Dirty Fighter: A Bad Boy MMA Romance Page 9

  “I don’t have a condom,” he said softly, his voice was rough and masculine. I needed him so badly.

  “I’m on the pill,” I offered. I didn’t have anything, I trusted him enough to tell me if he did. His eyes were dark, we kissed again, and then he leaned me to the side and onto my back. He leaned over me and kissed me, his left hand strayed down to my thigh and started to slide up my skirt. I smiled into the kiss, feeling coy and wet. He turned me on so much.

  I couldn’t believe I finally had him in my arms.

  I had thought about him constantly for three years, nothing but him, and he was finally mine.

  His fingers ran against my clit through my underwear and my breath hitched, fuck.

  “Is this okay?” he asked, wanting to be sure. He was so wonderful.

  “Of course,” I said softly.

  “I’ve been thinking about you so much,” he said, sliding down my underwear and taking them off my legs. He kissed me again, his thick fingers against my clit and entrance. It felt sublime. So much that I’ve wanted for so long, and not even close to enough. Nowhere close.

  “Me too,” I replied, gasping as he slid one finger into me, crooking it into a come-hither motion. It felt like he had known where to press in me, like he had found the spot on instinct. I found my hips gyrating against his hand.

  He kissed me again, and I had to protest.

  “I need you,” I complained softly, feeling selfish. I wanted him in me, he had me so turned on, so ready, that it would be cruel to make me wait any longer.

  “Fuck,” he said softly, his eyes were dark with arousal. I watched through heavily lidded eyes as he stood and slid off his pants and underwear. He was hung like a freaking stallion. His legs and the rest of him were just as fit, perfect muscles that I could spend days exploring. He leaned back over me, kissing me as he slid his fingers against me one more time. I was dying of anticipation.

  I felt him start to line the head of his cock up and slowly press in, it was hot and perfect. His cock was just wide enough to fill me, stretch me, without hurting. As he filled me it felt like everything in the last three years was vanishing, like he was undoing all of the missing him I had done.

  All of the wishful thoughts.

  All of the wet dreams.

  It felt so good that I didn’t know what to do besides moan and kiss him.

  He pulled back and pressed in again slowly a couple times before he began to build a pace. It was the perfect stretch and burn. I began to rock back against his thrusts. His grunts were soft and they mingled with my moans in the air. The couch beneath us creaked under our motion.

  He changed our positions, sliding one of my legs over his shoulder, and it hit that spot, my g-spot. Again, I was bursting with pleasure and writhing beneath him.

  “Adam, I’m so close,” I moaned. He kissed the knee of my leg that was over his shoulder, and slid his other hand between my legs, slipping in and rubbing it against my clit. I moaned even louder than I meant to, louder than I ever have, he turned me on so much. It felt like flying at an impossible speed.

  His thrusts were becoming erratic, I was already so close, and soon I was coming so hard. Harder than I ever have. There were stars and light behind my eyelids, my body buzzed and spasmed around him. He was moaning and coming soon after me, his orgasm hit him hard and fast. I could feel him pulsing inside of me.

  We kissed again, panting breaths, before he pulled out.

  “Oh my God,” I said as he sat on the couch next to me, catching his breath.

  It was the best sex I’d ever had, and it was on a couch feet from where he first saved my life. My luck.

  18

  Adam

  I had never been to a funeral before.

  I mean, even my mother’s I was in the hospital when they buried her, the complications she suffered affected me also.

  I knew the program though. I’d seen enough television and read enough books to know how people were usually expected to act at funerals. You put on dark clothing and you go and stand around and talk to other people about your memories of that person.

  It wasn’t until I arrived at the funeral, dressed in a suit I had bought the night before, that I realized I had never met Brooklyn’s mother. I’d seen her through the window a couple times, like a recurring character in a sitcom, but I’d never spoken to her once. I knew she was abused, I knew she liked to drink, and I knew she coped by sleeping with a cop.

  I knew Brooklyn, though, and that was enough.

  The gathering was actually very small, a funeral parlor in a quiet part of town. They had decorated almost everything in lilacs and off-white colored signs and fabric. It looked more like a wedding than any funeral I’d heard of.

  “They were her favorite flower, she didn’t like sad funerals,” I heard, Brooklyn had appeared at my side when I wasn’t looking.

  “It’s kind of nice,” I replied softly. There was a guest book by the entryway and I decided against signing it. “How are you feeling?” I asked, unsure of what else to say.

  “Like I’m asleep,” she replied. “I’m numb about it, I don’t think it’s really set in yet,” she explained. I pulled her into a short hug and kissed her forehead.

  “You’re doing great,” I said gently. I needed her to know she was doing enough.

  “Thank you, I’m going to go speak with people, I’ll be back,” she said, squeezing my hand softly as she left my side.

  She had told me the night before about the complicated relationship she had with her mother. It wasn’t that they fought or squabbled much, it’s that when Brooklyn wanted to help, her mother refused it. Her mother had packed up to leave her with that asshole.

  She was still sad her mother died, though.

  She was still heartbroken.

  So I was by her side, this woman I had fallen in love with, this amazing person who I finally got to kiss, to hold. She was wonderful and finally by my side as well. I was happy for the first time in years, and it only took a funeral to do it. I wouldn’t mention that to her, of course.

  I found a seat close to the front, waiting for the building to fill out more. It was a closed-casket funeral, but the large wooden box still sat there with her mother in it, a reminder of our fleeting mortality. Everyone seemed sincerely sad, a total of maybe fifty people came through; some touching the casket, while others stayed to the back as much as they could.

  When I glanced back there, I saw a familiar face I didn’t expect to.

  At first I could have sworn it was my father. My brain set off alarms that I wasn’t expecting, my heart flooded into the rest of my chest, and then I recognized that it wasn’t my dad. It was his brother. I’d only been around my uncle a few times even though we lived in the same town. The relationship my dad and him shared grew tense when my dad married my mom. I never got the full story on it. I’d always assumed my uncle had a thing for her.

  Now he was someone who stood out at the funeral.

  He was wearing blue jeans, and a dark gray button down. Everyone else at the funeral looked like they had put some foresight into their clothing, some care to the situation. He had dressed in a way that made it look like he was just trying to blend in.

  He didn’t look sad or upset, didn’t look like he was interested in talking to anyone at the funeral. To be honest, I don’t think I could ever place him and Brooklyn’s mother in the same building, not even the same school. There was no situation in which he would have become close to her or her family.

  I caught his eyes flick over to me, purposefully, for just a moment and I felt my entire body freeze.

  He was there because of me.

  I felt my breath start to speed in my chest, images of my father flooded my mind. How heavy he was when I dragged him through the house, all that blood. How long it took for the car to sink into the lake. I felt like puking. It felt like it was happening all over again. My uncle knew it was me, he had to.

  I turned back to the front of the room, not wanting to
see his damn face anymore. I could feel his eyes boring holes into the back of my head. I could feel him watching me.

  If he knew I killed my dad, if he recognized me, it wouldn’t be hard for him to get the cops on my ass. It wouldn’t be hard for him to get me thrown in jail. He would have put the two together, and he would have figured out that because I’m here that means I killed Brooklyn’s dad as well.

  I felt so fucking screwed.

  “I could just run,” the thought flipped through my mind and I saw it unfurl. I could be gone immediately, drive anywhere I wanted to and vanish into the night. They would never find me. I would have to leave Brooklyn behind, but it would be to protect her like she had protected me for the last three years. I continued to think about it, every moment making it more and more of a permanent decision, until Brooklyn came into my view.

  She was sobbing.

  Any thought of going anywhere that wasn’t with her vanished from my mind in a heartbeat.

  Her eyes were leaking like faucets. I stood and closed the gap between us, hugging her gently. She was shaking and crying, I held her firmly. I loved her. We made our way to a small room just outside of the entryway and parlor. It was an office that was out of use for the weekend, so we sat together on the aged leather couch.

  I hugged her, rocking gently, until she slowly calmed down and her breathing began to become normal again. It hurt me so much to see her so upset, I didn’t want her to cry.

  “What happened?” I said softly when she was calm enough to reply. Her long eyelashes still had tears clinging to them, framing her beautiful green eyes.

  “I just spoke to my aunt,” she began, steadying her breath.

  “The one in New York?” I asked, trying to make it easier for her. She nodded slowly.

  “She told me things about my mom, things I—” she broke off mid-sentence into a sob, my heart was breaking for her. Jesus why was her family so fucked up, she deserved so much better. I kissed her forehead softly.

  “My mom was only leaving me behind because it was my last year of high school,” she said, shaking her head. Tears starting to well in her eyes again. “She didn’t think my dad was going to hit me, he rarely did, not like he hit her,” she continued. I wiped a few of the tears from her eyes. It’s frustrating seeing someone you love in so much pain—it’s the fucking worst. My stomach was in knots and I just wanted to protect her.

  “It’s okay,” I said softly, trying to soothe her.

  “She didn’t deserve to go to that mad house,” she sobbed. “She did it for me, to protect me, she thought I was the one who—” she cut herself off again, unable to finish the sentence. “She was there for me, and I never even spoke to her, not for the last couple years,” she explained. She started sobbing uncontrollably again. I took her into my arms and held her tight.

  I couldn’t figure out why her aunt thought this would be a good time to tell Brooklyn any of this, I was furious and hurt for her. Brooklyn didn’t deserve this shit, she didn’t do anything wrong.

  My uncle came across my mind like a searing iron, and I ignored it. My urge to run, to flee, was gone. I couldn’t leave Brooklyn alone surrounded by people who didn’t want to understand her, who didn’t want her to be happy.

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly, letting go as she wiped her face off.

  “You don’t need to apologize for your feelings,” I said gently. We kissed, wet from her tears, and then stayed in that room until the speakers started.

  19

  Brooklyn

  The people speaking were mostly people I hardly knew. A couple nurses from the crazy barn went up and talked about how sweet my mom was, making her sound like a saint. She wasn’t. They didn’t know that though, they were lucky to only know her when she was sober and needed something from them.

  My aunt went up and gave a long speech about how she’d always been close to my mother, how she was the closest and dearest friend to her in her last years. I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. This was my mother’s funeral and Jo still had to make it about herself. I shouldn’t act like I’m surprised by it, but some people just don’t care about anything but their own image.

  People expected me to speak, I’m sure, but I couldn’t bring myself to go up there. She was my mother, but she wasn’t my responsibility. I hadn’t spoken to her in three years, most people at the funeral knew that, what could I have possibly said that wouldn’t have them judging me?

  I would look like the daughter who just came back for the public image. I wasn’t, honestly, completely sure why I was there. Closure? Something to help me know it was all over and I could move on? Something to help me finally forgive my mother? I couldn’t be sure, and with my head flipping through a dozen options I didn’t think talking in front of a crowd would help.

  My own aunt had tried to hurt me.

  I mean, she succeeded in it, but I wasn’t going to let her see that.

  My old friends, the squad, had made appearances at the funeral, we made eye contact sporadically, but I don’t think that they felt up to talking to me. It was a huge step for them to even show up. I couldn’t imagine one of them purposefully ignoring me for three years, and then me just forgiving them in a matter of days. I would have to make it up to them somehow. I would have to talk to them.

  Like I said, though, talking was difficult.

  I couldn’t trust anyone besides Adam. He was literally all I had. He held my hand through the service and her burial. He listened to me when I needed to vent or spill out memories about my mother.

  My aunt had tried again and again to convince me that I should hold a dinner at the house, that other people would bring food, but why would I do that? Why the hell would I bring people into the home where I saw my father’s corpse? Where I let my mother claim guilt for something neither of us had done.

  Why would I let other people muddle that place?

  Adam wasn’t other people, of course, and after we grabbed food at a burger place he drove me back to the house. I let him in, and this time we made it up to my room, sitting on the carpeted floor as we ate and looked through yearbooks I hadn’t touched since I came back.

  “You look so different,” I said after a deep sip of cola. I could allow myself a little junk food for once. In the yearbook photo of him in ninth grade he was a lot skinnier, he had short hair and was wearing a tee-shirt that he could almost swim in. He was adorable back then, but now… I looked over at him, in the suit that I helped him choose, and could feel my heart warm. He filled the suit out nicely and he was all muscles and good looks. His hair coiffed lightly with gel, his face was clean shaved.

  “I know that the three year gap has been a … sore topic,” I began. “But I want to know about you, about what parts of your life I’ve missed.” He looked up from the yearbook and set it aside, grabbing a couple of french fries as he nodded thoughtfully.

  “It’s not the happiest in the beginning of it, are you sure you want to hear this?” he asked, looking uncomfortable. I wanted to pull him into my arms and hold him there, never letting go.

  “Yes,” I said decidedly. “You know all about mine, or you should from how much the media stalks me. I’ve done nothing but shoot movies and have more drinks than I should have,” I explained, trying to skim past my life. It really did feel like I did a lot more than that. I’d moved a lot, I’d been nominated for awards, but it was all public knowledge stuff. His life would be my privilege to know.

  “Alright,” he said, wiping his hands off on a napkin. “I spent a full month just staying on the buses, not really sure where to get off,” he started, leaning back against my bed. His eyes were distant as he recalled it. “I spent a week here or there, until eventually I ended up in California, South of LA, and decided to just stay there,” he explained and my heart almost stopped.

  “You were that close to LA within a month?” I asked, feeling robbed of so much. He nodded.

  “I knew you were there too when the commercials for your movie came out
about five or six months later. I was worried I would upset you if you saw me,” he explained. I couldn’t understand how in the world I could have ever been upset to see him?

  “Why?” I asked, confused.

  “I was homeless for the full first year, probably more than that,” he offered. My heart was breaking and I could feel tears welling up, I set them aside.

  “Homeless? Why?” I asked, upset.

  “Worried about cops and legal issues, so I didn’t want to use an ID. You need one to get a room at most hotels, and to rent an apartment basically anywhere,” he said.

  “Adam, I’m so sorry, I wish I could have done something,” I said, leaning over and hugging him. He hugged me back, and I settled in his arms, my head against his chest, as he continued on.

  “I worked out a lot, I had a 24/7 gym membership so I basically lived there. I’d work out a few hours a day, shower, then go eat and find somewhere to sleep,” he continued. “I got taken into underground MMA fighting and I got pretty big in that. I was able to get a fake ID and get an apartment and car,” he said.

  “You were a fighter?” I asked, looking up at his face. He didn’t look like what I pictured a pro fighter would look like; he wasn’t gnarled or banged up. He nodded.

  “I still am, depending on who you ask,” he said, smiling at me. “I went pro after about a year and started making so much money I literally didn’t know what to do with it,” he said, laughing.

  “So you’re okay? Not homeless?” I asked, relieved. He nodded and smiled.

  “Not homeless, but probably not a fighter for much longer, not really sure what there’s left for me to do,” he said, shrugging.

  “I can’t believe you were a pro fighter and I never heard your name?” I said, surprised, trying to think back to any time I’d heard MMA fighting mentioned.

  “I fought under the name Rick Treeland,” he laughed, my head rocked against his chest as he did. It felt great to know he was feeling better. It felt great to know he wasn’t broken up about it.