by S. Nelson
Jagger
Copyright © 2016 S. Nelson
Jagger / S.Nelson.—1st edition
ISBN-13: 978-1537360249
ISBN-10: 1537360248
Editing by
Hot Tree Editing
Cover Design by
CT Cover Creations
Interior Design and Formatting by
Christine Borgford, Perfectly Publishable
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the publisher’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Jagger
Dedication
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Epilogue
Coming Soon
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Other Books by S. Nelson
Jen, without our little brainstorming session I probably never would have stumbled across the idea which ended up being one of the most unique parts of this story. Thanks schmoopie!
“Worthless piece of shit!”
I swore those were my father’s favorite words. His preferred insult. Normally, he spewed the offense alone, but then there were times, like now, when he followed them with his fists. The contact with the side of my face jolted me back, the sting of pain forcing me to feel something. Anything. Otherwise, I remained in a constant state of numbness, my own kind of self-preservation.
Hitting the wall behind me, my head thumped off the plaster and created a small dent, but I didn’t dare move; if he saw what I’d done, he’d become even more irate. If that were at all possible.
I’d come to expect his outbursts, especially when he drank. Which happened to be most of the time. Growing up with an alcoholic parent was tough, and that was putting it lightly. He’d hated me my entire life, his abuse escalating the older I became. He blamed me for everything that went wrong in his life, from the death of his wife, my mother, to gambling debts he’d incurred, to losing his job. I couldn’t win, no matter what I said or tried to do to help.
I’d gotten a paper route at the tender age of eleven, handing over all my wages, but all that earned me was a swift backhand. He thought I was being disrespectful, essentially telling him he couldn’t take care of us. Which was the absolute truth, but I never uttered those words. We’d lost our house soon after and had been moving from place to place ever since. My father couldn’t hold down a job because of his excessive drinking, and no matter how much I tried to stay out of the way, he’d always find fault with something I did, punishing me so badly sometimes I didn’t dare go out in public for fear people would see the damage he’d caused.
For as horrible as my father treated me, he was the devil I knew. The thought of being yanked from the only life I’d known and placed with strangers was enough to cause me to silently endure all of his beatings.
Both verbal and physical.
He’d told me my entire life that I would never amount to anything. That I’d probably drop out of school and end up being a bum for the rest of my life.
But I’d proved him wrong.
Holding my cap and gown, I’d thought my graduation day would have finally made him proud of me, but instead my accomplishment only made him rant his insults harder and faster.
“You think just because you skated by and passed by the skin of your teeth that means you’re somethin’ special?” he roared, his spittle hitting my cheek he was standing so close. His version of “skating by” was me graduating with second honors, and while most kids would be proud of that achievement, I had to hide it from him. Otherwise, he’d think I was boasting, rubbing it in his face that I was smart.
I stood in front of him with my head hung low, knowing better than to answer. He’d already struck me once, and although his fists didn’t hurt as much as when I was younger, I still didn’t want to have to deal with any more. I’d never retaliated against my father. Never raised my own fists in return. No, I took his rage because a part of me thought I deserved it.
Guilt ate at me from the inside that I was the reason my mother had died. I’d killed her simply by being born, and my father never let me forget it. Unfortunately, his lack of love for me fueled my anger toward others. It was why I’d been expelled from more than a few schools, constantly getting into fights with kids who’d picked on me because of the shoddy clothes my father forced me to wear. He simply refused to spend money on his growing son.
But something good came from my rage. I’d perfected my fighting skills, often sparring against other kids for money. Some were my age and some were years older, but no matter what, I’d win every time.
Every opponent was my father.
Every knockout was my father hitting the floor.
Every win was my way of telling my father to go fuck himself.
My father staggered backward in his drunken state, bumping into the kitchen table before stabilizing himself. Running his pale hand over his balding head, he looked like he was going to explode. Gritting his teeth, he stepped closer. “I hope you don’t think you’re gonna live under my roof now that you’re grown,” he seethed, his bloodshot eyes looking like they belonged to some sort of demon. “Well? Answer me, boy,” he demanded, stepping even closer. He reeked like alcohol, the smell making me instantly nauseous.
“No,” I answered, keeping my head down so I didn’t have to look at the loathing in his eyes, his hatred making me feel the way he truly saw me.
Worthless.
Dreadful silence danced around the both of us, the drumming of my heart the only sensation I allowed myself. I’d shut down, but in the next few minutes I’d be free forever from the evil bastard standing in front of me.
Spitting at my feet, he shoved past me, but not before driving the emotional knife in deeper, slicing me apart from the inside. “Get your fuckin’ shit and get out.” A ragged breath passed. Here it comes. “It should have been you who died that day,” he said, venom cutting each word perfectly. I wished I could have said he’d never spoken those words before, but then I would have been lying.
He said them often.
Only that time would be the last I’
d have to hear them.
Jagger
“Kill him!” The words echoed in my ears, the air swirling around me suddenly thicker than it was seconds before. I dismissed the lump forming in my throat and focused all of my attention on pummeling my opponent, my fists flying so fast his blood coated the ground beneath us in no time. Taking a quick reprieve, I allowed him a few precious seconds to regain his footing; otherwise, our bout would be over too fast. And where would be the fun in that?
So many people united in the thrill of the fight. They’d paid good money to witness bloodshed, to be part of something they were too terrified to do themselves.
Fight.
For sport.
But not me. I lived for the surge of adrenaline that slithered through my veins. To know my skills outmatched anyone who had stepped in the ring with me. Plus the prize money wasn’t anything to sneeze at.
I’d been involved in the underground world of MMA fighting for a few years, and I was undefeated. Confidence and cockiness were often separated by a thin line, but I wasn’t in it for the recognition, or the women, or the power trip it gave most fighters. To me, the ring was the one place I could release all my pent-up rage. A place I could lose myself to the chants of the crowds and the smell of blood and sweat.
A place where I wasn’t . . . worthless.
A sharp pain in my side shoved me back into the heat of the fight. The kid in front of me was two years younger and certainly not as skilled, even though he’d just managed to catch me off guard. But it wouldn’t happen again. I knew his weaknesses—his left knee, for one. He’d hurt it badly a year back and unfortunately for him, I was gonna make him relive that excruciating pain. The other obstacle working against him was that he was a known drug addict, fighting strictly for money to fuel his demons. While he possessed some talent, he wasn’t focused or disciplined. Two things working in my favor right then.
Locking eyes with the guy who would give me my next win, I faked an uppercut, drawing his attention to my hand while my foot shot out and connected with his previously injured knee. As soon as his leg bent in the wrong direction, I knew the fight was over, but just to lock in the victory I finished him off with my infamous right hook.
He never saw it coming.
And I never expected for my hit to be the final blow.
The final action which stripped his soul from this life.
An unnerving sound reverberated in the air around me. No one else heard it, but the crackling noise boomed inside my ears, pounding so fiercely inside my head I thought for sure everyone knew what I’d just done.
I hadn’t meant to.
All I’d wanted to do was make sure I remained at the top of my game. There was no saving him, though. I jumped back and watched his body free fall in slow motion. His head hung from his shoulders while his body twisted in an awkward position, his legs bending while the pull of gravity embraced him.
So many people cheered, the applause and shouts making me feel as if my ears were bleeding. My heart pounded inside my chest so fiercely I feared I was gonna join him in the afterlife if I didn’t get a fucking grip on my new reality.
Blood poured from his nose and mouth, but there was no other sign of life emanating from him.
He’d broken his neck. Or rather, I’d broken his neck.
His body lay limp on the ground.
Not a twitch.
Not a breath.
No hope whatsoever that it was all a bad dream.
Death.
He was dead.
I’d killed him.
I’d only intended to put him out of commission from fighting, not from life itself. My wrapped hands pulled at the sweaty strands of my hair, blowing out a disbelieving gush of air as I tried to wrap my head around what just happened. I’d never killed anyone before. Well, let me clarify—I’d never killed anyone in the ring before.
Outside the solace of the ropes, I’d snatched a few lives alongside my brothers of the Knights Corruption.
A strong grip ripped me backward toward the ropes, making me stumble and fall onto the stool in my corner of the ring. I heard someone speaking but the sound was muffled, as if their hands were covering their mouth while they yelled incoherently.
My body shook under the solid hold of someone, and it wasn’t until I finally raised my head that I saw who it was. Stone, the VP of our club, stood over me with an intense worried look in his eyes. His lips were moving but I couldn’t make out what he was saying. Then, without warning, all the muffled noise came into focus and it suddenly became too much to bear. My hands hastily covered my ears, drowning out the sound of the chaos of what I’d done.
The shock of killing my opponent twisted me in ways it shouldn’t have. As I said, I’d killed before, but it was always justified; battle of the clubs warranted fatalities now and again. But when I was in the ring, my ultimate goal was to win. To be the victor and to show everyone I excelled at something. To prove to those around me that I had amounted to something because my entire life my father had drilled the exact opposite into me, telling me I was a mistake and would either end up in jail or dead. He told me once he hoped it was the latter. I was only ten when I first heard those words, and while I’d tried not to let him see me upset, tears spilled forth at the very notion that my own father hated me.
It was his face I saw most often when I beat the hell out of someone, wishing my fists pulverized the man who’d given me life.
“Jagger!” Stone shouted. “We have to go. Now!” He held the ropes open for me and once my feet hit the ground, two men flanked me, one on each side. Ryder and Tripp. I hadn’t even known they were there that evening, my focus solely on my fight and nothing else.
“Let’s grab your winnings,” Tripp yelled in my ear, “then we can get the hell outta here.” As soon as I came out of the office with my prize money, we hastily headed toward the back of the warehouse, the red blinking exit sign my sole focus. But our escape was interrupted by someone blocking our path.
Hyped from my fight, with disgust and a twinge of guilt shooting through me, I hardened my restraint when I realized the man standing in front of us was none other than Snake, the brother of the guy I’d just killed. And as luck would have it, Snake just so happened to be part of our most hated enemy.
The Savage Reapers.
Normally, members of the two clubs would never be in the same vicinity, not unless we were warring. But the unspoken rules were bent under these types of circumstances. The underground fighting world brought out all sorts of characters, and unfortunately for us, it meant the scum of the Reapers often visited the fights. I tried to keep that part of my life separate from the club, although the two worlds were blending more and more recently. Plus I knew if our president, Marek, found out he might’ve put a stop to me participating in the bouts. He already didn’t like me, suspecting I held certain feelings toward his wife. Feelings he’d misread. Regardless, I didn’t want to give him any reason to take away one of the few things in life I thoroughly enjoyed.
But now that secret was out in the open. Stone, Ryder and Tripp circled me, a protective gesture which wasn’t needed, but was definitely appreciated.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Stone seethed, clenching his fists at his sides as he glared at Snake. “Do you have a death wish?” Tripp and Ryder stayed close, prepared to jump in if anything popped off. Even though the Reaper was surrounded by the enemy, it didn’t seem to faze him. In fact, he looked like he was enjoying himself, knowing his presence was pissing us off even more.
Completely ignoring Stone’s question, Snake turned his stare to me, puffing up his chest and stepping toward me. “You killed my little brother,” he gritted, strands of his long dark hair falling loose from the tie that held it away from his face.
I wanted to tell him it wasn’t on purpose, that it was an accident, but I didn’t dare open my mouth to explain. It would be portrayed as weakness, so I kept my lips sealed.
I meant to keep my eyes on Snak
e, but I was curious to see what my brothers’ reactions were to his statement. Now that they knew the man I’d killed was a sibling to a Reaper, they had to have guessed I knew our enemy had visited the fights. Would they rat me out to our leader? And if so, would I be kicked out of the club? Surely my omission would be the proverbial nail in the coffin. The final straw that would allow Marek to get rid of me.
I’d heard stories of other clubs never allowing their members to leave in anything other than a body bag. But I knew Marek didn’t rule like that. Brothers who no longer wanted to be part of the life simply left, no bad feelings or ill wishes. The club wasn’t for everyone and Marek knew it. Although I could’ve counted the number of men who’d left on one hand, and none since I’d been accepted as a prospect two years ago.
A quick hit to the chest pushed me back a step, and I was thrust out of the ramblings inside my own head and back into the situation. He’d dared to put his hands on me, and because I was distracted he’d been able to do so. Before anyone else could react, I shoved past the bastard and walked toward the exit. Some might have construed my actions—or lack thereof—as a pussy move, but I needed air. I needed to clear my head, and the last thing I needed was to take out all my frustrations and shock on the brother of the man I’d just killed.
Thankfully, Stone, Ryder and Tripp followed me without so much as a word, lining up alongside me as we escaped the confinements of the old, abandoned warehouse.
“The next time I lay eyes on you, you’re fucking dead,” Snake shouted after me. He continued to spout off at the mouth, but the harsh click of the metal door closing behind us cut him off.
Hunching forward in the backseat of Stone’s truck, I rested my head in my hands and prayed that some potent alcohol would help me lose myself. Even if just for an evening.
I’d deal with life, and the consequences, when the sun came up.
Jagger
The morning light infiltrated the common room, my hungover ass burrowing further into the couch and shielding my eyes just so I didn’t have to witness the dawn of another day. Because I wasn’t a full-fledged member, I didn’t have my own room at the club, so taking the couch was my only option.