Cutter: A Fight or Flight Novel

by Ashley Suzanne

  Read on for an excerpt from

  Raven

  A Fight or Flight Novel

  by Ashley Suzanne

  Available from Loveswept

  Prologue

  “It doesn’t matter if you’re a man or a woman, you’re gonna wanna get in our next contender’s pants….Show some love for our hometown legend, the Switch Hitter!” I snort at the name, expecting to walk out and see a fighter carrying a baseball bat. What do ya know? No bat in sight. Extra reinforcements might not have been a bad idea since I’m on fire and ready to bust the bricks off this clown.

  Waiting for the emcee to call my name, I think of all the crazy things in my life that have led me to this point. I’ve experienced more than any one person should by the age of twenty-one—few happy moments surrounded by almost constant anguish. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right?

  “Being escorted to the cage by the most badass entourage I’ve seen tonight, all the way from Corbin, Kentucky…the newest fighter this side of the Mississippi…the Raven!” At least my name makes sense. Ravens are known for being alone, having no problem flying solo. That’s what I’ve done for the past four years anyway.

  After my announcement, the crowd erupts into cheers that I can hear loud and clear, even over the song streaming out of my earbuds. Bouncing back and forth on the balls of my feet, I crane my neck side to side, examining the mass of people. It’s a good-sized crowd for this venue. I sometimes wonder if these guys come to watch the fights for the love of the sport or because they like to see the ring girls walking around, barely dressed, carrying signs indicating the round. Oh well, they paid their cover, and that money, if all goes according to plan, will be in my pocket later tonight.

  With my coaches leading the way, I follow, bobbing my head to “Down with the Sickness” by Disturbed, mentally preparing myself. I run over everything I’ve been taught over the last year—how to get out of a submission hold, finding opportunities to take my opponent down, remembering not to be a cocky asshole.

  It took a lot of convincing for Zan to let me fight tonight. He’s not the kind father figure he portrays himself to be. He says he loves and supports his “children,” but deep down he’d rather I not get in that cage. I know damn well if I blow my first match, it’s going to be a long time, if ever, until he puts me on another card.

  “You ready for this?” Zan asks, pulling out one of my earbuds.

  Smirking, I eye up my competition that’s already inside the cage—a small, tiny thing that doesn’t look to have much muscle mass. I got this. Standing on the opposite side of the mat surrounded by coaches, glancing in my direction, the slightest tinge of fear flashes across those brown eyes, similar to mine. Physically, I’m not very intimidating—weighing in at an average weight for my class with an average stature to match—but the menace written across my face is an entirely different thing.

  Since my first introduction into the world of mixed martial arts, it’s all I can think about. It may be cliché, but I live, breathe, and sleep MMA. It’s the one place I have control. Nobody can take a match from me unless I allow them to, and my opponent isn’t going to walk away with anything…except maybe disappointment, since I’m taking the purse. I already know I want it more; I can taste the victory and it’s going to be as sweet as I imagine it to be.

  Stepping into the steel cage, I shrug my midnight blue robe off, right into the hands of my coach. Wearing standard MMA gear and my hair pulled back tight, I walk straight to the official, who checks my taped hands. Once cleared, I step back to Zan, who pops my mouth guard in for me, pats me on the shoulder, and whispers in my ear, “It’s only you two. If you want it, make it happen. If not, we can leave right now.”

  “Don’t worry, Z. I wouldn’t bring you all the way here to disappoint you.”

  Zan and the other coaches walk out of the cage and the door slams shut, leaving only me, my opponent, and the official inside. I meet them in the middle, and the ref goes over the standard rules for the fight. My opponent and I nod and bump fists, and the bell dings, indicating round one is under way.

  Pacing myself and testing Switch Hitter’s skills, I toss a few jabs in the direction of my opponent, looking for her reaction, if any. Without even flinching, my advances are shut down and every punch is dodged while some are tossed in my direction as well. None land, and Switch Hitter never breaks a sweat. I may have to reevaluate my plan. Weight class isn’t everything in the MMA world. Sometimes the smallest contender can be the biggest fighter. This isn’t going to be as clean as I thought.

  It doesn’t take long before Switch Hitter makes a dive for my lower half and I feel hands wrapped around my legs. I try my hardest to center myself to stay on my feet, but I’ve been hit in just the right spot and gravity is an impossible opponent. I position my body to flip and mount, like I’ve been taught, but I’m not quick enough.

  Before I know it, a strong forearm, stronger than I assumed, is wrapping around my neck, pulling back to cut off my air supply. Rear naked choke, shit. Taking a few deep breaths, I try to calm my overheated, exhausted body and find a way to maneuver out of this situation. From the corner of my eye, I see Zan signaling me to tap. Not yet. If I’m going to go down, the officials are gonna have to call a medic in here—quitting isn’t an option. Dangerous or not, it’s how I’ve been taught.

  The phrase that’s been drilled into me for months dances around in my head. Don’t let the fight consume you.

  Well, I’m consumed and I’m not giving up. I’ll figure a way out. I always have, I always will.

  Chapter 1

  From a young age, I knew that I wasn’t like the other kids. I was the outcast, the one who was talked about on the playground, the one who didn’t have many friends, the girl with a boy’s name. The worst part about being the brunt of all the jokes was that none of it was my fault or anything I had control over.

  The problem, which I didn’t really understand when I was seven, revolved around my mother. On any given day, you could find her on the front porch, swaying back and forth with a funny-smelling cigarette in her mouth, which I now know was a joint, mumbling along with Jimi Hendrix playing on the radio. She would more than likely be dressed in a floor-length dress and always in bare feet. My momma was a hippy—so carefree, so happy, but hiding a tinge of sadness behind her brown eyes that were identical to mine, like she was missing something. I never had a father, so I always assumed she was just lonely.

  As a little girl, nothing was more exciting than getting off the bus, knowing my momma would be in the same place she always was, waiting to hug me and ask about my day. After the grand inquisition was over, she’d toss me a piece of fruit and we’d dance together on the porch, rain or shine.

  She used to dress me in adorable circa-1975 floral-print dresses with fresh flowers in my hair. I loved every second of it; I was her personal dress-up doll. She would comb my hair for hours and it was all about the quality time I spent with her.

  The real bullying started when Kyle Jamison decided that ripping the fresh flowers out of my ponytail would make a great game. Every. Single. Day.

  After spending the better part of my childhood miserable, I started to dress more like the other kids—Jordache jeans and high-top Converse or LA Gear sneakers. The shirt didn’t really matter as long as I could tie it on the side and it wasn’t a floral print. I never did anything else exciting with my hair after the last carnation was ripped out by Kyle; it just hung down my back, crimped or feathered, much like the other girls’. I’d traded my love for Stevie, The Doors, and Janis for mainstream music like New Kids on the Block. Some of the songs weren’t so bad once I got used to them, but Donnie and Jordan had nothing on The Mamas and the Papas. I couldn’t even compare the two.

  Once I hit junior high, the trends changed and the kids’ words got more mean and more hateful. I tried to adapt to the other girls, but no matter what I did, I still didn’t have friends. Until Garrett Rhodes came to our town.

  Be
ing a military brat, his family moved around a lot and our town happened to be a few minutes away from the base that his father had transferred to. Since Garrett was the new kid, he was kind of an outcast like me and we clicked. Once Garrett started to mature and become more a man, the girls started to notice.

  Garrett was a grade ahead of me. By the time he was in eighth grade, ready to embark on high school, I started to worry about what my final year in junior high would be like without him. He assured me that it wouldn’t be so bad and that we could still hang out every day after school.

  He was wrong. My eighth-grade year was terrible. The girls were nastier and the boys were harsher, and I soon realized exactly why they would make fun of me all the time. Until then, I had never put two and two together.

  Apparently, my mother being a flower-loving hippy meant that she was all about “free love,” or whatever. They would tease me, calling my momma a slut, a whore, or easy, and since apples don’t usually fall far from the tree, the same had to be true for me.

  I started to develop into a woman that year—getting my first visit from Aunt Flo, as my growing breasts and widening hips gave me more curves than any thirteen-year-old girl should ever have. Instead of Kyle pulling flowers out of my hair, he was snapping my bra or slapping my ass any time I passed. Without Garrett around to protect me, I was on my own, helpless against my tormentors.

  My only comfort during those brutal nine months was the fact that every day, after the bell rang, Garrett would be waiting for me in front of the school to walk me home. I didn’t know if he knew that the other kids were so disgusting toward me or if he just wanted to walk with me, but he always came and it was the best part of the day—the only part I looked forward to.

  Then the worst possible thing happened that summer. Garrett’s dad was transferred to a new base, and I was left alone to fight off the wolves. My only friend in this entire world was moving over an hour away, far too distant for him to ride his bike to my house or walk me home from school. It doesn’t sound like much, but the distance might as well have been in light-years. My heart was shattering and I didn’t know what to do or how to act.

  My world came to a standstill and everything around me just kept moving. People were growing up and getting more mature, except for me. I was still that little girl having her first heartbreak. Looking back now, I wonder if life could have stayed as simple as it had been at that time. If only the little lessons that life teaches us were as simple as a thirteen-year-old’s broken heart. Life would be a whole lot more manageable.

  Love stories you’ll never forget

  By authors you’ll always remember

  eOriginal Romance from Random House

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