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

by Holly Hart

  I leave her hanging for second, just long enough to watch her face getting redder and redder as she struggles with the thought that she's somehow insulted me by bringing up the memory of what happened to me out there.

  "Are you embarrassed?" I ask with a grin. I know she is, I just want to hear her say it.

  "Oh my God, so bad," she says, lowering her eyes and trying to hide from me.

  "What for?" I ask, getting a frosty glare in response.

  "You know, don't make me say it."

  "Don't sweat it," I say grinning, "I'm a soldier, remember – trust me, if I was in a get worked up about a little slip of the tongue like that, I wouldn't last very long out on deployment…"

  "That's fair, I suppose," she says, subtly scooching slightly closer to me, "I didn't think of it like that."

  We don't speak for a while, and Katie's breath slowly begins to lengthen, and calm, and after a little while of listening to the slow, metronomic sound, I don't have the heart to interrupt it and wake her up again. I get the feeling that she needs all the rest she can get right now, and I've got no intention of being the asshole who gets in the way, especially not right now. And there's another reason, a more selfish one – I feel more relaxed right now than I have in months.

  It's the first time for weeks that I've not felt on edge, either because someone's about to shoot me, or because they already have.

  It's easy to tell the exact moment she drifts off to sleep, because all the tension in her body evaporates, just like that. I lie next to her, arm wrapped round her shoulders, pulling her in so her head's resting on my chest. I'm not exactly sure when I drift off to sleep, but it's the first restful, dreamless sleep I've had in a long, long time.

  8

  Katie

  The stench is unbearable.

  And that's saying a lot, because I'm a nurse, and I have been for almost a decade – so you think I'd be pretty used to odious odors by now. Not only that, but I'm a nurse in a war zone – so I'm more than used to dealing with the cloying, sweet smell of badly injured wounds of the type you don't get in civilian hospitals. And I’m pretty sure it doesn’t have anything to do with this weird nausea I’ve been getting for the past few days.

  No, when I say that the Pound stinks, I'm completely, one hundred percent serious. I've got some buds of cotton wool in the pockets of my scrubs, and I'm screwing them up in my hand, ready to shove them into my nostrils as a makeshift anti-smell aid, when I have second thoughts. If these poor, forgotten dogs have to live in this filth, then the very least I can do is brave it for a few minutes.

  Poor creatures.

  The building itself is a squat, square, unprepossessing construction, and I actually walk past it once or twice without realizing. No sign marks it out – the authorities probably don't want people to know where, or what it is, and I'm not surprised. I finally work it out by following my nose.

  I push against a flimsy, unpainted wooden door after reassuring myself that there are no signs barring my entry. I walk into a small office, a room that seems positively weighed down by the stacks upon stacks of paper piled up in corners, the overflowing piles of dog food spilling out of boxes pushed haphazardly into corners, and wherever else whoever works out of the office can find an inch of space, and I almost feel sorry for the old desktop computer I spy on top of an equally filthy desk, noticing the crumb strewn keyboard, and its oil smudged screen.

  If even the office isn't fit for purpose then I dread to think what the kennels are going to be like.

  "Hello?" I call, hoping that someone will appear from the back. No response. I walk slightly further into the office, daintily stepping over spilled box of unused dog toys that someone's knocked over and not bothered to replace. In a tent city of military precision, this building stands out as an anomaly – and I don't like it, not one little bit.

  "Helloooo?" I call out, louder this time – but still receive the same, insulting response of crushing silence. Shouldn't this place have staff? Don't the dogs need taking care of? The plaintive howls of what sounds like at least half a dozen dogs is the only reply I get, and the sad, wailing tone is almost too much for my heart to bear.

  I stand, arm resting on one of the only unspoiled surfaces in the room – a small reception-like counter overlooking the desk, and idly presume that the only reason it's clean is because it's not actually wide enough for anyone to stack mess on. A thought strikes me, and at first I resist it, after all – it's not my job, but my conscience screams at me until I give in.

  Surreptitiously looking around for any sign of a CCTV camera, I slip my cellphone out of my pocket, swipe my finger across the screen, and call up the camera app. It's not the best camera in the world, but it doesn't need to be, not for what I need to do with it. Cocking an ear and listening out for any sign that the office's occupant, or perhaps a better term would be denizen, is returning, I raise the camera to arm level and start snapping shots.

  I zoom in on the piles of dog food in the corner, making sure the camera lens zooms in on the flies buzzing around the office. It's a shame, I think myself, that scientists haven't invented a technique of capturing smells, because if they did, then gathering the evidence I need would surely be easier.

  I make my way round the desk, curling my left in disgust as I see unwashed plates of food stacked up in an ungainly pile – at least a week's worth, maybe even two, judging by the green, encroaching mold. I make sure to take a picture.

  There's a door on the other side of the small office, and I quietly turn the handle, abandoning any pretense that I'm hoping to bump into whoever works here. I'm half considering just taking the dogs and running, that's how bad the smell is, though god knows what that would do for my career. Still, I suppose, maybe it'd be killing two birds with one stone – after all, I don't want to be out here in the desert any more anyway…

  It looks like a warehouse, but it's plunged in darkness, so it's hard to see what's inside other than by using the light of the glowing fire exit sign. Nevertheless, my stomach shrinks in my belly as my hand moves towards the light switch, because I'm pretty sure I know what I'm going to find out.

  Click.

  Forewarned might be forearmed, but even so I'm wholly unprepared for what I see. In front of me, about fifteen tall metal cages stretch off to the other side of the warehouse on either side of a long concrete walkway. The action of flicking on the lights awakens a howling chorus of dogs, and that haunting, shivering sound is interspersed only by something that's if anything, even worse – the sound of jangling metal as half a dozen dogs, each starved of love, affection and attention charge towards the metal fence gates at the front of their cages only to be cut short by the insidious blockage in their path.

  I rush to the nearest cage, reckless in my desire to give the poor animals some solace, forgetting to even check whether anyone else is in the warehouse with me. I think it’s unlikely, though, given the place is completely dark.

  The dog's name is written on a small white sticker sitting slightly askew on a flat piece of metal forming part of the locking mechanism.

  "Hey Charlie," I say, and the big Alsatian's ears prick up when he hears me say his name, his demeanor changing in an instant from slightly aggressive and wary to happy and almost puppyishly excited. I feel a powerful, hateful surge of anger when I think of these poor, powerless dogs sitting on their own in the dark waiting for someone to come and cuddle them, and judging by the looks of this place – probably waiting in vain.

  "How you doing, puppy?" I ask, as Charlie rushes to the wire fence. He looks thin, not what I would have expected for a dog of his size, and a pang of worry rushes through me – are they being physically mistreated, as well as mentally? It sure looks like it from where I'm standing. Still, none of Charlie's natural caring, playful instincts have been extinguished – not yet, anyway – and he pushes his head against the wire fence as I reach a couple of fingers through to scratch him behind the ears.

  "You like that, buddy?" I ask, a
nd he purrs throatily in response. "Sure you do."

  The sound of all the other dogs howling in dismay becomes a soundtrack to everything I do, and I look over my shoulder, fingers still reaching through Charlie's wire fence to give him the love he needs. As I look round, I see that some of the other dogs are in far worse shape than he is.

  "Sorry bud, I gotta go," I say, snapping a quick shot of Charlie's cage, which is completely empty – barring a small metal water bowl, itself empty. Other than that, the concrete floor is only marked by piles of Charlie's own mess, which I notice with shock hasn't been cleared up, and has clearly been there for some time. It's disgraceful, I think – how can these dogs be kept like this when the rest of the time they're supposed to be fighting our war. At least soldiers have the right to complain, these poor guys don't even get that.

  Charlie whines in dismay as I leave, and I think with sadness that I'm probably the only friendly voice he’s heard in weeks, but a plan’s forming in my head. I have no intention of leaving him here, not for good, anyway.

  "Don't worry, little buddy, I'll be back," I croon reassuringly, turning to explore the rest of the horrific facility. That's what it is – not a kennel, but a facility.

  I go to the kennel opposite, snapping a picture of an injured dog with a dressing around its paw. As it comes the front of its cage, I notice it's hopping, not even daring to put any weight on its last leg. "Oh my god," I whisper under my breath as I notice, shocked, that the bandage around the dog's foot is yellow with seeping pus. If he was one of my patients, I'd have ordered that his dressing be changed at least twice a day, but this clearly hasn't been looked at for three days, or maybe even more. Just because he's a dog, doesn't mean he should be treated like this – far from it.

  Toby's water bowl is empty too.

  Daisy's still got a dribble of water left in hers, but when I go to the front of her kennel she just looks me with deep, sad eyes and refuses to get up – if I was a betting girl, I'd put good money on her being depressed.

  Cooper's bowl – empty.

  So is Rocky's, but at least he's got a pile of food – a pile of food which, I notice, hasn't been touched. I've had a dog, and my parents have had more, and I know that healthy dogs don't refuse food. This place is sick, sick to its core.

  I take pictures of everything, the seeping bandage on Toby's paw, Daisy's sad, deep depression, the emptiness of all of the cages, barring the filthy dog shit on the floor, the lack of toys or any other form of mental stimulation. It's like solitary confinement, I think to myself. What have they done to deserve that?

  The last cage I come to has a big, eighty pound German Shepherd sitting as politely as can be inside it, and I know even without looking at the nametag scrawled in unkempt, barely readable handwriting stuck to the lock, that it's Jake.

  "Hey Jake," I say in a quiet voice, "you okay? I'm going to get you out of there, yeah?" I know he doesn't understand what I'm saying, but I'm pretty sure he gives me a nod back.

  "Who the hell are you?" a loud voice cries from the other end of the warehouse, "and what the hell are you doing in my facility?" The shock of the voice almost knocks me over from where I'm squatting in front of Jake's cage, phone in hand, but I have the presence of mind to stay down for a second, tapping away on the small touchscreen.

  "I said," the voice comes again, threateningly from behind me, "who the hell are you?" A large male hand descends on my shoulder, spinning me round and pulling me up, "and what the hell have you got in your hands?"

  He grabs my phone out of my hands before I have a second to fight him off and a crushing sense of fear descends upon me as I realize how – quite literally – criminally stupid my actions might turn out to be. I bite my lip, hoping beyond all hope that my last couple of seconds tapping away on the smart phone had been successful.

  "Were you," the man barks while continuing to pull me up and spin me round to face him, "taking pictures? If you were, young lady, then you're going away for a very, very long time…"

  He grins, ominously, and I watch as a twisted smile spills across his overlarge, pockmarked face. My stomach turns, and I don't know whether that's because I'm scared of him, or what he's saying.

  "In trouble?" I start bravely, "you should be the one who's worried! How can you look at yourself when you treat these poor animals like this?"

  The man scoffs, pulling his upper lip back, and sneers at me. I wouldn't have thought it possible that any expression could look uglier than his smile – but I would have been wrong. I could see how I might feel sorry for him, having to live with an affliction as unpleasant as his appearance, if it wasn't for his equally unlikeable demeanor.

  "You think you're threatening me, do you?"

  "Not threatening – just pointing out the obvious," I reply, doing my best to draw myself up to face him – a difficult job, since his hand is still anchored to my shoulder, keeping me slightly off-balance.

  "If I were you," he leers at me, raking me up and down with a lascivious stare, "I'd be begging me for a way out of your predicament?"

  "Why?" I ask, still acting way more confidently than I actually feel. I get the sense that the man standing in front of me in rankless, black military fatigues is like a caged animal himself in some ways, and worse in others – I get the sense that he's not a victim, but a sociopath: cold, violent and emotionless. My best way out of this isn't by trying to bargain with him – it's by standing up to him, even if that means threatening him. I noticed that something about him doesn't scream military – he doesn't have that kind of bearing, or that sense of honor that almost every other man on this base gives off. No, I think he's a contractor, and the thought gives me an idea – and some leverage.

  "Oh," I say, shooting him what I hope is a devastatingly unimpressed glance, "and what kind of way out are you suggesting?"

  He gives me that up-and-down piercing stare again, and I feel like he's mentally undressing me. It's disgusting, I feel affronted, my personal space invaded. I know exactly what it is he's suggesting, but I want him to say it.

  "Maybe," he says, his tone of voice altering noticeably to a vulpine hiss, "we can come to an arrangement – just you and I."

  "What kind of arrangement?" I reply coldly.

  "You know…" he trails off, cowardly. Like many predators of his type, he's not brave enough to actually vocalize his darkest thoughts – he just wants to dance around the topic until I suggest it. That's never going to happen.

  "I don't, actually."

  For a short, barely noticeable microsecond the man's shoulders constrict inwards, and his grip on my shoulder loosens as he builds up the misguided courage to bully me into fulfilling his sick desires. Then, like a flash, he stands up tall, as though he is summoned up the requisite strength, or his dark, twisted innermost desires have finally overruled his common sense.

  "You're going to make me spell it out? Fine," he spits, wet flecks of spittle landing on my cheek. "You're going to fuck me, right here, or you're going to be locked up for a very long time. Your choice."

  It's the cold, emotionless way he spells out my two options – or at least, the two options he thinks I have – that I find most sickening. It's like he's done this before, and honestly I wouldn't be surprised if he has. He seems like the type.

  "Or maybe," I reply, summoning strength from my conviction that what I'm doing here is right – not just getting Jake back for Mike, but hopefully saving all of these dogs from this sick man's tyranny, "I'll take door three."

  I pause, letting my impudence hang heavy in the air between us. His features twist once again in anger, and he squeezes my shoulder, deliberately trying to inflict pain. I bite my tongue surreptitiously, but do my best not to give off any other hint that what he's doing is having any effect on me. Like I said, he's an animal – and if you show fear or pain to an predatory animal, they'll take advantage of it. He's just the same.

  "What's your name?" I ask, keeping my voice steady and level.

  "My name?" he a
sks, brow furrowed in confusion as he tries to figure out how this exchange has taken such an unexpected turn, "why are you asking that? And what the hell's door three?"

  "I'm glad you asked," I say while reaching up and firmly pulling his fingers off of my shoulder, breathing a sigh of relief under my breath as the blood begins to rush back into the affected area, "oh – and I didn't get your name?"

  He answers almost as though he's on autopilot, and that kind of makes sense to me – after all, it's not exactly like he's got an enormous brain. Even though I don't actually have any power over him, I'm acting like I do – and that seems to be enough, for now at least. If I don't use my trump card soon, though, my little act might prove to be just that…

  "Fred" he grunts, momentarily resting his hands on his waist. For the first time since he caught me, he doesn't look like a coiled spring, ready to snap and lash out at me at any moment, and I decide to press my advantage.

  "Nice to meet you, Fred. If you'll give me back my cellphone?"

  He looks at me warily, and I realize that I might be pressing my luck – after all, he did catch me trespassing in a restricted area, and I'm probably legally breaching the Espionage Act, or something equally terrifying. "I just want to show you something," I quickly add.

  He hands it over, but in doing so he changes his stance so that he is resting on the balls of his feet. Damn – he's back to that caged animal thing. I'm going to have to handle this carefully.

  "Look," I say, bringing up the gallery app and scrolling through the pictures of the insidious insides of his animal gaol. He cranes his neck and looks down. "These aren't exactly the kind of pictures that your bosses would be happy about the media getting their hands on, are they?"

  He has the good grace to look nervous, a slight sheen of sweat appearing from nowhere on his brow as I scroll through to the image of the weeping bandage on Toby's paw.