The Cocky Cage Fighter Six Book Box Set

by Lane Hart

  The police arrive moments later, and then I’m playing twenty questions with them while trying not to toss my cookies from the coppery scent of blood still lingering in the air. The officer starts out by asking the most unpleasant one --- my name. There goes my private, peaceful night of remembrance.

  “Is it possible to keep me out of the report?” I ask the young cop as he jots down notes on his tablet.

  “That’s a negative,” he says with a chuckle and shake of his shaven head. “You’re a fucking hero.”

  “No, I’m not. I was just at the wrong place at the wrong time,” I correct, gritting my teeth at the wet feeling of the blood oozing through the denim of my jeans and onto my skin. Wrong place at the wrong time could very well be the theme of my fucking life.

  “Don’t you mean the right place at the right time?” the officer asks, arching one of his dark eyebrows. “If you hadn’t seen that motherfucker going for his piece, no telling how many lives could’ve been lost. He had four loaded clips in his coat pockets in addition to the full clip in the gun with a bullet in the chamber.”

  I cringe imagining the possibility of the alternative outcome. It could’ve been a bloody fucking massacre in here like the nightmare a few months back in an Orlando nightclub.

  “I understand that, but I’d really prefer if you could just refer to me as anonymous,” I tell him.

  With a heavy exhale, the officer finally says, “Look, I can’t keep your name off the official report, but I can ask my superior to try and play it low key with the media.”

  “Thanks, I’d really appreciate that.”

  “You don’t have anything to be ashamed of,” he replies. “It took some serious balls to do what you did without hesitating. He could’ve easily shot you at point-blank range. Not many men would put their life at risk like that.”

  “I’m a trained fighter, so there’s not much that intimidates me.” Not that I’ve had a cage fight recently…

  “Apparently, just publicity and gratitude intimidate you,” he jokes with a grin. “I’ve got your phone number and address down in my notes but I’ll ‘accidentally’ leave those off the report, so you’re good to go. We’ll call if we need anything further, like your testimony in his trial.”

  “Fuck,” I groan, squeezing the bill of my hat in irritation. I really hope it doesn’t come to that. The media coverage would be a pain in the ass I definitely don’t need.

  Chapter One

  Nate

  A few days later…

  Standing alongside the stretch of blue mats at the local YMCA, I quietly offer helpful suggestions to the kids who are practicing how to escape from underneath a wrestling opponent.

  Ever since Jude and Linc started their community outreach program, I’ve tried to help out coaching whenever I can. Today, the group of forty kids is currently divided in half to take turns with two disciplines, karate and wrestling, which is my specialty and how I earned my scholarship for all four years of college. Throw those two areas together with Muay Thai, jiu-jitsu, taekwondo and you get mixed martial arts. But nothing we teach at the Y is remotely close to the brutality of cage fighting; mostly we focus on self-defense and non-combative grappling.

  "Excuse me, sir," a small voice says from beside me. I glance down and see a skinny little guy with glasses and a buzzed brown haircut standing at attention in his khakis and a green polo shirt. His hands are actually clasped behind his back.

  "Hey, how's it going?" I ask. "You signing up for today's seven to nine-year-old group?" Based on his size, while he’s thin, he seems like he could fit in the same age range as the other kids today.

  "No, sir. I'd like to inquire as to whether or not I may be permitted to observe from that seat on the bleachers," he replies properly, pointing to the spot behind us that he’s referring to.

  "Um, sure," I say to the tiny looking professor. "Do you need a release form to take home and ask your mom or dad to sign so you can participate next time?"

  He shakes his head. "No, sir. My father is deceased, and my mother says that all conflict should be resolved peacefully without violence."

  Wow, way to put my big foot in my mouth.

  "I'm sorry," I tell him, because there's nothing else to say to a boy who's lost his dad.

  "I appreciate your sympathy, but I was not particularly close to my father. He spent most of the first six years of my life abroad, proudly serving his country."

  Bless his itty, bitty heart. That might very well be the saddest shit I've ever heard, making me ashamed of the daily pity parties I usually throw myself.

  After making his assertion, the tiny professor marches over to the first row of bleachers and takes a seat, pushing the bridge of his glasses up his nose with his index finger while sadly watching the other kids grapple.

  I shake my head and continue coaching the kids on the mat, completely forgetting about the straight-laced guy until half an hour or so later when I hear it ---- the rapid, click-clack of prohibited high heels quickly stomping across the gym floor. My head swivels in the direction and…

  Dammnnn.

  A brunette in a painted on electric blue dress with an hourglass figure is heading right for me, her eyes blazing with anger, looking madder than a hornet's nest. Her thick, waist-length, coffee-colored waves trail behind her, making her look like she’s walking down a runway.

  "What are you doing in here?" she asks, stopping abruptly and squatting down to talk to the little professor, who is still sitting on the bleachers. I lean back so far I nearly fall down trying to see up her skirt just a little further.

  When she glares over and notices my attention, I straighten before she storms up to me, coming to a stop just inches away from my face. Her arms cross over her chest, lifting her full bosom. The move instantly draws my eyes to the line of her tempting cleavage. Those succulent tits and the fact that she smells like hot and delicious cinnamon, the oh-so-familiar scent of Big Red gum leaves me completely thunderstruck.

  "Are you the one in charge here?" she asks through clenched teeth.

  My extremely neglected cock stirs excitedly in my nylon pants, thinking about how it would love to be in charge of her pretty little mouth. It’s been a lonnng time since I’ve gotten laid. Scratch that, it’s been years since I’ve even been interested in getting laid. And now, out of all the people in the world, it has to be this woman? I’m not sure what it is about her, but she’s pushing all my buttons and making me want to push hers. And I bet I could push the fuck out of her button with my fingers or just the tip of my tongue until she screamed my name…

  I have to clear my throat and dirty mind before responding to her question. "Why, yes, ma'am, I’m one of the coaches. What can I do for you?"

  Those gorgeous eyes, turquoise like the Caribbean Sea, narrow. "Don't call me that. I'm not that old."

  "Yes, ma'am," I tease, trying and failing to suppress my smile, causing her scowl to deepen. "So how can I help you today?"

  "You could leave," she replies.

  "Ah, what?" I ask in confusion. I need to stop staring at her plump red mouth and imagining a certain…phallic object sliding in it and start concentrating on the words coming out of it instead.

  "How dare you come barging in here, forcing your barbaric sport down these kids' throats? They're too young to understand the consequences of their actions when they use their fists instead of words. My son doesn't need bad role models like you trying to make fighting look cool!"

  "Whoa, put away those claws, kitten," I say, holding my hands up in front of me and reeling back from her verbal attack. "This is a voluntary activity that requires parental permission before kids can participate. We're not making anybody join. And I bet you don't know the first thing about mixed martial arts, so you really shouldn't be judging it until you do. Or do you not approve of teaching kids to be open-minded?"

  She huffs in response. "I'm reporting you and your little activity to the sports director and demanding that he prohibit this brutality," she t
hreatens, hands now on her curvy hips. I want to put my own hands on those hips and grip them hard while I fuck her from behind…

  I’ve clearly lost my mind and need to get laid ASAP. The backup of jizz in my balls is apparently becoming downright toxic to my bloodstream.

  Wait, what was she going on and on about? Oh, right. She’s gonna report us.

  "Knock yourself out. Mr. Watt's approved our program himself, ma'am." I can't help but grin at the hostile lady. She's feisty and sexy as fuck. My previously empty spank bank is now half full again thanks entirely to her. Speaking of spanking, I would love to slap that amazing ass of hers for, well, pretty much anything…

  "Oh, you think you're so cute and funny, don't you?" she asks.

  "I do believe I have been told such a thing a time or two," I reply, trying to stop grinning, but it’s impossible after she called me cute, even if it was in a roundabout, sarcastic way.

  "Oh, please," she says with an eye roll. "Look here, Mister..."

  "Nathan Lewis, but you can call me Nate," I fill in for her, holding out my hand. She looks down at it in disgust, refusing to shake it. Can’t say I blame her since, in all probability, the dirty appendage is gonna be busy treating my cock like a Shake Weight while thinking about her in a few hours.

  "I don’t want my son in here again with you barbarians, Mr. Lewis. Do you understand?"

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  With a throaty, indignant growl that rumbles through my dick, she storms off, shouting, "Let's go, Grayson!" as she passes by the tiny professor, who’s standing at attention in front of the bleachers. He scuttles behind her, his back straight as an arrow.

  "What's her problem?" Jude, my good friend and technically my boss since he’s half owner of Havoc, asks when he wanders up after her exit.

  "She thinks we're bad role models," I tell Jude. And I have to admit that those words of hers actually stung a little.

  "Well, then she's in the minority since over three hundred other parents have enrolled their kids at six different Ys," Jude replies.

  At our gym, we have a few beginner classes for kids and adults. Jude along with Linc, who is the other owner of Havoc, thought it would be pretty cool if we could start a community outreach, teaching free classes to kids at the various YMCAs in the area who can't afford our outrageous membership fees or kids that just want to see what it's all about. Like the little professor.

  "The woman practically hissed at me before she threatened to talk to Watt," I tell Jude.

  "Ha!" he says followed by a bark of laughter. "That should be real fun for her."

  Fun is something that I'm betting is missing in that uptight lady's life.

  Then I remember what her son said, about his father being gone, and I feel guilty for all my naughty thoughts because my heart aches for her. She's way too young to be a widow; and unfortunately, I know just how painful it is to lose someone you love way before their time.

  Chapter Two

  Alyssa Grant

  "Come on in, Mrs. Grant," the sports director says with a smile when he looks up from his computer and sees me standing in the doorway.

  "Thank you, Mr. Watt. Sorry to bother you," I start, and then pause to take a deep breath, trying to calm myself down after my conversation with that...boy. Well, he wasn’t really a boy. Definitely a grown man, almost a foot taller than me, even if he doesn't act like it. And, okay, I can admit that the ginger was sort of cute in a messy, slacker, Prince Harry kind of way. Fine, he was very handsome and…sturdy looking. Still, that doesn't excuse his actions for bringing his Neanderthal sport here to corrupt our children.

  "So, the reason for my visit," I continue. "I looked all over the place for Grayson this afternoon when I came in to pick him up and couldn't find him. He'd gone to the gym and was watching those...men teaching violence to a group of kids his age."

  "Men teaching violence?" he asks. "You mean Nathan Lewis, the three-time national collegiate wrestling champion, and Jude Malone, the current IFC Welterweight and Middleweight Champion of the World, who are volunteering their time here at no charge to teach martial arts to any interested children that have permission slips from their parents?"

  "Um, yes, those men. I don't care who they are or what fancy wins they have. These kids are too young to be exposed to a sport that encourages them to use their fists to hurt other children. Parents should be trying to stop bullying at school, not teach them how to hit harder."

  "I understand your concerns, Mrs. Grant; however, we've received an incredible response from parents who support this new program from the Havoc fighters. In fact, after just one class, many have said that their children already seem to have higher self-esteem and confidence and want to continue classes, likely stemming from the fact that if they are bullied, they're less likely to become victims."

  "Those parents are idiots," I huff in disbelief.

  Narrowing his eyes, Mr. Watt says, "I've enrolled my daughter and son, so I guess that makes me an idiot as well."

  Shit. I'll take that as the end of our discussion.

  "That's your decision, Mr. Watt, but I don't want to find my son even observing them again," I say before walking out of his office.

  Grayson is waiting in the hallway for me after having retrieved his backpack from the after school care room. I look for some type of expression on his face, a reaction to what he just witnessed in the gym. Like usual there is none. He simply blinks his big, brown eyes behind his glasses. At seven years old, he should smile more, shouldn't he? I know his life hasn't been the easiest, especially after losing Austin last year. I try my best to make him happy, yet nothing seems to faze him, good or bad. Maybe I need to sit down with his therapist again or listen in on his session through the video feed to try and figure out what's going on with him.

  "Ready?" I ask.

  "Yes, mother." He's never called me mama or mommy, although I have to say that mother is an improvement over the few months where he insisted he only use my first name.

  "Do you have any homework?" I ask while we weave through the cars in the parking lot on the way to find my silver Acura.

  "I've completed my assignments and executed a thorough review of all responses."

  “Good,” I reply. My son is smart, and I’m proud of him for being so responsible with his school work. If only I could get him to just loosen up a little.

  Once we're both buckled in, I drive us home to the little house Austin and I bought the same week we were married. While stuck in the stop-and-go traffic during rush hour, I try to remember all the to-dos swirling through my head. I need bananas, milk, soda, and cereal from the store. Bananas, milk, soda, cereal. The acronym BMSC pops into my mind so I won't forget. Did I hit send on that email response to Candice before I left the office? What is tonight? Thursday. So Grayson has a spelling test tomorrow. How much is the balance in the checking account? I need to look it up online before I go to the grocery store this weekend. Might need to move some money from savings to cover it. God, I can't wait to sleep in on Saturday. My life is so damn hectic and busy. I have got to start going to bed earlier instead of staying up writing those silly stories…

  Rubbing my throbbing temple, I climb out of the car in our garage and promise my sore feet that they only have to walk a few more steps into the house before I free them from the torment of the spikes pressing on my heel.

  "Are you angry with me, mother?" Grayson asks softly, while I unlock the door, making me freeze.

  "No, I'm not angry with you. I just don't want you to think that hitting people is an acceptable form of recreation."

  "Yes, mother," he replies, eyes downcast like a sad puppy, making me feel horrible. If Austin were still alive, I know this is a subject that he and I would have argued over. He would want Grayson to be tough and manly like him, while I just want our son to be his natural, smart self, doing what he likes and what makes him happy.

  The problem is that I have no idea what that is anymore.

  Chapter Three
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  Alyssa

  "Oh my God, Candice," I say when I flop down in a chair across from my boss's desk, chomping hard on my Big Red gum in aggravation. Candice Grant is the editor here at The Cary Journal and she also happens to be my sister-in-law. "Can you believe the Y is letting these, these...brutes come in and teach little kids how to fight each other? I mean, I can't imagine why the sports director and all the parents think it's a good idea. How can they watch their kids get hurt like that? They need to stop bullying and not allow kids to use their fists." I finally stop my tirade to take a breath.

  "What brutes? Are they hot?" Candice asks with a grin while waggling her auburn eyebrows.

  "Really? That's your follow up to me telling you kids are learning to beat the shit out of each other?"

  "So they are hot."

  "I didn't say that!" I exclaim.

  "You didn't deny it either. Maybe I should go investigate. Tell me what they look like," she says, leaning forward across her desk on her elbows in interest.

  "Oh, please. This one guy thought he was funny and kept calling me ma'am to piss me off. Nathan Lewis or something another."

  Candice gasps, sitting up straight in her rolling chair. "Nathan Lewis!?!"

  "Yeah, I'm pretty sure that's what he said. Why? Do you know him?" I ask in confusion.

  "Are you serious right now? Is he in his early twenties?”

  “Ah, I guess so, maybe a little older,” I answer in confusion. “Why?”

  Shuffling through the papers on her desk, Candice picks up a document and starts scanning it. “Yes, it’s definitely Nathan Lewis on the police report! But how convenient that they failed to include his phone number or address so all we could print was his name with no picture or details about who the heck he is.”