Copyright © Chelsea Camaron 2015
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of Chelsea Camaron, except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
1st Edition Published: April 2015
Editing by: Asli Fratarcangeli and C&D Editing
Cover Design by: IndieVention Designs
Formatting by: IndieVention Designs
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This book contains mature content not suitable for those under the age of 18. Involves strong language and sexual situations. All parties portrayed in sexual situations are adults over the age of 18.
All characters are fictional. Any similarities are purely coincidental.
Dedication
For everyone who still believes in fairy tales…
Heath
“One day, I will be more than an item to be bought or sold, won or lost.”
At fifteen, she was helpless. At eighteen, she was ruined. LoraLeigh Riffel fights every day to hold on to herself as she is tossed from the loser to the next winner, time and again.
Heath ‘Hitman’ Thomas works hard and plays even harder. From tripping pipes to winning fights, his world is in his hands.
When a battered and unstable woman is left at his doorstep for payment on a fight, everything changes in an instant.
She is the prize, but is he willing to accept the payment?
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
Epilogue
About the Author
PROLOGUE
“Once upon a time…” my mom begins reading. The softness in her voice is a lullaby all its own. Sweet memories of a moment in time, these small blips in my existence are a silent torture all their own.
“Lora—” She stops abruptly, most likely pulling her own hair out at the roots. “Fucking twat, where are you?” I listen as she continues to screech. “I know you took them. You took my candy, you little cunt. When I find you, I’m gonna claw your eyes out!”
Did I imagine the bedtime stories? Is my subconscious playing tricks on me? Is this all some game, played in my mind? Where is the mom I had in my little girl dreams?
The woman who once braided my hair and read me stories about castles and princes on white horses now lives to torment me. The last time she thought I hid her stash, she pulled my hair so hard it came out in a big chunk in her hand.
Absently, I run my fingers over the still healing scratches on my face. Two days ago as she was tweaked out on God knows what, she attacked me, saying I was a zombie trying to eat her flesh.
Rigging the string to the attic access door, I settle into my little nest. Today is the twenty-third. Any time after mid-month is when the stress level escalates. The welfare and food stamps have certainly run out by now. As soon as the first of every month comes, she trades the grocery card for cash. That very cash then pays for her stash while I live off my free breakfast and lunch at school each day.
Tears fill my eyes. Summer is coming, and I know I will spend my days hungry and my nights hiding from whatever scumbag hangs out while she lives from one high to the next.
“LoraLeigh, where did you put it?” she cries out desperately. “Please, baby girl, Momma needs her medicine.” The walls bang as she begins hitting them with her arms and head, trying to draw me out of hiding.
“Dear God in heaven above,” I whisper as the tears fall down my face, “my friend at school, Tawnie, told me to believe in you. She says you protect little children. I need to be protected. Send me someone to take it all away. Please take me away.” I look to the darkened ceiling above me, hoping on some miracle there really is a God, and he will save me from my hell on earth.
CHAPTER ONE
~Heath~
Life is good today. Hell, life is good every damn day for me. It hasn’t always been like this, but hey, make the best of it, even when things aren’t good.
Nothing I’d rather do than fuck, fight, or trip a pipe. Yeah, the sticker on the back window of my jacked-up Chevy truck sums me up. I live for fucking, fighting, and my job as a roughneck. I worked construction for years. Then my long-time friend Maverick Collins got me a rigging job when the economy took a downward turn and houses weren’t being built as much.
Oil rigging is a way of life here in the great state of Texas. Our economy in Midland survives off it. I am a derrick-man or derrick-hand, whichever you prefer to call it. I work the top of the derrick where I guide the strands of the drill pipe into the fingers at the top of the derrick while tripping the pipe out of the hole. It is hard work, but it sure feels good to get a little grimy every day. It isn’t an easy job, and it comes with its own set of dangers. Leaving at the end of the day is a reminder I made it through.
It sure is a dirty job, but hey, someone has to do it. Me, I love a hard day’s work. Call me a good ol’ boy if you want. At the end of a long day, I want to feel it in my bones. I work hard and play even harder. I am Heath ‘Hitman’ Thomas.
The job I do, the life I lead, is far from easy. It sure isn’t the life for a pretty boy. There was a time when I could have had more opportunities … maybe.
If I get real with myself, there was a time in my life when I had the potential to leave this town and avoid this life altogether. Fate, karma, decisions of a teen boy all played a hand in where I am today.
Fucking, fighting, and working day in and day out is what I do.
The Basement, my home away from home. Who am I kidding? This gym is my real home. My ‘home,’ according to legal standards, is merely an address to send my mail and a place to shit, shower, and sleep. I live, really live, here. This is the place I let myself feel alive. Here, at The Basement is my focus, where my life is outside of my paying job.
The Basement is the gym my childhood friend Wendol owns. Ever the observer, Wendol has been in my corner long before I ever stepped into a ring.
Side by side, we survived being the small guys together. Neither of us hit our growth spurts until after high school. This made us both victims to bullies. After losing consciousness from having his head in a toilet one too many flushes, Wendol made a change in his life.
The lanky, five-foot-five, barely one hundred twenty-five pound flyweight started running and lifting. He turned his parents’ basement into his own personal gym. Add a bag, and he started boxing.
Seeing the changes in him as the months passed on, I wanted that, too. He wasn’t gaining weight; no, he was packing on muscle by the pound. I started spending my afternoons and weekends training right alongside him. It wasn’t long before those same bullies were trying to be our best friends. Fuck that and fuck them.
The girls noticed the changes, too. They
were lining up for a round between the sheets with either one of us. Still are, not that either of us complain.
Wendol and I didn’t stop at merely bulking up to prevent being picked on. No, we trained. We even managed to get scouted.
However, Wendol’s dreams quickly faded when it became apparent that, no matter how good he was, he has a weakness. Glass jaw. Hit him in the jaw, and he is out for the count. I have knocked him out more times than either of us care to count. We even went through a phase trying to strengthen it, where I would hit him on purpose. It never worked.
On the flip side, I gathered sponsors. I was working my way up, managing to score a few professional, lower league fights before I was given the boot. After less than two years in, I was handed a lifetime ban in the World Boxing Association. The memories come back on a far too regular basis.
Walking by the locker room, I keep my head down. Not my business, not my business, I try to remind myself as I hear the cries of a woman coming from behind the closed door.
“No, not here. Please, no. The baby. Think about the baby.” The panic in her voice sends chills down my spine.
“Shut the hell up and learn, woman. Baby or not, I wanna fuck my wife, and I’m gonna fuck my wife.”
Turning the knob, I expect the door to be locked. It’s not. Opening it, my teenage mind is not prepared to find Chase ‘Head Cracker’ Tolander with his very pregnant wife bent over a training room table as he rams into her from behind. Her make-up is smeared by her tears; her lip is busted; and she is clutching her stomach as she winces in pain with every thrust. He is holding her head down as she whimpers and rambles incoherently.
A league that wants to protect a scumbag, like the one I fucked up, is not the place for me, anyway. He deserved what I gave him and more. Walking past his locker room, hearing the sounds of his wife saying no as he forced himself on her, sent me into overdrive. The adrenaline from my fight that night, the rage from knowing she was being violated—it was all too much.
I beat him to a pulp. He landed himself in the hospital. I ended up booted out of the association when she wouldn’t back up my story. According to the report, the marks on her face and what I walked in on was just a ‘game’ they played for role playing.
I sure as shit don’t have to beat on my women to get hard, and I don’t have to fuck them so hard they worry about their unborn kid. Just thinking of it makes anger build inside me again.
That is my past. Lesson learned: stay out of other people’s business.
Now it’s me, Wendol, and the underground league. No titles, no trophies, no divisions, no weight classes; just a lottery and cold hard cash.
CHAPTER TWO
~LoraLeigh~
One day, I will be more than an item to be bought or sold, won or lost. One day, I will know what it is to be a human being.
Dear Diary,
Today is day two thousand, one hundred, ninety since my mom overdosed. It is day two thousand, one hundred, eighty-eight since her dealer sold me to the highest bidder.
Today is six years to the day from when I said goodbye to one prison, only to fall into another.
At fifteen, I was helpless. At eighteen, I was ruined. Today is day one thousand ninety-five since I tried to run. Today is day two hundred sixty-four since my last thought of suicide. Today is day three hundred twenty since my last attempt at suicide. Today is day four hundred twelve with my current owner.
Pete ‘Professor’ Charleston isn’t so bad now that we have an understanding. I have certainly been treated worse by others in the past.
Daily reminder: I will survive another day. I will find hope. One day, I will be free. One day, I will be me.
Signed,
LoraLeigh Riffel
“Annie, doll up, darlin’. I got a fight tonight,” Pete calls to me from outside my bedroom door.
Carefully, I tuck the diary into my pillow. I don’t keep the journals once I fill them, but I write daily to keep track of time. One small notebook slides easily into the seam of a pillow, and no one is the wiser. Shred it and flush it down the toilet when the opportunity presents itself, and LoraLeigh gets to disappear once again.
Annie.
The name sends chills through me.
His words trigger anxiousness inside.
Fight tonight.
No, no, no. Breathe in. Don’t let the panic win. My heart thunders loudly in my chest. I can’t hear myself think beyond the pounding.
One, two, three, breathe, LoraLeigh.
Four, five, six, Pete has won the last seven fights.
Seven, that’s right, breathe. I have to calm myself down.
Annie. They think my name is Annie. Hold on to yourself. Don’t let them break you, LoraLeigh. Annie can do this. We will get through to fight another day.
The more time that passes, the harder these ‘pep talks’ become. Pete has been working more. The money should be there. Maybe he is bringing me for good luck, not as a payment.
Payment—that word burns into me. At fifteen, my mother’s drug dealer used me as a payment for a debt he claims my mother owed his boss. A debt I’m sure she owed. To take a kid, though … Well, it just seems like no one would want a girl, not that anyone asked my opinion. It’s whatever, now. Dwelling on it certainly won’t change anything.
Giving up my innocence should have been payment enough and then some. It wasn’t.
From the beginning, I wouldn’t give him my name, so he started calling me Annie. He said I had the freckles and red hair of a Raggedy Ann doll. For three years, I was under lock and key, a sexual slave to a cartel underboss, one who happened to have a love for underground fighting rings. Then he screwed over someone above him and needed quick cash, but he happened to bet against the wrong fighter. He settled up his debt to the fighter by offering me to cover one loss. His debt still owed to his boss was settled up with his life.
The closet they held me in had no windows. There was no light, except when he brought me out for services. It was an empty room with a pole above my head for hanging clothes, a pot to pee in, and nothing more. The lock would click, the door would open, and I would be given a bag with food and water for my day. At some point, the hours would pass by and night became day. As day became night, he would come in, remove me from the closet where I could empty the contents of my pot, take a shower, and change clothing.
Survival.
The time stuck in that small space broke me. I tried to hang myself from the closet pole. I ripped my shirt to make the noose. Only, he came at some point and pulled me down after I lost consciousness. The first place I was at with the cartel man, I had my bedroom, and I had my journals. When I was in the closet, I only had enough time with my pillowcase of belongings to simply make a dash mark to track the times he brought me out. I lost track of time. Days turned into months, turned into years. It was all the same. In the end, none of it really mattered.
Shit, shower, snack, sleep, and survive.
After the attempted suicide, he traded me to a man for someone more ‘compatible.’ No, he traded me for someone he wouldn’t have to watch. In time, I ended up here with Pete and his brother Joel. They rotate ‘watching’ me and using me. Pete won me as payment in a fight. Joel was enraged when they first got me home.
I am another mouth to feed. I am another person to take care of. More than that, I am a liability. I know about their world. I know about the death matches. They all could have killed me. I wish someone would have. They all say the same thing: they can’t turn me loose, but they can use me. My tight, little cunt was made for them. Same shit, different dude.
Pete and Joel aren’t tied to some cartel or drug ring. They seem to work and come home. I don’t know why Pete does the fights, other than he likes them.
All things considered, they have been good to me. I have my own bathroom—the one I tried to kill myself in last.
I run my finger over the scar on my wrist. The guys didn’t think about the razors they bought me for shaving. They thought
I would shave for them. Only, I took it apart and used the blade on my wrists.
Joel found me. I was then reminded that I can’t go to the hospital. There would be questions.
Chills run through me as his words replay in my head.
“Annie, do you want to go to someone else? We don’t beat you. We feed you. We don’t fuck you every day. We aren’t rough with you. We’re tryin’ here, and this is the thanks we get? You aren’t worth the bullshit.”
Since then, I haven’t tried to kill myself. I haven’t done anything to draw unnecessary attention.
A while back, Pete came home with a few dresses. I started attending fights with him. Apparently, money was tight, and I was going to be the payment if he lost. Thank goodness he won.
Knowing the guys’ schedules, Pete has been away more. Joel says he has been working, so maybe tonight is about being his lucky charm and not his payoff. I know I shouldn’t let myself have hope of any kind, but I don’t know if I can handle going to another place. What if they treat me even worse?
Walk the line, and there isn’t trouble. I have learned that.
Doll up, he instructed. Okay, time to paint Annie on. I can do this. I will survive another day.
I will survive to fight another fight.
CHAPTER THREE
~Heath~
“Jab … jab … left hook.” Wendol’s instructions come from my corner as I warm up.
We are at an abandoned warehouse outside of El Paso. We spent a little over four hours in the car to get here tonight. This isn’t a typical distance for The Lottery. Hell, none of this is typical. This whole world is so far removed from my regular job. Tonight isn’t about the money, though. Tonight is about aggression.
Heath (Roughneck Book 2) Page 1
