Consumed: A MMA Sports Romance

by Claire Adams

  CONSUMED

  By Claire Adams

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 Claire Adams

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  Chapter One

  Of Bruises and Resurrection

  Mason

  The punch lands hard against the side of my face and, for a moment, I’m off-balance.

  This wasn’t supposed to be so much a fight as it was supposed to be me dominating this no-name guy who thinks so little of his body, he’d actually put it in the ring with me to get taken apart. Not that I’d really call this a ring.

  I shake my head a little, getting the blood and sweat out of my eyes as best I can. He throws another left, but I duck it easily and counter with a strike to his torso. He’s trying to move in closer to get into a grapple, but I’ve got him right where I want him: Just close enough for me to close his eyes.

  That’s the plan, anyway.

  He lunges at me, and it’s all I can do to prepare for the takedown.

  MMA hasn’t always been a passion. When I was a kid, I hated getting into fights—not that that ever stopped other kids from picking them.

  Eventually, I realized that the fights weren’t going to stop until I learned how to stop them myself, and the hard way. That’s when it all started to get fun.

  I land hard on the hard floor of the abandoned shop.

  The place used to be a greeting card store, but that was a long time ago, before people like me and the two or three dozen others came across it and decided it would be the perfect place to spill some blood.

  It helped that they cleared everything out when the place went under. One dream dies to make way for another. Or something like that.

  I’m in full guard, trying to keep my opponent away from my kidneys. That burst he came out with at the beginning of the fight took more than I think he wanted to give, and he’s catching his breath right now, more than anything.

  Only, I’m not going to let him.

  I’ve got one of his arms more or less neutralized. He can still make contact with me, but I won’t let him pull his arm back enough for him to land anything that’s going to make a difference.

  When he pulls the other arm back for another strike, I open my legs and twist my body, releasing his right arm in the process. It’s not pretty, but at least I’m back on my feet.

  He gets up slow, but rather than rush him and blow all of my energy trying to end the fight right now, I think I’d rather play with my food a bit.

  I give him a couple light shin kicks to the side, just enough that he knows where this is going. He’s trying to get close again, so I give him a moderate scoop kick to the thigh to keep him back.

  He’s tired, but I’m getting him nice and frustrated.

  Finally, he’s had enough of me messing with him and he comes at me with a flying knee, but he’s slow. I sidestep the blow and counter with a right hook to the temple and he’s on the ground.

  I pounce, but it’s over. The ref—some random guy they picked from the crowd whose only likely experience is watching UFC on pay-per-view—calls it.

  There are cheers from the crowd, but the next two guys are already lining up as I make my way through the crowd to see Tom. On the way, I pick up my shirt off the ground, though I’m not planning to put it on until after I get cleaned up a little.

  “Good fight, man,” Tom, our in-house, off-duty and off-the-books paramedic says as I walk up to him. “Sit down.”

  “Be straight with me, doc,” I tell him, sitting, “am I going to lose the baby?”

  “Well,” Tom laughs, “I hate to break it to you, but I don’t think you’ve got the right parts. That was a hell of a fight. What was the deal with the end, though? You had him. Why didn’t you just finish it?”

  “I got bored,” I tell him. It’s not too far from the truth. “Are you going to patch me up or not? I was thinking about hitting a club after this, and I don’t think that too many women are into guys with open wounds all over the place.”

  “Ah, you’ve just got a bit of a cut on the forehead. The rest are just minor scrapes,” he says, pulling out his portable triage center.

  Tom used to fight with Pride until his knee got bent the wrong way. He’s about the only guy in the building tonight I’ve never seen fight up close and in person.

  Of course, the rest of us are amateurs. Tom was actually there.

  “All right,” Tom says, “this is going to sting like you wouldn’t believe.”

  I open my mouth, but before I can answer, Tom is pouring his stinging liquid and I’m trying not to unravel all the good work I just did by screaming like a dying rabbit.

  None of the alcohol gets in my eyes, but it gets close enough for the fumes to get me squeezing them shut.

  “Hey, could you hand me a towel or something?” I ask. “I can’t see.”

  There’s a loud crash and a lot of shouting, and I can feel the vibration of people trying to get out of here.

  “What’s going on?” I ask, hoping Tom hasn’t just left me here to the mercy of whatever everyone else is trying to run away from.

  “Police, freeze!” someone shouts in the distance, and I’m on my feet.

  I have to squint, but I manage to get my eyes open enough to see where I’m going as I try to make my way inconspicuously to the back door.

  Someone grabs my hand, and I turn, ready to get pepper sprayed or tackled, but definitely handcuffed. I turn to find one of the guys from the crowd turned halfway away from me, and he’s tugging on my hand as if he’s my dad and we’re about to cross the street.

  “Where are you going?” the guy asks.

  “Let go,” I tell him.

  “Take me with you,” he says. “I can’t go back to jail.”

  “Let go of my hand,” I tell him.

  He’s panicking and not hearing a word out of my mouth.

  “I can’t go back to jail,” he repeats. “Come on.”

  The problem is that he’s not moving. He’s just standing there with those eyes all big and white, and I try to pull my wrist away again, but he’s got me in a death grip.

  “You’ve got three seconds to let me go,” I tell him.

  “Come on, man,” he says. “Tell me what I’m supposed to do.”

  “I’m not your mom,” I tell him. “And time’s up. Let go now.”

  He doesn’t let go.

  My free hand stings as I pull it away from his face. I think my first intention was to punch him, but it’s bad form to knock someone else out when police are raiding a place, so I opened my hand at the last moment.

  He’s still standing there,
but he’s let go of my wrist.

  There must not be that many cops here, because they still haven’t made their way through the rest of the crowd, and I make my way toward the back of the building.

  There’s no rear entrance, but there are a couple of windows, though they’re small and I have no idea whether or not they actually open. I’d hate to have to break something, but time is a factor here.

  I duck down before I get to the first window, just in case I was wrong and there are police waiting out back for someone to try what I’m about to try. I test the window.

  It opens, but not easily, and it makes a piercing squeak as I lift it, drawing the attention of at least one officer, because someone behind me is shouting, “Step away from that window!”

  I don’t think I will.

  I climb out the window and, as soon as my feet hit the pavement, I’m running. There’s no telling how many cops are out front, so for now, I’m just staying behind the buildings.

  “Hey!” a voice shouts a little ways behind me, but I’m not stopping for anything.

  I’ve gone about three blocks before the exertion of the fight kicks in and I watch the last bit of useful energy draining from my body. I duck behind a dumpster and peek my head out to look at the path behind me.

  If someone was chasing me at first, they’re not anymore.

  I stand up again, slowly.

  I’m all alone. Unfortunately, with the increased heart rate, the open wound on my forehead is just gushing, and I seriously doubt anyone is going to let me into their cab like this.

  It’s not too far to walk home from here. I just hope I don’t run into any neighbors on the way.

  My body shivers a little and I realize that, in all the confusion, I never bothered to put my shirt on. I think I had it when I came out the back window, but I can’t really be sure. In all the chaos and confusion, the shirt wasn’t really the first thing on my mind.

  I look back in the direction from which I came, but if it’s back there somewhere, I’m not seeing it.

  Looking down, now, I’m trying to think of any excuse I could give for my general appearance other than the obvious. If tonight were Halloween, it wouldn’t be a problem. People would just ask how I got the cut on my head to look so real.

  Unfortunately, between my black trunks, bare feet and tape-wrapped hands, I don’t think there’s any way I can walk down the street without looking like exactly what I am.

  Given the fact there was just a police raid on an underground fight, now’s probably not such a good time to not have real clothes.

  I’m walking back home using back alleys as much as possible. When it does become necessary to come out onto the sidewalk for a block or two, I try to move as quickly as I possibly can until I’m back where people can’t see me so easily.

  When I get within sight of my house, though, I stop.

  I don’t know how they knew where to find me or why they’d go to such lengths over something like this, but there’s a police cruiser going up and down the street.

  I don’t have my keys, my phone, anything. What’s really on my mind right now, though, is the police car coming from the other direction.

  Seriously, don’t these guys have anything better to do with their time?

  I can’t go home, at least not yet. I can’t very well stay out here on the streets, either. Besides, it’s barely spring and Wisconsin gets cold.

  I’ve got a buddy that lives about half a mile from here. He’s a bit of a pain in the ass, but I don’t have too many other options at the moment, so I start walking.

  I get between buildings as soon as I can. The cop hadn’t seen me, but if they’ve got my ID, they know what I look like. Even if they didn’t, I’m still a guy walking around in nothing but trunks and some hand tape with blood all over him.

  Coming to the sidewalk on the far side of this block, I glance down the street in both directions, making sure I don’t have the 5-0 coming down on me, and I go. My feet are starting to hurt.

  “Mason?” a woman’s voice calls from down the sidewalk as I reach the other side of the road.

  I turn to run, but glance back first to see what I’m dealing with. Given who I see coming toward me, this might actually work out all right for me.

  “Jana?” I ask the short, black-haired woman staring at me with her body half-turned like she’s trying to decide whether or not to grab the hand of the woman next to her and run.

  I don’t know if Jana and I ever said the words boyfriend and girlfriend when we were whatever it was that we were, but she’s definitely my ex-something.

  “What happened to you?” she asks, covering her mouth.

  “Oh, just a little sporting event that got interrupted,” I answer and look to the brunette woman standing next to Jana, looking at me with raised eyebrows and a wide-open mouth. “Hi,” I say to the woman. “I’m Mason. I’d shake your hand, but, well…”

  “You should go to the hospital,” the woman says. “That cut looks pretty bad.”

  “Yeah, I was trying to head home, but…” I stop. I’m already terrifying enough right now just by my appearance. There’s no solid reason to tell them that I’m also on the run from the cops.

  “But…?” Jana asks.

  “…but I can’t,” I finish.

  It’s a stupid explanation—not really an explanation at all. Still, though, it keeps the conversation moving and I don’t have a lot of time to stand here and talk.

  “You should really get that cleaned up,” the woman standing next to Jana says.

  “I’m on my way to do just that,” I answer. “Hey, it was nice to meet you, but I really should…”

  “Are you going to the hospital?” Jana asks.

  My mind’s a little blown right now, as I can’t imagine why two people would want to stand and talk to someone in my position.

  “Hadn’t planned on it,” I tell her. “I really need to go.”

  “Are you doing it?” the brunette asks.

  “What?” I return, baffled.

  “Are you going to be the one treating the wound, and if so, do you have any experience as a paramedic, nurse, or a doctor?” she asks.

  “You’re kind of freaking me out a little here,” I tell the woman. “What, do you see my skull or something?”

  “No,” she says, “but I’m pretty sure that’s just because of the blood.”

  Jana’s looking a little pale.

  “Yeah,” I tell her. “I was going to just jump in the shower or something and put a bandage over it. I’m sure it looks worse than it is.”

  “You really need to get that taken care of now,” the brunette says. “And I really think you’re going to want to have someone who knows what they’re doing take care of it.”

  “Ash, if we’re going to be drunk and dancing by midnight, we should really get going,” Jana says.

  “Hold on a minute,” the brunette woman, apparently Ash, says and comes a little closer to me. “Do you have any communicable diseases?” she asks. “AIDS? Hepatitis? Anything blood borne?”

  “You’re going to touch his blood?” Jana asks. “Eww!”

  It is a rather odd direction for her to go, given she has no idea who I am beyond my name and that I’ve been in a fight very, very recently.

  “Not without gloves,” Ash says. “So?”

  “No,” I tell her. “Clean and healthy, that’s me.”

  “Okay,” Ash says. “Come on.”

  She turns and starts walking.

  Jana and I just look at each other a for a few seconds.

  “Your friend’s kind of weird,” I tell her.

  “Yeah,” Jana says. “You got no idea. We better follow her, though. You look like you just crawled out of a collision with oncoming traffic.”

  Jana turns and catches up with her friend, who either hasn’t noticed or doesn’t care that I’m still not there, and I’m torn between two possible options, neither one of which make much sense.

  Things didn’t en
d badly with Jana, they just kind of fizzled out, so I have no reason to believe the two of them are going to lure me back to their place and end up stringing me up from the ceiling. Still, it’s been a while and she doesn’t seem quite as sure about having me go with them as her friend does.

  Then there’s Logan’s place a few blocks in the other direction. The only problem is that I’m not sure if he’s home, and I don’t have my phone to call him.

  I can’t afford to take a chance that I’m going to get there only to have to turn around again. That, I suppose, is all I needed to figure out.

  “Hey, wait up!” I call and catch up to Jana and Ash.

  Who says you can’t have an exciting Saturday night in a small town?

  * * *

  “Did you win?” Ash asks as she dabs at my forehead with some sterile cotton balls, dipped in rubbing alcohol.

  I’m sitting on a folding chair which is sitting on spread-out newspapers which are sitting on towels which are sitting on the tile floor of the entryway to Jana and Ash’s apartment.

  “Haven’t lost yet,” I answer.

  “How many fights?” she asks.

  “A lot,” I answer.

  “Can we go?” Jana asks, her arms folded as she leans against the wall.

  “I’m almost done,” Ash says, dropping the cotton ball into the little trash bag sitting next to her.

  “Why do you have all this stuff?” I ask.

  “What do you mean?” Ash asks.

  “Seriously,” Jana says. “This is boring.”

  “The medical stuff,” I tell her. “Are you a doctor or something?”

  “A nurse,” she says. “Or, at least I will be in a couple years.”

  Jana sighs loudly.

  “A nurse, huh?” I ask. “That’s pretty hot.”

  Ash smiles and shakes her head.

  “Jana, could you pass me another cotton ball?” Ash asks.

  Jana groans and stomps over to the table just out of reach from where Ash is kneeling down in front of me. She picks up the bag, pulls out a small handful of cotton balls and tosses them to Ash.