by Jenika Snow
Evernight Publishing ®
www.evernightpublishing.com
Copyright© 2015 Jenika Snow
ISBN: 978-1-77233-344-2
Cover Artist: Sour Cherry Designs
Editor: Karyn White
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
DEDICATION
It’s never too late.
FIGHTING TO FORGET
The Fighters of Absinthe, 4
Jenika Snow
Copyright © 2015
Chapter One
Larson ducked as the massive hand came right at his face. He moved left, then right. Swinging his own fist out, he connected with the muscular abdomen of his opponent, feeling strength when the other man grunted in pain and stumbled back. The MMA fight was currently being held in the stadium of the Convention Center, and was packed full of spectators. The smell of sweat, blood, and aggression quickly filled the arena as the fight progressed.
Larson swung out left, connected with the guy’s jaw, and heard the sound of bone cracking. The fighter stumbled back, blood spilling out of his mouth and nose. The other fighter turned his head and spit out a mouthful of the red, viscous fluid, wiped the back of his hand over his lips and nose, and focused on Larson again. Larson saw his wife in the crowd, her hands by her lips and worry on her face. He hated that Melanie came to the fights, but she insisted on showing her support, and how could he get upset about that? They may have only been married for a year, but he’d known her for the last decade, saw her as the woman for him, and would do anything for her.
He brought his focus back to the fighter, put his personal life and Melanie in the back of his mind, and rolled his head around his neck. Before the other fighter was fully righted Larson was on him, wrapping his arms around his neck in a hug, and trying to take him down. He reached down and delivered a series of short, but effective hits to the guy’s side, knocked his kidneys around a bit, but had to stop and block a few of the other fighter’s punches and kicks of his own.
Larson felt his opponent growing tired, and that was when he did the takedown. Bending and wrapping his arms around the guy’s thighs, he used all of his strength to lift him up, and then slam him back down on the mat. The crowd went wild. Larson was on him a second later, tightening his thighs around his upper body and twisting so he had him in an armbar. The fighter struggled at first, his face a mask of rage. Larson knew this man well, knew of his reputation, the fact he had a short fuse, and the anger on his face at the knowledge he was going to lose was like a shot to Larson’s gut.
“You motherfucker,” the fighter wheezed out, bared his teeth, and struggled more.
Larson tightened his hold on him again, and finally his opponent brought his open hand down on Larson’s thigh for his tap out. Larson rolled off of the other man, but before he could stand the fighter, Haines, was on top of him, his forearm on Larson’s neck and his teeth bared.
“You cheated me out of that fucking title,” Haines said, spittle spraying out of his mouth and his face red. The refs started coming forward, pulling Haines off, but the fighter was a big man, angry at the world, and he’d just lost the championship fight. But acting like this, being a sore loser in front of everyone, told Larson he was unstable.
The refs and Larson finally managed to get Haines off of him, and Larson stood, cracked his knuckles, and braced himself in case Haines came after him again.
“You’re going to regret this, you piece of shit. You’re going to regret a lot, Larson.” Haines stared at him for several seconds, turned his head to spit on the mat, and then left the cage. The crowd booed as Haines lifted his hands and flipped everyone off.
Larson looked out at the crowd, the cage erected in the center of the arena the only thing separating him and the hundreds of people that had come to watch the championship fight. Melanie was closer to the cage now, her worry even more pronounced since Haines had gone psycho. Larson’s face throbbed from the two punches Haines had managed to land on him, and he might have a few bruised ribs, but other than that he was feeling fucking good. He’d just won the championship, had the title and belt to go with it, and he was going to stop fighting and just live his life with Melanie.
This was his last fight, and he’d gone down swinging, taken what he wanted, and could finally have a family with his beautiful wife. He normally did feel this way after a fight, especially with the endorphins and adrenaline pumping through him, but this high was a little different because he was looking forward to just having a normal life. He was getting older, and he’d promised Melanie after this they’d try for babies.
He wanted to just go home and be with Melanie in every way possible to get the adrenaline out of his system, but he had a press conference, an after gathering where he’d speak with the fans, and being with his wife would have to wait.
“And the winner, the championship fighter, Larson Ireland.” The crowd went wild as the ref lifted Larson’s arm with one hand, and using his other hand held the championship belt high above their heads.
Larson left the cage after he spoke with the television spokesman for one of the sport channels, and noticed the women right away. They swarmed up to him, not caring that he was happily married. They just saw a fighter, the winner for tonight, and wanted to be in his bed. It was a common thing he’d been subjected to since fighting in the scene, and before getting with Melanie he’d accepted their offers. He’d fucked them, enjoyed that they threw themselves at him. But not anymore, not since he started dating Melanie, married her, and fallen head over heels in love with her.
He went over to where Melanie was standing beside two bodyguards, but a blonde intercepted him. She was eye-fucking him and lifted her hand to touch his bare, sweaty chest, but he pushed past her. It was the only thing he could do to these women anymore, the ones that were called Chasers in the fighting community. Talking to them just made them want to get into bed faster, no matter what was even being said.
Larson ignored the way the hollering of the crowd around him intensified once he was on the main ground. He walked over to where Melanie stood, embraced her and tried to put the fight behind him. It was hard, though, because his body was still primed to fight.
“I thought that guy was going to kill you,” she said loudly, the crowd so boisterous it was hard to think straight.
“He was pissed he lost the fight, and instead of taking it like a man and true fighter, he snapped.” Larson pulled back and looked at Melanie’s face. She was a beautiful woman, scarred from a car accident when she was five, and having lost her vision in one eye. But despite that, he never saw her as anything but beautiful and strong. Sure, they’d had problems in the beginning of their relationship because of his fighting, but she finally accepted this was his life, and they’d compromised. She’d become supportive, too. So, he’d gotten his belt, and now things were on his terms, and his future was ahead of them.
“I take it you still have to do a lot of face time with the media and fans,” she said and smiled. “I’ll be at home, have a hot meal ready to reheat for you.” She chuckled, and he did the same. “And maybe I’ll rub out your muscles if you’re not too dead on your feet.”
He leaned down and kissed her and told the bodyguards to walk her out to her car. “Text me when you get home.”
She kissed him once more. Then she was leaving the are
na with the guards behind her.
****
Larson pulled into the driveway of the home he shared with Melanie, cut the engine, and rested his head on the back of the seat. He was beat, so fucking tired he could have slept right here. The lights were off in the house, but it was after two in the morning. He’d had to sneak out, because the after party was still going strong.
He climbed out of the car, made his way up to the front door, and as soon as he had it pushed open and stepped inside he knew something was wrong. He set his keys on the table beside the door and looked around, his body tense, alert. The sound of the clock on the wall was the only thing he could hear.
“Melanie?” he called out, his heart starting to pump wildly. She should have stayed with him, should have been by his side even if it would have been a hectic night. Making his way through the house he went into the kitchen, the family room, and finally headed down the hallway. With every step he took his heart went faster, harder, and he felt the sweat cover his body. He clenched his hands into fists, curling his fingers into his palms with enough force he felt his nails break skin.
The bedroom door was shut, and he stopped in front of it. Melanie always waited up for him after a fight, always, no matter the time. He was shaking, feeling in the pit of his gut that things were wrong, terribly wrong. Pushing the door open with enough force it slammed against the wall, he moved inside and looked around the darkened room, which was lit only by the moonlight coming through the window. When his eyes adjusted he froze. His heart stopped, his breathing changed, and he felt emotions swamp him.
He felt around for the light switch with a shaky hand, turned it on, and a silent cry left him as he took in the bed. In the center of the mattress, covered in blood and a loose sheet, was his sweet, beautiful Melanie. He could tell she was nude under the sheet, and when he took that first step forward, his knees nearly buckling under his weight, he felt like the world had just been pulled out from under him. He fell to his knees when he reached the bed, gathered Melanie in his arms, and roared out.
“Please, baby, please wake up.” The tears wouldn’t come. He searched his pocket for his cell, but the fucking thing fell to the floor and slid under the bed. He grabbed for the phone on the nightstand, dialed 911, and while the phone rang he blinked back the shock of what was happening.
“This is 911, what’s your emergency?” the operator said.
Larson felt his throat tighten, and he told the woman on the other end about the situation. It was hard getting the words out, painful to have to describe what he saw.
“Stay on the phone with me, sir. I have dispatched an ambulance, and they are en route.”
Larson dropped the phone to the bed, could hear the operator calling out for him, but everything else faded away as he held Melanie again. All he felt was this intense rage, this consuming anger that was controlling him right now. He shook her, screamed out her name, and when the sound of a floorboard creaking behind him sounded he stood and spun. His heart picked up speed again, and the adrenaline pumped through his veins.
There, standing a few feet from him, his sweet wife’s blood all over his chest and hands, and his fucking fly unzipped, was Haines. The fucker smiled, flashed his crooked front teeth, and made a show of zipping up his fly slowly.
“I have been watching you for years, Larson, fucking years. I trained, worked out in hopes that one day I’d have you in the cage with me.” He took a step forward. “You fucking made a fool out of me tonight, made me look weak, and all my hard work and training was for nothing.”
Larson shook his head, tried to get his mind on the situation, but he wasn’t thinking or seeing straight.
“You took from me the glory that I’d worked my entire life for.”
“You’re fucking insane,” Larson said in a tight voice. “You lost, and so you come here, hurt, took, violated what I love?” He roared out the last part, and although he wanted to hold Melanie, bring her back even though he knew she was gone, this threat wasn’t done. The tears came then, angry, hot, forceful.
Haines threw himself at Larson, attacked him and tackled him to the ground. They grappled, tried to get the upper hand on the other, and when Larson threw a punch at Haines the other man hollered in pain. Larson went to pick himself up off the ground and heard the operator shouting on the phone now. Before he could anticipate Haines’s next move searing pain slammed into him. Larson roared out when hot agony filled him. He cupped his neck and slid his hand down to his chest, through the slice in his t-shirt. When he pulled his hand back he saw it covered in blood. Warm wetness continued to fall down his chest, soaking the material of his shirt.
Looking up at Haines, he saw the other man held a bloody knife in his hand. Something snapped in Larson despite the pain that he felt and the blood that spilled out of his throat and chest.
He launched himself at Haines, took the man down, and without thinking, just letting his rage consume him, he grabbed Haines’s head and slammed it on the ground. Over and over he did this until he heard bone crunching, saw blood pooling under the man’s skull, and only then did he fall away from Haines. He landed on his ass, the knife by Haines’s outstretched, still hand.
Larson kicked the knife away, had to crawl on the ground toward the bed because he was too weak from the blood loss, and looked over at his wife. He pulled Melanie into his arms, held her lifeless, cold body close to his, and felt his own life start to slip away. He was losing a lot of blood, could feel it pumping out of him, and knew he’d die right along with his wife. It was how he wanted it, though, because living alone and without her would be a hell all its own.
Chapter Two
Ten years later
He was all raw power, hard muscle, and indifference. He was a man that didn’t say much, a man that fought until his knuckles bled, his body was coated in sweat, and to where he couldn’t catch his breath. For the last year Tasha Mackenzie had been watching Larson fight at the gym. She’d gotten the job as front desk receptionist when one of the guys who’d originally held the job left for training.
Tasha didn’t mind being around all the sweat and testosterone, didn’t even mind getting leered at by some of the younger fighters, though the latter did surprise her seeing as she wasn’t thin and toned like the women that worked out here. She was thick, with wide hips, a size sixteen waist, and thighs that were far too big for her liking.
Tasha certainly didn’t mind being able to watch the man that stayed to himself, who others didn’t bother, and a man that fought like he was trying to run from something. He fought with so much emotion coming from him that she knew he had secrets. They had to be deep and dark, had to be painful. She knew all too well about trying to hide emotions with another substitute.
She stood and moved around the wall that blocked off the front desk and the gym. She stared at Larson, who was in a ring with another fighter. She was mesmerized by the sight of him fighting, and held her breath when the fighter tried to bring him down. She’d never spoken to Larson aside from a few hellos in passing, but if he knew how she felt about him, that she had feelings for a man she really didn’t know, he’d probably think she was crazy.
It was hard not to watch, especially when there was so much raw intensity on display, so much execution and precision. Tasha held the papers in her hands so tight she heard them crinkle in her grasp. Larson was a machine in the ring, with his thick, tattoo covered arms, and body corded with muscle. He had a scar that covered one side of his neck, right by his jugular, and continued downward to his chest. It spoke of a past that was probably something he was fighting to forget.
She held her breath as she watched him swing out, move to the left then right, and finally bounce on the balls of his feet. His hits could bring a man to his knees, and she had seen it on more than one occasion. Harlond McGrieve owned the back alley MMA training gym, and his daughter Sunny helped run the business. Harlond trained a lot of legit MMA fighters and ones that ran in the underground circuit. Tasha knew enough
about the gym that she kept her mouth shut about what happened here, about why some of the men trained.
Having gone to high school with Sunny, they’d reconnected when they met at a coffee shop over a year ago. And here was Tasha, a year later, working at the gym, and knowing that what these men trained here for wasn’t just for the legal kind of fighting, but also the kind that was bare-knuckle and dirty.
At twenty-three years old Tasha had never really been subjected to the kind of violence these men trained for. She didn’t have a perfect life, was more rebellious than most kids her age, and had made a lot of mistakes in her life. Hell, Sunny didn’t even know why Tasha had left during her senior year, gotten her GED, and finally come back to Absinthe heavyhearted.
Tasha didn’t think anyone aside from her parents knew what happened, and that was for the best. If they knew that she’d gotten pregnant at seventeen years old, had a baby and given it up, the whole town would have probably looked at her overly religious parents as if they’d spawned a devil daughter. But it was the father of her baby that had hurt her the most. It was her senior year chemistry teacher who had seduced her, told her promises that they’d be together, and when he’d found out she was pregnant he’d resigned and moved, leaving her alone and with this huge weight on her shoulders.
She shook her head, trying to get the thoughts out of her mind because they’d do no good.
Tasha leaned against the wall and watched as he boxed with a newer, younger fighter. Despite Larson being over six feet in height, and having enough muscle mass that he looked like a tank, Tasha saw something in him that she could connect to, connect with.
She watched Larson circle Brody, the newer fighter, witnessed him take the powerful hits, but give them just as hard, and felt adrenaline pump through her body as if she were the one fighting. Brody threw a right hook, but Larson dodged it just before contact could be made.