Dirty Fighter: A Bad Boy MMA Romance Page 6

  “I could get you into the actual fights if you want,” he said, making me slow down a bit. “You look like a hard ass, I’m part of a circle of fighters who don’t have to deal with any of this frilly shit,” he continued, nodding back to the arena behind us. “Money’s amazing,” he added.

  “What are you talking about?” I asked, wanting more details. He slid his hand into the back pocket of his jeans and produced a card. It had just two lines on it.

  Ross Palazolo

  555-555-5555

  I looked at it, confused, and then back at him.

  “Call my boy Ross, tell him Ricky sent you, tell him you’re interested in taking up a labor job,” he said, shrugging. “He’ll know what you’re talking about, probably try you out first and then you’ll be in mad money,” he smiled. “As long as you win.”

  11

  Adam

  This guy Ross wanted me to audition for his fights as soon as possible. On the phone he sounded nice enough. I wasn’t sure why I imagined him to be a classic mob-boss kind of guy. I didn’t mind starting immediately, the sooner I could get myself back in the action the better. I just wanted to do what I was built to do.

  I wanted to kick some ass.

  As long as I was able to get the audition kicked off well, as long as I was able to pound my opponent into the fucking ground, I would be able to keep fighting. I’d be able to live off that, get an actual apartment, fix my diet, and sleep in a bed regularly. It sounded more than heavenly after almost a year of living on the streets.

  I wasn’t sure how I’d do that without an ID, but I didn’t think that far ahead at the time.

  I loved my gym, but it wasn’t doing enough to keep my mind active. I needed to be able to train on how to react to people; to be able to focus on the things around me as I worked out. I was able to get some sparring time in, nothing serious, no knock outs allowed. Nobody wanted to fight me after the first couple. After that I decided running was the best way to get as many distractions around me as possible.

  I could take a different route of running every day and never see the same things, never worry about repetition. Some roads reminded me of that strip I’d ran down when I wanted to get away from my father, some were so cluttered with people so obviously wealthy that it made me think of Brooklyn and her mother.

  I couldn’t help but think about Brooklyn in my day to day life anyways.

  I wanted to know if she was okay. Did she go back to her home after she visited her aunt? Was there fall-out from that? If she got hurt again I would have been fucking furious. I couldn’t imagine her dad getting up off that ground and not trying to tear apart the nearest people to him as easily as possible. I didn’t understand why she was still in that tiny town to begin with; she was worth so much more than that.

  My feet slapped along on that concrete hour after hour, day after day. I kept on lifting weights, I kept sparring anyone who was willing, but I mostly ran. Running improves balance. It helps with your breathing, helps keep your mind clear, and lets you work on avoiding obstacles.

  I loved it, the perfect workout.

  On one of my runs when I was trying to fit in a couple extra miles more than my usual daily amount, I had to stop dead in my tracks because I felt like I saw a ghost.

  It was Brooklyn.

  Now, I don’t mean that I saw someone who looked like her, or that I was just imagining it, like the eyes, finally cracking after stress. No, it was Brooklyn. Her long dark hair, huge beautiful green eyes, and slender but fit body.

  She was dramatically pulling back an arrow on a bow, the camera panned over her arms and back, she’d been working out since I last saw her.

  I stopped running and stood still, staring up at the television that was playing in an open-air bar. There were shots of her running, shooting more arrows and jumping through a portal, a close up of her gorgeous face, all cut between phrases like “THIS SUMMER”, “A FLINT LOWE PRODUCTION”, “LIKE”, “YOU’VE”, “NEVER”, “SEEN”, “BEFORE”. As the trailer continued on, the cuts to the words were shorter and shorter, as most shots were taken up by orangey pinks and dark blues or greens. Brooklyn was touted as a new and exciting actress in it.

  I kept standing there, staring at that tiny screen, even after the next commercial came on.

  She was so beautiful. Something I’d never get over is someone with a mind like hers also lucking into a face and a body like that. At least I knew she wasn’t stuck with her dad, but I couldn’t figure out how she got that far that fast. I was relieved, but also amazed at how well she was doing in just under a year. Just under a year and I was still homeless, just auditioning for a fight; I couldn’t imagine what kinds of things she was auditioning for.

  I was glad she couldn’t see me in that moment.

  I was proud? It was bittersweet, because the moment I finally see her again it’s on a screen, but at the same time she was out there living. She wasn’t letting her father drag her down. It made me want to be someone worthwhile for her too.

  That night when I made it back to the gym, I turned one of the televisions on to a random channel. Once the commercials ended on that channel I switched to another, then another, until finally after an hour I caught a repeat of the commercial.

  I had been in love with her long before this point.

  I had almost used her as my reason to stay alive, the beauty that gave me life.

  And now there she was, as if she was waiting for me to watch and keep my eye out for her again. It felt like it did back when I’d stand under her tree and make sure her father wasn’t laying his hands on her, but now the rest of the world could watch with me. The rest of the world could fall in love with her with me.

  I hoped that she was happy. I needed her to be happy.

  I kept the television on for the rest of the night, making myself work out when her commercial wasn’t on, but the second it was I was there and watching. I had it memorized, every transition and sound effect, it was heavy with loud percussion outbursts that ended up being obnoxious by the end of it. I was disappointed that she didn’t get to speak in the commercial.

  The next day I went out and got one of those directories that people, tourists 99% of the time, would buy of the hills. Flint Lowe’s production company was only ten miles from my gym. She was literally that close to me the whole time and I never knew it.

  Any time I jogged after that, I’d fantasize about her seeing me, recognizing me, and I’d imagine what she’d say.

  Would she be happy to see me? I didn’t think so. I was the guy there to remind her that at one point her father hit her so hard she fell down the stairs. I was the guy who was there to remind her that at one point some guy stood in her yard and stared at her window until something happened.

  I didn’t entertain this fantasy for too long.

  Still, I wanted to see her, and although I would never approach her in person I could always watch her trailer as often as I wanted to.

  She was beautiful.

  12

  Adam

  My audition wasn’t as low-key as Ricky and Ross made it sound.

  The building looked like it used to be a parking garage that had been completely taken over. Other than the front door, there were no openings to the outside world. You had to have the okay to get in, or enough money to pay off the doorman.

  There was a crowd of at least fifty people—everyone was already cheering, and money was exchanging hands on bets. It was just an audition and they were already laying money down on people without a second glance. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised. Beer was being served from cases by beautiful girls that didn’t look like they belonged within 100 miles of this place. I tried not to think about what Brooklyn would think if she saw me there. Would she think I enjoyed knocking out her dad?

  They were pairing off fighters randomly, only using weight classes as a guide.

  Several of the fighters were pretty obvious as to why they were there. They were either too old, or had some lo
ok that the pro MMA fights didn’t want to represent. These weren’t televised fights though, it didn’t matter one bit if you looked like an escaped convict and were covered in gnarly scars.

  I was one of the last few fighters, so I got to see the action through everyone else, and smell the sting of adrenaline without dirtying my hands yet. I looked away from the ring for a moment and saw Ricky heading towards me, with a goofy smile on his face.

  “Heya newbie, glad you showed up,” he said, turning to look at the fighters the second he was next to me. He was a thin guy, didn’t look like he had fought a day in his life. I couldn’t help but wonder on more than one occasion how he ended up in that line of work.

  “Couldn’t miss this,” I replied, shrugging. I didn’t want him to know how desperate I was for the ring, for the money.

  “If you are one of the ones who make it, you get five hundred bucks as congratulations,” he threw in, as if I needed any more convincing. I would have done it for free.

  “How many people is he looking to recruit?” I asked, shifting uncomfortably. I didn’t want to go into this and bust somebody completely open only to find out that everybody got through.

  “Just five, but there are fifteen fights going on,” he replied, eyes not leaving the ongoing fight. “Not everyone who wins deserves to be in our crew. However, every single person who loses sure as hell doesn’t get in our crew,” he explained, watching the ring. One of the fighters kicked the shit out of another’s face, a stream of blood and teeth slipped down the opponent’s face.

  “Rules are basically the same as official, no back of the head blows, no throat blows, no wrenching fingers or toes, no fish hooking, yadda, yadda, yadda, you know the deal I’m sure,” he turned and smiled at me. “Just basically fight so that your grandma would be proud,” he joked. The imagery of a crowd of grandmothers watching instead of the swarthy one that was there was more than a little entertaining.

  “Yeah, alright,” I agreed. We grew silent and just watched, the fights weren’t longer than ten minutes, and a couple of them were as short as three minutes. I could feel my turn slowly coming up, turning my stomach in anticipation.

  The fights weren’t as reigned in as they were in official matches. If I had to say why, I’d bet that the referee had money on one or the other and was hoping drawing it out longer would be to his advantage. No match was actually ended on a technicality, but if you got enough warnings you weren’t ushered over to Ross to talk after the fight even if you won. I couldn’t help but wonder what kind of money was changing hands that night.

  The fights went quickly and soon Ricky was motioning me down to the ring. I chugged half of a beer for a little bit more courage. When it was my turn I couldn’t quite get all of the noise around me out of my head.

  The fighter they had me up against was older than me, and bald. He was taller than me by a few inches, but I wasn’t worried. I’d taken worse than him before.

  The fight started and he came right at me.

  I didn’t think he’d move so fast? Fuck. He got a couple hits on me, my left shoulder, even my ribs. They hurt like hell, I hadn’t been hit properly since that night I killed my dad. I hadn’t been hurt truly since then, and it caught me off guard and left me blocking more than anything. I had to get his ass off me, so I kicked him back hard in the stomach—and it felt right. My foot against his soft ribs felt right.

  He started back at me, all fury and speed, and something changed. I looked up at his face as he turned around and I wanted to puke. His features had muddled into some deformed mess, not the man I had squared up against. I hadn’t punched him in the face, but it was just so damn different than it was just a few minutes ago. There, in front of me on the mat, running towards me, was my dad’s face. Not the bloated corpse, but my flesh and blood living father.

  He came at me again and I was done.

  I was fucking done being hit.

  I kicked his stomach, and when he doubled over I just went at that face. I gave him my fists again and again, rearranging, changing. I honestly wasn’t sure this time if the blood smell was my nose or his face. The referee didn’t stop me, so I kept wailing on him.

  I had so much pent up anger over the last year. I wasn’t allowed to feel angry because I was bogged down in so much fucking guilt. Fuck my dad! The asshole didn’t do shit for me except make sure that I hated every damn day I was alive. He had forced me to defend my own life since I was a kid. Told me I wasn’t worth shit when he literally did nothing to earn anything he had.

  Let me believe that my mother’s death was my fault.

  I was punching my dad in that moment, not using Jiu Jitsu, straight up swinging like boxing until the referee had to stop me. I had a tooth partially buried in my finger when I finally looked at my banged up hands later.

  His face was busted completely, he had to be carried off and his face was just pouring out blood. Somewhere in the back of my mind I couldn’t figure out how he could survive blows like that, but my dad couldn’t even take on a side table.

  I had to catch my breath; I stepped to the side and opened a water bottle.

  “Ross wants to see you,” Ricky said, his goofy smile was almost ear to ear. I can’t imagine what kind of commission he got from finding prize fighters. No wonder he’d been so friendly.

  “I’ll be there in a sec,” I said, pouring my water over my hands before I wiped them off with a towel. I’d have to get something to stop them from getting infected later.

  Ross was sitting off to the side, a beer in hand and a smile on his face.

  “Holy shit, now that wasn’t a fight—that was a freaking crime scene!” he exclaimed. Laughing, he stood up and shook my hand with his thick sausage fingers, turning back to look at the current fight that was being set up.

  “Thank you,” I said, still coming down from the high of it. The high I only ever got from fighting, from feeling my hands pound into someone. It was the literal definition of a guilty pleasure.

  “Think you could do that again?” he asked, smiling without looking at me.

  “Yes sir,” I said, I wasn’t bragging, maybe I should have bragged a little.

  “Alright, we’ve got a line of fights we’re planning, want to be part of my crew?” he asked looking over to me.

  “Yes sir, that would be great,” I admitted. “How soon would my first fight be?” I asked.

  “Within the next couple weeks, and you need to get yourself an actual phone,” he added. He turned to grab an envelope and instead grabbed four. “These are all for you, I want you to see I’m investing in you,” he said, showing more faith in me than I had in myself at the time.

  “Yes sir,” I replied.

  I started to head out, and was approached by a handful of other people offering me positions, but I was already spoken for. I never considered shopping around.

  My first official fight was a few weeks later and I made a flat thousand off it.

  A thousand bucks for beating the shit out of another human being that I definitely saw as my father.

  I can’t say I really had anything to complain about.

  13

  Brooklyn

  Life is hilarious.

  I can’t think of any other word that could describe it better, it’s amazing. One day I’m living in a small town in Podunk Nowhere, and the next thing I know I’ve got my own condo in Hollywood Hills with movie offers pouring in faster than water.

  My first film was based off a book series I had never read and even after I finished filming I still didn’t bother to pick it up. It didn’t matter if you understood the book, or if you were exactly like the characters, people would always complain about the difference. It was a fun project about a girl who shot arrows that pierced time and space, just nerdy enough to fill what was a growing movie scene at the time.

  I didn’t think I would make it so big this quickly.

  Chet flew me out, making sure I got headshots before we left New York. Within a couple weeks I had an off
er, and within a month we were filming. Filming! A movie! I had always been a performer. I had been in cheerleading, talent shows, anything I could get my hands on. I was always surprised my mom hadn’t tried to put me through pageants.

  When I bought my condo the movie hadn’t even premiered yet.

  Yet here I was, a “budding actress” who already had her hands on primo real estate.

  The filming wasn’t even that difficult—the time I put into it and the perks I got out of it, were nowhere near worth what I was paid for it, but you sure as hell weren’t going to find me complaining. For once in my life everything was as smooth as could be; my dad dying was the best damn thing that had ever happened to me.

  Although probably not the best for my mom.

  More than once I’d get home, greeted by my kitty Jelly Bean that I’d gotten the moment I had my own place, and I’d have huge stacks of letters from her and voicemails that seemed to be waiting to swallow me. It was always the same thing.

  “Baby, baby I miss you. I saw that you’re going to be in a movie! You should come visit your mommy now!”

  “Brooklyn! I need your help please. God they think I’m crazy and they’re driving me there, please call me back. Please help me.”

  “Honey, nobody knows, it’s safe, please come back to me, I miss you so so much, I think about you all the time.”

  It was awful.

  From what I could glean from the dozens of messages she’d left, the cop had dropped her on the spot. He didn’t want to have it on his name, and he didn’t want to be a part of the drama. My mom got the best damn lawyers the money she had access to could buy. Even the best lawyers could only get you so far though.

  She was forced into pleading insanity, saying it was self-defense.

  There had been rumors around town for years. I’d heard them, that my mother was running into one too many doors, if you know what I mean. They’d peer at us when they didn’t think we were looking, more fodder for the gossip mill. The kind of shit my Aunt Jo would have eaten up. There really wasn’t any such thing as an impartial jury, the town was small.