by Abby Knox
Fighting For Dylan
Worth The Fight Book 4
Abby Knox
Copyright © 2020 by Abby Knox
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’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.
Edited by Aquila Editing
Proofread by Red Pen Princess
Cover Designer: PopKittyDesign.com
For A, my most badass self defense instructor.
Fighting for Dylan
Book Four in the Worth The Fight series
By Abby Knox
Kickboxing instructor Grizz has been hiding his new hobby from his best friend Dylan because he knows she won't approve. After getting pummeled one night, he's forced to fess up the truth to her. When she comes over to patch him up, more emotional confessions tumble out and pretty soon these two are tangled up together in a spontaneous mattress-style wresting match.
Dylan can no longer deny her fantasy of getting pinned down by her best friend Grizz, the gentle giant who was there to teach her self defense when she ended a toxic relationship. She doesn't understand much about the world of mixed martial arts, and because of her family history, she's not sure if she can handle the stress of being the girlfriend of an MMA fighter. But Grizz will do whatever it takes to fight for their love.
Readers: this short, cute friends-to-lovers story is full of heat, banter and sweetness between two headstrong characters. HEA, no cheating, no cliffhanger, and only a mild bit of angst that is quickly resolved. Ages 18 and up due to cussing and graphic sexy times!
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Abby Knox
Chapter One
Dylan
What fresh hell has been unleashed all over my best friend’s face?
Grizz, the six-foot, four-inch oak tree of a man, looks like he’s been punched, kicked, and split open by a gang of thugs.
On a normal day, his flawless face could be compared to the best of ancient Greek statuary. As I watch him teach crescent kicks to a gaggle of tiny children In this cinder block building with its wall-to-wall foam mats that smell like unwashed gym socks, he’s behaving as if nothing is amiss. He can pretend all he wants that this is another day at the office, but something is terribly wrong. Today, Grizz’s beautiful face looks like it has been ripped apart and patched back together by a damn amateur with Dr. Frankenstein aspirations.
When Grizz texted earlier today asking me to stop by his kickboxing studio after work, my heart performed a little butterfly kick inside my ribs as I texted him back. Usually, we go out for coffee or food after my classes at his studio; he rarely asks me to just drop by. Maybe it’s far fetched, but I can’t help but hope that maybe he wants to talk about us. Oh, if only. Nah, it’s probably a stretch.
I’m just happy to see him at any time of day or night, for any reason. But lately, I’ve been able to admit to myself that these feelings I’m having for Grizz are more than just warm, fuzzy, friendly fondness. I really like him.
More than that, I want him. I want those beefy arms to squeeze me in more ways than just a signature Grizzly bear hug. I want to climb that monster tower of muscle, and then when I get to the top, I want to whisper the filthiest things in his ears.
In turn, I want him to pin me down, pull my hair, and wreck me until I can’t walk. Afterward, I want him to take me out for pistachio ice cream and so we can talk about what we’re going to name our babies—or puppies, maybe. It’s 50/50; I might not consider having kids because of my condition, but I’m more or less OK with that.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. Yes, I want to take our friendship to the next level, and I’m hoping that is why he asked me to come here today, on a day I don’t normally come to class.
The reality is, we’ve been hanging out less and less, and I’m trying not to feed a tiny kernel of fear that maybe he feels bad that he hasn’t told me he’s met someone. Actually, it’s more than a tiny kernel of fear. It’s got thorns growing out of it that sticks in my throat and rips into me whenever I think of this possibility. The last few months, our twice-weekly coffee meetups have turned into quick once-a-month reunions. The last time we really talked for any length of time was weeks ago, and lately when I come for my kickboxing class, he’s seemed deep in thought, and in a hurry to be somewhere afterward.
While I wait, I eyeball some of the moms who are watching their little ones from the parent waiting area. Several sport the tailored office outfits, a few look sharp in their employer-issued uniforms, and others rock yoga pants like they actually practice yoga. It's clear they all started their busy days early this morning and still took the time to freshen up their hair and makeup before coming here to Pete Griswold Kickboxing, Grizz's eponymous studio. I wonder if any of them are actually serious about putting the moves on Grizz. Ugh…no. I can’t even consider it.
As I watch my gorgeous, oversized lug of a friend teach kids how to keep their legs straight while mimicking his movements, he has the same enthusiasm as always. Grizz is like a giant kid, and all his pint-sized students adore him. I love to watch him.
Now seeing his face, I consider a third possibility as to why I’m here. His eyebrow is cut, one eye is swollen shut, his lip has been busted and, good lord, it looks like someone tried to bite off his fuckin’ ear. Not to mention the bruises on his arms and on the exposed skin along the sides of his upper abdomen, visible in his loose sleeveless tee shirt whenever he lifts his arms into fighting stance. Good lord.
Internally, I sigh. He needs me, his best friend and nurse, to look at his injuries. Nothing more than that. Such is the life of a nurse who has friends outside of work.
At the thought of anyone hurting him, I want to let fly with a roundhouse punch to the nuts belonging to the subhuman who did this damage to my friend.
The worry and stress from staring at his injuries nearly causes my fibromyalgia to flare up. I have to close my eyes and breathe through it. I remind myself that I’m safe. He’s safe. I think.
When I open my eyes, I see I’m not the only one who’s noticed his altered face. I mean, how could I be? He’s a mess.
“What happened to your face, sir?” asks a bespectacled kid with short dreads.
Grizz stops demonstrating crescent kicks to squat down so he’s on the same level as the children. “You see, Jacob, I decided to try a new sport, and discovered quickly that I don’t have nearly enough training to compete with the bigger, scarier dudes.”
A collective gasp rises from the gathered youngsters. The little boy’s eyes goggle at him and he says, “Whoa. You mean there are people even bigger than you?”
“I know, it’s hard to believe,” Grizz says, careful not to sound too proud of himself for a set of genes he had no control over. I have to stifle a laugh.
“But you’re not scary,�
�� Jacob says.
Stifling my laughter gets even harder. It’s amazing how easily kids can tell when they’re in the presence of a gentle giant. They all see right through his stern exterior; the man is a giant teddy bear.
Grizz attempts a lion growl and all the children gathered around him laugh. “What do you mean I’m not scary?”
“Well, you could be if you tried harder. Grew a beard on your face. But you should be more careful,” Jacob says, pushing up his glasses and pointing one finger into the sky like a tiny orator.
My face goes beet red as Grizz’s eyes shoot up to see me clamping my hand over my mouth.
He smiles, and just that small movement pulls at the half-healed wounds on his face. He winces, and so do I. Watching him grimace sends me into protective friend mode and nurse mode at the same time.
“Yeah, you’re right. I should be more careful. And let that be a lesson to all of you,” he says, standing up and gesturing to the rest of the kids in his class. “Practice, practice, practice.” Grizz’s eyes dart around at all his students, and then land on me, watching from the corner of the room. He sees the concerned look on my face and gives me a sheepish look. “And make sure you’ve got the right person in your corner who knows how to fix you up when you get hurt.” Even looking like hell, his intense blue eyes make my knees weak.
Dammit, why did I have to catch feelings for this man who’s clearly got more secrets than I realized? If he’s into some violent shit, I’m just going to kick myself until I get over these unruly emotions. Self-defense kickboxing is one thing. But someone who gets into random fights? Nopety-nope. Red flag.
I’ve learned that much from my past. My drunk of a father was a shouter who threw things, my stepbrother was a bully who slammed doors and called me every name in the book. Throughout my life I’ve been around men who mistreat me.
Up until now, I had thought I was getting better at keeping the right company. My life these days is calm, quiet and safe. Grizz is a big part of that. But, if he is mixed up with bad people, maybe it is better if I move on. Maybe it wouldn’t be the end of the world if he’s met somebody else. It would make more sense.
I’m not his type, anyway. The social media profiles of some of the women he’s dated in the past tell me everything I need to know. Leggy, statuesque women with top-heavy silhouettes and deeply toned arms. Women who could pound me into the ground. My short stature, mousy brown hair and too-wide hips are not going to get me on the cover of In Shape magazine anytime soon.
Should I have been creeping on his exes’ social media? It was all done before I developed feelings for Grizz. At the time, it was just curiosity. Since I realized I had a crush on him, I haven’t been able to creep on their pages anymore because it only served to remind me that he most likely does not reciprocate my feelings.
We make perfect sense as friends, and I don’t want anything to ruin that. Ever since Grizz and I met, I thought my luck had changed. He’s so kind, gentle and patient. He likes to listen to me. And even though he was a man of few words when I first met him, he opened up with a fountain of stories once I earned his trust.
Grizz and I first met at the grocery store. I saw him watching the way my then-boyfriend had been ridiculing the way I was dressed. I remember clearly that he didn’t like that my sweater was a little snug; but it was my favorite sweater, and I had recently put on a few pounds. I didn’t care, though, I just liked that sweater. As soon as that dude headed to the john, Grizz slid over like a ninja and slipped his business card into my hand. “I teach kickboxing and self-defense. Or you could, you know, call that number if you just need someone to talk to.”
I broke up with that guy shortly after that. I’d seen enough red flags to know things could get physically violent the longer the relationship wore on. I joined Grizz’s kickboxing class, and we’ve been friends ever since. That was two years ago. Since then, he’s come to understand my chronic pain, and worked with me one-on-one to make sure all the sparring that I have to do in class doesn’t trigger a flare-up.
After class is over, some of the students’ moms rush over to Grizz to ask him what happened to his face. He gently, shyly laughs at their cooing and clucking. My throat tightens as I watch the women throw themselves at him, even the married ones. He could have any one of them this very second. I can tell by the way they lean into him, touch their hair when they talk, bite their lips, and look overly concerned. And honestly, who could blame them? He may be huge and strikingly handsome, but he also has a sweet, little-boy smile that brings out the protective mode in women everywhere.
When everyone finally filters out, I help Grizz stow the punching bags, targets, and other equipment. I wave him off when he gets out the mop bucket to clean the mats. I take over and let him rest and rehydrate.
He’s quiet at first, like he’s not sure how to begin.
“So…. Are you gonna tell me who dumped you into the wood chipper face first or do I gotta drag it out of ya?”
I regret making such a dumb joke when it causes him to smile and laugh, which makes him wince again like before.
“Sorry,” I say.
He lifts one shoulder as if to say it’s all good and saunters closer me while I finish mopping up. I feel him watching me. My bloods sizzles at the idea of being watched, yet I remind myself not to get my hopes up. The crackling of the plastic bottle is one of his annoying habits, and I turn to arch my eyebrow at him. He looks apologetic and stops. One of our constant sources of friendly banter is trying to get one another to break our bad habits. It’s all in good fun.
Soon, Grizz has moved in closer still, so close that my senses pick up his pleasant scent of fresh sweat combined with clean laundry, on top of the smell of dirty mop water and gym odors. It fills my head with thoughts of wrapping myself up in one of his signature bear hugs. I’d love to get that smell all over my clothes. Until recently, the smell made me happy because it reminded me of my friend, but more and more, that happy feeling has a twinge of longing, a tiny pang that tells me, “you have a crush on a man who is way out of your league.”
“OK, I’ll tell you. But only after you help me fix up these cuts properly. If I tell you first, you might not want to help me.”
I eye him up and down as I twist out the mop. “Yeah, you’re probably not wrong about that.”
I invite him to follow me to my house, where I’ll see what I can do to patch him up.
The water circling the drain in my bathroom sink has turned pink from cleaning up Grizz’s wounds and dabbing away the blood with cotton balls and antiseptic.
“Could you just, like, use running water? That’s so….” Grizz makes a gagging noise.
I huff and very gently scrub the dried blood off his forehead. “I don’t like to leave the water running; it’s wasteful. Anyway, I know how to kill germs. I am a professional.”
He grunts and lets me continue lecturing him. “I don’t know who tended to you right after this happened, but they should have their medical license revoked,” I say before going back to cutting away the haphazardly applied butterfly bandages on his eyebrow.
He blurts out a half grumble and a half snort. “Ow. You can try. Nothing to revoke. Ow. Jeezus, woman.”
I gently apply antiseptic to the cut on his brow.
“So, spill it. Somebody jump you? You owe somebody money?”
Grizz looks reluctant to tell me anything. I see him swallow, and then he tells me the truth.
I listen to the whole story. I try to keep an open mind. The truth is, he wasn’t mugged, or jumped by a band of highwaymen, or hit by a car while trying to dodge traffic to rescue a kitten from a busy 6-lane freeway. Turns out, this is all the result of his own choices.
He was right to be scared to tell me, because I’m mad as hell.
Chapter Two
Grizz
Dylan’s heart-shaped face is as familiar to me as water, and equally necessary to living.
I just told her the truth: that I recently took an interes
t in mixed martial arts. That I’ve been training three times a week in my spare time for a few months now, at a local gym that specializes in it. I enjoy it so much, sometimes I train twice a day, often right after her kickboxing classes, which is why we haven’t been meeting up for coffee as often lately. I’ve been keeping it a secret because I wasn’t sure if she’d approve.
I admit to her that my injuries are the result of my first bare-knuckle brawl, which I entered just to earn a little extra scratch and some notoriety. I walked away with fifty bucks and a serious bruising.
And then I tell her that after I got my ass kicked, I cleaned my own wounds and tried to suture my cuts with butterfly bandages and such. “Then this morning this fuckin’ tear on my ear started feeling hot and I knew that was a bad sign so I poured some bourbon on it.”
“Bourbon? Really? What are you, a cattle rustler from 1882 who got caught up in some barbed wire? A Union soldier who got injured on the battlefield? Hey dummy, you know that big white building downtown? You can go in there with your big bloody face and they have professionals called doctors…”
I wave her off. God, she can really lay on the sarcasm. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Point made, Nurse Ratched.”
She shakes her head. I know she’s right, but she also doesn’t know the entire truth yet. I explain that hospital staff asks a lot of questions when a dude comes in with injuries, and technically the bare-knuckle brawls aren’t exactly sanctioned by the gym. “It’s like a thing in this dude’s backyard, in an empty pool, with illegal betting and whatnot,” I say sheepishly.
