by K. M. Scott
IF I DREAM
(CORRUPTED LOVE #1)
K.M. SCOTT
If I Dream
If I dream, will you dare?
All I wanted was my freedom. It’s all I’d dreamed of from the first time I stood in the ring. Until I entered Robert Erickson’s world. Until Serena. Cruelty and ugliness surrounded me, but she was beautiful and good. I wanted to protect her from her father’s world, even though I knew being with her could mean the end of me.
I wanted for nothing as the daughter of one of the richest men in the world. But all my father’s money couldn’t buy what I truly craved. Until Ryder. I wanted all he was, all he brought out in me. All he made me desire.
Our love was forbidden by the one person who had the power to harm us. We dreamed of more than living in that world, though. We dreamed of having it all, but did we dare?
If I Dream is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to events, locations, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
2017 Copper Key Media, LLC
Kobo Edition
Copyright © 2017 Copper Key Media, LLC
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.
Published in the United States
ISBN-10: 1-941594-51-4
ISBN-13: 978-1-941594-51-3
Cover Design: Sara Eirew
Photo by: Sara Eirew Photographer
Adult Content: Contains graphic sexual content
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Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
About the Book
Copyright Page
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Part Two
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
About the Author
Books by K.M. Scott
Books by Gabrielle Bisset
PART ONE
Chapter One
Ryder
As usual, the crowd at The Pit screamed its lust for the two of us to pound the fuck out of each other. Impatient bastards. I couldn’t hear any one person’s words clearly, but I’d done this enough times to know what the people who’d come to watch us wanted.
Blood. Pain. And one of us as close to death as possible. It thrilled them in some sick way almost as much as I suspected winning did when their fighter crushed another person.
My opponent tonight stood nearly as tall as I did at six foot three, but his body was smaller than mine. He looked older, like something in the way he carried himself said he’d seen more of life than I had. His angular face looked hard, and on either side of his perfectly straight nose were eyes staring me down like he thought squinting and grimacing would make me run for the nearest exit like some fucking scared little boy. He was fighting the wrong person if that’s what he expected.
I’d never lost and for good reason. When you had nothing but the feel of your fists beating the hell out of someone and the sound of those rabid fucks cheering you on like you were some kind of hero for nearly killing another man, all you wanted was to win.
Fifteen times I’d won right here in this dank warehouse against guys bigger and stronger than me, and every time it seemed to surprise everyone. Even those who had bet on me.
If they only knew how unlikely it was anyone could match the rage inside me, they’d never bet against me again.
Some impatient bastard behind me barked, “Stop dancing around! Hit ’em!”
Mr. Grimace narrowed his eyes until he could barely see out of them and took a deep breath. Why did he bother with all this tough guy bullshit? That’s not what these bloodthirsty fucks wanted.
Pain is what they wanted.
So that’s what they’d get. His or mine. It didn’t matter to them.
“Scared, motherfucker?” he grunted out in a deep voice I knew wasn’t really how he talked. “I’m going to fuck you up.”
I didn’t bother answering.
He caught me in the face with a hard right that scrambled my brains for a second, and then his fist skidded along my jaw and ran square into my right shoulder. The last guy I fought had done a number on that one, so that hurt like a bitch.
I knew how this went, though. The people around us wanted a show as much as they wanted a fight. I could have just beat the fuck out of him and won, but that’s not what this was. I’d been told that enough times to understand even if I could pound the piss out of a guy, I had to at least make it look like a fight and not just some sad beat down.
So that’s what I did. I took a few hits, sometimes more than a few, and let it look like there was some chance I wouldn’t win. The other guy got to feel pretty big in the shorts and the crowd got to feel like this was really a match between two fighters.
It wasn’t, though.
He paraded around like a peacock, preening to the crowd while I gritted my teeth and pushed my shoulder back into place. I took a deep breath and waited for the moment I’d show him who he was dealing with.
Flush with the love of the crowd, he turned back to face me. A few shots into me had made him think he had a chance.
I stepped forward as he lunged at me and leveled my fist against his jaw. His head ricocheted back, sending him reeling for a second or two, but I didn’t let up. My right hand zeroed in on his face again, this time connecting with his cheekbone. I felt it crack against my knuckles bulging out of my fist and saw him stagger back away from me.
But he would get no mercy from me. That wasn’t what I was here for.
“Get him!” the crowd screamed as the guy cowered, hanging his head to protect his busted face.
That wouldn’t help him, though. Not with me. I knew what my role was. I knew why all these people had come here tonight, and it wasn’t to see mercy. Mercy was for suckers. Fuck mercy.
They wanted blood and pain, and blood and pain is what they’d get.
I walked toward him as a feeling of complete calm came over me. All the noise of the crowd around us faded away until all I heard were the words I told myself every time I stood to fight.
It’s you or him. Nothing more. Either you win or he does, but if you lose, you’ll have nothing.
He looked up and I saw the pleading in his eyes. I’d seen it fifteen times before. No matter how big and tough they’d been in the beginning, each one ended up giving me that same sad look that said they wanted me to be someone other than who they’d heard I was.
Someone other than who I had to be.
Maybe they fought for some reason that had nothing to do with their very survival. Maybe they thought it would be fun, or it would make them feel tough. Maybe they t
hought they had something to prove to some girl. Whatever their reasons for agreeing to fight, they weren’t why I fought.
For me, every win put me one step closer to being free. I didn’t fight for shits and giggles or because I wanted to impress some skirt. I fought for the chance that one day I would never have to step foot in this fucking shithole place again. I fought because deep in the back of my mind there existed the tiniest dream that one day I’d be normal and have a normal life.
That one day I wouldn’t have to be the man I’d been forced to become in this fight.
I knew his weak spots and attacked them. My fists pummeled his face, and no matter how hard he tried to shield himself from the blows, it was no use. Over and over, I hit him until that pretty face of his looked like mangled hamburger. Blood, flesh, and bone mixed to make a horror show. The nose that had been so straight just a few minutes before now pointed down toward his mouth like some deranged compass.
As I stood up to my full height, I heard the crowd cheering, as if I’d done something worthy of praise. A man lay in a crumpled heap at my feet, defeated and broken, and these fuckers were thrilled about it.
Looking around, I saw some clapping and others pumping their fists in the air as my win filled them with some kind of messed up happiness. Who was I kidding? What it filled was their wallets. That’s why they were so happy.
Floyd raised my right arm in the air to the delight of the rabid fans and said in my ear, “That’s my boy. You done good, son.”
I forced a smile and nodded my head. I wasn’t his boy and he wasn’t my father. I was his fighter and he was the scumbag who went out to find people for me to fight. Whatever else he thought we were was all in his mind.
He lowered my arm and slapped me on the back. “Go relax. You deserve it. You put on a good show. Just look at the way these people love you!”
I tore my stare from his greasy comb-over and beady eyes and looked over his head to see the people who loved me. Between the booze, the drugs, and the fight, they looked like wild animals.
Who was worse? Them or me?
“Ryder, there’s someone here to talk to you,” Floyd yelled from the other side of the door.
I didn’t want to talk to anyone. All I wanted to do was sit on my crappy metal folding chair in this dingy room and hope my shoulder started feeling better. I’d downed a few shots of Floyd’s whisky about ten minutes ago, but so far, it hadn’t helped ease the pain.
“Not now,” I yelled back.
He’d only open the door anyway. I knew that. It still felt good to let him and whoever the hell was standing there with him know that I didn’t want to talk.
The door opened a second later and I saw Floyd and some guy who looked far too well-dressed to be anywhere near the warehouse on any night standing in my shitty little room. He had a vibe that screamed money with his suit, expensive shoes, and slicked back grey hair that made him look what my mother used to call stately.
“This is Mr. Robert Erickson,” Floyd said as the man walked into the room like he owned the place. “I’ll leave you two to talk.”
I’d never seen Floyd leave a scene that fast. As he closed the door, I looked at the man who stood in front of me and saw he was studying me as much as I was him. Not that I was all too curious about what he wanted. People dressed like he was coming into my world never brought anything good with them.
Never.
The intruder looked around the cinder block room I called mine and then looked down at me. “Ryder, as our mutual friend Floyd said, my name is Robert Erickson. Do you know who I am?”
Shaking my head, I shrugged. “Nope. Should I?”
His dark eyebrows drew in like angry black slashes and his eyes narrowed to slits, much like the way the guy I just beat to a pulp had looked at the beginning of our fight. “I’m the man who runs this show. You are sitting in my warehouse and fighting in my stable. So yes, maybe you should know who I am.”
As much as I knew he thought I should be impressed by this, I wasn’t. Folding my arms across my chest, I said, “Oh yeah? Nice to meet the big boss then. I hope you bet on me tonight.”
His eyes opened wider as the corners of his mouth inched up into what reminded me of how a crocodile looked right before he ate his prey. “You’re pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you?”
I looked up at the ceiling for a moment, unsure how I should answer that. Fuck yeah, I was sure of myself. I may not have been wearing a thousand dollar suit and fine leather shoes like him, but I had gifts of my own that had made me a winner sixteen times already.
Pursing my lips, I shrugged again. “I haven’t lost yet. Come see me when I do and I’ll tell you how cocky I’m feeling then.”
His crocodile smile spread even wider across his face. Nodding, he said, “I’ll remember that. For now, I’m here to tell you I’ve bought your contract from Floyd. So now you work for only me.”
The words hit me like a fist to the face. I didn’t have a contract with Floyd or anyone else. I fought to pay off money I owed him, and when that debt was paid off, I’d get to leave this shithole world of fighting. Now all that seemed like a pipe dream this fucker had dashed to pieces.
I stood from my rusted metal chair and stared at Robert Erickson. “What does that mean?”
Nearly the same height, he met my gaze with one so intense I thought about taking a step back. When he spoke, it sounded like his voice came from somewhere dark.
“It means I own you now. You fight for me and I expect you to win like you always have.”
Left unsaid was the implicit threat that hung off every word. If you lose, you’ll suffer. The only question was how.
My mind spun at the news that all I’d planned, all I’d worked for, was gone now. “So I guess my deal with Floyd to be released from fighting when I paid off what I owed him is gone too?”
“Yes.”
“And if I don’t agree to this new deal?” I asked, silently gauging my chances of not only getting past him but finding some way of surviving after I got away. He was big, and I had a sneaking suspicion even bigger guys stood outside waiting for him.
Robert Erickson looked like the type of man who got what he wanted, one way or another, whether the other person involved wanted it or not.
“You have no say in it, but let me assure you that you want to fight for me. For now, let’s get you to your place so you can pack your things.”
He turned to open the door as I explained this room was my place. “No need to go anywhere. You’re already in it.”
Erickson slowly looked back at me with confusion written all over his face. “You live here?”
I nodded. “Yeah. Short commute time to work and everything I need within arm’s reach. What more could a guy ask for?”
Closing the door, he turned to face me. “How old are you?”
“Eighteen.”
“And you live here, in my warehouse where Floyd holds fights for me?” he asked as he looked around my room again, this time with a look of disgust like the fact made him sick.
“Yep. Better than the street or jail. I might not get three hots, but I got a cot and a shower.”
My answer didn’t make the sickened expression leave his face, but he nodded anyway. “Well, gather your things. It’s time to go.”
I opened my mouth to ask where, but he walked out and left me standing there in that room I’d lived in for the past three months. As I stuffed the few clothes I owned, deodorant, and my toothbrush into a duffel bag, I thought wherever I was going had to be better than this place.
We pulled up to a massive black gate between two even bigger rows of hedges and stopped momentarily as the driver got the go ahead to drive onto the property. I couldn’t help but stare out the window as we drove up the long driveway past some kind of fountain that looked like something the Greek gods might swim in and a bunch of smaller hedges than the ones out front that looked like the gardener had cut them all into bird shapes. Robert Erickson was even richer tha
n I’d first thought. Only insanely wealthy people lived in places like this.
The car stopped in front of a house so big I couldn’t see all of it as I looked out the car window. Erickson tapped me on the arm as I stared out at the mansion and said, “Welcome home.”
Home? This couldn’t be my home. Instantly, the thought of what I’d have to do to live in a place like this raced through my mind. Fighting in The Pit wasn’t going to be enough to live in a house like the one I saw in front of me.
I opened the car door and stepped out onto a stone driveway as I gaped at the house, which was even more impressive without the tinting of the car window getting in my way. Huge white columns towered above us to the second story of the gold colored home, and a glass front door so enormous I’d never seen one so big stood behind them.
“Follow me,” was all Erickson said as he led the way to those doors. I couldn’t imagine what waited inside after an outside this incredible.
I did as he ordered and caught up to him as he walked into an entryway so big the sound of our shoes hitting the white marble tile on the floor echoed off the matching marble tiled walls. He strode through like nothing around us was special toward the most spectacular curved wrought iron staircase I’d ever seen.
Not that I had seen many curved staircases with wrought iron in my life. I think I’d seen either a grand total of two times in a magazine some girl had in English class one time. I really didn’t have much interest in reading architectural magazines, but she did and since I wanted to get in her pants, I sat next to her after school as she told me all about her dreams of having a huge house with a curved staircase and a wrought iron railing one day.
She would have loved Erickson’s place. For me, it made me feel small, something very few people or things had achieved in a long time. Not small, actually. More like insignificant.
As my head swiveled left and right to look at the artwork on the walls, Robert said, “Come in here to my office. I want you to meet some people.”