by Lane Hart
Trick
A Cocky Cage Fighter Novel
By Lane Hart
COPYRIGHT
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue were created from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual people or events is coincidental.
The author acknowledges the copyrighted and trademarked status of various products within this work of fiction.
© 2017 Editor's Choice Publishing
All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Edited by Angela Snyder
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THIS BOOK IS INTENDED FOR MATURE AUDIENCES 18+ ONLY. THE STORY CONTAINS ADULT LANGUAGE AND EXPLICIT SEX SCENES, including sexual assault scenes that could trigger emotional distress.
If you or someone you know has been the victim of sexual abuse you should call 800.656.4673 or visit HTTPS://WWW.RAINN.ORG/ABOUT-SEXUAL-ASSAULT to get help.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Epilogue
Prologue
Staff Sergeant Patrick Foxx
June 19, 2014
Helmand Province, Afghanistan
“It’s been quiet today. Too quiet,” I tell my best friend as we both lay stretched out on our side-by-side cots, my booted feet hanging off a few inches. Two years ago, during our first tour, I added mattresses to the long list of comfort items I miss from home. It’s still at the top of the list.
“You think this is the quiet before the storm?” Austin asks with a snicker, knowing my pessimism well. We’ve known each other for nearly six years now, ever since we met on base back at Camp Lejeune.
“Maybe,” I answer. “You sure as fuck don’t go from finding and disabling twelve bombs in the span of three days to a day like today with a big fat zero.”
Austin is the explosive ordinance disposal genius who can build and dismantle bombs. I’m just one of the grunts who patrols with his unit, watching their back with my M16 at the ready.
With a groan, Austin rolls to his side to face me, his cot creaking underneath his shifting weight. “Don’t even start that shit, Trick. Maybe it’s a sign that we’re finally nearing the end of our penance. Obama says we’re gonna be pulling out of here before the end of the year. Just think, in six months we could be going viral.”
“Going viral, huh?” I ask him with a chuckle.
“Yeah, viral,” he replies. Rolling to his back again, he rests his hands behind his closely shaved head as he narrates one of his daydreams. “First, I’m gonna show up to Alyssa’s office with a big, bright bouquet of flowers and have someone videoing when I walk into her office and surprise her. Then, we’ll go over to the school together where I’ll sneak up behind Grayson in his kindergarten classroom. Grayson will yell ‘Daddy!’ before jumping into my arms.”
“Sounds perfect,” I tell him sadly, envious that there’s no one in my life to surprise when I get home.
While we’ve been here in Afghanistan or, fuck, even during my entire stint in the Marines, I haven’t received a single letter, email, or video chat. No one but the guys over here serving with me give a shit if I live or die.
“Who the hell am I kidding,” Austin grumbles, slapping a hand over his eyes. “Grayson probably won’t even recognize me...”
“Don’t worry, man. He’ll recognize you,” I assure him, because even my pessimism can’t rain on this truth.
When Austin continues to stay silent, I know he’s obviously upset thinking about the son he missed being born, taking his first steps, his first day of school and all the other major moments of Grayson’s life. All he has of those events is a few pictures.
“I’ll never be able to get back all the years I lost with them after being a dumbass and getting Alyssa pregnant, but somehow I’ll find a way to make it up to him and her both,” Austin promises.
Of course I’m familiar with why Austin joined the Marines. It was either the military or prison for him after the high school found out about his much younger girlfriend getting knocked up. Now Alyssa’s his wife, but during their marriage he’s only spent a handful of days with his family. Even so, he’s cherished each and every one. They’re what he lives for.
“God put me here as punishment for my sins, I get that now, and I deserve every second of this hellhole desert,” Austin says before he glances over at me. “But I’ve never understood what you’re doing here.”
“That’s easy,” I tell him. “Same reason as you. Family.”
“What? You still think you have something to prove to your asshole father?” Austin asks. “I thought you finally let that shit go.”
“That’s not what I meant,” I reply with a shake of my head. The Marines may have started as a way to earn my father’s respect, but it’s more than that now. “This place might be hell to you, but it’s the only place I’ve ever felt like I belonged.”
“I love you, brother, but that’s just depressing as fuck,” Austin tells me with a chuckle, reaching over to slap me on my shoulder. “The first thing we’re gonna do when we get home is find you a woman. There’s only one place a man belongs, and that sure as shit isn’t here.” Shaking his head, he says, “In a way, I guess you’re getting off lucky. When you finally find that gut-wrenching, head-spinning love, at least this will all be behind you. I miss my family so goddamn much that sometimes it’s hard to breathe.”
“You’re gonna see them again,” I tell him, since I know that’s what he constantly worries about.
“Hell yeah, I will,” he replies with a smile. “But if not, you better tell my wife and son that I love them and died fighting my way back to them.”
Chapter One
Patrick Foxx
The angry lyrics of Linkin Park’s “Numb”, my intro song for when I walked into the arena, are still ricocheting around in my skull when the bell rings. Just like my previous four fights, I start the initial seconds of the first round by standing in center of the octagon with my arms spread wide, giving my opponent a free shot to hit me anywhere and anyway he wants.
To most, it probably seems like a stupid, cocky move, but that’s not my intention. Honestly, I just yearn for the few moments I get to feel the sting of pain instead of the constant numbness. An
d if this fight is like all the others, it’ll be the one and only hit the fucker lands on me before I put him to sleep.
The pudgy asshole hesitates, thinking it’s obviously a trap before he finally gets the balls to step up and land a weak jab to my left temple.
Jesus fuck. Our lightweights hit harder than him. Linc warned me this guy was an incredible wrestler and not to let him get me on the ground. He was obviously right since the boy can’t strike worth a shit.
Now that playtime is over, my gloved fist shoots forward so fast it’s completely unblocked, landing like a brutal hammer on my opponent’s jaw. His head rocks backward so hard his mouthpiece flies through the air before landing a few feet away. Based on the way his eyes roll back in his head, I know he’s finished before he falls like a stiff tree onto the canvas. I don’t even try to lunge for him once he’s on his back. Instead, I wave my hand in his direction, urging the bald, burly referee to check on the poor guy so that he’ll finally call the fight.
This was supposed to be the toughest fight of the tournament; and instead, it was the quickest. Jude and Linc, the owners and top cage fighters at Havoc, said that having five fights in five days wasn’t for the faint of heart, but it’s been a breeze for me other than trying to get used to the snug spandex shorts. My biggest concern has been forgetting all the shit they told me not to do or I would get disqualified, because in war there are no rules. It was sometimes a fight to the death, and reeling myself back in the cage takes a concentrated effort. Mostly, I’ve just pictured the piles of green bills waiting for me if I’m able to keep myself in check and not fuck up.
It’s not as though Havoc’s team even needed me to win my final fight tonight. First place had already been clinched by Nathan Lewis, so no one really gave a shit how my fight ended. But I do. The better I finish, the more likely the money will keep rolling in with an IFC contract. Not only that, the training and physical exertion of cage fighting has been a godsend to my anger and racing thoughts. Those thoughts are the typical ones of how I couldn’t save my best friend in Afghanistan, so he came back home in a casket to his wife Alyssa and their young son Grayson. Survivor’s guilt they call it. I call it God being an unfair bastard. No one would’ve missed my dumb ass or even bothered to make any funeral arrangements if I hadn’t come back alive.
Unlike every other fighter from Havoc, and probably all the other men in this tournament, there’s not a single person here in the arena cheering for me other than my own teammates. How fucking pathetic is that?
And, no, I’m not an orphan. Both of my parents are still alive and kicking; only, for the past eight or so years, they’ve been doing so with their new families.
My parents divorced when I was in high school. By my senior year, when I was legally an adult, they had both remarried. There were no custody battles or agreements, and neither invited me to live with them after graduation. They assumed I would take care of myself, and I knew neither wanted me to fuck up the new families they had going. I was nothing but a reminder of their past relationships. Which was fine, except for the fact that my mom and dad both married people who already had young children from previous spouses. My parents happily embraced their stepchildren as their own.
My dad stayed in Florida and inherited two stepdaughters before having another kid with his new wife. My mom left for California with her new man, who already had a son, and now they share a daughter. I have, like, five brothers and sisters that I don’t know shit about. I think my stepsisters have long ass names. That’s all I remember from the one time we met for our parents’ wedding a few months before I joined the Marines. I don’t even know the names of my half-siblings or their ages. Guess that makes me a shitty brother. I blame my parents for not bothering to keep in touch with me. Hell, I was the one who reached out to them on fucking Facebook since I didn’t even have their phone numbers.
A few weeks ago, I set up an account because I was lonely and looking for I don’t know what, maybe belonging or acceptance. I spoke to my dad for about five minutes in our one conversation on Alyssa’s laptop. Then, she came home and got pissed at me for using it without her permission. Or maybe she was upset because I read part of her naughty story. Either way, I never asked to use her computer again. And money’s so tight, I don’t have a data plan on my phone or internet service in my small, one-bedroom apartment.
So, yeah, there you have it. I’m a completely broke former Marine, and I’m alone in a world full of billions of people.
When Nate, the prick Alyssa’s dating, showed up at my apartment after we got into a scuffle and asked me if I wanted to not only earn money fighting but also a free trip to Daytona, Florida, I thought it was fate. It was just hours before that my father asked if I wanted to come down to visit. Maybe he’s changed and isn’t the same asshole he was eight years ago. Or maybe I’m hoping that once he finds out I’ve been serving our country for the past few years, I might just finally earn a little bit of respect from him.
How stupid is that? I’m a grown ass man and still want my father’s approval.
“Congratulations on another win!” Alyssa says with a stunning smile when she comes up to me as I’m leaving the cage. She’s as beautiful as always with her long, chestnut hair falling down around her shoulders, wearing jeans and a black Havoc tee. It still hurts to see her even after all these weeks since she friendzoned me.
“Thanks,” I tell her with a quick hug before making my escape to the locker rooms.
And, no, she’s not here for me. She’s here for Nate, the prick that’s now her boyfriend. For months I waited for her to heal from the loss of her husband and my best friend because I didn’t want to push her into anything too soon. Apparently, I waited too long, or she never had any interest in me, because the dick she’s with now swooped in before I had the chance. To say it was a crush to my ego having the one woman I’ve ever cared about practically telling me to go to hell is an understatement. It was fucking brutal.
But believe me, I got Alyssa’s message loud and clear. However, after training my ass off the last few weeks at Havoc, I haven’t had a chance to even look at another woman. Hopefully, that will all finally change tonight.
“That was incredible!” Jude says to me after I get a shower and change, retaking my seat with the rest of our team in the arena to wait for our last two guys to fight. I’m so ready to get the fuck out of here.
“You haven’t even worked up a sweat in the cage all week,” Linc adds with a grin and a slap on my shoulder.
“Here’s the five thousand as promised, one for each win, and another five for helping us clinch first place,” Jude says, offering me a thick envelope that looks more like a lifeline. I’ve been scraping to get by, so it’s nice to have a little cushion for once.
“Thanks,” I tell them, taking the money and shoving it down into my duffle bag.
“I think you just sealed the deal on a contract,” Linc says. “I expect we’ll have an offer for you by the end of next week.”
“Good. Call me if you hear anything. After you all leave for the airport Monday morning, I’m heading to my dad’s.”
“Will do,” Jude says with a fist bump. “Just stay out of trouble, and we’ll get down to hardcore training when you get back to Cary.”
“Sounds good,” I tell him.
After winning my last fight in the team tournament and getting the cash, I’m pumped and feel the need to celebrate the fact that I may even receive a fat IFC contract in the coming days. I sure could use a nice payday since my savings is practically depleted thanks to my inability to hold a job after becoming a civilian again. There are no college degrees under my belt, and the whole “I’m a helluva marksman with an M16 and can kill men with my bare hands” thing are not really qualifications many employers appreciate.
For a few weeks, I worked as a bouncer at a night club until I beat the shit out of an asshole who got a little too handsy with a woman after she told him to fuck off. From there, I tried working as mall security
. Come to find out, the supervisor said it was not acceptable to chase down and break a man’s arm for stealing a pair of shoes. Apparently, they didn’t appreciate my version of serve and protect, but it’s not as if I can just press a button to turn that shit off. I have a problem with rage and could probably benefit from some anger management classes.
Maybe fighting in a cage like a rabid animal is all there is for me now, at least until my temper cools down. It’s been so long since I was institutionalized into the Marines that I can’t really remember if I’ve always been an overconfident hothead or if they made me that way. And isn’t that the reason I’m staying in Florida for an extra week?
Lately, I feel like I don’t know who the fuck I am anymore if I’m not a soldier. I’m still trying to find the place where I fit in the world and thought reconnecting with my estranged father might be a good place to start. Hell, if that doesn’t work, I’m all out of ideas since I can’t afford a plane ticket to see my mom in California.
If nothing else, at least I now know that I kick ass as a cage fighter. The rigorous training has done wonders helping me sleep a few hours a night without startling awake dripping in sweat from the usual nightmares. So, as long as it pays, I’m gonna keep using my fists to earn a living. God, I hope Jude and Linc are right and the IFC calls me sooner rather than later.
Tonight, though, I’m trying not to think about any of that shit. I just want to drink away my blues and finally get laid. Good thing the other guys from Havoc have the same thing in mind. Well, Ace, Luke, and Alex, the only ones left who aren’t pussy whipped yet. The age difference in me and all of them is at least four or five years. They’re young enough that they shouldn’t be thinking about settling down. Not that I am either at twenty-seven, but I haven’t even had a damn date in almost a decade.
The trendy Daytona Beach club is already crowded when we walk in around ten, the dance floor lit up with strobe lights, slam packed with half-naked, sweaty bodies writhing to the ear-splitting music. It’s not my scene at all, but nowadays only the gym or my silent apartment seems to meet the criteria. Being around this many people means having to give the benefit of the doubt for trusting that none of them are packing heat or planning to blow the place up. Odds are neither of those scenarios will go down tonight, but convincing my paranoid brain of that is a different story. Alcohol will help numb the irrational thoughts.
