DS Fight Club Box Set (Volumes 0-3)

by Josie Kerr

  “You’ve got to stop this, Tig. You’re gonna get yourself killed or hurt so badly that you won’t be able to fight in a legitimate match. It’s getting crazy, and I don’t trust that new matchmaker.”

  “Tommy’s not matchmaking anymore?”

  “Scuttlebutt is he and Raptor had a falling out, that Tommy refused to make some really uneven matches, and Raptor canned him. Sound familiar?” Ryan’s eyes bored into Tig. “I thought so. Tell C, Tig. You got that memo from him this morning, right? You know C’s a man of his word. If he says something, he means it.”

  Tig nodded. Yeah, he’d heard Colin loud and clear: come talk to him about whatever you know about the illegal fights, and he’d disregard where you heard the information. But if he found out you were fighting, you were gone—no second chances and absolutely no excuses accepted.

  “I’ve got another proposal for you.”

  “Geez, come on . . . ,” Tig said with a moan. “I don’t think I can take much more, Goody.”

  Ryan huffed a laugh. “Come work for us.”

  “What? You and Jason?”

  Ryan nodded. “I know you’ve done construction. Honestly, Jason and I can’t keep up with the work we’ve got, and I know you’re a good worker. We need someone to take over the demolition so I can concentrate on building the cabinets. It wouldn’t be the amount that you would earn winning the fights, but it’d be a hell of a lot safer. Think about it, Tig.”

  Ryan finished wrapping Tig’s hands and then surprised him by putting a pair of boxing gloves on him.

  “And something else: I’m not working as a cutman for any more fights. I can’t take it. I don’t know if it’s the stress of the fights themselves or the crazy atmosphere, but . . .” Ryan licked his lips, and for the first time, Tig noticed that the man seemed very anxious, twitchy almost. “I’ve not been doing well; let’s just leave it at that. I just can’t do it.”

  “The fights triggering your PTSD?”

  “Yeah. No. Maybe. Something’s going on. I almost took Jason’s head off a few nights ago. Literally.”

  “Shit.”

  “You need to get out, too, Tig. Talk to C.”

  Tig nodded.

  “I’m doing this one last fight tonight, okay? I’ll talk to C tomorrow, first thing.”

  “You promise me? Because if you don’t do this, I will.”

  “Yeah, Ryan. I will.”

  Ryan nodded and then cracked his neck.

  And then he said louder, loud enough for the people around them to hear, “You’re in for a treat, Tig. Guess who’s doing your striking training today?”

  “Oh, no. No. Really?”

  “Oh, yes, boyo. You ready to go fifteen minutes with an old man?”

  Tig looked around Ryan’s shoulder to see Paddy Doyle, co-owner of the gym and namesake of DS Fight Club, stalking toward him in a pair of gym shorts and a singlet, a pair of punch mitts on his hands, and kick shields on his body. Paddy grinned maniacally, the helmet on his head bringing his crazy expression even more into focus.

  “I told you that I was gonna be getting into the ring. Let’s see what you’ve got, boyo.”

  Tig looked at Ryan, who grinned and shrugged, but then his smile faded, and he said, “Good luck, Kicker. I have a feeling you’re going to need it.”

  *****

  “Holy shit, you kicked my ass, you old goat,” Tig laughed. He sat sprawled on the bench, trying to catch his breath while Paddy pulled the large mitts off and started unwrapping his hands.

  “I’ll just assume you mean ‘greatest of all time’ when you said goat,” Paddy said with a grin. He sat back on his haunches and looked at Tig thoughtfully while the much younger fighter finished pulling off his wraps.

  “Something on your mind, Paddy?”

  “You’re good, you know? I’d hate to see you sidetracked by unimportant shite.”

  Tig huffed a laugh. “What sort of ‘shite’ would that be, huh?”

  Paddy shrugged. “I’m not sure. What’s important to you, Tig?”

  “I’m not really sure anymore.” The words came out of Tig’s mouth before he realized he was speaking.

  “Ah. Well, that’s certainly a problem.”

  “Fuck,” Tig said, scrubbing his hands over his face and head. “Yeah, it is.”

  “You best figure it out, and figure it out quick. You’re not getting any younger, and a small fellow like you can’t take the beatings that a big git like your sidekick over there can.” He jerked his head toward where Dig was attempting some tall box jumps.

  Tig laughed at that. Neil had always said that Tig’s size was both a blessing and a curse in the fighting world.

  “What does your girlie have to say about all this? You shared any of this with her?”

  Tig blew out a breath. “We, uh, haven’t talked lately.”

  “Ah. Well, that’s something else, then. You trying to decide which slot she’s in?”

  Tig already knew which category Charlotte was in, but what he did not know was if he deserved to have access to that prize.

  “Tig Mashburn, you have visitor in the front conference room,” Junior’s voice boomed over the loudspeaker.

  Tig sat up straight, and Paddy threw his head back in a laugh. “Go get her, Tig. I’ll jaw at you later.” He patted Tig’s shoulder, and Tig leapt up and almost ran to the front of the gym.

  Junior had a look of mild distaste on his face as he nodded toward the conference room.

  What the fuck is his problem?

  Tig burst into the conference room, expecting Charlotte, but it was not Charlotte at all. It was a well-dressed man who stood with his back to Tig.

  “Who the hell are you?” Tig blurted.

  Tig heard the man scoff, but when he turned around, he knew exactly who he was.

  “Mister Markham,” Tig said, extending his hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you.” None of it good, you jackass.

  David Markham did not shake Tig’s hand—just left his hands in his pockets and stood with his head cocked at Tig, studying him.

  Strike 1.

  Tig cleared his throat. “What can I do for you today, Mr. Markham?”

  David Markham shook his head and chuckled. “Oh, Mashburn. The answer is what I can do for you.”

  Tig stood still, not responding, just waiting for the man to continue, which he did after pulling a piece of paper out of his trouser pocket.

  “This is a certified check for $125,000. That’s enough to pay off that balloon payment and a little extra walking-around money. It’s yours if you want it. . . .”

  “And what? What’s the stipulation? Because men like you don’t offer men like me money with no strings attached.”

  David Markham still remained standing, the check dangling from his fingers, not saying anything. He shook the check at Tig and rolled his eyes.

  Strike 2.

  Tig huffed a laugh. “This is about Charlotte, isn’t it? God, you are one hell of an asshole.”

  “Just take the goddamn check, Mashburn, and leave my daughter alone. You know you’re no good for her.”

  “Just like Jasper Fletcher wasn’t good for her?”

  Tig could see the hand that held the check jerk slightly. “Jasper Fletcher?”

  “The bronc rider that you paid off, what, fifteen years or so ago?”

  Tig got in David’s personal space, right up in his face.

  “Horse training is a small fucking world, Markham. So you can take your check, put it back in your pocket, and walk out of here and never, ever show up again.” He shook his head. “Charlotte is a caring, sweet, beautiful woman, and she doesn’t deserve to be treated poorly by her fucking father.”

  And by the way, I love her with all my heart.

  Tig opened the conference room door.

  “Get the fuck out of here, you asshole.”

  David blinked but walked out of the conference room without further commentary.
Tig followed, and when they got to the corridor, David Markham turned left to exit the gym.

  “Markham, one other thing.”

  David stopped and turned around.

  “You’re right, you know. I’m not good enough for her. But the thing is? No one is, especially a shitbag like you.” And Tig turned right to go back to training.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Fuck.

  Tig bent over, hoping the wave of nausea would soon go away. He spread his palms on the brick wall, hung his head down below his shoulders, and sucked in a breath. Or he tried to anyway, but the pain in his ribs stopped him from inhaling too deeply.

  He just needed to make it to the truck. That’s all. If he could make it to the truck, he could lock the doors and sit for a little while, just until he could catch his breath and then head home.

  Damn, his head hurt.

  Tig stumbled, his boot-clad feet tripping over each other, and he fell to his knees.

  “Shit,” he gasped and grimaced in pain.

  And felt a big hand on his shoulder.

  He turned his head and saw Damon Pierce’s concerned face looking down at him.

  “Man, you don’t look good.”

  “I don’t feel good,” Tig ground out. “Shit, I’m gonna be sick.”

  Damon stepped back while Tig vomited in the gutter. When he finished emptying his stomach, he sat down on the curb and hung his head between his knees.

  “Fuck.”

  Pierce stood and looked at the smaller fighter, not wanting to leave him, but not wanting to stick around the warehouse either.

  “Okay, I’m good.” Tig tried to stand, but his legs buckled under him, and if it was not for Pierce, he would have been on the ground.

  “Okay, Tig. You gotta go to the hospital or something. This shit is not right.”

  “Nope. Not going. I just need to get to the truck and get home. Shit.” Tig vomited again.

  “Let me call someone for you.”

  Tig started to say something, but he began heaving and sat down on the curb again. “No one . . . to call.”

  “Gimme your phone, Tig.”

  Tig refused to give his phone to Pierce, but when he bent over to throw up yet again, the other fighter snatched the phone and hurriedly scrolled through the names, dismissing most of them because of their association with DS Fight Club.

  Charlotte.

  Charlotte was the only female name in the contacts, and Pierce gambled, hoping that this Charlotte was Tig’s woman, and pressed the contact. The phone began to ring.

  It took four long rings for Charlotte to pick up, and when she answered, it was with a very sleepy, “Tig? What’s going on?”

  “Hey, you don’t know me, but Tig’s . . . he’s in really bad shape.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Name’s Pierce. I used to fight with him. He shouldn’t to be left by himself tonight, but . . .”

  “Bring him over. Let me give you my address.”

  Pierce thanked Charlotte and hung up the phone. “Okay, buddy. I’m going to take you to your girl’s house, okay? Let’s go.”

  Pierce hauled Tig to his feet, making him suck in his breath through his teeth and almost causing him to vomit again, and they made their way to the car.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Charlotte sat in the reading chair in her bedroom, looking at Tig’s sleeping figure in her bed. His eyes were shadowed with exhaustion above and beyond the bruising from the beating that he obviously took in the cage, and when he shifted in his sleep, his face crumpled with discomfort.

  As soon as Pierce ended his call to her a few hours earlier, she called Ryan, knowing that, in addition to him rebuilding her kitchen in the new house, he was also a medic of some sort in the military and tended to the fighters’ minor injuries.

  What she did not realize was that Pierce and Ryan knew each other, and she surely did not anticipate that they really did not like each other at all.

  Ryan had been furious—at Tig, at whoever this Raptor guy was, and a list of other people. Before he left, Pierce had described the other fighter to Ryan, telling him that Tig had been outweighed by at least fifty pounds, easily, and despite that, he had actually won the fight.

  And that had been the problem because Pierce said that Tig was not nearly as beaten and bruised when he left the cage as he was when Pierce found him collapsed on a street corner.

  “I’m guessing that Tig was supposed to lose, and when he didn’t, those assholes made sure that he wasn’t going to enjoy his victory.”

  Pierce hung around for a few minutes, looking very uncomfortable, but at the same time, he seemed very concerned. It was only after Ryan asked Pierce to help treat Tig that the big fighter seem to relax a bit. Nevertheless, when the night doorman called Charlotte to complain that Pierce’s car was parked illegally, he seemed relieved to have to go, and he did not come back to the apartment.

  Charlotte’s phone chimed, signaling that she needed to rouse Tig from his slumber and make sure he was okay. She hated to do it, but she knew that it had to be done.

  “Tiggy . . .” Charlotte laid her hand on his head, petting the soft burr haircut as she woke him. “Tig, honey, open your eyes for me.”

  Tig opened one eye and blew out a shallow breath. “Charlotte? What are you doing here?”

  “Hey.” She smiled at him. “You feel okay?”

  “I feel like shit.” He groaned as he shifted on the bed, and he opened the other eye and looked around. “Why am I at your apartment? How the hell did I get here?”

  “Damon Pierce brought you over. We’ll talk about it in the morning. Go back to sleep.” She stroked his cheek, and Tig closed his eyes, leaning into her touch, and was soon back asleep.

  “You need to get some sleep, too, Charlotte,” Ryan said in a low voice.

  Charlotte turned to look at him where he stood in the doorway, his large frame cutting the light from the living room. He motioned for her to follow him. With a sigh, she stroked Tig’s face once more and followed the cutman into the living room.

  They talked for a few hours, each relaying to the other what they knew about Tig’s financial situation, and came to the shared conclusion that the only reason he was taking the extra fights was to pay for farm expenses.

  “He said this was the last fight that he was going to do, but . . .” Ryan’s voice trailed off, leaving unsaid all his fears about his friend. “You gotta talk some sense into him, Charlotte.”

  “You think I can make a difference?” Charlotte snorted an incredulous laugh. “We haven’t talked in weeks, Ryan. What I think isn’t going to matter at all.”

  “I think it might. I think it may just make all the difference in the world.”

  Charlotte leaned against the counter, running her thumbnail along the hem of her T-shirt. “I think his stepfather thinks he’s selfish. And that I’m some princess-y priss that’s going to make him feel less than, you know?”

  Ryan huffed a laugh. “Yeah. The truth is, Charlotte, you have to be a little selfish to succeed in this. Sometimes you have to tell everyone to fuck off—to throw off all the naysayers that are telling you ‘you can’t do this’ or ‘you’re not good enough to do that’—and just get the shit done. Tig’s been doing that, and doing it well, but damn, he needs some help. He needs some reinforcement, somebody that’s in his corner.”

  “The DS Fight Club team supports him. . . .”

  “You know what I mean, Charlotte. He needs someone that’s strong enough to support him, to build him up, help him realize that he is worthy, and soft enough to help him when he needs comfort.”

  Charlotte shook her head. “Oh, man.” She blew out a breath. “Sounds like Tig needs to follow his own advice.”

  Charlotte told Ryan about all the pep talks Tig had given her, all the support he had blessed her with, and then she told him about Hattie’s prediction that Tig would pour everything into her and not keep any
thing for himself.

  “Tig’s mama sounds like a sharp cookie.”

  Charlotte laughed. “She is—maybe too sharp.” She blew out another breath. “He’s not going to let me help him, is he?”

  “With money? No, probably not. It won’t hurt to offer him some, though. He might let you help him in other ways, and it definitely won’t hurt to try that.”

  “You’re a good guy, Ryan.”

  It was Ryan’s turn to scoff. “No, I beg to differ on that, but thank you.”

  They stood in silence for a few moments until Ryan stretched his back and popped his neck. “I’m going to head out, okay? Call me if he acts like a jackass.”

  “Yeah, expect to get a call, bright and early, then.”

  Ryan chuckled. “You’re a keeper, Charlotte. I hope Tig realizes it.”

  “Thanks, Ryan.”

  Ryan kissed her on the cheek and left the apartment, and Charlotte slipped back into the bedroom to nudge Tig for his hourly wake-up.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Charlotte was in the kitchen, blearily making coffee, when Tig woke up.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey, yourself,” she said. “Do you want coffee?”

  Tig gingerly walked across the room. “Sure. Thanks.” He watched her while she poured him a large cup of black coffee and slid it across the bar.

  They drank in silence for a few minutes, looking at each other, each trying to gauge if the other needed or wanted to be the first to say something. Finally, Charlotte spoke.

  “Ryan is going to pick you up at nine or so.”

  Tig did not say anything but nodded to acknowledge.

  “Thank you, Charlotte.”

  She waved him off. “You should thank that guy, Pierce. He was the one that brought you over here.”

  “Pierce? Damon Pierce brought me here?”

  “Yes, he did. And he stayed for a good while, while Ryan checked you out. I don’t know what’s up with you guys, but you owe him.”

  Tig slumped by the bar. “Fuck, man. I owe everybody, it seems. . . .”

  Charlotte cleared her throat. “Yeah, about that. Tig, I could help you. . . .”