One Last Fight - Part Two (The One Last Fight Series Book 2)

by Ashley, Ava

  “I’m going to be there for you,” Cooper murmurs between kisses, his breath hot on my neck. “I am going to be here for you today, and tomorrow, and the day after that, and all the days beyond until we are both old and gray. And then I will still be there for you.”

  ‘I love you,” I reply. “And I trust you, and I am grateful that I have met you.”

  “No matter what happens tomorrow,” Cooper whispers, looking me straight in the eyes, “I, too, am glad that I met you and have had the chance to be with you. I will never regret that.” He kisses me again. “But I will not let you down.”

  “I know,” I breathe, and pull him as close as possible. “But right now, I want you to take me, deep and hard. I want you naked, and I want you to use me for your pleasure.”

  “You want me in you, huh?” Cooper whispers into my ear, his breath hot and close. My grasping fingers go straight for his belt, pulling it open to get to his button and fly underneath. I pull his jeans down and slide the boxers down after, freeing his erection. He expertly undresses me in just a few moves and then my bare flesh is pressed against his.

  “Ohhh,” I moan with pleasure as he slides his erection between my legs, rubbing along my wet pussy all the way up to my sensitive clit and back down again. Then he does it again, and again, and again, picking up speed as the pressure builds within me. He bends his head, taking a nipple into his mouth and caressing it with his tongue. With his other hand, he teases my other nipple, stroking and caressing and playing with the tip. All the while, he continues to slide his erection up and down between my legs, exciting me so much that he brings me to the point of no return within moments. I dig my fingers into the bare skin of his back as mine arches with the satisfying release of an earth-shattering orgasm that sends stars before my eyes, leaving me completely disoriented.

  My world is still spinning in the best possible way when Cooper takes my face in his hands and kisses me, deeply and passionately. “I am going to take you now,” he growls in my ear, “my woman.”

  Then, without further warning, he pulls on a condom, throws me back on the bed, and thrusts his stiff cock deep into me. He is completely uninhibited as he gives in to our shared longing and lets the desire take us farther and harder and deeper. Together, we give in to the thrill of the passion and let it speed us toward the ultimate satisfaction. With my back arching and sex pulsing, his body heaving above me, we reach sweet release in rapid succession. I come first and he comes right after, my screams of the sweetest satisfaction mingling with his moans of pleasure.

  Then he collapses on top of me and my body buzzes with the after-effects of multiple orgasms and the security of his warm, safe weight on me.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Cooper

  I get up at six to go on a warm-up run before the fight. The fight will begin at noon, but first I need to warm up as thoroughly and strategize as completely as if my life depends on it.

  Incidentally, it does.

  When I call Vlad to let him know about today’s fight, he immediately offers to come prepare me.

  “Dude, it’s six a.m. I don’t expect you to jump out of bed and come across town to prep me for this match,” I say.

  “Don’t even think about it. There is no way I’m not coaching you.” I can hear things rustling in the background. It sounds like Vlad is getting dressed or preparing something. “I am your coach. I coach all your fights. Now, who are you fighting?”

  “Uh...” I think back to yesterday’s talks with Flint and the board. “The guy’s name is Sid ‘Maneater’ Johnson. Know anything about him?”

  There is silence from the other end of the phone for a few moments. After a couple beats, I start to wonder if the call dropped. “Hello?”

  “I’m still here,” Vlad says. He sounds worried. “Yeah, man, I know Maneater. He used to fight in your league back in the day, but got kicked out a year or two before you got into fighting.”

  “Kicked out?” I raise an eyebrow, sitting up on the edge of the bed. “What do you mean kicked out?” There are very few things that can get you permanently kicked out of the league. Even juicing or killing a guy in the ring won’t do it.

  “He killed five guys in one season in the ring and concussed another so bad that the guy is a freakin’ vegetable now.” I can pretty much hear Vlad shaking his head over the phone. “Irreparable brain damage, man. It’s no joke. And do you know how he got his name?”

  “No,” I say. “How?”

  “There’s rumor that he’s some kind of cannibal,” Vlad says. “I don’t know if that’s the truth, or if he just does it for the shock appeal, but he has this nasty habit of taking a big bite out of his opponents after defeating them. He chews it up—literally chews up some other man’s flesh—and swallows. It’s probably just the ultimate ‘fuck you’ to his opponent, but even if it’s all just for show, it takes some kind of seriously sick man to eat a part of another human. I dunno, man...”

  “Then I guess we better get started,” I say.

  “I’ll see you at Hudson Park in fifteen,” Vlad says.

  “Great, see you then.” I hang up and go get dressed. Savannah is still asleep, her beautiful face as angelic as ever, when I slip out. I’m stopped before I get to the front door, of course.

  “Where do you think you’re goin’?” the giant oaf guarding the inside of the front door grunts.

  “I have a fight today. I’m going on a training run,” I say. “I’m not running away. Come with for all I care.”

  The burly oaf scratches first his head and then his balls. Then, as though he had just thought of it himself, he says, “You know what? I’m gonna come with you. And don’t think I’m not going to love every minute of blowing your head off if you try to make a run for it.” He grins sadistically and pats his pistol holster.

  “I’m not running away,” I repeat. “I’m a man. I fight my battles.”

  The oaf picks his motorcycle helmet up off of the floor next to him and snaps it on before opening the door. We walk out, and he hops on a Harley by the door, nods at a few other overly juiced guards just hanging out in front of the house, and revs his engine a few times. Then I start running to the park and he follows behind.

  Maybe if he trained more and shot up less, he could keep up. ’Roids are for wusses who don’t want to work hard and can’t achieve real strength on their own. Real men fight for what they want and they earn it through their own personal merit.

  I speed up. I might as well make the thug’s bike’s engine work a little. I run five minute miles all the way to the park, so when I get there, my shirt is soaked through and I am super pumped up. I see Vlad stretching over by the benches, so I jog over while the Santos oaf parks his bike.

  “Cooper, my man,” Vlad greets, thumping me on the shoulder. “I could ask how you get yourself into these kinds of messes, but I’m not in the mood for a dumbass answer or some sappy love shit. We’re in pre-fight mode now and the first thing I am going to need you to do is forget all about all that other drama. Forget about Flint and Savannah and getting shot if things don’t go your way. You’re in the zone now, man.” Vlad has gone full coach mode and it is just what I need. “I need you to visualize the Maneater—”

  “I’ve never seen the guy,” I interrupt.

  “Eh, he’s a guy with a face,” Vlad groans. “Never mind, never mind—that’s what these new smartphones are for, isn’t it?” He pulls his phone out of his pocket, does a quick google search, and holds the phone up for me to see. I squint at the screen. The Maneater is one of those really big guys whose shoulder muscles pop up over the side of their tank top straps like some cartoon villain. He either fell asleep in a tanning bed or, more likely, hung out on the streets so much that his skin baked into a permanent, overdone salmon color and hardened leather texture. His face has been messed up so many times that it healed back like a two-year-old’s play dough art piece. There isn’t anything left on his face that isn’t crooked, and his nose must have broken and
healed back wrong at least three or four times, judging by the many different ways that it zigs and zags. He has gray, almost white, irises, like a blind guy and his upper lip is curled into a snarl in the photo. His hair is buzzed, but he has a messy, red beard of curly, wiry hair. There is a wide, jagged scar through his left eyebrow that kept the hair from healing back, so it looks like he has three eyebrows.

  “Nice-looking guy,” I joke.

  Vlad gives me a hard look. “You’ll be looking worse than him if we don’t pull this off this afternoon. So we will.”

  I nod.

  “Okay, visualize the Maneater,” Vlad continues. “Now visualize yourself killing him. I mean killing him. You can’t just visualize a victory, like we normally do, because that’s not going to work with his kind of fighter. It’s all or nothing. He isn’t going to wave a white flag and surrender ’cause he has a boo-boo. It’s either you or him and we are going to make sure that it’s him. Unless he’s unconscious and not recovering, he’s not going to let you leave that ring unless you’re in a fucking body bag.”

  I said I would do anything for Savannah. If that means I have to kill a man, I will.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Savannah

  The fight is happening back in the stark warehouse where we met with Flint and Salvador yesterday. When I woke up this morning, Cooper was already off to training, his side of the bed cold. He left a note, scrawled on the backside of a small, blue note paper from my high school reminders notepad, on the pillow.

  ‘I will see you after the fight. I am looking forward to my victory kiss.’

  It’s intentional. He didn’t want a goodbye or a ‘what if.’ He wanted to leave for his pre-match prep just like this was any other fight, just as if the very real danger of him not making it to the end of the fight wasn’t a real thing. I don’t know how to feel. On the one hand, I would want to say goodbye if I was going to lose him. But I can’t imagine any way that I would rather say it than last night. Would I want our last memory to be a tearful one? No. But, if I am honest with myself, there really is no way of saying goodbye that would make it okay. So, in a way, I am grateful for the way that he handled it. I could not bear to say goodbye to Cooper. Not now and not ever. I fold the note up and tuck it into the left cup of my bra, right over my heart. I do not really know why I do it, because I am not a very superstitious person, but somehow I hope it brings him good luck anyway. Or hopefully it will bring me good luck, to bring my love back to me, whole and victorious.

  They had transformed the warehouse from a bland, empty industrial space into a glorious coliseum overnight, ancient Roman style. Black market money is no joke and you can get anyone to do anything for you if you come knocking at their business’s door with a group of muscle-bound motorcycle club thugs to help convince them that they do actually want to be helpful, after all. Some of the best carpenters in town have been working since yesterday afternoon, through the night, to build the ring in the middle of the warehouse and put up bleachers all around it. There is even an elevated viewing box for Flint and Salvador. There were posters promoting the fight up all around the local bike stores, bars, and dives by yesterday evening and all the publicity sure paid off. The arena is packed, with even more hopeful viewers waiting outside for the chance to get in if someone leaves early or the bouncers decide to screw the logical capacity restraints and oversell.

  True to form, my dad has turned this into a big money-maker. He isn’t the king of the Santoses for nothing. He can even turn a nice dime on the public beating, and potential murder, of the love of my life.

  No! I have to not think of it like that. I can’t let myself think of this as some sort of losing battle. Sure, I see the fearsome face of the Maneater glowering down at me from the posters that are hanging on every wall, whichever way I turn, but I must not allow myself to think that Cooper may not win this fight.

  Cooper needs my support and confidence now. I owe Cooper my trust, and that includes my trust in his ability to win this fight. For us.

  One of my dad’s right-hand men steps into the ring. He’s somewhere in his fifties, with a beer paunch to offset his huge biceps, but apparently he was quite the fighter back when he was in his prime. I’m not surprised to see him announcing the fight. Nonetheless, I hate every inch of him, from the top of his balding head to the bottom of his dusty motorcycle boots, for enjoying the spectacle so much. He is clearly not at all upset by the idea of my lover dying in the ring today.

  “Welcome, my friends!” he booms into the microphone. The crowd roars in response. My throat feels like it is closing up and my palms become clammy and cold where they grasp the hard metal of the bleacher seat. “Are you reeeeaaaaady?”

  The crowd goes wild and the announcer pumps with his hands, signaling them to bring the volume up even further.

  “Are you ready to see Cooper ‘Veni Vidi Vici’ Quin fight for the chance to make it to tomorrow alive?” More roars erupt from the bloodthirsty crowd and I hate every single one of them. How can they not care that Cooper is a real person, with other real people who care about him? How can they watch his persecution as sport? “Are you ready to see Cooper ‘Veni Vidi Vici’ Quin die a gory death TODAY? Are you ready to see his blood smeared across THIS VERY ring? Let me hear some noise?” The announcer pumps his hands in the air again and the crowd gets even louder. There are a few ‘boos’ from Cooper fans, but the overwhelming majority of the noise is cheer. It’s a stacked crowd, with Sid “Maneater” Johnson pulling a distinct home-court advantage, and most of the fans here aren’t rooting for Cooper to make it. All the Santos motorcycle club members, and all of their friends and significant others, are rooting for their gang brother, the Maneater. And even among those who have no reason to root for the Maneater over Cooper, they are just extra bloodthirsty or eager to see the Maneater take a bite out of a famous fighter, so they are all for Cooper losing.

  I will just have to cheer all the louder, like I have never cheered before.

  “That’s what I want to hear! Let’s see some BLOOD!” The announcer cheers, pumping his fist victoriously. He is prancing and preening and feeding the crowd the excitement of watching a live slaughter, as though Cooper had already lost. I seethe with fury. “That’s enough, folks—let’s get this show on the road! Welcome today’s clear crowd favorite, SID ‘MANEATER’ JOHNSON!” The announcer sweeps his muscle-bound arm to the right, where the Maneater approaches the ring.

  The Maneater’s hood is already down when he jumps into the ring, cape tied haphazardly around his freakishly oversized shoulders. This man makes Arnold Schwarzenegger look like he needs to bulk up a bit. His monstrously disfigured face matches his monstrously enormous body, but the most terrifying, off-putting thing about his appearance is his expression. His snarl doesn’t look the least bit affected, but as though he is honestly some gore-hungry psychopath who would rather do nothing more than slaughter an innocent man. My lover. The Maneater bares his teeth like a rabid Rottweiler and tears at the air, as though he were tearing apart an imaginary cut of raw steak with his canines. My blood runs cold.

  “Give it up for the Maneater, ladies and gents,” the announcer hollers. He is loud enough without his microphone, but the added volume from it makes his voice really boom. I can feel the vibrations through my seat. When he is satisfied that the cheering has gone on long enough, he sweeps his arm to the left. “And now, give it up for today’s challenger, Cooper ‘Veni Vidi Vici’ Quin! The ladies love him, guys want to be him—he’s the king of his league, but we’re on a different level in here, AREN’T WE?”

  Cooper approaches the ring, wearing a black silk cape with his silver-edged hood pulled down low over his face. He leaps gracefully into the ring and lands with his feet just over shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, and arms up in the air. Like a winner. Standing up there, he doesn’t look worried in the slightest. He is shirtless, and when he turns around, I see the now-familiar tattoo etched boldly over his shoulder blade, a promising remind
er of the bond we share and the hope that we have. We can do this, he can do this. The cheers for Cooper are largely female, as is to be expected, but my cheer is by far the loudest. Cooper turns back around to face me and looks straight at me. He blows me a kiss and I blow him one back, which he catches and pulls to his heart. The movement makes his biceps flex even more, causing his ink sleeves to dance, and the female cheers pick up in octave a bit.

  “Veni! Vidi! Vici!” I cheer, cupping my hands around my mouth.

  “I am going to get out of here,” says the announcer, walking over to the edge of the ring. “I know what you guys want just as much as I do and it isn’t to hear me talk some more. Let’s watch someone get HURT!” The screams of the crowd rise in volume as Cooper and the Maneater face each other. The two edge around the ring, fists up and knees bent in fighting stance. The crowd goes quiet as the tension picks up. Who will throw the first punch? Who will gain the upper hand? What is going to happen next?

  My heart feels like it is going to pound straight out of my chest.

  With a roar, the Maneater launches himself at Cooper. Cooper deflects, twisting a burly arm behind the Maneater’s back and spinning him around.

  “Go, baby!” I cheer, so loudly that my voice cracks at the end. But instead of twisting in pain, the Maneater’s face contorts into a guise of sheer fury. He seems offended, not hurt, by Cooper’s counterattack, and what should have slowed him down from pain seems to be nothing more than a bother. With the frightening roar of an enraged wild beast, the Maneater unfurls his arm with such force that he flings Cooper over his head and slams him onto the floor of the ring with a sickening thud. There’s a breathless moment when Cooper hits the ground and I wonder if he’s badly hurt, but Cooper jumps to his feet almost as soon as he is down, his fighter training keeping him from staying down and giving the Maneater more immediate opportunity to hurt him. As he comes up, he catches the Maneater under the chin with a mean upper hook that slams the Maneater’s teeth into his bottom lip. Blood dripping down his chin, the Maneater spins around to Cooper with another ground-shaking roar.