by Lynn Rider
Fighting Chance
Lynn Rider
Contents
Fighting Chance
Also by Lynn Rider
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright © 2017 by Lynn Rider
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, locales or events is entirely coincidental.
Fighting Chance
Cover Art:
Melissa Gill, MGBookCovers & Designs
Cover Photo:
Golden Czermak, FuriousFotog
Cover Model:
Chase Ketron
Editing:
Ashley Amigoni, Escapist Freelance Editing
Also by Lynn Rider
Broken Perfection
Available on Amazon:
http://amzn.to/2qBmEjU
Numb (Silver Knight Novel #1)
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http://amzn.to/2pt0Kl6
Home (Silver Knight Novel #2)
Available on Amazon:
http://amzn.to/2pF4Zux
1
Chance
“No fucking way,” I mumble when Smith merges off the interstate and my eyes lock on the green and white sign. I shift uncomfortably in my heated leather seat and take a deep breath. Counting to three, I attempt to stifle my rage, my eyes raking the length of the street. Beat-up cars, some sitting on blocks, line the icy curb-fronts of each tiny run-down house. My fists curl with my growing anger when I eye the neighborhood thugs, watching us as we go by.
“I’m sorry, man. I know this isn’t the homecoming you wanted after your big win Saturday night, but I thought you needed to know as soon as possible.”
I look over at Smith, momentarily blocking this shithole neighborhood of St. Louis from my vision. At well over six feet tall and about half that in shoulder width, he’s one of the biggest sons-of-a-bitch I’ve ever met.
Smith and I met over a decade ago just after Vic Rossi pulled my ass off the streets and away from hustling fights in dark alleys. He was one of the few down at Vic’s gym that wasn’t a total dick to me. Having his own fucked up life, he understood the kind of shit Vic was saving me from. It probably helped that the scrawny kid I was back then didn’t pose much of a threat to his own boxing career.
Only a couple years older than me, he’s wise beyond his years. He’s a quiet guy with a level head. Exactly the kind of friend I need.
I was certain I’d watch Smith rise through the boxing ranks long before I would, but a motorcycle accident left him with an injury that took him out of the ring sooner than his talent would have. By the time he worked through physical therapy, it became clear that he’d never get the medical clearance to box again. That was around the time I went pro. He’s worked as my bodyguard the three years since.
By default, that makes him the person who knows me the best. And in return, I’ve learned a few things about him, too. Like, I knew he was holding something back after my fight Saturday night. But there was so much going on, I quickly forgot about it. The after-parties are fucking insane and truthfully, once I got a load of the hot-as-fuck redhead twins, it was easy to forget everything other than sliding my dick inside their hot little cunts.
“Thanks, I appreciate it,” I finally reply. He gives a sideways glance and nods before my gaze swings back to the street. “What the fuck is she thinking?” I ask, taking in the same sad shape of a cross street. With my body still bruised and sore from Saturday’s fight, I quickly feel the tension coiling between my shoulder blades. The urge to hit something intensifies, so I force another deep calming breath. It’s a technique I’ve had to master when dealing with my mother.
“We’re talking about Monique,” Smith says, knowingly.
When Smith finally broke the news of the text he received from my mother with her new address, I could tell by his unease that he was well acquainted with the area. I grew up in one of St. Louis’ shittiest neighborhoods. He grew up in another. By his familiarity of these streets, if I were a betting man, I’d say this one was his.
Smith makes a left at the four-way stop and the beat-up houses transition into beat-up duplexes. Two-story, red brick, each sharing a front porch with only a short waist-high dividing wall between the two units. “Just when I didn’t think it could get worse.” I take in the change of surroundings.
“Believe me man, it can get worse,” Smith says, grimly. The SUV comes to a stop at the curb before I have a chance to get all hearts and flowers on his ass and ask what it was like growing up as Smith Osborne.
“It’s the one with the blue door. You want me to go in with you?” I gaze at the two-story duplex for a few beats before glancing back at Smith’s dark eyes.
“Nah, I got this.” I slide my shades over my face, push open my door, and step into the bitter cold before he convinces me otherwise. If the neighborhood didn’t chill me to the bone, the blast of cold air sure as fuck has. She better have fucking heat.
I lower my beanie over my ears and shrink into my collar, hoping to hide my identity from the stupid motherfuckers that have nothing better to do on a Tuesday afternoon than watch the world from their front stoop.
Two doors down, a lanky guy with a buzz-cut and pants hanging around his hips stands, looking particularly interested in my black Escalade. Smith steps around the hood and stands at the curb, arms crossed over his monster-sized chest, eyeing the man with the same level of interest and I know that situation is resolved.
I lower my head, watching my boots through the fog of my breath as they crunch up the snowy walkway that leads to the front porch.
“You just move in?” the guy sitting on the shared front porch asks as I climb the few steps. His thinning mop of dark greasy hair is pulled back in a ponytail, his face full of pockmarks and sores. A jagged row of meth-rotten teeth displays when he squints against the bright rays of sun gleaming over my shoulder. My fists tighten when the pungent scent of marijuana carries in the wind after he flicks his lighter at the tip of a joint and takes a hit.
“Something like that,” I mumble, looking away, fighting the temptation of jamming my fist into his little drug-infected body.
Instead, I lift my hand and rap forcefully against the blue paint-chipped door.
The familiar theme to a popular soap opera bleeds through the door so I know my mother must be home. Just like when I was growing up, she’d spend her afternoons getting drunk, caught up in her soaps, wishing of a life of wealth and glamour. Never getting off her ass to do anything to achieve it, just sitting back and blaming me that she never got there.
The blaring television continues with no other stirring, so I decide to give the handle a try. To my aggravation, it’s unlocked. The door pops open and I slip in, leaving the junkie alone on his front porch. It’s warmer inside, but not warm enough to indicate central heating. The makeshift blanket curtain doesn’t allow much light through the room. In front of the flickering light of the TV, my mother lies asleep—or passed out—on the couch as the soap opera plays out in front of her.
I look around, remnants of the recent move still evident with the cardboard boxes that litter the small room. Soda cans, beer bottles, and a near empty vodka bottle clutter the coffee table. I hike up the stairs two at a time to find my brothers, Matthew and Brandon.
“Matt.” I knock on the first closed door. The knob jiggles and the door flies open. I see equal measures of anxiety and relief in his ten-year-old eyes. His thin arms wrap around me without a moment of hesitation. “Hey buddy.”
I step in closing the door behind me, muffling the blaring noise from the downstairs television. Brandon is sitting on one of the twin-sized mattresses on the floor. With his back turned and massive headphones over his ears, he’s unaware of my presence. “You doing okay?” I ask Matthew, taking a minute without Brandon’s eight-year-old ears. He nods, pushing his overgrown dirty-blonde hair from his face. The sudden reddening around the rims of his big green eyes tells me different. “I’m here.” He nods again, too choked up to reply. Brandon turns, doing a double take when he sees me. A wide smile overcomes his small face as he yanks the headphones from his shaggy dark head of hair. He bounces off the mattress in my direction in a single leap.
“I watched the highlights of your fight on the internet. You kicked his ass, Chance!” Brandon says, excitedly.
“You can’t say words like that,” I laugh, wrapping him in my arms.
“Pfft, please. I hear much worse living in this house,” he admonishes and it feels like a kick in the gut.
I hate they live a shit life when I can provide so much more for them. I’d thought about calling social services as soon as I went pro and again a few dozen times since. But I was afraid making a call like that would only bounce Matt and Brandon around the system until it was figured out. I couldn’t let them go through that, so I offered my mother a truce. In exchange for being part of their lives, I provide money, private school education, and anything else that she’ll allow me in the hopes they would get what they needed.
“You know watching my fights is different than fighting for yourselves, right?” I warn, rustling Brandon’s dark hair. At eight, he’s already a handful. “My fights are strictly sanctioned with a lot of rules about what we can and can’t do.” Brandon laughs, just as I suspected.
“Is that like ‘Don’t try this at home?’” he asks, with a deep announcer’s voice. He laughs and swings imaginary punches through the air.
“That’s exactly what that means. It also means, ‘Don’t try this at school either’. Have you two eaten today?” I have my answer when Matt’s eyes fall to the floor. The money I pad her bank account with is gone and there’s no food in this damn house. Again. “Let’s go eat. Smith is outside waiting for us.”
“Brandon hasn’t finished his homework,” Matt insists and Brandon scoffs at his reminder.
“Bring it.” I wait for them to pack up their backpacks and lead the way down the stairs. Brandon bolts around me and out the front door. I pause, standing over our mom and watch for the rise and fall of her chest.
“She’s alive,” Matt whispers, our eyes meeting in the dim light. “I checked. She’s been like that since we came home from school.” I glance back at the coffee table and within a second of seeing the small clear baggie, I realize she’s using again and I need to do something. No ten-year-old should have to come home and check to see if today is the day their mother overdoses.
“Woo-wee, how did I draw the lucky straw tonight and get to wait on a table full of handsome men?” Matt’s face reddens with embarrassment at the painted-up sixty-something aged waitress’ comment while Brandon beams with a wide smile. “What can I get you to drink handsome number one?” she asks, looking directly at Matt. Smith and I both laugh as the same flush that colored his cheeks has moved to the tips of his ears.
“You’re going to have to learn to talk to the ladies,” Brandon teases Matt after the waitress walks away with our order.
“Shut up, Brandon,” Matt refutes.
“Get your homework out and let’s start working on that so we can eat and catch up,” I say, ending any argument.
“I have fractions, and I don’t understand them.” Brandon sighs dramatically as he pulls his paper from the binder. I look at it and see some of the wrong answers he’s filled in. I sucked at school, but somehow always understood math well and these look basic. I motion for the waitress and ask her to bring me three whole pies of any flavor. Confusion mars her painted face, but when her eyes land on Smith and then back at me, she walks away.
“She thinks we’re gonna eat those,” Smith laughs.
“She’s probably wondering what in the hell happened to your eye,” Brandon states boldly, reminding me of the shape my face is in after my fight.
“Brandon, you can’t say shit like that!” I scold.
“You just did!”
“I’m older.” He shrugs as we get into a brief staring war.
The waitress walks over, lowers the tray over her shoulder and slides the pies on the table. She walks back behind the counter, her curious glances still on us. I look at the first question, which asks to shade one-quarter. I cut into the first pie.
After five minutes of explanation, Brandon asks to try. Sliding the last pie toward him, I hand him the knife. He carefully cuts it into eight pieces and then quickly draws eight lines on his homework paper, shading three, just as it asked.
“I wish we would’ve had pie at home. I was showing him with pencils. It didn’t have the same effect,” Matthew mumbles over his paper.
Homework is done by the time our burgers and fries hit the table.
“You guys hungry or what? You’re like little animals,” Smith teases, noticing how both boys jumped at their plates with vigor.
“What did you have for breakfast?” I ask, looking at Brandon, knowing he won’t lie.
“An orange.” His answer surprises me, but I know that’s not enough for a growing boy.
“An orange he stole,” Matthew adds.
My eyes flash back to Brandon and he shrugs. “I was hungry.”
“Why are you stealing? I prepay for lunch. You always have lunch at school.”
“You asked me what I ate for breakfast.”
My earlier anger returns. I know what it’s like to go hungry. Growing up, I’d bring my backpack to the lunchroom every day. But instead of going through the lunch line, I’d hide in the cafeteria bathroom, running out after the kids were dismissed back to class. I’d gather up any scraps I could find and stow them away for later. Friday’s were the worst because I’d have to work quick to collect enough half-eaten food to last me all weekend.
I didn’t want that kind of life for Matt and Brandon. I pay their tuition at a private school and have them picked up every morning and shuttled out of whatever fucking shithole neighborhood she’s moved them into. I didn’t want any of her poison to touch them, but felt stuck, able to provide only what she’ll allow.
“The car service will be fifteen minutes early every morning, starting tomorrow. He’ll see to it that you eat on your way.”
“Why did we move?” Matthew asks.
“
I’m not sure, buddy. But I’m going to find—”
“Mom says you quit paying her,” Brandon interrupts. I sigh, not wanting to get into this with them. How could I explain giving our mother more than enough to live comfortably plus rent money, but she’s been drinking, smoking, or snorting it?
“Everything Mom says isn’t always the truth. I’m going to fix this. You have my word. I’ll make sure you have a roof over your head and food in your belly if I have to take you home and feed you myself.”
“Why can’t we just go live with you?” Matthew asks.
Brandon’s eyes widen. “And leave Mom?”
“It’s not like she’s there much anyway!”
“What do you mean? She leaves you there alone?” I ask.
“Sometimes she doesn’t come home at night,” Matt says and his face drops, as if he knows whatever she’s doing is shameful.
“That’s not true! She comes home; she told me it’s just after we go to sleep.” Brandon crosses his arms. I dismiss it, not wanting to call her out on the lie she was guilty of planting inside my head, too.
“What about Dad? Is he ever around?” I ask, already knowing the answer. Our father was a stranger to me until I was thirteen. Up until the day he showed up and moved in, I didn’t know I had a father. He would lie around the house for a few days before he disappeared again, but he would eventually return. Like an old Tom Cat, he’d come home only long enough to rest up, restore his manhood by beating the shit out of me for a few days before he’d head out doing whatever the fuck he did while he was gone.