Dirty Fighter: A Bad Boy MMA Romance (8 page)

T
he thing
about money is that it’s so much easier to get your hands on it once you already have some. I spent a year literally homeless; spending short stints in hotels or outside. I had showered and spent most of my time in a gym.

The moment I won my first fight that was all over.

I guess I should regret waiting a year where I hadn’t done anything about it, a year that I didn’t seek out work like this. Honestly, I think the wait gave me a better chance to get into the game. I got to work hard on my body and mind.

The first two thousand was nice. I got to go to Brooklyn’s movie every single day it was in theaters, plus I had extra money to spend on food and pay off my next year’s gym membership.

Brooklyn was as amazing on camera as she was in person. God I could just watch her forever. She was convincing, passionate in all the right ways, and so well spoken. Not to mention she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. The screens in the theater let me see her face so large that it was like she was inches away from me. And sometimes my mind would wander and picture her there with me.

I was proud of her.

She got to climb out of the hell that was currently our lives and succeed.

The movie was some kind of poppy sci-fi that I didn’t completely understand, so I bought the books and read them to catch up on it. I hadn’t picked up a book since the night I killed my dad. They weren’t terrible books, and there were three in total, which made me excited to see her in the others.

The movie theater began to catch on that I was going to the same movie over and over, and began to offer me free popcorn. I even became friends with a couple of the employees. It felt like when we were back in our hometown and I would keep an eye on her from under that tree. The movie screen was just another window for me to keep tabs on her through.

My first few fights were basically once a month and I would get about eight hundred to one thousand depending on my opponent. With my winnings my second month, I set out to do something that I had been needing to do for a year.

I met a guy at one of Ross’s functions, he wasn’t as shady as Ricky, but after talking I found out that he made fake IDs. I was pretty sure that he overcharged me at 100 bucks, but I didn’t care. I went to his place, got the photo taken, and a couple hours later blam, I had a California fake ID that looked more real than real ones.

I hadn’t really looked at myself lately, and the picture on the ID card was a stark reminder of how much I had aged in the last year. My frame was thicker, I’d been working out a ton, and my skin was darker from sun exposure. My eyes looked so tired. It was depressing to say the least.

I didn’t like to imagine Brooklyn happening upon me anymore, didn’t want to picture how that reunion would look. She’d take one look at me and realize that I wasn’t what she wanted, that I was still that creepy kid that hung out in front of her house.

I started getting more fights, one every other week, and more money per fight. I was happy with this uptick, and I bought a car the first time a fight got me 10k. After that I got myself a small studio apartment that Ross co-signed on for me. Things were alright, I had a small car that got me literally anywhere I wanted to go, and an apartment that let me have more than just what my bag and locker could hold.

I started feeling like a human being again.

I could cook, and I did. I learned from shows on TV how to cook, what proteins were best for your body, and what to avoid if you wanted to pack on muscle. I got to sleep in a bed every single god damned night, not just on special occasions where I’d get a room at a hotel, or a bed in a hostel. It was my own space.

I immediately bought Brooklyn’s first movie when it came out on video.

I watched it again and again, it would loop as I got ready in the morning. I’d watch the extras and interviews at the end when I ate. She seemed happy in them. She mostly managed to stay out of the limelight; none of the tabloids had much information about her except when she’d been caught with an actor and accused of being in a relationship. She kept to herself mostly and I could respect that.

By the time her second movie came out I was a pretty damn big name in the world of underground MMA fighting. I had tons of offers to skip out to other underground teams, but Ross had looked out for me, so I was going to look out for him until I wasn’t underground anymore.

That changed once the official fights started up their auditions again.

“Ross, I want to be honest with you,” I had said. It was after a fight where I’d gotten pretty banged up, but won. He looked almost immediately defensive, but heard me out. He was always good for an ear when I needed one. “I want to go legit if they’ll have me. I could be able to be a pro in this,” I told him. He looked disappointed, but in the end seemed understanding. Even leaving from his team, I felt the flicker of a worry that it would be like a bad mobster movie and he’d get revenge on me for going.

He didn’t care, said if my heart wasn’t in it anymore that the money wouldn’t be either.

I was so thankful for his blessing.

I was also nervous. Nervous about the audition going poorly. Nervous about my ID being found out as a fraud and that setting the cops on me. Nervous about more than I could admit to myself at the time. If I made it big, if I landed myself on TV, then that would be how Brooklyn saw me.

She’d see me beating the hell out of people for money.

I couldn’t be sure of what she’d feel about that, you know? I didn’t want to imagine her thinking that I knocked out her dad for sport. I didn’t want her to think I treated just anybody like that.

Still, I went to the audition.

I made it in.

They congratulated me, told me they hadn’t seen someone with my spark in fighting for years. My paperwork was processed fine. I was in the ring fighting before I could catch what happened.

My first fight landed me twenty thousand dollars. I sent five thousand of it to Ross with flowers to thank him; I wouldn’t have been on my feet without him. I was always sure to thank the people in my life that deserved it.

The only thing about going pro was that the fights came less often. I was back to getting one fight once or twice a month, then moving on to the next month. It let me get out of practice a little between fights, it let me relax more than I should have.

I got to meet a couple girls—just in passing nothing serious. They were fans of the MMA circles and wanted a piece of what I had to offer. I was glad to indulge, to have something to clear my mind, and to enjoy besides just kicking someone’s ass. And something besides my focus on Brooklyn.

One of them, Zoe, lasted a longer period—almost six months. She was sweet, sexy, and exactly what I needed her to be at the time. But in all reality, she was another rotating door. I’d get a win, find another girl in my bed, find myself thinking of Brooklyn and then the other girl would be gone. I’d be alone again. Their company was wonderful, and comfortable to say the least, while it lasted, but they weren’t Brooklyn.

When her next movie came into theaters, I watched it every single day.

Some MMA fans caught on and would purposefully come into the showings I’d be at. If they didn’t leave me alone I’d have to go and miss out on the film. I wasn’t there to be ogled or to be noticed. I just wanted to see her. Brooklyn was as beautiful as ever. She was only a couple years older since I’d last seen her, but she looked like she’d matured so much.

She was doing more than just the book series of movies, she’d put out a romance movie with some bland random actor. She was breathtaking in it. There were rumors she would be in a superhero movie coming up, I was excited about that. There was a brief moment where the tabloids said she was engaged, but those thankfully turned out to be fake.

I knew I couldn’t have her, but seeing her with someone else for life was something I wasn’t ready for yet. I wanted her to be happy, but I knew that no matter how much money I made I personally wouldn’t ever be enough for her.

My fighting career was skyrocketing, after my first year going professional I was making 50k per fight. I kept my small apartment and my cruddy car. I didn’t care.

The constant fighting, though, wasn’t happy just letting my body be. My arms and shoulders were almost always stiff if I was out of the ring. My left leg had gotten so fucked up from the fights that it made a cracking noise when I walked for the first few hours of the day. I was making loads of money, more than I’d ever imagined making, but I could feel myself deteriorating.

My fights were nowhere near as good as they had been when I was making a thousand bucks a fight on the underground circuit.

It sucked, it was fucking awful. I was angry at myself, and angry at my body. I was only 21 and my body felt like it was fucking deteriorating. For the first time in my life I had to actually stop and figure out what I was doing, what direction I would take my life in once I wasn’t a fighter anymore.

What could I do? I wasn’t educated beyond high school, so I had no options there. I didn’t want to be a roadie or announcer at fights. I didn’t want to be in any business aspect of the business. I was only there for the fighting.

I couldn’t make sense of it, which was more frustrating than anything else.

I had money, financially I was fine, I could survive a hundred years off the money I made fighting. My rent was just under a thousand bucks a month, and I could pay it off years and years in advance. I owned my car. So I’d only have to pay for food and entertainment.

That was no way to live and I fucking knew it.

What would I do then?

I only knew how to fight. It was literally the only thing my father ever taught me. That I had to defend myself and work for myself. That I had to think of myself first.

Fighting was the only job that would fit that, without it I’d be stuck just sitting in an apartment all day, slipping out to go to bars occasionally or to watch whatever movies Brooklyn would put out. That wasn’t a life and I knew it.

I was still fighting, though; I still had that in my life. I could feel my eyes turning toward the terrifying horizon knowing that I was still a ways away from it.

I
stumbled into my condo
, slightly drunk. My driver saw me up to my floor but I told him to leave me be after that. I trusted myself to be fine more than I trusted strangers to give me my space. Even if they had worked with me for over a year, I couldn’t trust them to be out for more than self-interest.

Alcohol was a lovely thing. If I were smarter, more devoted to being progressive, maybe I would have dropped the habit that ruined my childhood. Maybe I would have realized that the apple was poisoned and not have bitten from it also.

I guess I’m not that smart then.

Flicking the switch in my kitchen on, my phone was lighting up in announcement that I’d missed a few calls. Fuck. I slid to my fridge and got out a bottle of premixed screwdriver, I’d need a drink if I had to listen to my damn mother again. I pressed play and started filling a glass.

“Honey, mommy’s not feeling too good lately, I wish you would come visit,” I rolled my eyes at her meek voice. She’d said that before dozens of times, it didn’t mean anything.

The first time she said she was feeling sick I called the facility immediately, and asked them to check in on her. She was fine, she’d always been fine; they said she was just vying for attention. She started saying she wasn’t feeling great more often after that, after knowing it meant I’d call back. I stopped calling back.

The rest of her message was about the birds that came into the courtyard often. I started sipping my glass, waiting for the next message to start. I caught myself thinking about how she really did belong there.

“Miss White, this is Andy Turney with the Bouchard Facility, your mother has been taken out to the hospital and we need you to give us a call back immediately,” a man’s voice said. My heart sank a little and I took my glass away from my lips as I listened to the next message start.

“Miss White, I’m Renee Goines with the Leesburg Medical Hospital, please give me a call back at 555-555-5555 as soon as possible,” a woman said, her voice was light but I could tell something was wrong. I set my glass on the counter and rushed to my phone. I called the number back immediately.

Dead.

She was dead.

I wanted to puke, I wanted to run off and break every dish in my kitchen, drink ten gallons of vodka, anything. Instead, I sat down on the kitchen floor and cried. I sobbed and sobbed. She died in that damn facility, the one that she had no business even being in. I had fooled myself, thinking that she deserved it for almost leaving me, and that it was fine.

It wasn’t fine.

My mother was dead and I had done nothing but ignore her for three years.

I was so sad, so angry with myself but so freaking sad. Like I had ripped out my own heart and laid it in front of myself, I felt broken.

I felt like no matter how much I cried, no matter how upset I acted, it wasn’t enough and it wasn’t real. I felt like, even to myself, I was faking my reaction because it was what felt right. I was just trying to make myself feel better, and ease my own conscience. I dumped the rest of my drink down the drain; it wasn’t going to taste as sweet anymore.

Within the hour I had scheduled my flight out, and had called my manager to tell them I couldn’t finish filming. We were in the middle of the production but it didn’t matter. Nothing fucking mattered. I wouldn’t have gotten to be in those movies if my mom hadn’t shoved me off to New York. I wouldn’t have become an actress if I wasn’t being spiteful in that airport. I would probably still be in Podunk Nowhere Georgia, trying to act like I was better than the town I had spent my whole life in.

Airplanes are only a magical thing if you want to go where they’re taking you.

Otherwise they begin to feel like a death sentence. When you arrive to the airport you’ll find thoughts coming into your mind praying that your flight is delayed or canceled. You won’t even feel a rush to get to your seat. There’s no rush for anything. The hours until landing are the worst, you catch yourself hoping that there will have to be an emergency landing, or that for some reason you got on the wrong one.

Stepping off the plane was the first time I’d been back in Georgia since I left. Since I’d flown to New York for the full week that I had been there. Since I’d last spoken to my mother.

Stepping out into the dense summer air felt like stepping straight into a fever dream. The town hadn’t changed; the state hadn’t changed. I felt like I was haunting myself.

This was the town where I saw the corpse of my father, and heard that fucking thump of the lamp striking his head that played through my dreams on an endless loop. This was the place where I was bullied and harassed. The place where I called the boy who saved my life creepy. The place where I could have died a dozen times over.

I wanted to escape, I wanted to flee.

I had to stick to my guns, though, I had to follow through with it and be the adult I finally was. My taxi took me straight to my parent’s home, the grass dying. I began to catch myself trying to remember if there was ever a time the grass wasn’t dead. The house was the off white color of a tombstone, looming over me like it knew all of my secrets. It did.

The upkeep crews, our weekly maids, the lawn care, had still profited off the property for the last three years, leaving it a polished and disturbing replica of the exact night I left. It was the least I could do since my mom couldn’t be in the house. I had considered just selling the house, but as long as she was alive it had felt like stealing it—like taking more advantage of the situation than I already had.

As I walked in, I half expected to see the smear of my blood on the ground from when I fell, but it was long gone. I set down my bag and stared at the home from the entryway, some part of me waiting for my father to come bursting out from his office.

He didn’t, of course.

I carried my bags up to my room, an echo of who I used to be. Nothing had changed, same clothing and outdated posters, same everything. I tore down the posters, creeped out by who I used to be, and then decided that was enough. Spooked from too much coming back to me too fast, I grabbed my purse and called a cab to take me to literally any restaurant.

I ended up at a diner that my parents had turned their noses up at a thousand times. It was perfect, no memories of either of them, and no ghosts to haunt me. I walked in, wanting nothing more than to find a table and vanish into it, when a group of people leaving caught my eye.

“Jamie?” I said, surprised. She looked up at me, her eyes widened for just a moment, so did the eyes of the other women, before they abruptly turned and left. Looking back at me only once they were outside, I saw them laugh between each other. Jamie, Laura, Sam, and Kim. They were my best friends; part of me still saw them as that.

It struck me how quickly I had left town.

How I didn’t keep contact.

Feeling lousy, I slid into a booth and ordered breakfast for dinner. I didn’t think I’d run into my friend group from high school. We were all so close. I had been at Jamie’s house the day I had to leave. We were talking about our plans for the future. We had been such good friends. Jamie and I had known each other since elementary school—we had been inseparable. We had spent so many years together.

I never thought they’d ignore me.

Couldn’t they understand that I had to escape? My dad was dead, and my mom had killed him—or at least that’s how it looked—why would I be looked down on for that? I imagined that they were jealous, upset that I had made something out of myself and they were still just in our hometown, but that thought made me feel guilty.

I hadn’t made very many friends in the last couple years.

It’s difficult making friends when they already think they know everything about you from tabloids and television. Or worse when they confuse you with the characters you play. I dated a boy for a short stint who “accidentally” called me my character’s name on five different occasions. It was lonely too. Don’t get me wrong, the amount of cash I made off those movies would make most people sick to think about, but nobody I talked to seemed to actually like me. They wanted to know what I could do for them.

Hell, I wasn’t even sure I liked me at this point.

I had lost myself somewhere in the starlet cliché even though I didn’t fall into it. I didn’t turn to drugs, I didn’t go have crazy exploits, and I didn’t go from man to man. I was just lonely, and turning to booze more and more often than I would have cared to admit.