That was part of the problem. There was no challenge to it. It was like being spoon-fed. Everything had been planned out by someone else, and all I had to do was show up. To me, it would be more interesting if I could plan the setup. That meant I could assess risks, build a team, and come up with the strategy beforehand. That’s the type of work I was interested in doing.
I sighed, bored with the same conversation that had been rattling around my mind for months now. I always came to the same conclusion—I should be running my own security company. Without any foreseeable means to start it up, it seemed pointless to even spend the energy running through the pros and cons anymore.
Not when I’m this tired, I told myself, before shifting my attention back to channel-surfing on the TV. I stopped on one of the sports channels out of habit. I was slightly caught off guard to see myself on screen, dressed in all my sports gear. It took my tired brain a few moments to figure out which match it was, but then it all flooded back. I smiled at the recollection. It was my third nationally-broadcast fight. I had faced off with Justice Rivers, a firecracker from somewhere out West. This competition was instrumental in launching my career as a female MMA contender. Everything snowballed from there until I was accepted as a full-fledged MMA superstar.
Well…okay…superstar might be my own spin on things. It was more accurate to say I was recognized in the MMA world. The top sports channels would air over a dozen of my fights all across the country. And hey, it was looking like several of my prizefights had finally hit syndication. For a moment, I wondered why my manager hadn’t given me a heads-up that this fight would be on tonight. He was so proud of me, and tended to get swept up in my achievements, big and small. Surely being put in the replay rotation was worth something.
I sat up straighter and leaned forward, automatically bobbing and weaving from my seat on the couch as I relived the fight.
“Right hook! Bam!” I punched into the air. “Didn’t see that coming, did you?” I laughed, and flopped back against the cushions as the channel went to a commercial break in between rounds.
When the show came back, it switched over to another recorded fight. I realized then it was more of a mash-up show, to get the energy going before the prime-time event. Oh well. It was still cool to be featured. I had been wondering if people would just forget about me after my forced retirement.
That short walk down memory lane had me feeling more recharged. I decided to tackle some long overdue cleaning. I lived alone, in an average-sized Miami apartment complex. My apartment wasn’t that big, but its size had more to do with my preference than anything else. I didn’t have much growing up, and in some ways, the minimalist lifestyle carried over.
I could now afford to buy just about anything I wanted or needed, within reason of course. I never felt it was important to surround myself with frills that meant nothing to me. Keeping things simple meant I also didn’t need much in terms of square footage. And those were two fundamental facts about me—I preferred simplicity, and I never wanted to find myself needing for anything; or anyone.
I left the TV on for background noise and crossed the room to enter the kitchen. The apartment had an open concept room layout. From here, I could see the dining area, living room, and down the hallway that led to two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a laundry room-slash-closet. My stomach erupted in a loud grumble once I was in the kitchen. I had to laugh at the timing. Tracking back, it hit me that I hadn’t eaten anything all day. I had rushed out of the house at four in the morning. It was an ungodly hour, but this was the time they scheduled for all of us to get to the security team briefing. We met up at the downtown hotel where the banquet was planned. After the briefing, we had done a sweep of the place, and then the event started. I ended up working over twelve hours before finally being able to come home and crash.
I did not expect the gig to last as long as it had. The man they put in charge of the security team was a major stickler. He probably could have cut an hour off his prep speech in the morning just by taking out all the times he said, “Now pay attention, this is important”. He made us comb every inch of the hotel prior to anyone arriving, and then we each were assigned a zone in the large banquet hall. We were tasked with babysitting our own batch of politicians, and kept watch as the lobbyists and billionaires who bankrolled them hovered around kissing ass. An open bar and endless outpouring of food at the buffet had dragged out the luncheon. I had to wonder if this day was a wake-up call from the universe.
As a reward for surviving, I let myself cheat a little. I ordered a pizza to be delivered. In the year and a half since retiring from the MMA world, I had kept up with my athletic mindset and behaviors. It included clearing my head, sticking to my workouts and eating lean, as if still in training mode. Occasionally, I let it slide and indulged in some of the foods I had craved back then. And tonight, that meant a gooey, cheesy carb-fest.
While waiting for the pizza, I finished neatening up the kitchen and washed some dishes. My arms were up to the elbow in soap suds when I heard my name. Well, not my real name. My stage name and alter ego extraordinaire—Roxy Punisher.
“Roxy was certainly one of the greats!” The commentator on the right said when I turned to look over at the TV. “In fact, I don’t think anyone would deny that she paved the way for other women in the sport, and helped to elevate the visibility of the sport to what it is today. She had talent, discipline and charisma. That’s how she was able to help make female MMA wrestling more mainstream. It’s all that aggression and passion she brought to each match.”
The one on the left chimed in. “I agree, Tommy. To have her career cut so short, that was a real tragedy. You know, we should get Roxy down here one of these days. She could help us size up this new crop of female fighters.”
I laughed and said to the TV, “Make me an offer, boys! I’m just standing here doing dishes.”
I had no idea what going rates were for a guest appearance or commentator job, but at this point, I’d take anything. It would all add up eventually, and help me save to start my own private security company. Plus, it would probably be a heck of a lot of fun. I could trash-talk, name names, dish out some dirt, and get paid for it! It would probably never happen, but might be worthwhile to have my agent make some calls. He could fish around to see if any real job offers were out there.
The doorbell rang, so I abandoned the sink full of half-washed dishes. Smelling the pizza was enough to have my stomach twisting and burning with hunger pains. I paid, thanked the delivery guy, took the box with me back to my spot on the couch, and went to town. I wolfed down three slices before getting up to grab my tablet off the dining room table. In between bites, I started crafting an email to my agent to check into some side jobs for me. My schedule was already packed with gigs from the security firm I worked for. Still, if I could do a couple of sports shows, and make a few appearances here and there, it would help.
Until tonight, I hadn’t realized there might be a demand for me anymore. Right after I was forced to retire, everyone wanted to talk to me, to rehash the fight that had ended it all. They wanted me to come on their talk shows or have a spot in their magazines. I was the idiot who had turned it all down. At the time, I couldn’t deal with it. I was humiliated, and with my fighting career over, it felt like my world was over. I wanted to be left in my own cocoon and not face the world. Eventually my agent gave up on trying to secure any appearances or new work for me. As time passed, my budding fame had dwindled down. I assumed it was because I was officially a “has-been.”
I pressed my temples as these less glamorous memories filled my mind. It replayed like a movie infused with strobe-light effects. There were flashes of entering the ring with Jessie Rage that night, the swing of her last punch, waking up in the hospital, hearing the diagnosis, and the worried faces hovering over my hospital bed, full of pity.
“Geez. Let it go, Baker!” I scolded myself, shoving the thoughts from my mind.
I didn’t have time or energy t
o think about it right now. I hit send on the email. Still a little sentimental, I flicked across the screen to open my fan page. One thing that remained consistent, through all the ups and downs of my career, was my loyal fan base. After all the time that had passed since I had fought, it was shocking to me how many people still knew my story. And they continued to follow me on social media.
A couple days before, I was in one of those ‘poor-Amanda-the-victim, why-can’t-I-get-my-shit-together’ kind of moods. I had posted about wanting to start my own private security company. A few of the die-hard fans had left comments like “that’s right up your alley”, “good luck” or “cheering for you, Roxy”.
A new reply flashed on the screen tonight. When I clicked on it, I instantly broke out with a smile at the name attached to the post. It was stonefaceviper79. He—at least, I had always assumed it was a ‘he’—had been consistent in replying to messages and communicating with me for several years now. He was a super-fan when I had been an active fighter. Unlike many other fans, he would only communicate online. He had never made himself known at any of my live events or appearances. And now, from time to time, he still made an effort to keep in touch. This was his reply to my post about starting my own business.
“I can see that happening for you. Any day now, you’ll see. Keep your chin tucked, Roxy. You got this fight.”
I hoped so, because I was tired of watching over politicians with overinflated egos. I could end up putting one of them into a sleeper-hold submission on a banquet room floor one day, if I wasn’t careful.
Chapter 2 - Johnny
“Johnny, what the fuck?” My manager, Kevin shouted out. He was also my adopted mother’s husband, and hell, the man could be annoying.
“Good morning to you too,” I growled from my bed, the covers hiding half of my face.
“I don’t have time for games, Johnny. We do not have time for games. You’re supposed to be at the photo shoot…” Kevin paused, and I didn’t need to look up to know he was checking his watch. It was like a nervous tick. Every two seconds, those serious blue eyes of his would look down to check that relic he kept glued to his arm. “Right now! Jesus, Johnny, you’re supposed to be there already. And yet, here you are. What are you doing?”
“It’s called sleeping, Kevin. Maybe you should try it sometime. I find it quite relaxing, especially after going eighteen hours straight in the studio yesterday.” With that, I flipped over and turned away from the light he had switched on.
“Get up! Johnny, do you think everything is a joke?”
“No, I do not. Jokes are usually funny,” I answered, not making a move to get out of bed.
Secretly, I did think it was fun. Watching this six-foot-three hulk of a man rake a hand through his silvery mass of thick hair and lose his shit was sometimes the highlight of my day. He may have felt it was enough to intimidate me, but at my six-foot-six height, there wasn’t much that could scare me. Somewhere along the line, Kevin had forgotten I was a person, and not the puppet they put to sing on stage and wow the crowd.
“Listen to me. I had to pull some serious strings to make this happen. Raoul is the hottest photographer in the industry. He’s a celebrity himself! If we bail on him, he’s not likely to give you the time of day after this. Besides, the studio is charging by the hour for the space. Not to mention the horde of staff and crew waiting for you to make your appearance. I don’t know why you insist on being so flippant about this. I’m only trying to help, but I can’t help you if—”
“All right, all right.” I cut off his monologue before he could really get going. The fun had faded, and now the sound of his voice was just grating on my nerves. I had a raging headache from the night before, and with each word he hurled at me, my head pounded a little harder. “Give me ten minutes. I’ll be downstairs, ready to do your bidding.”
“Do my bidding? Johnny if that’s what you think this is—”
Realizing my mistake, I held up a hand. He stopped and left the room, slamming the door behind him, taking the dark clouds of responsibility along with him. Back in the quiet coolness of my room, I lingered for a few moments. This was all getting old. I hauled my ass out of bed and went straight into the shower. Feeling the hot water running down my worn out body was enough to almost lull me back to sleep. I propped up against the shower wall as I thought about the day—and Kevin’s recent harassment.
He would probably have a mild stroke if he got any more riled up with his constant screaming at me. As much as he said things like “This is all for you” and “Think about your future”, it really was mostly about him. He thought I didn’t see it, that somehow his true motives were flying under my radar, but it was pretty obvious to me. My career success was another notch in his belt. It meant he was still on the top of his game; that he could still put unknown music artists into the limelight, and skyrocket their achievements.
If I bailed on the photo shoot—or this whole rock stardom shit-show of a public life—he would also lose out on his cut of massive royalties and manager fees down the road. And if I dared cancel out on today, he would have to deal with the wrath of the guys at the label who made it happen in the first place. Usually I didn’t mind messing with him. Hell, sometimes it was cheap entertainment. But I couldn’t take it too far. I needed to start getting on his good side if I ever wanted him to trust me enough to do things my way.
I stopped the water and stepped out onto the heated stone floors of my master bathroom. I pulled a towel off the bar, drying off enough to cross through the bedroom to get some clothes from the closet. I had an absurd amount of clothing thanks to the image consultant Kevin hired, but almost always resorted to the some variation of the same outfit—a pair of worn jeans, leather belt, a plain T-shirt, and a zippered hoodie. I wasn’t like the usual leather-jacket-clad, tattoo-sleeved, shoulder-length-hair type of rocker. It’s not that I didn’t like that edgy look too. I did sometimes. And it was what the image consultants preferred. Somehow, when it came to getting out of the house, I always defaulted to keeping things low-key.
I got dressed and ruffled my wet, dark brown hair to spike it up in the front. I checked the mirror. My eyes looked tired, but I was decent enough to leave the sanctuary of my place. I jogged down the stairs two at a time, and practically bowled Kevin over when I hit the bottom landing.
He sighed in frustration at me, making a point of checking his watch again.
“I know, I know,” I said. “Where are we going, anyway?”
He held out his arm and pointed at the front door, silently directing me forward. If he could have his way, he would probably grab me by the scruff of my neck and drag me out of the house.
“This shoot is to finish up all the promotional materials for the fall tour. I told you all this last night,” he explained on the way out to his Range Rover.
I hopped in the passenger side, and buckled up before reclining the seat back. Starting the car in a huff, he sped off down the long driveway, away from my West Hollywood Hills mansion.
“You need to focus today,” Kevin said as he drove. “We’re running out of time before this summer mini-tour starts, and we still have a lot of other things to wrap up between now and then. Not that I really expect you to care. You’re not much of a details person.”
I grunted my acceptance of his assessment. “And that’s why I hired you, right? Well, that and you’re sort of family.”
“Sort of family? Wow. That’s what I get for the last fifteen years of being there for you, huh? I should be so hurt right now. Anyhow Johnny, you and I both know that no one but family would be willing to do all this with you. I put up a good fight when Lady pitched this whole thing to me. It was a bad idea then, and it still is. Yet here I am. The good agencies in this business weren’t willing to make it happen for you. Believe me, we tried. You know all this already. Only Freedman’s team could pull it off, but you went and pissed off Taylor with that stunt at the Grammy’s. Now Freedman won’t take the chance standing up to Taylor
’s ‘it’s-Johnny-or-me’ ultimatum. And why should he?”
I laughed. He was probably right. My godmother and adopted mother, Lady Dame—just Lady to her friends and family—was the headliner of a pretty successful eighties rock band called Razor’s Edge. Her love of music and performing made a huge impression on me from the time I could hold a microphone. Her husband, Kevin, had managed her solo career once the band broke up. And her image soared under his leadership. But when she finally gave up performing altogether, Lady insisted that Kevin work with me to start my career from scratch. I was a teenager when this all happened.
Ten years later, I was now a successful rock star on the rise to super-stardom. He had helped me launch my first three singles as an indie back then, and that ended up kicking off a short, four-stop tour to test the waters. That test was a massive success, and soon I had been booked to do a cross-country tour. From there, everything took off like lightning. It was a lot of fun, and sobering at times, but there was something in me that was still restless. Kevin kept telling me I would settle into the hustle of the lifestyle. I had my doubts. I never voiced this to him, though. Not yet, anyway. Although he had to know something was wrong in the last year or so. I acted like a prick half the time.
He was calmer than usual today, so I took the opportunity to casually throw out an elaborate idea I had been working on for the better part of eighteen months.
“Uh, Kevin, I have an idea that might help for the summer tour coming up,” I said, sitting upright in my seat. I suddenly felt anxious. “There’s someone we can bring on board to take care of security.”
“Really?” Kevin turned briefly to look at me, his eyes squinting with interest, surprise and disbelief.
“Yes, really. She’s really good—”
“She?”
“Yes, she!” I insisted. “For Christ’s sake, just listen to me.”
He stopped speaking and remained silent, watching the road as his fingers gripped tightly around the steering wheel. Getting into a shouting match with Kevin would do nothing to help make this happen, and my master plan was too important to risk on another hothead comment. I drew in a breath and calmly continued.
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