Fighting for Everything: A Warrior Fight Club Novel

by Laura Kaye

  Jarvis nodded thoughtfully, his gaze on the mask. And Noah appreciated the hell out of that because he wasn’t sure he could handle eye contact right now. Not when just asking those questions felt a whole helluva lot like he’d just flayed off some of his skin. “Absolutely on the duct tape. Any detail work you want will be done at the papier-mache stage. So if you wanted to do cracks in the surface, for example, those can be carved in with an X-Acto knife when the mache is dried. But if you wanted to do some that was irregular or bumpy, you would do it now with the clay. Just build it up along this side however you want.”

  Ideas raced through Noah’s head as the other man spoke. He liked the idea of carving cracks into the mask. “And the ear? Because this looks like Mr. Potato Head,” he said, pointing to one of his attempts.

  Jarvis laughed. “What about something like this?” The guy had magic fingers, apparently, because within a few minutes he created something that was exactly the right size, shape, and proportion for the mask.

  “Yeah,” Noah said. “Thank you.”

  “You got it,” Jarvis said. “Holler if you need me. For anything,” he added. And that time he not only made eye contact, but communicated in one quick look that he got what Noah was going through, even though he hadn’t asked why Noah wanted to disfigure half the face or only put an ear on one side.

  Noah glanced around the room at all these people. People with feelings and challenges not so different from his own. Teaching a class like this probably meant Jarvis had a lot of experience working with vets like Noah.

  For the next hour, Noah was laser-focused on shaping the clay for his mask. When he finally got the clay how he wanted it, he coated it with petroleum jelly to keep the papier-mache from sticking. And then came the messy part—dipping strips of blue shop paper towels into a gooey mixture of plaster, school glue, and vinegar to make what would become the actual mask.

  Sitting next to him again as he worked on his own mask, Mo showed Noah how to use small bits of paper towel to make textures, lines, and other details, so Noah used that knowledge to make the left half of the mask rough, where the skin on the right was smooth and unwrinkled.

  As Noah worked, twin reactions coursed through him. On the one hand, he was almost enjoying the feeling of doing something, of being productive, of being able to concentrate. On the other, the more and more this mask started to come to life—with the left side of the face so utterly wrecked and broken, the more those panic attack symptoms started making themselves known again.

  His chest went tight as his heart raced. His scalp prickled as it got harder to breathe. Tension settled into his muscles until he was a rubber band pulled taut and ready to break.

  Because it was like looking into that fucking bathroom mirror—and actually seeing what he’d been feeling for all these long months.

  Suddenly, the room closed in on him and there wasn’t enough air. Noah reared back off his stool and stumbled into the table behind him. And then he scrambled for the door. All he knew was the urgent need to escape, to pull in a deep fucking breath.

  As opposed to earlier, the halls were busy with people browsing the studios and studying the displays, and it left him feeling trapped.

  He turned—

  The bathroom.

  He shot into the men’s room and paced, his fists tight, his adrenaline on overload, his head all wrecked again.

  God, when would he ever get control of this? Of himself? When would he ever get to his new version of normal? And would it be a version with which he could live? Because this was fucking miserable.

  He stalked. Paced. Growled his frustration.

  Fuck! I have to let this out before it eats me alive.

  He turned, targeted the paper towel dispenser, and reared back his fist.

  Someone grabbed his arm and hauled him around.

  Mo.

  “What the fuck?” Noah yelled.

  Completely unfazed by Noah’s aggression, Mo shook his head. “Abusing yourself ain’t gonna help you none, son. But I know what will.”

  Noah glared, his hands fisted, his body still jangling with all this bullshit. “Why do you care?” he bit out, knowing he was being an asshole but unable to rein it in.

  “Because I’ve been right where you are,” Mo said. “Why else you think I’d be here making another fucking mask?” The question was serious, but there was a hint of humor around the man’s eyes. But then they went solemn. “You ever feel like the only way you’d feel better is if you could destroy everything around you?”

  Taken aback by the insightfulness of the question, Noah could only stare.

  “Ever pull some stupid-ass move like punching a wall?” Mo asked, pointing to Noah’s beat-up knuckles. “But it makes you feel a shit ton better afterward.”

  “Yeah,” Noah said, his voice gravelly.

  “That’s what I thought,” the big man said. “What you’re doing here, in this class, it will help you. But if you don’t have any plans tonight, then you should come out with me and meet some of my friends. Guys I suspect are just like you.”

  “Just like me?” Noah asked, frowning.

  Mo nodded. “Yeah. Guys with anger and transition problems. Guys for whom fighting and training provide exactly the kind of outlet and therapy they need to deal with those problems.”

  Some of Noah’s angst bled away. “There’s therapy like that?”

  “Yeah there is,” Mo said. “It’s called Warrior Fight Club.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Noah couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually looked forward to doing something. Dressed in his workout gear, he stepped out of his apartment psyched to meet up with Mo to check out this Warrior Fight Club.

  After Mo had intercepted Noah from further mangling his fists, the man had explained more about WFC. The basic idea was to use the discipline and physical outlet of mixed martial arts training to help veterans struggling with anger management issues, PTSD, and other problems transitioning to civilian life.

  Check, check, and check. All of that was Noah in a nutshell.

  The other interesting thing about WFC—it was only open to active-duty service members and veterans. And given that Noah’s panic attack in the art therapy class this morning was received with nothing but understanding and encouragement, knowing he’d be training with others like him gave him at least some confidence that they’d get it if he lost it again.

  Baby steps, man. But he’d fucking take ‘em.

  Noah started down the stairs and nearly had a damn spring in his step. After months of feeling so down, this small sliver of excitement at the prospect of finally finding something that could make a difference nearly felt euphoric. Which showed just how down he’d been.

  Footsteps sounded out below, and Noah moved to the side as a guy with longish brown hair and lots of ink rounded the landing and came jogging up.

  “Hey, man,” the guy said.

  At some point, Noah would have to work on actually meeting his neighbors, wouldn’t he? For now, though, he just nodded. “Hey.”

  “Oh,” the guy said from where he stood up above him now. Noah turned. “Sorry to hold you up, but I wondered if you were the guy who just moved in.” He came back down the steps, and that’s when Noah noticed he carried a flower in his hand. A single pink rose.

  “Yeah, that’s me.” Noah extended his hand and introduced himself.

  The guy returned the shake, an easy-going smile on his face. “Ethan. Ethan Black.”

  For a moment, Noah couldn’t figure out why the name sounded so familiar, and then he heard Kristina’s voice from last weekend. His name is Ethan and he’s a bartender…

  Holy. Fucking. Hell. It was Ethan the Dickhead Neighbor. “You’re the bartender,” he managed.

  Confusion painted the other man’s face. “Yeah. How’d you know?”

  “Kristina.” Tension squeezed the muscles of Noah’s neck so hard that a headache bloomed all down the back of his head. This. This was the guy she was g
oing out with tonight. This was the guy she thought was hot.

  “Oh, right,” Ethan said, that easy-going smile returning. He looked down at the rose in his hand and blushed. Which almost certainly meant the rose was for Kristina. “You’re her friend…” He kept on chatting, but Noah’s brain tuned him out.

  Because something about hearing another man label them as friends had Noah grinding his teeth. Especially another man taking his girl out on a date. Made no difference to the man underneath all the bullshit that Kristina wasn’t actually his. Not as he looked at Mr. Happy-Go-Lucky-Hottie-McDickhead-Neighbor standing there with a fucking rose. And a pink one, at that.

  Kristina was going to like that. Because it wouldn’t be the presumptuous overkill of red, but it would be sweet and thoughtful all the same.

  And Kristina would like sweet and thoughtful. Hell, she deserved it. And maybe Noah shouldn’t resent that this guy was apparently capable of giving it to her, but he did. He resented it with every pissed-off fiber of his being.

  Ethan didn’t seem to have registered that Noah was on a DEFCON-5-level meltdown, because he asked, “Hey, what kind of stuff is she in to? I really dig your friend,” he said with a sheepishly charming shrug, “so I’d appreciate any pointers you could give me.”

  Snark and sabotage rushed to the front of Noah’s brain. With some effort, he forced himself to resist the urge to tell him where to stick those pointers or to sabotage his chances with Kristina by suggesting he take her out for sushi, which she hated, or to order for her without asking, which she thought was a ridiculous thing for anyone to do ever.

  Finally, Noah shook his head. “Just ask her. She’s very laidback and down-to-earth.” Kristina deserved that much from him.

  “All right, man. Well, thanks. I’ll tell her we ran in to each other.” Ethan gave a wave and started up the steps again. “Have a good night.”

  Noah couldn’t return the sentiment. Because the idea of what might make Ethan’s night good had Noah’s blood boiling in his veins. His skin was suddenly hot and too tight. He stalked to his SUV and then sat there. Stewing and churning. Full of regret.

  He had his phone out of his pocket and open to his messages with Kristina in an instant. His fingers hovered over the keys. Saying anything to her about this date was probably a bad idea. No, it was most definitely a bad idea. Which was probably why his fingers started in on the hunting and pecking.

  Don’t go on your date tonight, he sent to her, his gut tossing.

  Why? Did something happen? came back at him almost immediately.

  How easy it would be to tell her he needed her instead, that he wasn’t doing well. But Noah couldn’t do it. It already made him enough of an asshole to ask her not to go out with Ethan in the first place. He knew it did.

  No. Everything’s fine. Just don’t go.

  A long pause. And then, I don’t understand, Noah. Why not?

  He gritted his teeth, and that too-hot/too-tight feeling crawled over him again. Because I’m asking.

  Tell me WHY you don’t want me to go and I’ll consider it.

  Problem was, he couldn’t tell her why. What would he say? That he was jealous? That the thought that another man might touch her was like shrapnel to the gut? That the thought that she might fall for that guy broke what was left of his fucking heart?

  All those things were true, but he couldn’t say a goddamned one of them to her. Because they would tell her too much. And they would give her hope that he wanted her for himself.

  And he did. He really fucking did. With every-fucked-up-thing he was. But that didn’t mean he could have her. Because of every fucked-up thing he was.

  “Fuck,” he bit out, dropping his head back against the headrest.

  His phone dinged again, and he read her newest message.

  Tell me why Noah.

  But there wasn’t a damn thing he could say. And that left him only two options—go silent and say nothing, or give her his blessing. Not that she needed it.

  He stared at the screen until her words went blurry, and then he started typing.

  Never mind. Have a good time.

  The minute he hit Send, Noah turned his phone off. He didn’t want to know how she might respond. Or whether she’d respond at all.

  By the time he got to the Full Contact MMA Training Center in the U Street/Shaw neighborhood of downtown DC, Noah was more than ready to pound the shit out of something.

  Taking his time—a necessity given the blind spot caused by his partial vision loss—he parallel parked in a street space in front of a block of red-brick row-houses, then made his way back up the block to the Center, which appeared to take up the first couple of floors in a newer-looking yellow-brick building.

  Noah found Mo standing in the bright, modern reception area of the club. The big man had changed into a pair of black and blue athletic shorts and a form-fitting black tank with the club’s name on it. Cases of trophies and ribbons filled one wall by the front desk, and a display of work-out gear for sale ran along the other.

  “Glad you came,” Mo said. “Sign in on that clipboard over there and I’ll take you to meet the coach.”

  Noah walked up to the shiny steel counter and added his name to a list of thirteen other people. And then he was following Mo down one level, to a large rectangular gym space. Blue mats covered much of the open floor, and two eight-sided practice cages filled the far end of the room. People were spread out across the mats doing stretches and shooting the shit, but Mo led Noah past them to where three men stood near a set of benches at the side of the space.

  Mo greeted the men and then gestured to Noah. “This is Noah Cortez, a prospective new member. Noah, this is Coach Mack, Hawk, and Colby.”

  “John McPherson,” a fortyish man with dark hair and eyes said. He had full tattoo sleeves down both arms. “Everyone calls me Mack. Glad to have you here.”

  “Glad to be here,” Noah said, returning the man’s shake. Next, he exchanged introductions with the other two men, Leo Hawkins and Colby Richmond, long-time members who apparently assisted Mack with the coaching. Despite the black tattoos around his biceps that gave him a harder edge, Leo’s blond hair, blue eyes, and tanned skin gave him a surfer-dude look. Colby had light brown skin and eyes and close-trimmed black hair.

  Everyone was friendly and welcoming, helping ease some of the tension flowing through Noah’s muscles.

  “Take over warm-ups,” Mack said to Hawk and Colby, “while I get Noah oriented.” The two men nodded and took off for the mats. “Have a seat,” Mack said. They cleared a spot among everyone’s belongings. “Tell me a little about yourself. What brings you here?” the older man asked, expression open and relaxed.

  Heaving a deep breath, Noah wished he could be as laidback. “Served five years in the Marine Corps with the 2nd Combat Engineer Battalion. Discharged last fall after an IED gave me a TBI that stole the hearing in my left ear and some of the vision in my left eye. I met Mo today at another class and he, uh, told me about the club.”

  Mack nodded. “Are you still receiving treatment?”

  “I have monthly check-ups with a neurologist and primary care doc for the TBI, but otherwise, no.” He understood that Mack probably needed to make sure he was healthy enough to participate, but that didn’t mean he loved sharing these details. He squeezed the bench with his hands.

  “Are you working with a mental health professional?” Mack asked.

  Noah dropped his gaze to the floor between his feet. “Not regularly. Talking…” He shook his head as discomfort slinked into his gut.

  “Doesn’t help?” Mack offered.

  Cutting his gaze to Mack, Noah nodded. “Yeah. Makes it worse, actually.”

  “I feel ya. That’s the same thing that brought a lot of other people here, Noah. Hell, same reason I started this club in the first place.” Mack gave him a solid, supportive look, then grabbed some paperwork from a folder. “Okay, here’s the deal. I’d like you to complete this quick-and-dirty memb
er profile and questionnaire before you join in today, and sign this release. But before you can become a formal member, I’m going to need a doc to sign off on a physical. Standard operating procedure. So you can participate in the technical training today, but no sparring.”

  Noah’s stomach fell as Mack secured the stapled pages to a clipboard. What if the doctor wouldn’t clear him for this?

  Mack must’ve seen something on his face, because the man squeezed his shoulder. “Lots of people here have dealt with head trauma, and we have precautions we can put in place for people who’ve maybe already been dropped on their heads one too many times.” He gave a wicked grin. “So don’t worry, okay? Oh, and if you flip to the last page, you’ll see a strength-training and conditioning program I recommend. A bunch of us work out together when we can. You’re welcome to join.”

  “Sounds great. Thanks,” Noah said, the reassurance helping. Mack left him to complete the paperwork. For a moment, Noah watched the group over on the mats working through a series of stretches, then his gaze dropped back to the forms.

  On the one hand, he felt more of that excitement from earlier—before running in to Ethan had left him feeling like shit again. On the other, not being able to spar tonight had his shoulders dropping in disappointment. Some part of him had been counting on fighting to release some of the stress and anger that always seemed to be ballooning inside him.

  On the first page, Noah completed the profile sheet which gathered basic contact information, military service data, and the specifics of any injuries. On the second, he found the questionnaire, which got more personal—asking a whole series of questions about state of mind of the applicant.

  Noah found himself thinking of his list from the art class this morning as he circled how much he agreed or disagreed with statements like, I often feel emotionally out of control, or I often feel irrationally angry or anger that is out of proportion to its cause. He found himself strongly agreeing across the board.

  The third page asked him to detail his experience with various forms of martial arts. He had a lot of experience with boxing from the Corps, where he’d also picked up some kickboxing. And he’d been a wrestler in high school and college. But he had no familiarity with some of the other disciplines used in mixed martial arts fighting, like Jiu-Jitsu, Judo, Karate, Muay Thai, and Taekwondo—all of which he was looking forward to learning more about.