Mountain Misfits MC: Complete Box Set

by Voss, Deja

  “You about ready?” Tank asks, coming back in the bedroom.

  “Who was that at the door?”

  “It was my mom,” he says.

  “Is everything alright?” I know he has a good relationship with his parents, and I admire that. I envy it, even. The thought that maybe I could one day be a part of a decent family is something so foreign to me. The upsides of dating this man keep stacking up higher and higher.

  “Yeah, everything is fine, she was just dropping off some mail that accidentally got sent to their house.”

  “She didn’t want to come in?”

  The way he’s avoiding my eye contact makes me uncomfortable.

  “Olive, I swear she’s going to love you. It’s just…”

  “Weird?” I ask. “Awkward?”

  “Yeah,” he mutters.

  “I don’t disagree with you, babe,” I say. “I’m not going anywhere. We can take this as slowly as we need to. Besides, I don’t want to look like a homeless person the first time I meet your parents.”

  “Well, you’d be the hottest homeless person I ever met.”

  He grabs my suitcase for me and slides his duffle bag over his shoulder. We walk around the house, turning off lights and locking doors, and head for his truck. We have a three-hour drive ahead of us, and although the idea of sleeping all the way there sounded tempting when I first got out of bed, I’m wide awake now.

  “Are you excited?” he asks me.

  “I am. I like watching Red fight, and I haven’t been out of town in forever. Are you?”

  The way he’s staring ahead at the road makes me feel like things are about to get heavy.

  “I know you love him,” he says, point-blank.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m just having a rough day.”

  “Is it something I did?” I ask, resting my hand on his thigh. I thought the last few days have been great. We’ve spent so much time together, exploring each other’s bodies, cuddling, talking, making food and watching TV like normal couples do. I figured we were really making progress. At least, I’ve been enjoying it.

  He doesn’t answer; he just keeps staring ahead like he doesn’t want to say something that will come off as offensive.

  “Lay it on me, Tank. If we’re going to keep doing this, you have to talk to me.”

  “No, Olive,” he says. “You have to talk to me. You think I don’t notice the way that you and Red talk? You think I don’t feel left out knowing that you’re dumping your heart out to him? I feel like all we do is fuck, sleep, and eat.”

  I have to hold in a laugh, because the last part of that statement sounds basically like the ideal relationship to me, but deep down, I know he’s right.

  “I don’t ever want you to feel left out, Tank,” I tell him. “If you want to know the truth, the reason why it’s easier for me to talk to him is because he’s the kind of person I’m comfortable around. It’s not your fault. It’s the kind of past I have, the kind of past he and I share. We’re scumbags.”

  “So you’re uncomfortable around me because I’m ‘normal?’” I can hear the frustration in his voice, and I feel like no matter how I word this, it’s not going to make sense or soften the blow.

  “I’m not uncomfortable around you. I’m afraid of letting you down. I’m terrified of hurting you, or making you feel disappointed in me, or making you compromise the wonderful person that you are to accommodate the ridiculous person that I am.”

  “Do you know how hard it is to always feel like an outsider?”

  I have to laugh at the irony of his question. I’ve been an outsider my whole life. When other girls my age were taking ballet lessons and playing with dolls, I was hiding in my room while my mom entertained my ‘uncles’ for drug money. When I was in elementary school, I developed a great sense of humor and really thick skin because kids are really mean, especially when you can’t afford new clothes every year or get sent to the nurse’s office because of your hygiene. By the time I was in high school, I learned how to shoplift so I didn’t have to worry about that problem anymore, but I also learned the easiest way to make people like me is to sleep with them.

  That’s why now, as an adult, I am obsessed with make-up and soap and nice clothes. I’m fixated on making money in a legal way so I don’t have to steal. I have been celibate until recently because I finally feel like I don’t have to have sex to be accepted.

  And I finally found a band of Mountain Misfits, true outsiders, who love me for who I am and don’t judge me based on my past.

  But I can see where he’s coming from. Maybe we do all judge Tank a little based on his privilege. Maybe he does constantly get set aside as the “normal dude” because he didn’t have a life of suffering. Treating him differently, even accidentally, isn’t right.

  “I do know how hard it feels, Tank. I can relate in so many ways. Obviously for different reasons, but I don’t ever want to be the reason you feel that way. I would never knowingly put someone through what I went though.”

  “I know,” he says. “You’re too nice to do that.”

  “Do you want to know what me and Red talk about?” I ask.

  “You don’t have to tell me. It’s none of my business. I’m just being insecure.”

  “Stop it,” I say. “You’re an equal in this relationship, and I probably should’ve talked to you about this before I even said anything to him. We talk about you, Tank. I tell him about how I worry that I’m going to hurt you, or that I am not giving you enough, or that I’m being selfish because you deserve so much better.”

  “Better than what? Getting to spend every day with the woman I care about more than anyone in the world? The only thing that would make things better is if I knew where I stood with you, Olive, no matter where that is. I know I have your body, but is that it?”

  I slide over next to him, close enough that I can rest my head on his shoulder as he turns down the highway.

  “You know I love him, but you can’t see how much I love you?” I ask. “I guess I’m going to have to try a little harder, then.”

  He puts his arm around me and we drive in silence for a little bit.

  “You don’t have to try harder,” he says. “I just need to learn how to open my eyes.”

  “Well, I promise from now on, if I’m worried about you I’ll come to you, and not that jackass who gets punched in the face for a living.”

  “He really is a jackass,” he chuckles, “but I can’t imagine my life without him.”

  “I know he feels the same way about you. And so do I. Ever since you started taking the garbage out for me at the bar, I don’t think I can remember how to do it for myself,” I tease, staring up at his gorgeous face, waiting for that smile of his to assure me that everything is cool between us.

  “You can practice at the house if you want to. Anytime.”

  “Maybe we can just let Red be in charge of that. Are you going to be ok today?” I ask, just wanting to clear the air. I am really looking forward to what tonight could possibly bring in more ways than one, but unless he’s on board, I’m not going to be able to do that.

  “I am,” he says, stroking the side of my arm with his big callused hand. “As weird as this whole situation is, I made peace with it a long time ago. Long before it even happened, before we even said anything to you. This is really the only way things would’ve ever worked between us.” He says it convincingly enough, and I don’t want to dig any deeper.

  “You know,” he says, “I think we can call ourselves official now. We just had our first fight, and everything is fine.”

  “So that’s how normal human beings fight?” I tease, wide-eyed. “I figured there’d be a lot more crying and broken glass.”

  “You really should hang out with better people, Olive,” he jokes. “I think the guys you run around with sound like a really rough bunch.” He kisses the top of my forehead and focuses all his attention on the road. I just watch o
ut the window ahead until I can’t keep my eyes open any longer.

  Chapter 12

  Red:

  I’m all primed up for tonight’s fight. Weigh-ins went just fine, there was a little shit talk session I indulged in with my competitor, and then I hung out in the hotel all afternoon and stuffed myself with pancakes.

  It’s so funny how life changes, and every time I go to step in the octagon, I get kind of sentimental about where I came from. Growing up, I couldn’t tell you the ‘right’ way to prepare for a fight. I fought because I had to.

  I fought because I got taken away from my parents when I was old enough to remember, but too young to understand why. I never felt comfortable in any foster home, and got bounced around from house to house, family to family, until at fifteen, I decided it was time for me to just make my own life. Living on the streets was safer in my mind than living with a bunch of wolves in sheep’s clothing, people who were taking in foster kids to either work the system for money or act like complete monsters.

  At least on the streets I knew what I was getting into. I knew I couldn’t trust anyone, and I learned how to hustle. I learned how to fight. Not just to stay safe, but to make some money so I could eat or rent a hotel room every once in awhile. I learned how to dodge the law to the best of my ability, although I have seen my fair share of jail cells.

  If I didn’t have my motorcycle club, my Misfits and my best friend Tank, I’m pretty certain I would be spending a lot more than a night or two in prison.

  Now, I have a coach, I have a gym that sponsors me, I have someone who tells me what to eat during training, someone who gives me massages, someone to stitch me up if I get hurt. I don’t have to fight, but I want to. And fighting under these circumstances is super cushy compared to being a scared teenager out on the streets trying to survive.

  Now I have a club. I have a best friend. I have the woman of my dreams, and I have the insurance policy that, if anything ever happens to me, if I find myself back in that dark place, I know she’ll be taken care of.

  And that’s the most important thing to me. Knowing that I’ll never have to worry about her, because Tank is a better man than I am. He’ll love her ’til the day she dies. He’ll be the kind of man she deserves. I feel like, for once, I’m doing something responsible. I feel like, for once, I’m being a decent man.

  I told the two of them to just meet me at the arena. Olive wanted to see me before the fight, but I need to clear my head and go into warrior mode. I don’t need any distractions, and the battle I’ve been waging with my dick the last week is the only thing I’ll be able to focus on if she comes back here.

  “You in the zone?” my coach asks me. He’s a skinny, short guy who looks more like a mailman than an MMA trainer, but when he opens his mouth, everyone listens. He’s been known to launch fighters into long-term lucrative careers. He’s made me work harder than I have in my entire life, and he’s just as hungry for my success as I am.

  I close my eyes and try to picture nothing. Emptiness. Blocking out the loud music blaring from the arena and the overhead fluorescent light of the locker room and the million possible outcomes of this fight is one of the most important skills he’s taught me.

  I used to think going into a fight mad as hell was the only way to do it. I used it as an outlet to take out all my aggression. He taught me that aggression makes me blind. Nothingness gets me in a state of flow. Everything is in slow motion. I have total control.

  That, combined with my biological need to procreate, has me set up for a fast and easy win.

  “I am,” I say, standing up to start my warm-up routine.

  He tosses me a medicine ball and we throw it back and forth, priming up my reflexes, waking up my muscles.

  “There’s a lot of people here today to see you, Red. A lot of important people. This has potential to be a really important fight.”

  “Aren’t they all?” I ask.

  “You’re a good student,” he says. He passes me a jump rope and I skip away until I start to sweat in my warm-up gear. ‘You’re a good student’ is definitely something I’m not used to hearing. I think most of the teachers at my high school were probably pretty happy when I dropped out. This is different though. This means something to me. “You look warm enough,” he says, nodding at me.

  I strip down to my compression shorts, and he tosses me my robe.

  “I got your gloves and mouthpiece,” he says. My on-site physician joins us in the locker room. I can feel the excitement start to build among us and I chug a bottle of water and get ready to walk down the tunnel and into the arena.

  “You ready?” my coach asks.

  I nod, taking a deep breath and going back into my internal cave. My body knows exactly what it needs to do, and my thoughts will only get in the way. I let my mind go blank as we walk out into the bright lights, blaring music, and the roar of the crowd.

  Chapter 13

  Olive:

  I feel like my heart is going to explode when I see him walk out of the tunnel. I’ve been to Red’s fights before with the guys from the club, but it feels totally different knowing that this guy, the reason everyone is here, is coming home with me tonight.

  Hopefully in one piece.

  I have no reason to doubt his skills, but it’s hard not worry when someone you really care about is on the line. He’s tough and fierce and he’s trained so hard. I don’t like to see him get hurt, even though his battle scars just contribute to his sexiness.

  I bet every girl in this room wants to know what it’s like to get in bed with this man, myself included. I think I can imagine it pretty well, as I watch him strip down to his compression shorts as he enters the octagon. His tattooed chest and rippling abs are a sight to behold. Every inch of this man’s body is lean and muscle-bound. The second he starts sweating, I don’t know if I’m going to be able to control myself. I squeeze my fingernails into Tank’s arm and start to cheer.

  He knows exactly where we are sitting, but he doesn’t make any effort to look in our direction. I respect that. This isn’t about us. He’d be doing this whether we were here or not. Still, I try and telepathically send him every ounce of positive energy I have.

  His opponent doesn’t look like much to me. He’s a fit guy with a mean scowl, but he doesn’t have that something that Red has. That something I can’t put my finger on or explain. That something that makes him so exciting to be around.

  When the fight starts, I wish I had chugged a couple more gin and tonics because my nerves are out of control. I have my hands over my eyes, peeking out through a crack in my fingers. I am probably the worst fighter girlfriend in the history of the world. It’s not that I don’t have confidence in him winning, I just don’t want to know what has to happen for him to get there.

  Fortunately, I don’t have to be nervous for long.

  He’s one of the reasons why the motorcycle club can sleep well at night. They didn’t elect him enforcer because he’s soft and cuddly.

  He’s got this fucker out cold in a pool of blood, laying in the middle of the octagon.

  “Did he kill him?” I whisper, covering my face more tightly. You can tell I’ve spent enough time around the club that I’m used to worst-case scenarios when it comes to fights.

  Tank laughs and wraps his arm around me. “Relax, he’s moving, just not very well.”

  The crowd is going nuts, and I uncover my eyes and cheer with them, all my worries washed away and a huge sense of pride for my man welling up as they call the fight, crowning him the champion.

  Pride and excitement.

  Because now that this fight is over, all bets are off. Now that this fight is over, it’s only a matter of time until he’s all mine.

  Tank and I run over to the tunnel, trying to beat the crowd. I push my way through to the front of all the people and wait for him to make his way down. I don’t know if he’ll see me standing here, but I want to see him before we go back to the hotel.

  I’m really not p
aying attention, and I realize I might have lost Tank in my haste. Before I can turn around to look for him, I feel a familiar hand grab mine. I look up at his smiling face and he quickly presses his lips to mine before I can even say hello.

  He pulls me out of the crowd, and my heart starts racing.

  “That was awesome,” I whisper.

  “You watched?”

  “Kind of,” I admit. I walk through the tunnel hand in hand with him to the locker room. There are photographers everywhere, flashes flickering in our faces. “What happens now?” I ask.

  “I have to do a couple interviews and talk to a few people, and then I think you know what happens next,” he says, staring straight ahead, parting the crowd.

  “You want me to go find Tank and wait ’til you’re done?”

  “No,” he says. “You’re my old lady. I want you to come with me so I can show everyone how pretty you are.” I squeeze his hand tighter. I know he’s probably buzzed up on whatever sort of adrenaline rush he’s having right now, but it feels so good to hear him say that.

  “Are you sure?”

  He comes to a dead stop and picks me up off the ground, passionately kissing me while everyone just stands around and watches, cheering, as if a great romance is unfolding before their eyes.

  “I’ve been dying to do that all day,” he whispers in my ear. As good as it feels to be in his arms, I am a little concerned about all these cameras and my choice of underwear, or lack thereof, in this tight sequin dress.

  “I’m so proud of you,” I say. “Now put me down before my cooter goes viral.”

  “So that’s what all the cheering is about,” he laughs.

  He sets me down and pulls down the back of my dress for me, wrapping his arm around my waist as we finish our walk down the corridor and into the locker room. His coach is already waiting there with a towel and a big bottle of sports drink, and he chugs it down.