by L. G. Kelso
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
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
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Fierce ©2014
by LG Kelso.
Cover design by Forward Authority
Cover Photography by Kelsey Keeton of K Keeton Designs
Model: Tessi Conquest
Formatting by Sweet 'N Spicy Designs
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
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FIERCE
A Whatever It Takes Novel
LG KELSO
For Papa,
Who helped shape me through his love and encouragement, and by being a wonderful and kind person, and whom I miss greatly.
~
For Grandma,
Who continues to push me toward my dreams and is so willing to help me make them a reality, and whose strength, feistiness and love I owe so much to.
~
For my family,
Who showed me what hard work and dedication is, and who are my rock, my best friends, and my biggest advocates.
Chapter One
I'll admit it. As I poured the twentieth cup of coffee of the night, I decided the best birthday present would be if some idiot attempted to rob the place. Preferably without a gun, so I could beat the crap out of him.
A solid pummel. Was that too much for a girl to ask for?
Granted, keeping my fists to myself was my number one goal for the rest of my life. It fit into my failure-free life plan: college, career, marry a guy who can't throw a punch, get old, and die. A robber could definitely throw a wrench in my plans.
I slid the coffee pot back onto its burner before handing the cup to the customer with the golden piecrust flakes peeking out from his thick, scraggly beard. He tried to hand me some change, but I shook my head.
"I got this one," I said. It was cold out, and the least I could do was give the guy something warm to drink.
I pulled two dollars out of my pocket, and slipped them into the register.
My hand curled into a ball, relaxed, and then fisted again.
I could have tried to lie to myself and blamed my wish on current events. Tuition was due soon, and I refused to ask my parents for more money, especially since they were still paying off my hospital bills. That was why, on the night of my twenty-first birthday, I was at work and completely sober.
Twenty-first birthday. Sober. As if that right there wasn't enough, the second semester of my junior college year was about to start and I still had zero interest in my field. However, that was a necessary life choice, albeit a crappy one. My boyfriend was "getting wild" by playing a video game back at his place, and for my birthday, he had gotten me a curling iron.
No freaking joke.
Even though we had only been dating a few months, I had known him for years. I had absolutely no idea what possessed him to think I would want a curling iron.
But I knew, deep down, that the urge to fight didn't stem from any of those things. It simply stemmed from me.
It had been too long since I had an outlet, too long since I had put this energy toward anything.
Laughter filtered in as the door opened. Five guys walked inside. Well, some of them walked, some of them could barely stand. Their loud voices covered the buzzing of the lights and the percolating of the coffee pot.
It was Cherry's turn, so I picked up a rag and wiped down the counter as she went to their table to take their orders.
"What can I get you?" Cherry's voice fluctuated to her annoying level, indicating she was flirting.
I tuned out their answers, until I heard the word "MMA."
"Sure," Cherry said. "Hey, Tor, do you have the remote?"
"No. Why?"
"These nice gentlemen want to watch the recap for some fight that was on last night."
New goal: destroy the remote.
Unfortunately, Cherry had found it and already the TV blared. She walked around the counter and turned on a fresh pot of coffee before she leaned against the counter, on her elbows, so her ass stuck out.
"That guy is so flippin' hot. Look at that, Tori!"
I didn't. I stared at my dishrag.
"He's so strong. Look at that back! He can totally beat the crap out of people. You would have nothing to worry about if you were with that. You would always be safe." Her heel squeaked, and I could guess that her other hip popped out, and that the customers now had a better view of her other butt cheek.
The irony in Cherry's statement made me stomach clench.
"Now, that's a man right there. He put on one hell of a fight last night. STRIKERS got lucky with that one," one of the guys said.
STRIKERS. My chest tightened as longing crept into my mind.
I couldn't help it. I looked at the TV.
Two girls, scantily clad and with major boobage, were on it. They draped their arms around a man. White teeth, flowing hair, boobs. I didn't need to see the man from head-on to know who it was. Just the walk gave him away. He turned to face the camera, smiling and hugging the girls. He had always loved the girls.
Those kind of girls anyway.
The phantom pain returned, dragging its fingertips first across my face, lingering just long enough at the edge of my hairline near my cheekbone to give the thickened skin a pulse of its own, before continuing down my back.
My urge to hit something flared. Anger and desperation mixed with yearning. I looked away from the screen.
The coffee pot beeped.
"Would you take some cups over there with me?" Cherry asked. I nodded, and poured two cups. Coffee burned between the burner and the pot, and my nerves sizzled right along with it. I followed her, and frowned when the stench reached my nose. Alcohol radiated from the pores of the man on the edge of the booth.
Cherry put her coffee mugs down.
"Damn!" shouted the man closest to the edge—and to me—as glove-on-skin impact echoed from the TV. At the same time, the man across from him exploded into applause and the door dinged opened. The man's arms went up; his left hand neared my face.
My fingers slipped off the mug in my right hand. The cup plummeted to the floor, coffee splattered and rebounded off the tile back onto my shoes, and shards of cheap ceramic skidded. My right hand, now in a fist, hovered over my face, the cross ready to fly if he made a move.
"God, Tori, what is the matter with you? You got coffee on my tights."
The man's arms flopped to his side and he didn't even seem to notice me in his drunk haze.
"I don't think fishnets really count as tights," I pointed out.
I lowered my arm and took a step back. A pair of dark eyes from over Cherry's head locked on mine. I'm not sure what threw me off about Max, a frequent customer and possibly one of the local university students, standing there. Maybe it was the way his eyes tracked my hand, now balled at my side. He studied it for a second, as though I had exposed myself in some way. I forced my hand to relax. His gaze moved away and lingered on each of the drunks for another second before he said, "Hey, Tori."
"Hi, Max. I'll be right with you."
He nodded, and turned away. Cherry grabbed a new cup of coffee while I swept up the shards from the mug and mopped up the mess with a towel. Once done, I hurried to the counter.
I started to talk, but stopped when I looked at Max. He had the hood of his sweatshirt pulled up, over his head. His forehead creased and eyes narrowed.
"Would you mind turning the channel?" he asked. Something sparked in the black pools of his eyes, beneath the shadows cast from the hood.
"Gladly."
"You hate it that much, huh?" His tone held a mix of relief and disappointment. Max had been frequenting the diner weekly for a few months now, and even though I was far from figuring him out, I had managed to pick up when he was happy or not.
"You have no idea."
I spotted the remote on the back counter and plucked it out of the row of glasses Cherry had stuffed it into. We had disagreements about the TV station often, and remote placement had become a covert mission around here.
The all-too familiar face flashed in front of the screen again as I fumbled with the remote. I dropped it. Seriously? Finally, I got my hands to stop being so jittery and pressed the off button.
Max had burrowed himself deeper into his sweatshirt, his entire face covered in shadows now, his black eyes melting into the darkness, only his chin in the light. I wondered if he was cold, because the room felt a hundred degrees to me.
"The usual? A cup of coffee?" I asked, wiping my hands on the dishrag.
He glanced from me to the floor and back to me, smiling. "That depends. Are you going to give it to me or the floor?"
I threw the dishrag at him before I could stop myself.
He caught it, and tossed it onto the counter.
"Ha-ha. If you're not careful, I'll give it to your shirt."
"Hey now, no need to make threats. I'm pretty sure you're supposed to be trying to sell me coffee."
"I'm not trying to sell you coffee. I already did." I gingerly placed a cup of coffee down on the counter in front of him.
"You getting ready to close up?" His hand wrapped around the cup, the tips of his fingers brushing mine as I let go. He shoved his hood back, exposing his face. He took a sip as I focused on a stained spot on the counter with the dishrag.
"Soon. My boss is here, in the back, so he wants us to stay open a little later. I'm afraid we are all out of your apple pie, though."
"Seriously?" Max's face fell. His bottom lip puckered out. "My night is ruined now. Just so you know."
"Sorry. We have cherry, rhubarb, and I think a slice of peach."
"This is the hardest decision I've made all weekend," he said.
"You're totally screwing with me, aren't you?"
He nodded and grinned. His smile eased the rest of his features and the stiffness faded from his shoulders. "Okay, I decided. Can I get a slice of peach?"
"Sure." Peach. My attention went back to the group as I walked over to our pie cabinet. The door opened, and two more men walked in. Their steps were steady, but smoke and alcohol clung to the air around them.
"We're closing in a few minutes," I said.
"We still have a few minutes, then," one of them replied. His gaze settled on Cherry as he dragged a chair to the booth where the other men sat, the scrape of wood against tile making me twitch. The men knuckled each other. Of course I couldn't make it through one shift without getting some Mr. Attitude up in here.
Cherry rolled her eyes and sighed as she looked at the clock.
I handed Max the box of pie. He already had a ten waiting for me. "Keep the rest. I'll see you next weekend."
I nodded. Someday, maybe, I would talk to Max more. Figure out why he was always in here at such weird hours. He usually had a book with him. I had assumed he went to the university down the street, but I never saw him with a backpack. There were also times where he looked straight up ripped, like he had come from the gym. Not that I noticed, or anything.
He started to stand.
"Just a second there, Cherry, is it? I'd like a piece of cherry pie. It looks absolutely delicious."
The voice belonged to Mr. Attitude. As I stared, the man's hand wrapped around Cherry's wrist. Max sat back down, the movement catching in my periphery.
The smelliest guy cooed and hawed at the joke. Cherry took a step back, but the man clung to her. She shook his wrist as though she was trying to bat a fly, and not a douche bag, off.
"Let go of her arm," I said as I neared the table.
The man let go and laughed. I met Cherry's eyes and looked at the counter. She got the hint, and walked away, rubbing her wrist. "You guys should go. We're closing up."
"I didn't get my cherry pie, yet," the man said. He angled the chair at the end of the booth, and kicked his long legs out in front of him. He slouched back, his legs spread, and he tossed his hand over his crotch like he wasn't in public.
What an idiot.
"I don't care. We're closed."
The man kept my gaze, and smiled. "Run along, now. Cherry, I'd like my pie."
"Don't touch her again, you understand me?" I stepped to the side but didn't walk away. "Bring their bill, Cherry."
As Cherry's heals squeaked against the linoleum, I studied the man. I couldn't tell if he was built, thanks to his large coat, but he was thick. Thick and drunk, although his motor skills were still intact. How carried away would he get?
A few seconds later, Cherry delivered the slice of pie and a check. The man pulled his legs in a little, and for a moment, I thought the idiot behavior had passed. But, no. I apparently had too much faith in people tonight. The man slapped her ass as she turned away.
That was it.
"Get out," I snapped. I smashed my palms against the cool table and leaned into him at eyelevel. "Take your pie with you. It's on the house. Now get the hell out."
Standing, his chair slammed into the ground. I straightened as he moved closer to me. His chest, easily three times as broad as my body, touched my boobs. For once, being 5'11 made me happy.
"You have a problem, sweetheart?" His breath burned my nose, the acidic stench of cheap alcohol and cigarettes coating the back of my throat.
"Yes, I do. So get out."
His shoulder moved. I exhaled slowly as his hand touched my chin, pinched it between his index finger and his thumb. "Jealous over Cherry getting all the attention?"
"Stop touching me."
His hand didn't move. Instead, his finger rubbed against my jawbone.
"One more time. Stop touching me." I met his eyes, daring him to give me a reason.
He smiled. His hand tightened on my face and his finger continued to trail my jaw. My right leg moved out and back, and my right-hand cross went out before I gave it another thought. The muscles in my hand flared as the force of my punch compressed them, threatening to put my metatarsals in a thousand pieces. His face snapped to the side at the impact, my fist hit him squarely in the jaw. I hadn't pivoted enough, hadn't kept my shoulder level enough,
hadn't rotated my hand enough.
I flexed my hand once, just enough to tell me that I hadn't given myself a boxer's fracture with that piss poor throw.
Well, yet anyway.
"Bitch," the jerk snarled as he clutched his jaw. He stepped toward me. I resisted the urge to step back. I needed him close, and besides, I could feel the other drunk's leg behind me, sticking out from the booth. He reached toward me. Grabbing his shoulder, I pushed down and slammed my knee into his nose.
Cherry screamed. Or was that my boss?
Warm liquid gushed down my leg, dribbling into my shoe and squishing beneath my foot. The man fell forward, onto his knees. His hands covered his face, but the blood leaked between his fingers, dribbled down his arm. Well, this was going to be a mess to clean.
Stubby fingers curled around my arms, and I almost punched until I realized it was my boss. Once we stood a few feet from the group, Bill turned to the man holding his nose. He handed him a towel and started apologizing profusely. "I'll give you some gift cards. Would that work? There's no need to get the police involved."
"No," the man said, his voice muffled through the towel. "There's no need to get the police involved."
Was there a hint of a threat there, or had I imagined it?
"Please, everyone, I need to have a talk with my employee. Ex-employee. The pie is on the house. Have a good night."
Ex? Shit.
The man met my eyes again before leaving with his group. Irritation, anger. Probably feeling emasculated. Cold chills shot through my hot skin, shot through my anger. I had seen that look before.
They left, and I guess Max left as well, but I was too busy arguing with Bill about my newly fired status.
"You can't be hitting our customers. That's unacceptable." He paced, his fingers pulling at the excess skin under his chin.
"He was touching me. He touched Cherry. That's unacceptable." I darted in front of him in an attempt to make him stop and listen, but he girthed around me and continued pacing.
"That doesn't mean you break his nose! He could charge you. He could sue the diner. We could lose business over that behavior."