Inked Fighter: Complete Collection (MMA MC New Adult Romance) (16 page)
Read Inked Fighter: Complete Collection (MMA MC New Adult Romance) Online
Authors: E. E. Griffin
I woke up earlier than my alarm and stared into the darkness in the room in Sacramento. The fight. Today. I couldn’t help the numb pit in my stomach that made me want to retch. There was too much riding on this.
I had no idea who I would fight or if it would even be a fair match. Did they bother to match weight class in these shady underground brawls? I had to push the fear far into the back of my mind.
Before anyone could talk to me, I went out on my bike in search of a protein-rich breakfast and a fresh juice smoothie. Sacramento was hot and dry, like LA but without the ocean. I hated central California. The dry grit around my neck as I rode only added to my poor opinion of it.
I found a place for breakfast in a health food restaurant that served farm-fresh foods. The guy at the counter juiced my carrots, and the cook made me an egg-white omelet with goat cheese and spinach. I sat at a table near the window and mentally prepared myself for the day ahead.
My strength as a fighter was in my martial arts. My weakness was wrestling. I could practice judo forms all day long on my own, but it was impossible to practice wrestling alone.
I finished my breakfast and left a generous tip for the pretty waitress. On my way back to the clubhouse, I passed a fabric store. It made me think of Claire and her dresses. Back at the clubhouse, Martel looked like
he
was about to be in a cage fight. He took me to the office with the president of our host club. He sat on the edge of the desk, looking at me in my chair.
“Well, kid, we got news about the guy they want you to fight.”
“Yeah. Spit it out.”
“Seems like he’s a middleweight national champion.”
“Great,” I said sarcastically. “I’ve only made it to state level. My art has always been my priority. MMA is just my hobby. Sounds like it should be a great show.”
“His name is Bob the Boulder Jones.”
“Shit. Perfect.”
“What?”
“I know the guy. He beat me last year. Took me down to the floor and got me in a wrestling hold.”
Martel turned away like I’d punched him.
“I should have taken more time to train. This was probably a mistake.”
“We can’t back out now. The Devil’s Dozen will take a cancellation as a loss.”
I shrugged. My mental game was wrecked. Pushing my hand over my head, I eyed Martel’s profile.
“You’ve got to have a backup plan.”
“I’m thinking about it. Just focus on your match tonight.”
I went to my room and sat on the floor with my sketchpad. My fingers gripped the graphite pencil, moving over the page in confident strokes. Claire’s face appeared, looking like Mother Mary, wise, innocent, and loving. When I finished, I threw it across the room. I’d memorized her face, but I couldn’t look at it. I thought about going back to LA. It would probably be better for everyone if I did.
I had Perez get me another protein shake, and spent the rest of the day stretching and getting loose. As night rolled in, I was focused and my body was as limber as a sapling in the wind.
We arrived at an empty warehouse deep within an abandoned industrial district. We were directed through the back to a cramped bathroom by a guy with a shaved head and neck tattoos. I saw the ring as we passed. Everything looked regulation. Crowds were already pushing in through the big sliding doors.
The bathroom reeked of piss. Black filth lined the grout in the sticky, tile floors. Gang graffiti covered the raw cinderblock walls. The sinks held brown standing water around the drains. I changed, keeping my focus on my core. I pranced on my feet in front of the dingy mirrors and watched myself throw punches in the air. I was quick. I needed to stay quick. The sound of the crowd reverberated through the warehouse and into the bathroom.
“It’s time, kid,” Martel said, leaning his head through the splintered door.
The moment of truth had arrived. Time to live down my lies. I marched through the screaming crowd. A bookie took bets at the back of the room. I kicked off my shoes, pulled on my gloves, and climbed into the cage.
Bob took his place across from me. He looked pumped, healthier than the last time I’d seen him. He had a Devil’s Dozen tattoo on his chest.
We warmed up our bodies, preparing to fight. The amateur announcer proclaimed us to cheers from the audience. I threw off my sweatshirt, pushed in my mouth guard, and took a last swig of water.
The bell rang.
Round one.
We circled each other. Bob swung at me, and I easily leaned out of the way. I was faster than he was. I knew that from the last time we fought. That hadn’t changed.
I checked him, throwing a hard right at his jaw. He ducked away a second too late and my knuckles grazed his face. It was an impotent punch, barely touching him, but it made fire blaze in his eyes.
He pressed into me, fists flying. My superior speed allowed me to bounce out of the way and connect with a shot to his kidney. Bob spun and grabbed me from the side. His grip was like iron. I swung my arms over his head and pulled him toward me. Neither of us could get an advantage. He unlocked his arm and hit me in the face. At that moment, I broke out of his hold. I launched a kick at his chin.
He was ready for my kick and pivoted out of the way. Even after the punch and the hold, my energy was good. He would have a hard time connecting in this position.
Cheers from the crowd faded into crystallized focus on my opponent. He barreled at me with full force. I ducked out of the way and landed a hit to his chest. He took the opportunity to sidestep and grab me around the waist. His momentum knocked me down. I landed underneath him on my stomach against the padded floor.
I twisted to get up, but Bob had me in a chokehold. I punched at him, but he was out of reach. Desperately, I reached for his head and pulled him toward me. It didn’t help. I couldn’t get a good enough grip to throw him off.
The referee lunged forward and called the match. Just like that, it was over. I’d lost. I’d lost it all. Dumbfounded, I stood in a haze from loss of oxygen. The smell of booze mixed with the sound of cheering. Martel’s face looked like grim death.
I leaned against the cage to catch my breath. My head pounded and blackness formed at the corners of my eyes. I was ushered through the crowd into the dingy bathroom. Noise and smells surrounded me, but barely registered in my consciousness.
“Well, we’re fucked,” Martel said beside me as he leaned over the dirty sink.
I looked into the mirror at the bruises and cuts on my face and body.
“None of this is your fault.”
“Then why does it feel like it is?”
“Get yourself together, Damien. We’ll go back to the clubhouse tonight, and figure things out in the morning.
I splashed water on my face. Martel left me alone to wallow in my failure. I took the phone from my gym bag and eyed Claire’s number. I wanted her sweet voice to take me away from my ruin. What did I have to say to her? I lost the fight. Everything would only get worse.
Table Of Contents
Chapter One: Claire
I spent all day sewing on my new machine, in my new room, and the work went faster than ever before. I breezed through five dresses in one day. Claire Parker originals. I squealed at the idea that that meant anything. When I finished, I decided to take Rose to town to visit Zoe on her late shift at the café.
The air smelled of lemons and roses from pots of fragrant geraniums that lined the street. The black pavement glowed yellow under the light of the streetlamps. High school kids whooped it up as they walked down Main. It was one of those buzzing summer nights that made you feel alive with possibility.
Maybe it was because I was finally getting somewhere in life, maybe it was the fantastic weather. I felt good, even nursing a broken heart. I’d be okay. I’d get over him. I didn’t need liars in my life.
After she put in my order, Zoe took a break to eat with me. She set my plate on the table and slid into the booth with her shift meal. She dug into her hamburger. Her delicate features seemed comical as she bit into the massive patty and bun.
I ate my fettuccini Alfredo and shared the noodles with Rose. Zoe wiped her fingers on a napkin while she chewed. Picking up a French fry, she pointed it at me and said, “Do you remember Stacy from my high school class?”
“Um, boob job Stacy?”
“Yeah. That one. Anyway, she works at the gym now and she was telling me about this guy who’s been working out there. His name is Damien.”
My eyes popped open. Was he moving on from me already? Jealousy bubbled up from my stomach and squeezed my heart.
“Apparently, Stacy thinks he’s the hottest guy ever and has been putting in some hardcore flirting.”
“Do I want to hear this?”
“Hold on. She’s totally into this guy, but he didn’t give her the time of day at first. But I guess he’s, like, nice. She said he is anyway.” Zoe winked and ate a fry. “She basically threw herself at him. He never let it go anywhere. But they did talk a lot after his workouts.”
I let out an audible sigh of relief. I still cared about Damien. I wanted to run to him and hide against his heart like nothing could ever hurt me. Too bad it was a fantasy. You can always get hurt, no matter how much you love someone.
“So, Stacy told me he was there training for some mixed martial arts thing. But get this. The fight he was training for was this weekend. It seems strange but this is what Stacy said; I guess the stakes were to get the heroin dealers out of town. If he wins anyway.”
“What? What if he loses?”
“I guess the dealers get to take over this territory.”
“This is crazy. If they know who the dealers are, why doesn’t someone say something to the police?”
“Come on, Claire, you know what this town is like. Half the families here have crops up in the hills. No one will rat out a drug dealer in a town of drug dealers. Anyway, this bike gang is led by some kind of kingpin out of Sacramento. That’s why the Black Blades are dealing with it this way.”
“So, the Black Blades aren’t dealing heroin?”
“Apparently not. Apparently just the opposite.”
“God, I made a terrible mistake.”
I looked down at my food like it was vomit on a plate. Rose reached for another noodle, and I absently handed it to her. How could I have been so wrong?
“Do you have any idea when this fight was supposed to happen?”
“I don’t know, just this weekend.”
“It’s Saturday night.”
I looked out the window and saw a gang of bikers pull up the street; none of them looked familiar. They looked like hard-core bikers with long beards, shaved heads, and tattoos that couldn’t be covered up for normal jobs.
They came toward the café and my heart dropped. If I’d just been there to support him, things might have gone differently. My mind ran in a million directions as I looked over my shoulder at the men coming through the front door.
“I’ve got to go. I’ve got to call him.”
I threw a twenty at Zoe and ran out the door to my car. Rose whimpered when I put her in the back seat. She wasn’t ready to leave. I drove home at top speed and pulled into the driveway. The house lights were on. Regan was home. I pulled Rose out of the car and hurried through the front door.
I hadn’t seen Regan in days. I felt like an idiot for letting her out of my sight. I should have pushed the intervention, but I’d been too self-involved to deal with it. She looked happy. Too happy.
“Hi, Claire,” she said with manic glee.
“Hi, Regan, where have you been?”
“Around.”
“Have you been using?”
“Is that any of your business? And who told you you could take Mom’s room?”
My guilt instantly transformed into outraged resentment. “I did, Regan. If you paid the light bill, maybe you’d get a vote.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Come on, Regan. Even you must realize you don’t pull your weight around here. You’re a freeloader. You bring chaos wherever you go. Why don’t you grow up and start to contribute?”
She looked hurt. For a moment, I saw the vulnerability of a young woman whose mind had betrayed her. She sank onto the couch and began to cry. Great. She’d cycled. Perfect... Part of me felt sorry for her. She didn’t have control of her illness, the illness she wouldn’t even admit to.
“I’ve tried so hard, Claire. I really have.”
“Why don’t you give piano lessons again?”
“No one will send their kids to have lessons with me anymore. You know that. I’ve been branded. I’m an outcast in this town. Everyone thinks I’m crazy.”
“Regan. You need to take care of yourself. You need to start seeing a doctor again. Take your medication. You are so talented. You could be a concert pianist if you wanted to. You could do anything. Why do you waste your talent, running out of control in this town?”
“I’m not taking those meds. They made me numb as fuck, and I can’t even play like that.”
“You have to try.”
“I don’t have a problem, Claire. You do.”
“What?” We had gotten so close to coming together, but she just pulled us apart again.
“You heard me. You’re selfish. Just because I had a harder time when Mom died doesn’t mean I’m crazy. I shouldn’t be stigmatized for the rest of my life.” She scratched at her arm, and I could see fresh track marks on her skin in the dim light of the living room. I put Rose down and she toddled into the kitchen. Bradly sniffed at her diaper. It was past her bedtime, but I sat down on the couch next to Regan.
“How long have you been using?”
“Using what?”
“Heroin.”
“I don’t.”
“I saw you. Remember?”
“It’s none of your business.”
“Regan, just fucking tell me the truth.”
She sighed and looked toward the window. “A few months.”
“Then it isn’t too late. You can get off it. You can go back to the hospital for a while, get clean, and have a fresh start. Maybe some other medication would work better. You have to try. Don’t you want a good life?”
“Leave me alone. Stop hounding me.”
She rose from the couch and pushed past me up the stairs. I could hear her door slam. It felt like she’d slammed my heart.
I took Rose into the bathroom to give her a bath. It was quiet and cool in there. Watching Rose splash in the bathtub helped my heart rate slow down. When she was done, I put her to bed.
In my room, I sat on the bed with the breeze blowing in through the window. I needed to talk to Damien, but I was so nervous my hands were sweating.
I picked up the phone and dialed his cell number. It rang. And rang. Nothing. It went to voice mail and I hung up. What could I say to the recording? Sorry, I was completely wrong about everything? Or maybe I could say, “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?“ Neither were easy words to say.
I stared at the phone until I felt asleep, but he didn’t call back.