by Amity Cross
“Monica?” I heard my Dad before I saw him appear in the doorway. “It's okay, sweetie. That's Ren.”
I stared up at him, watching his expression change into one of panic. He obviously didn't count on 'Monica' busting in on me at six am in the storage room. I wasn't the only one who was stunned into silence.
“Who is she and what's she doing here?” the glamazon who was apparently my surprise half-sister asked, backing out into the hall.
“Mon,” Dad said, placing a hand on her shoulder. “This isn't how I wanted you two to meet, but this is Renee. She's your half-sister.”
Monica looked at Dad, then looked at me, tears welling in her eyes. A moment later, she fled down the hall, the clang of her footsteps on the metal stairs echoing around the empty studio. That one had drama queen written all over her.
Dad glanced at me, then after his super special franchisee, obviously torn as to which direction he wanted to go.
“Go,” I spat, not trying to cover my anger in the slightest. “She's obviously important to you.”
He gave me a look that said 'pained father' and disappeared, calling after Monica.
Pulling clothes out of my bag, I dressed and peeked out of the door. All was quiet, but I couldn't hide in the closet forever. Tip-toeing down the hall, I descended the stairs to the studio floor. Peering into the kitchen, I saw Dad with his arm around Monica, comforting his super beautiful, perfect daughter. Her face was buried in her hands and she sniffed. Rolling my eyes, I backed away and that's when I saw one of the twins lingering in the gym.
“Hey,” he called out.
Smiling thinly, I nodded toward the kitchen and he shrugged. She must have a reputation already.
Not knowing what I should do or where I should go, I wandered over to the notice board by the door and scanned the flyers pinned to it. Meathead Twin number one started pounding a bag again, the sounds of his fists hitting leather, echoing in the silent studio.
There were posters for classes in self-defense, boxing, MMA from beginner to intermediate. Maybe I should learn how to beat the world into submission instead of letting it beat me. There was a metaphor if I ever saw one. I needed...I needed something to dull the hollow ache that had bloomed inside of me the moment I saw the life slip from Mum's eyes.
I'd tried to find solace in other things, other people, but at the end of it all, she'd been the only one who'd looked at me with any kind of love. Hollow sex in the days after her death didn't help. Alcohol sure as fuck didn't do anything. Even following her last wish was turning out to be a real banging party.
I was alone and I'd always be alone. They didn't want me here.
“Ren.”
I looked up to find Dad standing behind me, a crease in his forehead.
“I can leave,” I said, my depression starting to tug at the edges of my heart.
“Don't be stupid. I insist.”
A crash sounded from the kitchen drawing my gaze over his shoulder.
“Monica is the studio's nutritionist,” Dad said, scratching his jaw.
Great.
When I didn't reply, he went on. “She finished her degree last year and our regular quit, so I gave her a chance. It's good experience for her.”
“What does she do?” I asked to be polite. I didn't give two shits what she did. We might share the same father, but by her spoilt little girl routine, I knew we wouldn't get along.
“She prepares all the meal plans and supplements and cooks for Dean and Linc. Training is nothing without the food to go with it. It doesn't work. She also takes on clients from the classes and from around the neighborhood. She's getting quite busy.”
The note of pride in his voice didn't escape me and I felt even smaller again. What did I have on my resume? DIY palliative care without the seal of approval by the University of Wherever.
“You never told them about me,” I stated, tired of pussy footing around it.
He opened the door to the street and gestured for me to step through into the cool morning air. We stood on the footpath, the dawn sun drenching everything in an eerie half-light.
Dad shook his head. “Sharon never knew I was married when we were...” He trailed off.
I wanted to fill in the gap with the word fucking, but I didn't have it in me.
“She never knew I had a wife until we found out she was pregnant. I never told her I had a daughter. I'd already lost one family because of my fuck ups...”
“You left us, Dad. Mum was sick and you left us.”
He didn't reply.
I guess I wasn't going to get the answer I wanted right away, if at all. In my eyes he'd been a coward. He'd run when things got rough and took the easy way out.
I saw Monica talking to Dean, or at least I thought it was Dean, through the window and scowled. Dad followed my gaze and sighed.
“It's not how I wanted you two to meet,” he said with a frown. “I was going to introduce you this morning.”
“How old is she?”
“Twenty-one.”
I was one when he fucked another woman? It took him four years to leave Mum and abandon us to our fate. He was having an affair for years... I felt sick.
“I had an affair, Ren. I'm not proud of it. I was a different man then. I was struggling with a lot of things.”
I didn't want to hear his reasoning. All it sounded like to me was an excuse. A whole lotta blah, blah, blah. “Is that why you left us? You set up a new franchise?”
“Ren,” he snapped. “It's done. I can't change it. All I can do now is try and make things right with you.”
“If I didn't come and find you, would you have come and found me?”
“No, probably not,” he said bluntly and I had to give him points for honesty, even though his words sliced right through my heart.
Tears began to threaten again and I dabbed the edge of my sleeve against my eyes.
“It's going to take time for everyone, Ren. You're welcome to stay here for as long as you want. You can have free run of the place, help yourself to anything in the kitchen.”
“Sure Monica won't mind?” I asked, trying to keep the resentment out of my voice.
“She doesn't have a choice. It's my studio.”
Turning on my heel, I shoved back into the studio striding across to the kitchen. All eyes were on me, but I didn't care. I couldn't even look up. I was just the abandoned child. The defective model. When you made something baked from scratch you always made a test batch before the real thing. I was the test batch. Monica was the real thing.
One of the twins was sitting at the long table in the kitchen, a spoon in one hand and an eyebrow rose at my sudden entrance.
Fuck, what was I going to do?
“Great first day, huh?” Meathead Twin said between mouthfuls of some bland looking cereal.
Picking a spot across the table from him, I said, “I'd say hi, but since it's still my first day and all, I don't know which one you are.”
He started laughing. He was cute in a boyish way. “I'm Dean. The difference being, I'm more handsome than Linc. I'm younger, too.”
“By how much?”
He winked. “Five minutes.”
“What a spring chicken,” I said, cracking a smile.
“So, you're kippin' in the spare room?”
“Spare room?” I scoffed. “It's a storage closet.”
“Damn fine storage closet.” He winked, digging his spoon into his cereal again. “I'd fucking live here.” He eyed me for a second and when I didn't reprimand him for swearing, he said, “You don't mind if I say fuck right?”
Cocking an eyebrow, I replied, “I swear like a fucking sailor. Be as foul as you like.”
“I'm going to like you.” He laughed before shoving food into his mouth like a horse.
Yeah, I wasn't sure I would get used to having breakfast across from that. The spoon looked so tiny in his hand, it was almost comical.
“Dean?” Glancing up at Dad's voice, he gave me a small smile. �
��We're starting in fifteen.”
Meathead Twin mock saluted him. “Right, Coach.”
Glaring, I turned around in my chair. What kind of relationship was I supposed to have with the man? I referred to him as 'Dad', but he was the furthest thing from that that there was.
“He’s a good guy,” Dean said. “It’s just complicated, I guess.”
“Complicated when you don’t tell your family you have another you dumped before them.”
The spoon clattered into his bowl and he leaned over the table. “I don’t know what kind of guy he was then, but I know him now, Ren. He’s a good bloke. I’m not saying that shit won’t be hard, because with Monica…” He shook his head, widening his eyes.
“Like that, huh?” Fucking great.
“She’s used to being the center of attention.”
“Snake in the grass,” I said before I could filter it.
Dean started laughing and slapped a hand on the table, making the dishes clatter. “You’re just like him, you know.”
“By all means, keep digging, Dean.”
“I like to dig.” He wiggled his eyebrows up and down.
Groaning, I decided to change the subject. “What are you training for anyway?”
Dean's eyes lit up. “The upcoming UFC season. The Australian league is still fairly new, but we hope to go to the States to compete at some stage.”
I stared at him, not knowing what UFC meant.
Dean chuckled, pulling out his phone. “Ultimate Fighting Championships. It's mixed martial arts. Looks brutal, but it's a fucking art form.” He handed the phone to me and tapped play on a YouTube video. “Have a squizz.”
As the video played, my gaze turned from skepticism to amazement. The two men on the screen belted the absolute crap out of one another, but there was a finesse about the whole thing. Violent finesse. Bodies twisted and struck out, they lashed one another with fists, knees, feet, elbows...any extremity they could to take each other out. It was a wild, masculine dance.
Dean was right, the whole thing looked brutal, but I was mesmerized. I could see the technique and the absolute perfect physique that was required to be able to handle it. In a way, it was inspiring.
“Shit,” I hissed. “People do this for a living?”
“It's big business, Ren. Some fighters get mega bucks.”
“What about you guys?”
“We've got a buck,” he said with a wink. “Still waiting on the bucks to go mega. Depends on how the season goes, I guess.”
“Dean!” Dad's voice bellowed through the studio.
“Gotta fly, Ren. I'll be seeing you.” He gave me another wink, pocketing his phone before dumping his bowl into one of the sinks. “Hey, beginner class tonight at seven.” He tapped the table and disappeared out into the studio.
Frowning, I let my mind wander back to the video. Beginner class, hey?
Monica chose that moment to walk into the kitchen and zero in on me. Probably because she knew I was alone. Bullies always worked the same way. Get their victims alone. Unfortunately, she was in for a rude shock.
“Stay out of my way,” she hissed, leveling her gaze with mine.
There was no way in hell or any other plane of existence where I was letting Monica Miller walk all over me with her manicured toenails. I knew her type and it wasn't pretty at all.
Sneering, I countered with, “Stay out of mine and we have a deal.”
We stared at each other for another minute, sealing the deal. There was no sisterly bond, no kindness, no understanding. A line had been drawn and the moment one of us stepped over it, it was game on.
I was looking forward to it.
When I didn't back down, Monica huffed her annoyance and spun on her heel leaving the kitchen in a whirlwind of expensive perfume and drama.
There’s no way that spoilt brat was my sister. No fucking way.
I'd never been the kind of chick to sit around and wallow in a pit of my own misery. That was something I could never afford to do. School, housework, cooking, caring for my Mum when things got rough...those things took up one hundred percent of my time. Growing up had to be done all at once, so the moody, difficult, teenager had never surfaced. All of that was trapped under a hard layer of reality.
Reality bit. Hard.
Standing in the upstairs hall at Beat, a plastic bag of gym clothes I'd bought with Dad's money in my hand, I stared at the photos of fighters and championships gone by. They were all guys, but the more I thought about it, the more I wondered if I could do that. Learn to fight. I probably didn't have a chance at winning a competition, but maybe I could be strong again.
It just seemed like something I could do...something I could manage in a world that was empty of everything else. There was a beginner class at seven. Dean seemed to think I’d be into it.
Staring at one of the newer photos, I studied a man in his super smart boxing shorts, holding up a huge red and gold trophy. Dad was on the other side and they were both smiling.
The man was all bulked up with muscle, a large tattoo covering his chest in black and grey. The photo was slightly blurred, so I couldn't make out the design. He was quite handsome in a Tom Cruise circa Top Gun kinda way. The bit before he became a douche and when everyone loved him. I wondered where the guy in the photo was now.
“Hey, Ren.”
I glanced up at Dad as he stuck his head out of the office.
“Everything okay?”
I nodded at the picture. “Just looking.”
He wandered out into the hall and stood by me, glancing at the picture. “Are you going to give the beginner class a try tonight?” he asked. “Free of charge of course.”
“I know.” I shrugged, the plastic bag crinkling as it swung and hit my knee. “Got nothing else to do. I had nothing to wear, so I got some things at the Kmart round the corner.” Twenty bucks got me a sporty top, bra and a pair of those three quarter shiny, Lycra leggings.
Dad's eyes lit up and I suppose I should've felt good about the fact that he was taking an interest in my interest and all of that, but I was still kinda numb. Numb and looking for something, anything, to grab a hold of.
“Thanks for the money,” I added. An olive branch. A tiny twig of one.
“No problems,” he said, the smile in his voice blindingly obvious. “Anytime.”
Nodding at the photograph I'd been staring at, I asked, “Who's that?”
“That's Ashley Fuller,” he declared. “He's the best fighter I've ever had the pleasure of training.”
I glanced at the photo, studying the tattoo on his chest. It wasn't getting any clearer the harder I squinted. “Where is he now?”
“That's kind of an unfortunate story. He was meant to go pro, like Dean and Linc, but he got disqualified.”
Dad sounded disappointed about it, so I prodded, pretending that it was for his benefit. “Disqualified?”
“Banned.”
“Oh.”
“He left to go do the rounds of the circuit in Thailand. That was four years ago.”
“You sound bummed about it.”
Dad scratched his jaw. “He showed a great deal of promise. He could've gone right to the top here and in the States, easy. But he threw it all away.”
I frowned, wondering what it had been that made the guy mess up his future like that. I couldn't understand, but then again, I'd never had one to look forward to. I wanted a future, but I wasn't sure what mine looked like yet.
I kind of pitied this Ash Fuller and his lost dream. He'd been the Golden Boy of Beat and he'd done something stupid, whatever that was, to fuck it all up.
“I have to be honest with you, Ren,” Dad said. “Things aren't the greatest financially here at the moment. We get sponsorships and donations from the companies that sponsor the twins, but nothing that compared to the finances we had when I was training Ash. That's why we do all these extra classes and Monica takes on extra clients.”
Dad's franchise was going through hard times. I
bit my lip to stop myself saying that I knew all about budgeting and eating nothing but beans on toast for months on end. Somehow I knew that medical bills were a lot more expensive than the electricity for this place.
“So, it's not all sunshine and rainbows,” he went on.
Grunting, I said, “If you need budgeting tips, hit me up.” Before he could reply, I strode off down the hall to get changed for my initiation into beating people's asses one-oh-one.
Chapter 3
Ren
The next morning, I found myself limping out of Beat and down the footpath like I’d been through the wringer.
Beginner MMA class was brutal. Seriously, I didn’t realize how unfit I actually was until I woke up with muscles that burned every time I moved. That meant it was working, right? I lost count of how many times I ended up on my ass with Dean and Lincoln laughing at me from the sidelines. My first full day at Beat was memorable, but I wasn’t sure it was for the right reasons.
The sun was already up and the sky was clear, promising another hot day for the last weeks of the Australian summer. There was a curse in front of me, and I glanced up as a woman fell to her knees right onto the concrete just ahead of me.
Wincing as she landed, I jogged to catch up with her.
“Hey, let me help you up,” I said, the country girl in me kicking in. I hooked an arm under hers and helped her to her feet. Both knees seemed to be scraped, bleeding a little, but not that bad. She actually seemed to care more about her shoes than her knees and my eyebrows rose.
“Shit,” she hissed, stamping her heeled foot. “Bloody hell.”
She was this tall, blonde, beautiful corporate type all done up in a tailored skirt, jacket and silk shirt. Put her next to me and she was the image of refinement. Shit, would I ever stop feeling inadequate and be happy with who I was?
“Are you okay?” I asked, letting the woman go as she steadied herself.
She glanced down at me from atop her six inch heels. “Yeah, yeah. I’m okay. I wish I could say the same for my shoes. You know how much these things cost?”
I looked down at my scuffed boots and then to her heels and shrugged. I didn’t know a thing about shoes.