by T. E. Black
Brad’s all bent out of shape over a comment about someone I’ll never meet. Although, I’m sure James Deen bruises many male egos.
“We’re getting off topic here.”
What I need is to kick him out of my apartment. There’s no longer a reason for him to stay. The moment’s gone, and I need to get back to the bar since it’s only nine o’clock.
“Do you need a ride or something? I could drop you off on the way to the bar,” I offer.
“No, I’ll find my own way home,” he mumbles, searching for his clothes in a pile on the floor.
“Okay. Thanks for … everything. I’ll see you around.” I lie through my teeth.
Brad glares as he slips his shirt over his head before replying, “I doubt it, Ryleigh. Although, I wouldn’t mind a chance to redeem myself.”
With the bed sheet wrapped around my chest, it’s my turn to laugh. “No offense, Brad, but that won’t be happening. It was nice meeting you, though,” I say, offering my hand to shake.
He takes my hand in his, despite looking like he’s bursting at the seams with laughter. Yup, I just offered a handshake to the guy who had his mouth on my pussy.
Lord help me.
“It was nice meeting you, too.” He nods before leaving.
Looks like I’ll be hitting up James Deen’s huge cock via the Internet before I go back to work after all.
I made it to the bar after Mr. Deen took care of my needs with all his dirty talk and orgasm giving skills. I had no choice in the matter. I was worked up and pissed off. If Brad couldn’t do it, someone had to.
Sweet as he was, I should’ve called it quits when I saw the first sign of a guy with poor skills—his lack of manscaping. I can do a little fur. It’s not a big deal, but by all that’s holy, it needs to be tame. I don’t do bushes—male or female.
Not a chance.
The bar is as busy as usual tonight. There’s never a shortage of people who want cheap beer, which is good for me. Since I signed the ownership papers a few months ago, I make the executive decisions. My first one was to keep the prices as low as they’ve always been.
Max, the previous owner, was a good businessman. He knew how to keep customers coming back when they had a million other bars to choose from. He established a friendship with every patron who walked through the door, and in return, they kept the bar alive.
So how did I get my hands on the title to this beauty, you ask? Simple. Max is the closest thing I have to a father. I’ve known him since I was fourteen. He let Rook and me move into the apartment above the bar when we were eighteen. He was also the man who gave me my first job and then, ultimately, my career.
“How’s everything going, beautiful?” Jacob, a regular barfly asks, catching me off guard when I walk around the bar.
Smiling genuinely at him, I nod while grabbing his usual drink.
“It’s going, Jake. How about you? Still betting on the fights?”
Jacob has been coming to Max’s since before I knew the place existed. An older man at the age of sixty-seven, he’s one of those people who never grew up. He’s kind, sure. But his gambling problem is a major fault in my eyes.
From what I’ve seen and heard, his habits have caused him to lose everything he loved in life. His wife, his kids, his job working on the railroad—all vanished because he couldn’t save a dime of his money.
“I’m going to win big one day. You know that, right?” He chuckles. “And, when I do win, I’m going to come in this bar, buy every bottle of top-shelf liquor you have, and then drown myself in it.”
Belting out a laugh, I place his drink in front of him. “At least you’ll die a happy man.”
“Hardly. You should know about what happens to a man who gambles everything away, Ryleigh. I seem to recall a certain father who had the same issues as I do.”
I watch as Jake’s brows furrow in self-disappointment, although I don’t understand where it comes from. He can change his life. He may be older, but it doesn’t mean he can’t win his family back.
“You’re nothing like my father. Plus, you only know what I’ve told you about him.” I take a pull from my beer sitting beside me. “My father was a violent drunk who gambled away everything we owned. He chose to walk out on us. He was the one who caused my family to move to Boston, because he fucked us over, Jake.”
I watch closely as he takes a pull from his own beer. “Where’s the difference between him and me, sweetheart? I’m the same kind of monster that your old man was.”
Jake is nothing like him. When I was twelve, I felt like I was fifty because of the stress my father had placed on our family. It wasn’t long after he had walked out on us that my mother decided to make the move from Pennsylvania to Boston. The move changed my life in more ways than one. That was when I met Rook Wallace.
Slumped shoulders show how poorly Jake thinks of himself right now, and my heartstrings tug for him. Placing my hand on his shoulder, I give it a little squeeze.
“You’re a good man, Jake. Don’t be so hard on yourself.” Taking his now empty bottle, I slide another toward him. “This one is on the house.”
Jake smiles softly, and nods his head in a thank you before turning his attention to one of the televisions in the bar. A sportscast begins to rerun the stats of the top professional fighters in the business, and just as I expect, one of them is Rook himself.
“Wallace is going to be my good luck charm,” Jake cracks a knowing smile.
I roll my eyes and lean against the distressed wood bar top. “He’s hardly a good luck charm.”
“Don’t be bitter, sweetheart. You’re too pretty for it.” He winks. “I remember when the two of you were eighteen. Max warned every poor soul in this bar that if they laid eyes on you for longer than five seconds, he’d start revoking memberships.”
I laugh. “I miss Max. Do you think he likes Florida?”
“I think he’s soaking up the sun on a beach and drinking whiskey from the bottle. He always loved you and Rook, though. He even loved that little shithead, Trent.”
He’s right, Trent is a little shithead, but he is family. Rook, me, and Trent were a family—our own little clan. It was perfect. They were my light when life should've been dark. They cared for me more than anyone ever had, and I reciprocated their love.
“I miss that time,” I say. “Life was so easy.”
“You’re preaching to the choir, sweetheart. When you hit my age, those memories will be the ones you hold on to. You’ll need them to wake up in the morning.”
Nodding in understanding, I ask. “Do you need memories like that?”
I watch as he stands from his barstool and tosses a twenty on the bar top. He looks at me and, with a saddened expression, grabs his coat from the back of his chair. “Every day, sweetheart. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“See you tomorrow, Jake.”
As he moves through the crowd of people, I allow myself to think about the time when Rook, Trent, and I were younger. We were inseparable and had big dreams but not enough time in the day. Rook dreamed of being a fighter. I wanted to be a singer, and Trent wanted to tattoo people for a living.
It seems as if I’m the only one who hasn’t followed their childhood dreams. Trent owns Etched Tattoo Studio and works off and on at our friend Mac’s garage when it gets busy. As for Rook, he’s conquered his dream.
Years flew by at a speed as fast as lightning.
Things changed.
Things got complicated and confusing.
Then, I fell in love with Rook Wallace.
I was a teenager with my emotions all out of whack, and I wasn’t sure about anything except him. There was never a doubt in my mind, or my heart, that he wasn’t the one for me. He was everything strong, cool, and collected in my insane life. He was the reason I got up in the morning and the reason I went to bed with a smile on my face. I loved him and he loved me.
Life was perfect for a while. Then it wasn't.
The day Rook left to train was t
he day I deemed myself a good person. I never wanted him to leave. I wanted to be selfish and ask him to stay, but I knew he wanted it. I couldn't keep him from chasing his dreams just so I wouldn’t be alone. It wouldn’t have been fair. I wasn't willing to drop my life and follow him, either. Whichever way I had looked at it, one of us would've ended up hating the other. Logic doesn't mean my heart shattered any less.
For the past ten years, I've played out every scenario in my mind, and each time, the outcome has been the same. It wouldn't have worked. I mourned our relationship for years, then one day, I had enough. I hated the woman I’d become. I was weak—so hung up on him and his dreams that mine were slipping through the cracks.
It only took a lake’s worth of tears and a Kleenex bill as steep as a mountain, but I realized it eventually. When it finally clicked, I decided enough was enough with the sulking, picked myself up from the Ben and Jerry’s surrounding the couch, and took a shower. I scrubbed the tear stains off my cheeks and brushed my hair for what seemed like the first time in months.
The need for makeup had become almost non-existent without Rook around. There wasn’t another man I wanted. But I forced myself to put it on. I dug through my closet, found my big girl panties, and slipped those bitches on, too. I stopped blaming everyone for my decisions, threw my middle finger up at my pity party, and I said, “Fuck you.” Then, I walked out the door of what used to be my and Rook’s apartment above Max’s, and as I cascaded down the stairs, a weight lifted.
I found myself feeling stronger, and I rolled with it.
I started over, and all it took was three goddamn years.
Chapter Two
Rook
I could knock this motherfucker out in ten seconds if I want. I can pick out every weak spot just by looking him over once. Weak left shoulder, weak midsection, and a weak right knee are my initial observations.
His stance is complete shit. The guy’s shoulders are too squared. Instead of being turned to the side, his chest is completely open for me to hit. What his trainer should’ve told him is that if he turns his body to the side a little more, he’d be able to hit me with twice the force, and I’d lose my advantage. His power hand is half turned, giving him a short, weak jab. What’s even worse is that his defense is off. Instead of having both hands protecting his face, his power hand should be positioned like he’s talking on a cell phone with a tucked elbow.
That’s how you block a face shot. The hand you keep in front is your armor.
“Tap gloves, boys,” Luke, my trainer, calls from the ropes.
I tap gloves with my opponent, who obviously has a death wish.
“Ready to get your ass kicked, Wallace?”
“In your dreams.” I chuckle.
He comes at me full force, but I’m prepared. I knew he’d come strong, but he’ll tire out. Guys like him always do. Using the technique Luke taught me, I block every jab with my forearm.
“This is supposed to be a spar,” he growls. “Stop dodging my hits.”
If he wants a fight; I'll give him one. They don't call me “The Reaper” for nothing. What I do in the cage is comparable to death by knockout.
While my opponent is busy staring off into space, I strike. With a quick but efficient jab to the jaw, I throw him back a step.
When I fight, I want my opponent to be the best he can be. That way, when I knock his ass out, I know he gave all he could. I need to know the guy doesn’t let me win. I need to know I worked for it.
“That was a cheap shot, Wallace.”
“Nah. You just don’t have your head in the game.” I laugh, taking position again.
Chris lunges, this time using every ounce of strength he has. He hits me above the waist, but it doesn’t faze me. Normally, I’d say it’s a good tactic, but not with me. Anyone who’s sparred or fought for any length of time knows that going for the waist is stupid. It makes it too easy for me to get you when you're wrapped around me.
I’m two hits in before my assault is interrupted. “All right. Enough. Rook, take it easy,” Luke bellows.
He should’ve known this shit-talking asshole would piss me off. I have no idea why he paired us together for a spar when he knows I can’t stand him even out of the ring.
Chris Allen is the definition of a fighter who got lucky. He’s one of those guys who wins because his PR team has made him look like he’s a hothead who flies off the handle over anything. Of course, I know who he really is. I can smell his fear from a mile away.
Standing at six-foot-three inches and weighing in at one hundred eighty-one pounds, I’m a force to be reckoned with. I’m pure muscle, and I like it that way. I work hard to keep myself in shape. I spend countless hours a day running through my training at the gym. I’m bulk, but I’m also speed, which is something most guys don’t have both of.
Chris moves his hands for a moment, and I go in for the kill, striking him in the face with a powerful jab. He stumbles back, his hands flying to his now bleeding mouth.
“Christ, Rook! Stop beating his ass. This is a spar!” Luke shouts. “The guy isn’t supposed to be bleeding.”
Since pansy-ass Chris is spitting blood on the mat, Luke calls the match and then escorts him out of the ring.
“What’d he do to piss you off?” asks a fighter who was watching.
“Who said he pissed me off? I went easy on him.” I laugh as I duck under the ropes.
Grabbing my towel and bottled water from my chair, I hightail it to the locker room for a shower. If I don’t do it now, I’ll still have Chris’s blood on me as I sit and listen to Luke’s lecture about how I shouldn’t beat down my sparring partners.
I take off my gloves before opening my locker and unwrapping my hands. The weight of the day evaporates with each layer of cloth I peel away. I love fighting, but it’s become a routine I can’t help but want to change.
I’ve been fighting mixed martial arts for going on ten years. I was picked up by Luke when I was twenty-one and trained and fought in amateur leagues for five years. Once I was recognized by the pros, it only took two years to get a heavyweight title. For the past three years, I’ve kept my title close and worked damn hard to keep it.
Stripping out of my shorts and boxers, I head to the showers. Some guys prefer to undress closer to them for privacy, but personally, I don’t care. I’ve got a great dick, and I’m not afraid to show it.
Twisting the knobs until I get the water to a perfect temperature, I relax. When the warmth cascades over my tight muscles, a loud moan slips from my lips.
I should feel loose after a spar, but between getting ready for my next fight and the woman I’ve been seeing, my nerves are shot. I’ve had to keep the woman part under wraps from Luke. It would just be another lecture, this one about how relationships or fuck buddies will screw with my training.
I met Lauren Roche when I started fighting professionally. She was as beautiful then as she is today. With hair so brown it appears black and the brightest blue eyes, she is mouthwatering.
Loving Lauren was something my mind learned before my heart. She has her flaws, but at the same time, her love is practical. She’s the perfect woman for a man of my stature. She’s beautiful, smart, and also knows what it’s like to be with someone in this industry.
She has understood from the beginning that I need something most women can’t give me. I need a strong woman with even tougher skin. This industry will chew you up and spit you out if you let it, so it’s almost a requirement.
The only thing that has changed since then and now is her marital status. Ten years ago, she was happily married to a trainer, Mark. He’s hated me from day one, but it didn’t keep me from politely chatting with his hot wife.
I kept our conversations as friendly as possible, never stepping over the line. Although, I wanted to. I respect the sanctity of marriage. I’d beat the piss out of any asshole who tried hitting on my wife if I had one.
Three months ago, she confided in me about her and Mark’s divorce.
I treaded lightly around the subject, still unsure about what she was implying. Nobody in the league knew, so why was she telling me? Well, I found out the moment our lips touched.
I was never one to reject a woman, but with Lauren, it was different. When her lips touched mine, I kissed her back. But, as soon as she straddled my lap, I froze, even though I wanted her in the worst way.
When I told her I didn’t think it was a good idea, she cocked her head to the side and gave me a smirk. “You know,” she said as she slid off my lap, “you’re one of the good guys.” She feathered another kiss across my lips and then left with a giggle. I had just sat there stunned.
For a week after, regret ate at me. I didn’t know if I should believe her about the divorce. Then another week went by, and no one said a damn word about it. She and her husband were still going to public events together.
It made me nervous.
I’m not that type of guy, nor did I want to be. I was so pissed thinking she tricked me. I didn’t tell a soul about it, though.
It might sound terrible, but the day the rumor hit my side of the gym, I was relieved. I was happy I didn’t kiss someone’s wife after being lied to. I wouldn’t have been able to forgive myself.
Their divorce spread like wildfire. The paparazzi got wind of it, and that was all they needed for a headline: “FIGHTING LEAGUE TRAINER AND WIFE GET IN PUBLIC BATTLE AFTER SEPARATION!”
In real life, they hadn’t even filed paperwork yet.
Since Lauren doesn’t have a dime to her name, Mark is letting her stay at their place until she can get back on her feet, which is another reason why I have to keep everything quiet.
I’ve told her a million times she can move in with me and we would tell Mark what was going on, but she makes up one excuse after another. It makes me wonder if there’s something I don’t know about.
Chapter Three