Brawler's Baby: An MMA Mob Romance (Mob City Book 1)

by Holly Hart

  Eamon.

  Eamon was as much a part of Conor as he was a part of me. Did I have any right to keep a piece of news like that from him?

  If I was being honest with myself, the answer to that was no, of course I didn't. It wasn't right to hide Eamon's existence from his own father – not for Conor, and not for our son. He couldn't keep growing up with my father as his only male role model – not unless I wanted him to turn into a stone cold murderer.

  Our son.

  Just thinking that, even in the confines of my own head, gave me shivers. I'd been alone so long, living daily with the threat that today was the day my father would finally snap and take Eamon from me that I'd become not just self-reliant, but far more than that – completely closed off: an island.

  I wasn't even sure whether I functioned properly anymore, in an emotional sense, anyway. I passed through most everything I did more as a spectator than a jockey. I was a passenger in my own head, numb.

  Maybe even depressed.

  Eamon was the only person I opened up to, the only person I allowed myself to be me around. But even then I only truly let my worries spill out when he was asleep, and that just made me feel even crazier. Besides, at four years old Eamon was hardly the conversation partner I needed him to be… I needed someone to share the burden with, someone to lighten the load. As much as I loved my son, he couldn’t be that person. Not yet. Maybe never. It’s a mother’s role to support their children, not load them up with pain.

  My teeth ground together, hard enough that they must have been audible over the coughing bus engine as we rumbled down the potholed street. I was stuck in a bind. To tell Conor the truth was to trust him, but trusting him might risk Eamon's life.

  The truth was as blunt as it was harsh.

  You can’t.

  Conor was unpredictable, and he had a short fuse, to boot. He always had been, it was one of the things I'd fallen in love with. But, unfortunately, spontaneity and unpredictability were character traits I looked for in a lover, not a father. I needed someone I could depend on, and right now Conor wasn't filling me with hope.

  This isn't right, Maya. You were the one who left, not him, even if it wasn’t your choice. He didn't get a chance to be dependable – to be a father. And you don't know that he isn't capable of it.

  I angrily punched my hand against the bus window, glad that, for once, it was empty – and that it had turned up in the first place. Alexandria wasn't exactly known for its public transportation. Men like my father had bribed the city council for years to make sure that certain companies won certain contracts, and the final result was a Department of Public Transportation that was a department in name only.

  The buses were decades old, and there weren't enough drivers. The money was siphoned off, some used to bribe city counselors, and the rest funneled into the city's criminal underworld. Used to pay for things like the new carpets my father had had installed just that month. Even used to pay for things like the sneakers on my feet. It made me sick.

  "Hey, lady," the bus driver's stern voice rang out. I saw him peering back at me in a mirror toward the front of the bus. "You okay back there?"

  "Sure." I replied, pulling my fur-rimmed jacket hood down over my eyes. There was no reason for the old guy to have any idea who I was, but my father was a big deal in this town – and to my constant dismay, that meant so was I. Meeting new people only ever ended up going two ways: either they were terrified I'd send my father's men after them, or they were fascinated by me.

  I hated both approaches, but this guy took neither.

  "Then stop vandalizing my bus, will ya?"

  "Sure." I repeated, happy he hadn’t recognized me. The less I said, the better. Out of the corner of my eye I watched the driver – an elderly black man with a salt-and-pepper speckled beard eying me in the mirror, a suspicious look on his face. I wondered about what he saw running this route. Crazy things, no doubt. This wasn't a nice part of town – which is why I'd chosen it for today's… activity.

  It was the only part of town worth caring about that wasn't in some gang's territory or other. It was no man's land – had been since the factories closed, and the only people who came here these days were high school kids looking for a place to drink, junkies and the homeless.

  I looked out the window, the one I'd been bashing on only a few seconds before. The view through the glass, speckled with rain from an earlier squall, was gloomy, to say the least. The shells of the old, dirty red brick factories towered over the empty streets until they disappeared off into the foreboding looking, angry gray sky. There was still the better part of a mile to go, and the way the sky looked, I didn't want to have to walk.

  "I'm sorry," I relented. "I shouldn't have done that."

  He sighed, as if he’d decided that picking a fight with me over it wasn’t worth it. "All right then."

  The bus kept trundling on, the engine coughing and spluttering as it powered its way up the slight incline toward the old Industrial District. The sound was soothing, almost cathartic in its monotonous drone, and allowed me to switch off, to let go. I could've stayed on that bus the rest of my life.

  "Are you sure y’alright, young lady?" The bus driver asked, startling me out of my daydream.

  Mind your business, I thought sourly. Just get me where I'm going, and I will be happy. That's how this is supposed to work, isn't it?

  But I didn't want to make a scene. Didn't want to be recognized, or remembered at all. I bit down on that sour retort and smiled sweetly at him.

  "Oh, don't you worry yourself. Long day at work, that's all." I replied, trying to stay as boring as possible. I've found that the best way to stay out of the limelight is to just be boring: to do, and say, as little as possible that draws any attention to you.

  I learned it young. I realized that the more I disappointed my father, the less he wanted anything to do with me – and that was just the way I liked it. Even as a young girl, I'd understood the evil that lurked deep in his heart for what it was.

  The bus hit a pothole, and the entire chassis rattled. Knowing how old these damn rust buckets were, I was surprised it didn't fall apart entirely. The bus driver took that precise moment to try and continue our conversation, and I couldn't help but wish that he’d just pay more attention to the road, and less to me.

  But he was lonely.

  "My girl, when she got a face like that, usually got something on her mind." He drawled, his voice gravelly and deep. It was a voice that was made for radio, and at any other time I could have listened to his rich, luxurious tones for hours.

  "You sure you're not hanging onto nothing? Memory like mine, I'll have forgotten it by supper time."

  I looked up and into the mirror and saw him smiling at me, the corners of his eyes wrinkled, and a kindly look in his eyes. I imagined he'd make an amazing grandfather – he seemed like that kind of guy. I imagined him hoisting Eamon up onto his knee and telling him a story. Hell, Eamon wouldn't be the only one listening.

  Why couldn't I have been brought up by a man like that?

  "Really, I'm sure." I said.

  "Well okay, if you're sure, then." He said.

  The rain pattered down gently on the roof of the bus, sounding tinny against the thin metal, and before long the driver broke the silence again.

  "You don't mind if an old man like me mutters away, do you? Gets lonely in this bus, is all. God only knows why they keep me on this route. Nobody left to pick up in this part of town, not since the last couple factories closed, anyways."

  I smiled. "Sure."

  "Thanks.

  I smiled shyly and stepped off the bus. As my foot hit the ground, I turned back. "Thanks."

  "It wasn't nothing, girl. You be careful out here, you hear me? This ain't no place for a pretty girl like you."

  "I'll be okay," I replied confidently, touched that he was worried at all. It was a strange feeling, this human connection – not one I'd experienced often since I'd returned to Alexandria.


  I sat down at the stop and waited for the bus to pull away. The old man – I wished now that I'd asked his name – drove much more slowly than he had when I had been sitting on the bus, and I figured he was probably watching me and making sure I was safe.

  His concern was touching, but I hadn't come this far to fall at the final hurdle. It was bad enough that I'd spoken to him in the first place – and not just for me. If my father ever found out where I'd escaped to, I had no doubt that the friendly old bus driver would receive an unexpected, and very unpleasant visit.

  You hid your face, you didn't tell him your name, he'll be fine. I hoped I wasn't wrong, because my father had beaten men to a pulp for much less before.

  I waited until the rickety old bus turned the corner, and disappeared out of sight before I began walking. The less he knew, the less he could tell.

  God I hope it doesn’t come to that.

  I headed toward the old Ford factory, and more specifically, the bell tower that loomed over it, slipping away into a daydream as I stomped over the filth and detritus of a forgotten city – a windswept pile of trash here, a scattering of used needles there. I imagined the industrial district as it must once have been – buzzing and alive, the engine room of the city that never slept.

  Perhaps I shouldn’t have come here, or at least should have been alive to the kind of dangers that lurk in dark places like this.

  Alexandria had once been at the heart of America's industrial boom, and from the end of the first world war to Woodstock, workers and their families had flooded here from all over the country, hell, from all over the world. The Russian quarter hadn't just sprung up out of thin air by accident, after all. No, my grandfather hadn't come to Alexandria to be a gangster. That had just…happened. He'd first come here for work.

  On a day like today, with rain threatening and angry gray clouds hovering low over rows of decrepit, rickety old factories, that all felt faraway, dreamlike, a hoax. It was hard to believe, looking around at the huge piles of demolished concrete and bent, rusted spars of iron rebar that stuck out of them like a hedgehog's spikes, that any of that was real, or that there had once been real wealth here.

  Pull yourself together, Maya. This isn't the kind of place you want to get lost in your head. It’d be the last thing you do.

  I pulled my jacket in close around me to stay warm and picked up my pace. As I did, the hard lump of metal I'd been concealing pressed against the underside of my rib cage. I don't like guns, hell I wouldn't be lying if I said I hated them. I've seen too many people hurt when they get into the wrong hands too many times. But contrary to the popular saying sometimes you've got to play with fire to stop yourself from getting burned.

  I cast my eye around, looking for anyone who might be watching me. I'd spent the entire bus journey staring out the window, checking that no one was following, and since we'd crossed over the river I'd barely even seen another car.

  I passed by a doorway that had been neatly lined with dozens of unread copies of the Alexandria Herald. Judging by the headline, they were almost a week old and it looked like someone had turned them into a rudimentary mattress, faint protection against the biting cold of an Alexandria winter.

  Caw! Caw caw!

  I jumped backward, my heart beating at a hundred beats per minute as a pair of fighting crows exploded out of a cardboard box a couple of paces to my left. Just briefly, ever so briefly, I had thought I was being attacked.

  Chill, Maya – they’re just birds.

  An uneasy shiver ran down my spine. I felt as though the temperature had suddenly dropped half a dozen degrees, or a cold wind had whistled down the long, derelict street and found its way by some stroke of bad luck down the back of my jacket. But it wasn't that, not really – it was my brain giving me the faintest taste of what it must be like to live, alone, huddled up against the chill. It was enough for me to know, without a shadow of a doubt, that I wouldn't survive the winter out here.

  Not many did. And those who managed it were invariably changed by the experience. Hardened, even. You'd have to be.

  "Hey, lady!" A gruff, smokers voice called out. "Spare some change?"

  About twenty yards ahead of me I saw a homeless man wrapped almost to his eyeballs in an overcoat that was several sizes too large. It might once have been a dark gray, but now the color was indistinguishable from the gloomy streets around us, speckled with filth and stained with salt from a long winter spent sleeping on the streets.

  Careful, Maya.

  I reached my hand into my jacket, fingers searching for the handgun I'd stolen from my father's house. Not that it had been difficult to get my hands on one – they were everywhere at home, so I knew it would never be missed. To be honest, my father would have loved it if he’d known I was carrying. Though perhaps not if he found out why I was carrying…

  I hated myself for readying myself to pull it out, hated myself for having so black an understanding of humanity that my first thought after encountering someone in need wasn't to help, but to protect myself, but I'd made a promise to myself – I was going to save Eamon, whatever it took.

  "No change," I called back. "I'm sorry."

  "Oh, come on," he wheedled, drawing closer to me. "I just need something to eat tonight, you know? Ten bucks and I get a bed in a hostel for the night. You ever sleep out on the sidewalk, lady?"

  Shit. He doesn't look like he's going to leave me alone, I thought.

  The last thing I needed was to get into a confrontation with this guy. I decided to give him what he wanted. It'd be a small price to pay to get out of this unscathed, and more importantly, with my cover intact.

  I reached for my purse, a nondescript black bag that I'd had since I was about fifteen years old and pulled out a twenty dollar bill.

  "Here, take this," I said, stretching my arm out and offering him the note. My hand trembled as I thrust it toward him, and I tried to convince myself that I was just cold. "Get yourself something warm to eat, okay?"

  The bum moved with a shuffle, barely seeming to pull his feet away from the asphalt, but somehow he closed the last five yards that separated us with almost supernatural speed. My hand jerked back involuntarily, but I pushed it back out and toward him, trying not to panic.

  "You're too kind, miss." He said, pocketing the money greedily.

  The closer I got to him, the less I liked what I saw. He had yellowed teeth, more filth under his fingernails than I'd ever seen, and the telltale haggard, wrinkled skin of a habitual drug user. I wasn't sure I could blame him, exactly – I couldn't imagine how tough being homeless must be, or what hardships had driven him to drugs in the first place, but realizing what he was did nothing to put my mind at ease.

  This is what dad does, I thought with a shudder. He ruins lives.

  "Have a good day," I said hurriedly. This wasn't the kind of place I wanted to be, especially not with darkness closing in, and especially not alone. Full-grown men knew not to wander the streets of the industrial district alone, and I was quickly beginning to understand why…

  "Hey, miss – where you going?"

  "I, uh –."

  I stammered, trying to come up with an excuse, any excuse to mollify my companion. My brain went blank with panic, irrational panic – because there was no need for me to worry. There was no logical reason reason I should have to tell him anything. I'd just given him what he wanted, couldn’t he just let me go?

  The bum looked at me hungrily, like I was a hot meal, or something… else.

  "I gotta go," I insisted.

  "Aw, don't be like that," he mumbled. And, under his breath but loud enough to be clearly audible, "who does this bitch think she is?"

  "What did you just say?" I replied, shocked.

  You shouldn't have said anything, Maya, you should've just kept your mouth shut.

  The guy was clearly unhinged, and worse, I was quickly beginning to suspect that he might not just be a little crazy, it was looking more and more likely that he was dangerous
too. I pushed my fingers back into my jacket and sighed with relief as my fingers closed around the handle of the thirty-eight caliber pistol I brought along with me on this ill-fated adventure.

  "Keep the twenty," I said, turning away.

  "Hey, miss." He growled threateningly. "I said, where the fuck do you think you're going?"

  14

  Maya

  I got ready to pull the pistol out of my jacket, but thought better of it. I knew that pulling a weapon on him had to be a final resort, because I had no idea whether I had what it took to actually pull the trigger – and if he didn't stop, and I didn't pull…

  Then it’s all over.

  All I knew was that I was no killer. I needed to find another way.

  I broke into a run, heading toward the old Ford building just a hundred or so yards away. An old storage yard separated me from its safe embrace, and a no man's land of rubble and rebar. I ducked through a broken section of chain-link fencing, feeling a tug as a jagged offshoot of metal caught against my jacket.

  The unexpected resistance tossed me off balance, and I stumbled, catching my foot against a loose brick. Time seemed to slow down as I fell with my arms wind-milling, and my legs desperately trying to catch up with my body’s momentum.

  But it was too little, too late.

  Shit.

  I hit the floor of the concrete yard with enough force to knock the wind from my lungs, and I heard a metallic tinkle as the gun flew out of my jacket and skidded to a halt against an old, rusted metal barrel a few yards ahead of me.

  Only one thought managed to escape the background panic that was quickly overtaking my mind. You've got to get that gun.

  I paid no attention to the sound of the desperate, keening moan which escaped my lips as my lungs heaved for air. Couldn't, didn't have the luxury. There’d be time to lick my wounds and feel my aching bruises later on. If I survived. I crawled forward, dragging my knees along the rubble-strewn yard and ignored the jolting screams of pain as I scraped the skin raw.

  I slowed my crawl, hoping beyond hope that the bum hadn't given chase, and for a brief second, when all I could hear was the sound of my own labored breathing and the rush of blood in my ears, I allowed myself to imagine that the bum had given up the chase.