Dirty Fighter: A Bad Boy MMA Romance

by Roxy Sinclaire

  I tried to calm myself, sucking in my breath and leveling it out.

  “I’m sorry,” I said again. “I don’t need you to forgive me, I don’t expect you to, but I hate that I was that way, I hate that I treated you guys like that,” I said, setting the napkin aside. I looked over my food, suddenly losing my appetite. I noticed that nobody else was touching their food, and I looked up. They were all looking at me, stunned.

  “You’re sorry?” Jamie asked, her eyebrows up in either confusion or surprise.

  “Yes,” I said, nodding. They exchanged looks again.

  “You’ve never apologized for anything to us,” Kim said, reaching to get salt for her egg sandwich.

  “I was rotten,” I admitted.

  “Thank you for apologizing,” Sam said softly, almost smiling. “You’ve changed a lot,” she added.

  “I have?” I asked, confused. The waitress was keeping an eye on us from behind the counter.

  “Yeah,” Jamie agreed. “I’ve never seen you cry before, and we were around each other constantly,” she explained.

  “I guess I have changed,” I agreed, relaxing a little. I wiped my face one more time. The chatter after that was more comfortable, less forced. In the back of my mind I was circling the idea that I changed somehow, trying to figure out what caused it.

  It wasn’t that my father died, or that my mother died. Those things were nothing that could ever make me a better person, all my thoughts circled back to Adam.

  He changed me.

  My random man who had saved my life, who had shown me you can rebuild yourself from nothing, who I loved.

  Loving Adam was what changed me.

  22

  Adam

  I had grabbed some food at a fast food taco joint, even though I knew it would mess with my stomach, because I needed something comforting. Something that was full of carbs and too much salt. I needed a change.

  I changed into shorts and a tee shirt, went for a jog to restart my brain and give myself a fresh slate, and by the time I made it back to the hotel, I was ready to start figuring out the situation.

  The hotel room was small, a complete bathroom, a queen sized bed, a dresser with a TV on it that hadn’t been replaced in probably ten years. I flopped down on the bed and stared at the popcorn-textured ceiling, listening to my own breathing over the sound of the air conditioning.

  Brooklyn’s face came to my mind, her bright eyes, her small perky nose and soft luscious lips. How she looked when she smiled, and when she cried. I hated seeing her cry, but I had made her cry more than a couple times since I came into town.

  She had so much potential, a wonderful actress nominated for several awards. She was clever, quick witted, physically fit and beautiful. She could do so much and I began to realize that I couldn’t stand up much against that.

  I had money, sure, but she already had plenty of that.

  All I really was, was the man who killed both her and my father. The man who lived in the same state as her and avoided coming into contact with her for three years. All I was ever good for was fighting, for bashing someone until their lights went out, and now I wasn’t too good at that either.

  She deserved someone who was her equal, someone who could stand beside her and not dirty who she was, not corrupt her image. I felt like I was this disgusting creature who muddled her with every touch, every kiss.

  I was an awful thing, someone who killed and never changed my ways. I didn’t stop doing what killed our fathers, I kept on and started making money off of it. That’s not a mark of a good person. That’s not a mark of guilt or grief. It didn’t matter if they were bad people, or if they were abusive, it wasn’t up to me who lived or who died.

  If I were honest with myself, I could have hit them softer, I could have held back.

  I didn’t.

  I basically chose to kill them by deciding not to control myself.

  What if I ever got mad at Brooklyn?

  Did me living with her, kissing her, holding her, put her at risk? What if at some point I get angry and don’t hold back. What if I become our fathers and I hurt her, this woman I love?

  She didn’t deserve that.

  She needed stability, someone to depend on and trust. Not someone who spent a year on the streets being homeless because I was a coward. Not someone who drove his own father’s body into a lake and still hasn’t told anyone where it was. Not someone who ran away from all of his problems.

  In the long term it would hurt her to be with me.

  I got up, filling a paper cup with water, and stared at my own face in the mirror.

  I was looking more and more like my father every day. If there were any features I got from my mom, they weren’t visible in my face. There was no trace of her.

  So I’d become him then. Someday I’d drink, or I’d be so furious, and I’d lay hands on Brooklyn and knock that beautiful smile off her face and ruin her forever. She’d never be able to trust anyone again, and it would be because of me.

  I couldn’t stand the thought of being the person responsible for that.

  So, what options did that leave me then?

  I could just leave without her knowing. I could drive anywhere, Canada, Mexico, it didn’t matter. I could drive there and be gone in the night. She spent three years without me. She could live with going longer than that. I could start a life doing something small like working at a gas station, anything low key, and anything to keep her from having to ever hear my name again.

  I could keep her safe; keep her happy, by breaking my own heart.

  I could conceive of it making her initially sad, sure, she’d be confused as to why I ran away, but that would be replaced with anger so quickly. If she was mad at me it would make it so much easier, and she could just move on with her damn life.

  My uncle definitely knew, he absolutely did. The way he looked at me during the funeral was enough of a hint. He would tell anyone who would listen soon. It would be out what I did. Police would put two and two together and realize that I also killed Brooklyn’s dad. They’d have no doubt in the matter and I’d be arrested, Brooklyn might be in trouble also if she was found in a relationship with me.

  If I left, if I fled, it would keep the implication off of her though.

  She’d never have to worry about paparazzi finding out that she was dating a murderer. She’d never have to look over her shoulder for us. She could make her movies, and make her life, in peace.

  All I wanted for Brooklyn was her happiness.

  I threw the paper cup out and sat down on the bed, staring at the hideous repetitive wallpaper. She would be happy. It didn’t matter how I felt, it never would, I could move on, I always could just watch her movies if I missed her.

  My heart felt set, but I still knew that I wanted to see her one more time. I selfishly wanted to say goodbye, I wanted to tell her I loved her.

  23

  Brooklyn

  “Thank you, again, for being so understanding,” I said, hugging Jaime tight. She was smiling now, tears in her eyes, and she shrugged.

  “I can’t believe how much you’ve changed,” she said, laughing gently. “I’ll see you around okay?” she said, backing up to her car.

  “Sure,” I said, feeling awful because somewhere in my heart I knew I wouldn’t see her again.

  Everything in this town had a sense of finality to it, like this was the last time I’d have to be there, the last time I would have to refresh those memories I’d pushed down. I waved goodbye to her, and then looked down the road. I was only a couple blocks from the hotel that Adam was staying at, I could have easily just walked to him.

  My skirt flit in the air as cars drove by, far fewer than I was used to seeing on any road in the last three years. It was almost a culture shock, coming back to small Podunk Nothingville from California. I held my purse to my side and enjoyed the smell of fresh cut grass and juniper in the distance.

  I didn’t notice the first time the blue pickup truck passed me by.
I hardly noticed the second time, but when I saw it’s shimmering blue paint the third time, as it slowed down next to me, I became completely self-aware.

  There wasn’t that much traffic, this was a small town. I was somewhat famous though.

  I stepped away from the curb, but the person in the truck hopped out and was saying my name.

  “Brooklyn,” he said, coming towards me, walking not running. “Brooklyn White, I need to warn you,” he said, his voice was deep, just a twang of the southern accent most of the younger generation had weeded out of ourselves.

  “Yes?” I asked, knowing that if I ran I could easily be caught. He was holding his baseball cap in his hands and his eyebrows were knit tight together.

  “I need to warn you about Adam,” he explained, looking cautiously around.

  My heart stopped.

  “What about him?” I asked, not having to fake my confusion as much as I was. He swallowed thickly.

  “That boy is my nephew and he killed my brother, I know he did,” he said, still approaching me. I stepped away from him to keep our space. Shit. He knew.

  “I’m sorry, what?” I asked, still acting confused. Thank God I was a professional actress.

  “He’s a murderer, he killed his father and you need to keep away from him. Keep your distance,” he explained, keeping his voice low. I was horrified that he knew, the worry must have come across my face, I needed to know more.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Well, he went missing the night my brother did, y’know, and I know it’s not my place to say, but his dad used to beat him a lot, it’s pretty obvious,” he explained. He didn’t know much then. Good. Thank god.

  “Thank you for your concern, but you’re wrong, he wouldn’t kill anyone,” I said, shaking my head. “I have to go, have a good night,” I said before turning and leaving.

  “Keep an eye on him!” the old man shouted behind me. I felt chills go up my spine. That was damned close. What if he knew? What if he figured it out and it put Adam in trouble? The second that blue truck was out of sight, I started running. I had to get to Adam, had to make sure he was safe.

  I knocked hard on his hotel door, almost banging on it, wanting him out as soon as possible. Wanting to see that he was okay. He opened the door and I immediately grasped onto him, holding him tight as he closed the door behind me.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice wary.

  “Your uncle, he knows,” I said, shaking. “I mean, he doesn’t know much, but he tried to ‘warn’ me about you,” I laughed at the thought of anyone needing to protect me from Adam.

  “Oh,” Adam’s face made my stomach drop, he looked concerned.

  “I love you,” I admitted softly, his eyes lit up just a little. “But maybe we should keep some distance, if your uncle digs any deeper and figures out about my dad too,” I paused, these words were killing me. “You’ll get the chair Adam, they won’t care about the fact that you were defending yourself, or that you’re a good person. I can’t be the reason you get locked away or killed,” I said softly, holding his face in my hands. He looked heartbroken and I felt the same.

  “I was thinking the same, but for you,” he said, his voice was rough. “If you get mixed up in this it’ll kill your career and your ability to live a happy life,” he explained.

  I felt tears running down my face and we kissed as our heart ached, resigned to the fact that we’d have to be apart again. Realizing this was really it.

  “I want to be with you one more time,” I said softly, holding him tight against me. I saw that his bags were packed, and somewhere in the back of my mind I saw my mom’s purple paisley luggage. It wasn’t the same, I had to tell myself that, it wasn’t the same because we both decided this.

  He kissed me back, his hands were tight on my hips.

  “Alright,” he said softly, his tongue danced against mine and we stumbled towards the bed and slowly divested each other of our clothing. He kept kissing me as I removed my bra and underwear, and felt totally bare, more than just physically. He knew everything about me. He had me like putty in his hands and I wanted to be there, wanted him to have me.

  He lowered his mouth, lavishing my left nipple with his tongue before he slipped lower. He kissed me with tickling lips, slipping down to my thighs until he kissed me between my legs. His tongue and lips moved against my clit and entrance like he was kissing me goodbye, I found myself saying his name in reverence like he was God. He pulled his mouth away, his fingers kept moving inside me, and he kissed my stomach, then my neck, until his mouth was back on mine. I didn’t care that I could taste myself on him, and I didn’t care that this was a hotel I would have never gone into. I cared that I may have been kissing him for the last time.

  Adam pulled his fingers out of me and slowly pressed in his cock, filling me slowly and well.

  “Adam,” I gasped, wrapping my legs around his waist and kissing him gently, lovingly. He started pressing and pulling in and out of me, I writhed beneath him in pleasure. My heart was breaking, but my body felt so right, so perfect.

  He was beautiful, amazing, in every single damned way. He was mine for a couple days, finally, after waiting for so long.

  His thrusts became quicker, and I pressed up against him to meet him with each one. His fingers were so tight on my hips that I could tell there would be bruises. I didn’t care. I wanted that reminder of him to stay. We were both moaning, both lost in the sensation, the bed’s headboard softly hitting against the wall.

  When we came it was at the same moment, an almost unreal moment where we were both in space, our minds clear of any responsibilities, any promises.

  I would never see him again, but for now I had him in my arms, and for now we were flying.

  As we came down from our orgasms, he pulled out and laid next to me. We were both short of breath, panting and trying to kiss at the same time.

  We cuddled there, sweaty and sticky from sex, not caring. We pulled a blanket on top of ourselves and fell into a deep and fantastic sleep, trying not to think of what the rest of the day would bring when we woke up.

  24

  Adam

  When I woke up I didn’t remember anything yet. I didn’t know yet. I didn’t want to. The hotel alarm clock on the nightstand said it was 4:14 PM in bright red numbers. I looked over at Brooklyn. She looked so peaceful, so comfortable. She was smiling in her sleep. I couldn’t help but wonder what kinds of dreams she had, or if she ever snores. For half a moment I thought to myself that I had time to find out, but then I remembered the conversation we had.

  My heart dropped into my stomach, and my mouth flooded with saliva like it thought I was going to be sick.

  I had just agreed with the woman I love that we shouldn’t see each other anymore.

  She just told me that she loved me.

  I stood up and slipped into the bathroom, taking my second shower of the day. I needed it. I turned and let the hot water beat down over my back and into my hair. The steam quickly filled the small bathroom.

  I finally had Brooklyn in my arms and I was getting ready to let go of her again.

  I felt the tears come, and this time I actually let them fall. Under the shower water my tears were indistinguishable, like they weren’t even there. I felt them in my heart though, and I felt like I was falling apart. This was a thousand times worse than giving up fighting, this was worse than the year I spent on the streets. This was the worst feeling I had ever experienced.

  I shampooed and washed myself, thinking somehow that if I just took forever, if I waited long enough, that I would be able to just pretend we hadn’t talked about that. That I could just move past it and we could stay together.

  When I turned off the shower my tears had stopped, still I slid my towel over my face to completely dry it off. I could hear the television playing in the room outside, she was awake. I wiped steam off the mirror and stared at myself, my face red from the shower, red from crying.

  “Just tell
her,” the thought slipped into my mind. I could hear it loud and clear, but I still tried to shut it down. I brushed my teeth and got dressed. Telling her would be selfish. Asking to stay together would be selfish. There was no way I could do either of those without putting her at risk for my sake.

  Still.

  Still, I loved her. Still I hadn’t told her yet. Still I didn’t want her out of my life so soon.

  I buttoned my shirt and sighed. She told me she loved me, and somehow it just made me feel worse, made me question all of my decisions even more. If she hadn’t said that it would have been easier to convince myself she could get over this quickly. It would be easier to let myself think I could get over her somehow.

  She said it though.

  I sighed, feeling the full weight of the situation, and opened the door. The steam rushed out, like my stress, and I let it take my worries away. This was Brooklyn, I could talk to her. She’d understand.

  She was lying on the bed, wearing just her underwear and one of my shirts as she watched a daytime soap opera. The television’s video was fuzzy and showed its age. She looked up at me, her face sad and almost forlorn, and she turned off the TV and sat up.

  “Hi,” she said softly, patting the bed beside her.

  “Hey,” I replied, unsure of what else to say. That’s a lie, I knew exactly what I wanted to say, I just didn’t have the guts yet. “Do you need water or anything? Are you hungry?” I asked, praying for a distraction. She shook her head. This was happening then. I sat down on the foot of the bed beside her, resting my hand on her ankle.

  “Brooklyn, I want to lay it all out on the line,” I sighed out. No turning back now. She didn’t reply, just watched me with those bright green eyes.

  “I love you,” I said, feeling all of my insecurities lay their stomachs bare.