Copyright
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, bands, and/or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Cover designer - Robin Harper with Wicked by Design
Formatting - Elaine York, Allusion Graphics, LLC/Publishing & Book Formatting
Editing - CDK & Associates
Cover - Adobe Stock
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
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
To Tami - you are always on my mind and in my heart. #fuckcancer
Life is tough my darling, but so are you. - Stephanie Bennett-Henry
“Sometimes you have to swallow your pride and accept that you’re wrong. It’s not giving up, it’s growing up.” – Author Unknown
“Pride is a spiritual cancer: it eats up the very possibility of love, or contentment, or even common sense.” – C.S. Lewis
“Cole, something’s wrong with the baby.”
My mind is fuzzy as my sleep-filled eyes try to open in response to whatever has woken me. My surroundings slowly come into focus as I look around the room in confusion.
“Cole. Please wake up. Please. Something is wrong.”
The fear in her voice immediately shakes the cobwebs from my mind and I bolt upright looking toward Tatum’s spot on the bed and feeling alarm when I find it empty.
“Cole,” she says my name again and I’m startled to find her standing next to my side of the bed. She’s bent over at the waist holding her stomach. Pain is clearly evidenced on her face, but it’s the terror in her eyes that has me instantly jetting out of bed. Wordlessly I help her sit on the side of the bed, then throw on the jeans and the shirt I had thrown over a chair only a few hours before.
“Wait here,” I instruct her quickly as I run out of our bedroom toward the kitchen. Grabbing my car keys out of a bowl we keep on the counter, I grab the overnight bag Tatum packed weeks ago in preparation for the birth of our baby, and run it out to the car before I return for her. Scooping her in my arms I try to ignore the stabbing fear in my heart when she moans in pain from the movement. Carefully, I carry her from the apartment, somehow managing to close the door behind us, and into the parking lot as quickly as possible.
Locating my car in one of our two assigned parking spaces, I get the door open and place her gently inside. Reaching across her for the seatbelt, I pull it across her body and click it into place. Her eyes laced with fear meet mine. I give her what I hope is a reassuring smile, place a kiss on her forehead and run to my side of the car all the while apprehension makes the hairs on my neck stand at attention. Frustratingly, I drop the keys onto the floor mat, and scramble to find them and get them into the ignition. Sighing with relief as my temperamental car starts without a hitch, I drive with one hand and hold hers with the other. The entire way to the hospital emergency room I silently plead with god, repeatedly reciting prayers to please let the woman I love and the baby that already has our hearts be okay. I tell him I’ll do anything, anything at all, if they will both just be okay.
This pregnancy isn’t something we planned by any means. We sacrificed plans, modified our lives, made significant changes, and have become optimal impending parent students these past months to get ready for her arrival. We know it’s a girl. We have the ultrasound pictures proudly displayed on our refrigerator that prove it.
The preparation was difficult, even exhausting at times, but necessary. Tatum decided not to go to art school and turned down the scholarship she had been offered and I dropped out of college and quit MMA fighting. There’s no money to be made with fighting – at least not yet for me – I’m too new. I don’t have the time to commit, given my new responsibilities. The path to success can be long and all encompassing and I haven’t the luxury of such time right now. We need a steady income for our new family now. No, fighting wasn’t in my cards, even if I thought otherwise. In an instant, Tatum and our child trumped everything. This pregnancy may not have been planned, but it was a blessing never the less. Tatum and our baby immediately became my number one priority. After all, they are the most important people in my life. I’d do anything or give up anything for both of them without question.
In the midst of my praying and reflection, I glance at Tatum and see her lips moving silently and I know she’s doing the same thing. I’d like to offer her words of comfort, I want to tell her that everything will be okay, but one look at her obvious distress reinforces the struggle with finding the optimism needed to match the words. She knows me too well. She’d see right through any act I would try to perform. I fear it would only sound hollow if I tried. It’s as if the words are held hostage in my throat, fear a barrier that’s too strong for me to push the words through. Instead, I continue silently pleading with god instead.
Finally arriving at the hospital, relieved to have hit all green lights, I whip into the first parking space at the emergency entrance I find. Running to Tatum’s side of the car, I lift her into my arms once again and rush through the waiting area to a reception desk taking care to not jostle her too much. “Help! Please, someone help us.”
“Sir?” A nurse runs out from behind the counter and approaches me immediately, “What’s the problem?” Her eyes move rapidly from me to Tatum and I can see her trying to assess the situation.
“My girlfriend. She’s pregnant, but she’s bleeding. A lot. Please help us.”
Immediately the nurse springs into action, “Follow me!” I do so immediately, following her down the hallway. She opens a sliding glass door, moves a curtain aside, and gestures to the empty gurney. Placing Tatum down gently, she immediately reaches for my hand and squeezes, then holds it tightly in her own, tears running in silent rivers down her cheeks.
The nurse fires questions at her, “When did the bleeding start?”
“I’m not sure. I woke up because I felt cramping and went to the restroom. I found that I was bleeding and the cramping has only increased in intensity.”
“How far along are you?”
“Thirty weeks.”
“Rate your pain between one and ten, ten being severe.”
“I don’t know. An eight?” She struggles to breathe as she obviously breathes through pain.
It dawns on me that we have been walking through the corridors. We come to a set of doors and the nurse pushes an automatic opener on the wall. Entering what I realize is the labor area we toured once, other people in hospital scrubs surround us and direct us into a waiting room. We ease Tatum from the gurney onto a bed while a nurse begins to hook her up to various gadgets.
I move out of the way reluctantly lettin
g go of Tatum’s hand.
My eyes volley between the nurses and what they’re doing, and Tatum’s worried face. Each time she grimaces in pain, I can feel myself cringe in response. I’d give anything to take it from her. I’ve never felt more helpless.
A doctor joins and asks Tatum many of the same questions the nurses just asked. I find myself wanting to cry out in frustration, but refrain. “Sir, would you give us a few moments? We need to get this gown on her and complete our examination. We’ll call you right back in as soon as we’re finished.”
I nod, walk to Tatum and kiss her forehead before leaving the room and begin pacing the hall outside her room. I try to remain calm; I try to think positive thoughts. I try to recall everything I’ve read since I found out she was pregnant. I’ve been fully enmeshed in this experience with her in any and every way possible. I researched and administered remedies and even sat with her and rubbed her back when she had horrible morning sickness. I’ve attended every doctor appointment. Made sure she took her vitamins. We took daily walks so she’d get exercise, but not too much and never anything strenuous. We’ve read books and internet articles. Hell, I’ve even shopped for baby items. Strange maybe, but important to me. I wrack my brain for anything that I may have read about this and come up empty. When they emerge and tell me I can go back inside, I breathe a sigh of relief to be at her side once more.
They’ve moved a large ultrasound machine to Tatum’s bedside. They already have her gown up over her belly and the doctor is squeezing petroleum jelly onto her stomach.
There have been moments in my life that I know I will never forget. Hearing my mom cry over my absentee father. Meeting Jax and the guys. Getting accepted to college. The night I went to a dorm room to pick up my date only finding I was much more interested in her roommate instead, Tatum. Asking Tatum out over and over until she finally said yes. Our first kiss, and the first time we had sex. Winning my first MMA fight. Tatum telling me she’s pregnant. Getting the call for my “real” job to support my new family. Hearing my baby’s heartbeat for the first time and seeing the smile that lit up Tatum’s face. And then, watching as the doctor moves the Doppler over Tatum’s belly again and again and again, only to be met with silence, and Tatum’s wail of pain.
“You’re hitting like a goddamn girl,” Jerry yells slurring his words.
There isn’t a day that goes by where murdering him doesn’t run through my mind. Does that concern me? Maybe a little. Would I ever do it? Hell to the fucking no. But does that mean I don’t find the thoughts highly satisfying? Maybe I shouldn’t answer that. Besides, I figure I’m entitled to use anything that can help me get through a day having to deal with him. So, I’ll just keep enjoying thoughts of pounding his face into the ground.
Sweat pours down my body in waves but I barely pay it, or Jerry for that matter, any attention as I keep pounding the bag in front of me. I’ve been training for hours. I have a big fight coming up, one that could mean a big payday. A payday I’m desperate to receive. It’s one step closer to getting out from under his thumb – my contracted obligation almost up – it’s so close I can practically taste it. It’s the much-needed light at the end of the tunnel. Especially since the metaphorical tunnel is full of jagged glass and muck I’ve been crawling and scraping my way through on a daily basis for five long years. I decided long ago the best thing to help me deal with it all would be to keep looking toward the end prize, and to save every fucking dollar I can. The end goal has become the reason I keep pounding, slamming and abusing my body into complete exhaustion day after day.
My arms burn, my fists sting under the tape they’re wrapped in, and my muscles ache - begging for rest. I ignore them, relishing in the pain. When you live your life feeling like you’re dead inside, this kind of pain helps remind me that I really am alive after all – at least physically. I push on, my goals giving me motivation to overpower the nasty voice in my ear that could care less about my exhaustion or state of mind. And doesn’t have a clue what motivates me to push on.
“Punch it harder than that!” Jerry’s demand whips at my ears like a lash. “You’re such a goddamn pussy. Why do I even waste my time with you?” Internally, I laugh. We both know why. I’m his ticket inside the MMA since his son Jackson Stone has nothing to do with him.
With a roll of my eyes I ignore him, and quickly determine that a quick jab to his throat would do it. Sure, it wouldn’t kill him, but it would be highly satisfying. I picture him coughing and hacking from the hit, grabbing at his throat, face redder than fire, eyes bulging, his voice, at least momentarily silent. That would be the best fucking part – I wouldn’t have to hear his annoying yacking anymore – at least until he healed. Yesterday, I was convinced grabbing his balls and yanking until they burst out of their tiny sac or literally tore off in my hand and he bled out was the way to take him out. Before that, I just thought maybe a lit match held close to his body -maybe up to his fat ass - would do the trick. He’s so fucking hairy; he’d quickly go up in flames. Yeah, I’ve definitely got issues. Oh well, most of us do, and we all find ways to help us deal. My lips curl at the corner of my mouth at my thoughts. No way in hell I’d ever do any of it, but sometimes imagining it helps me get through the worst moments.
“Are you fucking listening to me? I said punch the bag harder. What do you think this is, fucking patty cake? You wimp! How do you expect to win if you don’t even have the stamina to punch a bag for a few hours?” Jerry yells then sighs loudly, shaking his head in exasperation.
He knows damn well how long I’ve been here. Sometimes I think he just bitches to bitch. It doesn’t help that he’s been drinking. The slurring of his words and his unstable stature make it clear he’s had more than a few. I should have just hit up Jax’s gym today, god knows I’d much rather be working out with my friends. Jax, a friend since high school, as well as Tyson, Ryder, Dylan, Zane, and Levi all work out at Jax’s gym, XTreme Fitness Center. Jerry used to coach me there, but after a nasty run in with his son Jax, Jerry was kicked out of the gym so I spend more time here than I’d like.
He continues to spit useless words my way and I block them out the best I can and power on. I try to ignore the fucked up methods he uses to train me. Part of it is that I’m his ticket to piss off the son that he’s dying to take revenge against. He wants to try and build me up to become even stronger and better than Jax. He’s delusional. But, unfortunately, I have no choice but to simply endure in this existence. It’s one I created for myself, the reason far bigger and far more important than enduring the asshole in my ear.
Using my forearm to swipe the sweat dripping from my forehead, I back away and drop my arms. “What the fuck are you doing, boy? Did I say you were done?” Turning to Jerry, I give him a look. One that says I’m done and don’t fuck with me. The one that even he knows when to back down from. He clears his throat, “Fine. Get your ass back here tomorrow bright and early.”
I almost laugh. Given the liquor he’s clearly putting down, he won’t be here early and he knows it. Instead, I choose not to waste words on him and stalk off to the locker room for a much needed shower. Turning the water on, I strip while waiting for it to warm. Looking down at myself I take in the artwork decorating my body. The story of my life can be found in my tattoos. Happiness, sadness, hopes, accomplishments, all of it right here like a priceless canvas. I showcase the things that have made me who I am, good or bad. I run my hand over the taped wrapped hands on my side, the heart pierced with a writing pen on the inside of my bicep, a cross on the back of my shoulder, and a rose for my mom on my arm. Brushing my hand over the name I wear across my ribs, my finger traces each letter in her name, turning my thoughts somber.
With burning eyes, I quickly wash and dress, hurriedly packing my bag, anxious to get the hell out of the gym. Standing on the sidewalk for a few minutes I breathe in the smell of rain in the air. It doesn’t rain much in Arizona, but when it does, it’s like a party. Everyone gets excited and revels initially at the sme
ll of the impending downpour and then the feeling of it on skin.
I start my car and immediately crank up the radio hoping to drown out my somber thoughts. I mindlessly drive and arrive at my apartment door ready to insert the key into the lock, but pause when I hear laughter. Looking down toward my friend Ryder’s apartment I smile a little unable to help but feel happy for him. I like living in the same building, and it used to be pure entertainment seeing the women come and go from his apartment. He definitely had a revolving door, that’s for sure, but not anymore. He and his girl Tessa are really happy together and I see him smile more that I ever have. Well, when I see him anyway. Tessa moved in with him recently, and while I miss hanging out with my friend on what was sometimes a nightly basis, it’s a good thing and I’m happy for both of them.
I could be wrong, but I suspect that he stayed in his apartment here instead of moving into Tessa’s nicer one for a reason – me. I mean, sure, Jax’s gym isn’t far from here and Ryder works out daily so it makes sense he would want to stay close by, but I think my friend is worried about me. I wish he wouldn’t be. Nothing he can do about it. And he has much better things to focus on anyway.
Unlocking my door, I set my stuff down and look around. The dark space feels especially uninviting tonight, almost sterile. Earlier, all I wanted to do was come home, crack open a beer and catch the end of the ball game, but now, I don’t feel much like being here at all. Before I give it another thought, I spin on my heel, lock the door once more and head out – Ryder and Tessa’s laughter following me down the hall.
Forgoing driving, I elect to walk instead. Turning right, I head toward the busy part of down town. Taking a deep breath my body slowly relaxes – my shoulders ease, fists unclench, even my jaw loosens.
My apartment building is located on Mill, which is near the local college. With school in session right now, the street is busy. Restaurants have people spilling out the doors, stores stay open later and shoppers move in and out. Laughter floats on the air and I can hear music from a local band playing in the plaza that’s the center of it all. The threat of rain isn’t keeping people inside tonight.
Fighting Pride Page 1
