Brawl (27 page)

A thousand questions and doubts assail me. The biggest one is the one that I still don’t have an answer for.

Is it fair to put Hooligan through this again?

He didn’t appear to have a problem with training me to fight. He’s been enthusiastic, and an absolute slave-driver, yet I know in his quieter moments that this has to be stirring up old memories and picking away at old wounds. It’s poetic, and slightly nasty, that the universe would let him fall for two women with a need to fight.

Am I being selfish by chasing my dream when it might hurt him?

“Get in there and show ‘em what I’ve taught you,” his deep voice cuts into my thoughts, stopping them in their tracks. He doesn’t sound like a man suffering from misgivings. “You’ve got this.”

The first step is the hardest. Isn’t that what everyone says? For me, it’s proven true, over and over again. That first step into Black Hearts MMA all those months ago. The first step into the gym the day after we kissed the first time. The first step into the cage when he had Nate drag me up here so I was forced to listen to him. The first step into my childhood home to fight for Cooper. They’ve all been hard, yet each one turned out to be more than worth it.

I put my foot on the first step, and then the next. Each one becomes easier than its predecessor. Before I know it, I’m standing in the middle of the ring, looking down on the people who are here to watch the fights, while my opponent is being introduced and making her way to the cage.

The tall blonde should be too much for me to handle, according to the stats, and our measurements on paper. Hooligan handpicked her because he thinks she’s perfect as my first challenge. A long-limbed boxer she’s going to think she can go toe-to-toe with me without breaking a sweat. Little does she know that no one matches me for viciousness, and tenacity—except for Hooligan.

I have a lifetime of aggravation and pain to draw on, and a fire that burns inside me. Maybe it’ll flicker out in the future, like I can see Hooligan’s dying a little more each day. Contentment doesn’t make for a motivated fighter.

Pushing my worry about Hooligan into a little box that I store away in the back of my mind until it’s time to examine it, I nod my head at my opponent when she makes her way into the cage. Baring her mouth guard at me in response, I roll my eyes at her and shrug once. If she wants to play it that way I don’t have a problem with it.

Seeking out Dad and Zali, I wave in their direction before blowing a kiss at Hooligan. Jep dives in front of him and catches it mid-air, slapping it on his own cheek. He might think it’s funny but my man doesn’t. Poor Jep finding himself in a headlock and on the receiving end of a nasty jab to the gut for his efforts while Nate and Amy laugh at him.

My attention is pulled back into the cage, and I pull on my game face when the ref starts outlining the rules. The buzzing in my ears drowns out his words, my nods purely for show. Not that listening is necessary. Hooligan has me prepared. I know the rules, and I have a game plan.

“Touch gloves.”

I hold my hands out, and the blonde girl—Beth is her name—slams her fists down on top of mine, instead of bumping fists. Proof positive that she’s more rattled than she should be fighting a newbie.

“Now that was just plain mean,” I pout, dancing lightly on my toes while I wait for the fight to be officially started. My reaction rattles her further. With wide eyes focused on me, she matches my movements.

“And fight.”

A feeling of Zen washes over me at the ding of the bell. The crowd ceases to exist, tunnel vision forming with Beth as the focal point. “Don’t call her Beth” Hooligan’s voice chides me in my head. Keep it impersonal. Blonde bitch. My opponent. The girl. They are all acceptable alternatives.

We bounce around it each, neither of us making a move. My stomach is churning with pent-up adrenaline that I’m trying to channel into patience.

Wait for an opening.
Being hasty leaves you vulnerable.
More instructions from Hooligan run through my mind. My natural inclination to strike first and worry about the consequences later almost wins, until I see what he means. When she bounces to the left, she drops her right hand, exposing her chin. I watch again, feinting with my right to make her repeat the move. She drops her right hand again.

Bingo!

Circling until I’ve closed the distance between us, I calculate that I’m within striking range. With complete control of the center of the cage, I lead with my left leg, letting her think that I’m about to kick her. My opponent bounces away from me, to her left and drops her right hand, just as I wanted her to.

My left fist connects with her chin, followed by a right and another left. It wobbles her, so seizing the opening, I make a spinning back kick and knock her to the ground. Diving onto her fallen body, I assume full mount and pound away on her face with closed fists. Power surging through my body, the need to put her to sleep is incredible. I feel like a Goddess, omnipotent and undefeatable. My blood sings, rushing into my ears and joining the roars of the crowd as they egg me on.

Hooligan is yelling instructions; his words lost in the cacophony building in the basement. Beth—screw keeping it impersonal—manages to catch me on the chin with a lucky elbow. I repay the favor by driving a knee into her ribs and pounding on her with more force.

Dominating her with ease, I feel the tiny amount of resistance that she’s putting up cease. Her arms flop over her face, and I know that I’ve won. I reduce the intensity of my striking, waiting for the ref to call an end to the fight. As much as I enjoyed the short contest, I’m not an animal. I’m not going to beat on a defeated opponent.

“Time. Time.”

The ref knocks me off of her, covering her body with his. I fall onto my ass, quickly jumping to my feet and running for the side of the cage where Hooligan and my family are sitting.

“Oh my fucking God.” I scream over the yelling crowd. “
I did it!
I won.”

Hooligan climbs onto the side of the mat, clinging to the chain-link with his fingertips. Using my toes, I climb the side, hanging over it with my arms. Hooligan’s tall enough that he only needs to lift himself up a few inches to meet me. Pressing our lips together, we kiss, excitement and victory mingling with our love. “Never doubted you for a second. You’re a fucking champ, little girl. Gonna kick the ass of anyone they put in front of you.”

With his unbelievable strength, he lifts his body the rest of the way and swings into the cage with me. Picking me up, he twirls me in a circle, lips pressed together, tongues dancing in celebration.

“Fucking love you, little girl. Gonna keep you forever. You and me against the world.” Hooligan pronounces when we finally pull apart. Resting his forehead against mine, his intense green gaze burns into my amber. “Are you down with that?”

Nodding ever-so-slightly, I give into the tears that have been trying to escape since he climbed into the cage. As they run down my face, wetting my cheeks, my neck, and pooling in my cleavage, I grin wider than I have in my entire life. It’s so typical of Hooligan to pour his heart out in this cage. The place where this began; where we locked eyes for the first time and set our fairy tale into motion.

“I’m more than down with it. It’s what I want. I love you too.”

The gate to the cage is opened and the rest of our family rush inside, surrounding us. They’re jumping up and down, all of them speaking at once. Flushed faces and excited eyes all around us, proclaiming their support, except for the one set I’m looking for.

Dad’s hanging at the back of the celebrations, looking unsure of himself, playing with the collar of his dress-shirt. He’s as out-of-place in the ring as I would be in his office.

Hooligan sees where I’m looking. Patting my ass, he prods me in my father’s direction. “Go on. Speak to him. He’s trying.”

“Okay. I’ll do it. For you.” Wiping the trails left by my tears from my face, I bite my bottom lip before taking hold of Hooligan’s hand and speaking again. “He doesn’t deserve it. Not really.”

“It’s not about what he deserves, little girl. It’s about you. You deserve to have your father in your life. You deserve the peace that comes with letting go of your past. Take it from an old man, laying your past to rest doesn’t mean you forget about. It means that you choose to stop it from ruining your future.”

Squeezing my hand, he imparts some more wisdom. “Besides, if you can love an asshole like me, forgiving your father is a fucking cake walk.”

Pulling my hand from his, I take two steps in Dad’s direction. “I think we’ve proven over and over that you’re a marshmallow, not an asshole.”

Shaking his head at me, the love glimmering in his expression hits me right in the chest, making my heart skip a beat and stripping my lungs of oxygen. “Only for you, little girl. I’m a fucking marshmallow all the way through for you.”

And it’s with that declaration, those simple words that say
I’m his world
, elevated above everyone else he loves, that heals the remaining cracks in my heart. We’re the odd-couple; two people who shouldn’t make sense together but fit perfectly. The angry girl and the ruthless fighter. The little girl and her marshmallow.

He said he didn’t want me.
Yet he couldn’t keep his hands off me.

I refused to let anyone get close to me ever again.
But I couldn’t walk away from him.

Why?
Because sometimes fairy tales sneak up on you when you’re least expecting it, teaching you that your past doesn’t shape your future.

In the words of the wisest, bravest, most resilient man I know...e
ven the most fucked-up of us deserve a happily-ever-after.

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SNEAK PEEK

SEIZING CONTROL, BLACK SHAMROCKS MC BOOK ONE

PROLOGUE

T
his has been my motto for the past four years. I was certain I’d proven to myself, and anyone who mattered, that I’d let my past strengthen me, not destroy me. I’d survived every woman's worst nightmare and I was still standing. I was chasing my dreams, my family was thriving, and so was my relationship. As far as I was concerned, I exemplified the positive essence of the saying.

Unfortunately, everything I thought I’d overcome was about to rear its ugly head.
He
refused to stay in the past where he belonged.
He
was determined to conquer me and keep me for himself. To control me, alienate me from my loved ones, and force me to submit to his will. His latest attack was going to prove his most lethal, and he was going to teach me that, even though he hadn't destroyed me in the past, he had absolutely defined me.

CHAPTER ONE

LAINEY

Present Day

Cutting the engine, I breathe a deep sigh of relief as I lay my head back on the headrest. Organized chaos is the only way to describe the situation at work today. I love my job but I’m bone tired. My back hurts from sitting most of the day, and I have a throbbing headache from spending too much time reading obscure briefs and debating vague angles.

Grabbing my phone to text Mik that I’m home, I find thirteen missed calls from him and four messages telling me to wait at the office until he gets there.
Just my luck.
I forgot to turn my ringer back on. He’s not going to be happy about my lack of communication. I’m going to hear all about it when he gets home.

In my defense, I switched my phone to vibrate to minimize interruptions during my back to back meeting this afternoon. Namely his interruptions, since my headstrong man doesn’t respect the rules of traditional workplaces. He calls and texts multiple times a day, even when I’ve told him I’ll be too busy to talk.

The thought of the overreaction I’m going to face when he gets home brings a cheeky grin to my face. The phrase “Control Freak” was coined to describe my fiancé. I can hear his low, gruff voice already, lecturing me for not waiting for him and not returning his calls; for putting my phone on vibrate in the first place. Then I’ll be lectured for leaving work without an escort, and for taking what he deems “unnecessary risks” with my safety.

I completely understand where his protectiveness comes from, although it does grate at my need for independence at times. Because I understand Mik’s need for strict safety precautions—having barely survived what happened when I was eighteen—I don’t often step outside his carefully constructed lines on purpose. Not listening this time is purely due to forgetfulness and exhaustion. It’s unfortunate, but it’ll end up being worth it since every lecture he gives me ends with us tangled around each other in bed.

My stomach tightens with delighted anticipation of how this evening is going to end.

Buzzz.

Buzzz.

I'm jolted from my thoughts by my flashing and vibrating phone. I decline the call in favor of sending a text, not wanting to deal with the beginning of his tirade over the phone. Mik is much more receptive to my feminine manipulations in person.

ME:
Already home. Only just saw your messages. Sorry xx

A reply flashes on my screen less than a minute later.

His abruptness leads me to think that he’s texting me as he rides his Harley. I can picture him weaving in and out of traffic in his rush to get to me. Shaking my head at the dangerous habit I’ve been unable to get him to break, I pull my keys from the ignition. The chronic worrier always returns my texts and calls straightaway. He’ll always drop whatever he’s doing to be with me, should he feel the slightest inclination that I might need him.

Gratitude fills me that, four years after he saved me, he’s still as protective as ever.

It’s unusual not to have Mik, or one of the Enforcers, pulling into my driveway right behind me. I normally have an escort to and from work each day.
I wonder what was so important that none of them were able to be here with me.