by Chloe Walsh
I was taking back what had always been mine, and Thorn was mine.
I just needed to make her remember that.
LIKE TOMMY HAD PREDICTED, I was signed to the MFA exactly two weeks to the day that I was released from prison, with a six-figure salary that within three months had turned into seven figures. One year had passed since I had been released from one cage and thrust into another.
Except this one was different.
This was on my terms and I was the fucking king. The MFA were paying me a shit ton of cash to do the only thing I was good at doing – inflicting pain.
The sweat that dripped from my brow screwed with my vision as I stalked my opponent – my prey. I couldn’t see properly, not that poor sight ever affected me.
Fighting for me was primal.
It was gut instinct.
It was in my blood.
My body was primed for this stage. It was all I had ever known. And the pain only encouraged me, turned me on, fueled the beast inside of me. The guy I was fighting, Justin Philippe, was one of those annoying as fuck all-American boys – wholesome and god-fearing. God only knew why the douche was even involved in the MMA circuit. He had a rich daddy and an even richer granddaddy.
Fucker was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. I hated that shit. Seriously, I fucking hated those types of fighters – the ones that were carried.
Every hair on my body stood on end as I pummeled the poor bastard through his attempts to block my left hook. The feeling of adrenalin pumping inside of me was like a drug and I couldn’t get enough.
The more blood he shed, the more pumped I became.
I showed no emotion because I didn’t fucking feel. I was ruthless, methodical and composed. To the outside world, I didn’t have a weakness, and that made me dangerous.
I wasn’t born like this – a heartless bastard. It was something I had turned into as the years passed by and life got cold – something I had been twisted and morphed into.
The crowd roared out my name and it didn’t mean a damn thing. These fuckwads didn’t have a thing on me and that’s exactly how I wanted it.
The women eye fucking me in the crowd didn’t faze me either. I didn’t raise an eyebrow when panties were tossed in my direction, or when I found naked women skulking around in the backroom after each fight. It was the life I lived now. They were enthralled with an illusion. They didn’t know me. None of these women did.
They satisfied my needs – sated an itch that needed to be scratched – but I was only interested in turning the head of one woman.
Smirking to myself, I grappled with my opponent, tackling him to the mat, and executing the final blow.
The bell sounded, and the referee dragged me to my feet, raising my hand in the air in victory.
I FELT SHADY AS HELL as I tiptoed down the hallway and into my bedroom with the latest MFA magazine in my purse.
Closing the door behind me, I settled cross-legged on my bed and opened the center page section of the magazine…
MESSINA NEXT IN LINE FOR HEAVYWEIGHT TITLE SHOT
In a rare interview with Noah ‘the Machine’ Messina, when asked about his commitment towards the MFA, he responded with:
“Many people don’t understand the obsession, the fuckin’ passion of the sport. But that’s ‘cause they’ve never stood in the middle of an arena with seventy thousand people screaming their name.
They’ve never felt the compulsion of pushing their body to maximum capacity, of working their body until they puke and keep on going.
Fighting is in my veins.
Adrenalin pumping through every pore in my body – fuck there’s nothing like it.
You could go to the ends of the earth and nothing would compare to the feeling of standing in the ring, geared up and ready to inflict pain…”
When asked about his private life, in particular his relationship status Messina responded by saying:
“I don’t have time for a life – for one woman. Been there, done that, and I can safely say it was the biggest mistake of my life. In my experience, women are a dime a dozen – a means to an end – an itch to scratch, a fucking nuisance. No, I’m too busy climbing to the top, being the best and winning. That’s my goal, my focus and my fucking church. I won’t quit until I win. I won’t quit until I’m carried out of that ring in a fucking body bag.”
Ugh. Tossing the magazine off my bed, I threw myself onto my back and shoved my fist in my mouth. If I didn’t, I was going to scream the house down and if I did that, my upstairs neighbor Mrs. Murphy would probably suffer her second heart attack this year.
I wasn’t having that on my conscience.
I was such a glutton for punishment.
Seriously, why I tortured myself by watching fight after fight and buying up every magazine and newspaper with his name on it was beyond me.
I needed to get a grip.
I needed to get a bloody life, but I knew exactly where I was going be on fight night; parked in front of our flat screen with my heart in my mouth, and every other part of my body shaking to the core.
Breakups were hard enough on a woman without having their ex splashed across magazines and television screens, looking hot as hell. Only my ex could land himself in prison for half a decade and come out smelling like roses. The man had signed with the MFA the minute he got out of prison and in the last year had taken the sport by storm.
Noah was a global superstar, and I was an instructor and co-owner of a back street gym in Cork City. Noah was shagging every woman with a pulse, while I had practically regrown my virginity.
I couldn’t explain why I put myself through this, only that I wanted to see him succeed. I wanted to see him. Even though I would never admit it to a single soul, I wanted Noah to have a good life.
The door of my bedroom blew inwards and in barreled Hope, fresh-faced and mouth agape. “Teegs, did you read what Noah said?”
“Don’t say his name in my presence,” I snapped, stopping my friend in her tracks. “I mean it Hope; don’t utter his name in this room ever again.”
Pathetic as it was, I couldn’t stand to talk about Noah openly. It hurt too much because at the end of the day, regardless of how much I wanted to, I couldn’t stop loving him and I couldn’t stop wanting to hate him. I was a proud woman, and talking about it only made me feel weak. I didn’t show weakness, therefore when it came to conversations involving Noah Messina, denial was my best friend.
Hope looked momentarily stumped as she stood in the doorway of my room with her iPad clutched between neon painted fingernails. “Can I change he-who-shall-not-be-named’s name to asshole and talk trash about him?”
I considered this for a moment before nodding. “Yes, I accept those terms.”
Hope grinned and skipped over to where I was laying on my made bed. She could always do this; make me feel like I wasn’t completely alone in the world.
My relationship with Hope was one I cherished more than anything. She wrecked my head at times, but the girl was worth her weight in gold.
But no matter how much trash she talked, or how hard she tried to cheer me up, I couldn’t shake Noah’s words…
“I don’t have time for a life – for one woman. Been there, done that, and I can safely say it was the biggest mistake of my life.”
Looks like he’s up to his old tricks again,” Hope announced. “Whoring and touring.” Looking at me with a devious smirk, she added, “At least you made it out with a clean vagina.”
“That’s true,” I laughed, burying my hurt with a smile.
“PUSH IT HARDER, LIAM. Give me more…I can take it.”
“Jesus, you’re so damn tight,” Liam ground out through clenched teeth, adding more pressure. “Relax your muscles, Teagan, or we’re going to be here all day.”
“I’m trying…ugh, you’re almost… Yes!” Breathless, I let out a moan of contentment as Liam pushed my thigh almost completely parallel to my stomach.
I felt the muscle that had be
en causing all the trouble snap back into place and I almost cried out hallelujah.
“That’ll teach you,” Liam grunted before offering me his much larger hand and pulling me to my feet. “Next time, take on someone your own bloody size. You’re not a machine, Teegs.”
“Duly noted,” I muttered, rubbing my ass cheek.
Stretching gingerly, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the floor to ceiling mirror and groaned. I looked like shit, I smelled like ass, and I was going to have the mother of all bruises on my behind– courtesy of the huge dick currently signing membership forms in our office upstairs.
“I hate that guy,” I told Liam. “I mean it, Liam. If there were any other way around this I would tell Ciarán Crowley and his team of GAA hurlers to take a running jump out of the nearest window.” I hated Ciarán. I truly despised the guy. He’d been in our class back in college and had struck up a friendship with Liam that had lasted long after we graduated. I, on the other hand, had only ever received cheap comments and come hither stares from the creep. Ugh. “I don’t care if he’s your friend, Noah. I can’t stand the guy.”
“Well there is no other way around this,” Liam hissed quietly, dragging me to the far corner of the gym, out of earshot of the few members that were working out this evening. “We’re sinking, Teagan,” he growled. “Like fucking stones. This is the first new membership we’ve had in months.”
“We’re hardly sinking like stones,” I muttered nervously.
“Hardly?” Liam raised his brow in disbelief. “Are you kidding me? Teagan, we’re in so much debt I’m seriously debating declaring myself bankrupt at twenty-five.”
“I can offer some extra classes,” I offered, but Liam cut me off quickly.
“Some more Pilates?” he sneered. “Or pregnancy yoga? Yeah, because that’s sure to pay the creditors.”
“Excuse me?” I snapped. “Don’t be such a snob. I bring in good money with those classes.”
“We need this, Teagan,” Liam told me in a serious tone. “Thirty men, Teagan. Thirty. With a month’s payment up front. We are depending on these guys and Ciarán is doing me a huge favor.” Reaching out, he clamped my lips between his thumb and forefinger. “So keep that shut, and don’t ruin this for us,” he told me with a smirk. “Or we’ll both be standing in the unemployment line by this time next month.”
“Well if he touches my ass one more time, he will be depending on a life-support machine,” I countered, shuddering at the memory.
Liam laughed and that only made me angrier. “Do you think it’s funny?” I demanded, feeling wounded. “That those men violate me daily in my own workplace?”
Liam’s expression visibly softened. “Come on, Teegs,” he said, “You know it’s only banter with those guys. I’ll have a word with them – tell them to stop.”
Checking the time on my watch, I saw that it was going on six. “Don’t bother, Liam. It’s not like my personal safety matters to you. Here.” Slipping my hand into my bra, I tugged out the lone key and tossed it at him. “You can close up.”
Not looking back when Liam repeatedly called out my name, I stalked through the main floor of the gym, through the double doors, down the old metal staircase to the entrance, and out into the Friday night bustle of Cork City.
Rain hammered down on me and I was glad. I needed to cool the hell down and there was no way I could do that when Ciarán Crowley was in my close vicinity.
Pulling the hood of my raincoat over my hair, I popped my earplugs in and pumped up the volume on my iPod. Gliding my thumb across the screen, I quickly scrolled through songs, settling on Ben Howard’s Oats in the Water before pounding the pavement.
I needed to run off some steam...
As I padded along, I mentally took stock of my life.
I was twenty-five years old and had my heart broken twice.
The first time had damaged my pride.
The second time had almost killed me.
It had taken me almost a decade to build myself back up from the brink of desolation and I still wasn’t over the man that ruined my faith in all men.
It hurt. It was torturous. The pain was beyond fucking brutal and I promised myself to never allow a man to make me feel that way again.
I couldn’t talk about him to anyone, not even now, seven years later. It was still too raw, and I swear to god his name sliced skin from my throat whenever I attempted it.
Shame filled me every time I thought about how I had almost thrown my future away for a boy who fucked the school slut the second my back was turned. I had lost my relationship with my uncle because of him. Max didn’t want to know me, and on the last occasion I had reached out to him, he had cut me off the line and out of his life.
Permanently.
I had been out on a few casual dates with Liam. They had never progressed to anything more than dinner and a movie, but at least I had tried. If I was being totally honest with myself, the only reason I had accepted that date with Liam in the first place was because I had read that article where Noah talked about me being the biggest mistake of his life.
Ugh. He made so damn angry… but as much as I tried, I couldn’t shake him off.
I just couldn’t seem to get over the bastard.
So I kept him a secret in the back of my heart, forced into my nighttime thinking capsule. At night was the only time I allowed myself to think of Noah – because I had needs and he sated them like a fucking porn-star.
My iPod switched onto Maroon 5’s One More Night and I almost flung the bloody thing in the nearest wheelie bin.
That bloody song…
How pathetic was it that one song had my stomach twisting in knots and my nerves in tatters?
I knew why of course.
It was because of the fight.
He was fighting Horacio Vaughan for number one contender of the heavyweight title this weekend – in approximately one hour and thirty-eight minutes to be exact.
MY BACK WAS ACHING so bad I wasn’t sure I how was going to scrape up the energy to climb out of the bathtub.
Those extra shifts I was pulling in the gym lately were really kicking my butt. I knew I was overexerting myself, but Liam and I were up to our eyeballs in debt. We were barely making the rent each month, and needed to bring in as much money as we could. As it stood, we weren’t covering our overheads – hadn’t been for eight months. If things didn’t start improving fast, the gym would go under.
Twisting the faucet with my toes, I stopped the flow of water and slowly pulled myself out of the tub. As I dried and dressed myself, I let my mind wander.
Tonight was huge for Noah’s career.
If he defeated Vaughn, he would be granted a title shot against the current holder, Anthony Cole, in Vegas in December.
Hope was out tonight with some friends she had met at a book seminar last summer, and I was glad. I couldn’t watch Noah’s fights when anyone was around because my emotions overwhelmed me.
When I was dressed, I grabbed my duvet off the bed, rushed into the lounge, and turned on channel 401 just in time for the main event of the night. Curling up on the couch, I covered myself with my blanket and held my breath, waiting to catch a glimpse of my ex boyfriend.
Horacio Vaughn was introduced first and I rolled my eyes in disgust when I heard him talk trash into the camera.
“Cocky much,” I growled in disgust. Vaughn would be lucky if he made it out of the cage walking. Noah was going to annihilate that douchebag.
There was silence for a moment and when Roy Jone’s Can’t be Touched sounded through the speakers of my television, the crowd erupted in cheers and high-pitched screams.
Noah came into view then and my toes curled up in anticipation.
The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.
The breath in my lungs evaporated in a sharp gasp.
The same as always, I found myself drinking Noah in. Soaking in his beauty. His raw masculine appeal and the way he captured every single person in the ro
om’s attention with his presence alone.
Noah had fuck me hair. He had honest to god, drag your nails through his scalp, mess up the sheets, fuck me now kind of hair. It was black and shiny with just enough length to grab onto when he was giving you the ride of your life.
His lips were the permanently swollen kind, like someone had just kissed the hell out of them, and the scruff on his jaw only added to the appeal.
His body was ribbed harder than when he was seventeen. The abdominal muscles on his stomach were ridged, deep and masculine – a stark warning of the dominance and strength inside of him. Like back when we were teenagers, both of Noah’s arms were covered in sleeves of intricately designed swivels and loops, and he still had that sexy wolf tattoo on his left calf, but he had added to his collection of body art since then.
Covering his broad back was a huge crucifix with wings sprouting from each side. His hipbone was inked with some Celtic scribe, and he had a red rose tattooed on the side of his ribcage, with a lone jagged thorn on its stem.
Twisting his neck from side to side, Noah jabbed his fists in front of his face, unfazed by the hoard of screaming fans around him, as he made his way towards the cage.
A wave of supremacy wafted from him.
He stared into the cameras as he made his way out to the ring. His eyes were so intense, dark, hard and heated. I felt his gaze right down to my toes.
Anger raged through me when a scantily clad woman jumped out from behind the barriers and threw her arms around his neck.
Security removed her immediately but not before she had a good feel of my ex. When Noah reached the base of the cage, a blonde-haired man, covered in tattoos dabbed Vaseline on his eyebrows before giving him a quick hug. Noah smiled warmly at the man before climbing into the cage and envy churned inside of me.
“I expect a clean fight, men,” the referee called out, “touch gloves.”
And then the bell rang out, signaling the start of the first round.