’m watching him when a pair of uniformed security guards appears inside the gym.