Fighting to Stay (Fighting Madly Book 2)

by Ziegler, S. L.

  April and May brought clouds and rain, and June brings sunnier skies and warmer weather, and it lands us back in the city. D-day is a little more than a month away; the deadline to go home to visit Courtney and Gracie swarms around me. The thoughts of seeing—of facing—Reed again has me equal parts terrified and petrified. I’ll turn into a pile of mush at his feet the moment he opens his mouth to me, the second my eyes meet his. The possibility of taking this time out from my life to regroup will be for nothing. It’s all a mess of paralyzing fear within me.

  “Do you need another Coke, Hads?” Gus asks as he brings his beer to his mouth.

  “No, I’m good. Do you really have to leave me tomorrow, Guster? I think you should stay here with me.” I stick out my lip to pout. I don’t want him gone. It’s going to be too quiet, too lonely. James picked up more and more shifts since we got back, so it leaves me alone more than not, but Gus, being my lifeline, comes up on the weekends to visit.

  “Some of us have to go back to the real world. We have bills to pay,” he teases.

  “You and your jokes. Just stay till I leave, that’s all I’m asking.”

  Gus glances up to the only television in the bar, mumbles something under his breath, and sets his full beer down before speaking again. “Let’s get out of here. I don’t want to see this fight; it’s going to be a death match. Why don’t we go to the place down the street? I feel like shaking my ass with you one last time.” His voice sounds rushed.

  “All right.” The television is calling at me to see what fight he’s talking about. I take a peek and I spot him—in all his damn tattoos, danger, temptation, and glory.

  Six months away, six months without speaking, without seeing, without his touch, and with one glimpse of Reed, it’s like I left yesterday. My stomach still dips, flips, and spins when I see him in the cage doing what he does best. I fight the urge to turn away from him, but I lose as the camera zooms in at the first hit he delivers. And then the second hit, he wails in the guy’s face, and three more fast, hard ones and the guy falls down, arms reaching out, and lands on the mat with a thud. But Reed doesn’t let up. With his fists clenched tight, Reed pounds into the guy’s face and blood spatters all over the once-clean mat but he doesn’t hesitate. He repeats his swings over and again, only stopping when the official hauls him off. Reed gave everyone a boxing match, gave the guy a beat down, but for what? No one is going to be happy about what happened tonight.

  The official has Reed against the chains shouting in his ear, but Reed doesn’t spare him a second glance. He’s solely focused on the man lying on the ground, however not with the excitement Reed usually has after a win. It’s absent, replaced by a profound rage burning in his eyes, in his brain, in him. A rage that I’ve never witnessed before. The official drops his hold and Reed turns his back on everyone, his hands grasping the chains, his chest rapidly moving, his eyes vacant through the lens as he unlinks his fingers from the cage—only lightly taping his sparrows on his chest three times before he looks up to the lights above him.

  Two things—two major things—are different about this time than any before. The hits I once felt, I didn’t, not even a slight thud in my heart. Where only two sparrows were tattooed before, there’re now three. Only the smallest one is inked in all different stages mid-flight before turning into a star. He placed a symbol of my baby we lost above his chest, over his heart. Our little sparrow is tattooed, turning to the stars. Like her name, like how she left this earth.

  I would be heartless if the sight of this tribute didn’t play with my heartstrings, but the time to grieve for our loss is gone, and my time to mourn has long past. But not for Reed. The passion he held for the cage is dead. My Reed is gone. He is all Riker now.

  This isn’t who I remember.

  This isn’t who I love. Loved.

  The cheering crowd is the only thing I hear, but no one gathers around him, not a single person steps in to congratulate him. Lance and Kenny keep their distance on the other side of the cage, no smiles even on their faces over the win, because there was nothing deserving about this one. Because I left, because I had to run far and fast away.

  Gus glances at the TV and back at me a couple of times with his arms crossed over his chest and his lips open to ask a question, only to close them just as quickly. I don’t offer anything to him, and my attention is back to the man holding onto a huge chunk of me.

  I get the answer to the question I asked myself minutes ago…here, miles and miles away from this man. Yes, I love Reed. That will never change, and as much as I love him, I have to love myself more. I have to fix myself. I can’t let all the hard work I’ve done crumble. I have to be strong, because like it or not, I will have to face him at some point in the future. And I’ll be as ready as I can for it.

  My heart will always beat for him, and what we had is the only thing I ever really wanted—what I always prayed for, but right now I don’t need it. Our love isn’t worth the risk of me stepping on the merry-go-round of emotion to only be thrown off again—because that’s what it would do. There isn’t a big enough first-aid kit for the wounds I’d have after that kind of tumble.

  What a difference growing up does.

  What a difference space away does.

  Gus tilts his head to the side, stilling any movement. “He’s it, isn’t he?” He hesitates asking me, his tone low.

  Gus has become a close friend through the months, as close as I will let him get, but our relationship is built on laughs and fun. And my love life is neither fun nor laughable, so my mouth is zipped tight.

  “That’s him.” My words slip past my lips as I confirm.

  “You good?” His shoulders pull up and his eyes dart from me to the screen. Something in his head is working overtime.

  Not hesitating and not lying to myself or him, I reply, “I’m good, Guster. Really good. Now finish your beer so we can go dancing one last time before you leave me.” I clink my Coke bottle to his beer, causing foam to rush to the top.

  “You bitch,” he jokes.

  And all I do is shake my head, and a giggle-giggle leaves my mouth as he chugs it.

  “What the hell do you mean, you still don’t know where she is?” I drill into Lance. His ass should have my answers. But nope. He has nothing. He’s had nothing for months. Nothing but useless dead ends and false hope that only served to darken this dreary-ass world I’ve been stuck in.

  Bash should have answers. But he doesn’t know shit other than she and that dipshit James took a plane to Miami, then took another private plane to Brazil, only to rent a car and disappear somewhere along the way. What good is it to have a friend that finds people for a living if he doesn’t find the person for me?

  I have Laura run social-media checks on all of Hadley’s friends, and when I mean all, I mean it. Not a friend of Hads that hasn’t been cyber stalked. But zip comes up each search. No word, not a post, she hasn’t even fucking liked a picture.

  It’s like she just slipped into the equator down there and got swallowed up by the earth.

  But we know that really can’t happen, so I still look.

  These fuckers need to understand that nothing is keeping me away from getting Hadley back where she belongs.

  Not a damn thing will stand in my way.

  I have the money, I have the power, and someone should have a fucking clue where she is. But everything is coming up empty. She disappeared off the fucking face of the earth. With fucking James.

  My calls, emails, and texts, everything sent to her is ignored. It’s like I made her up in my fucking head.

  “Hadley still hasn’t said anything to Court, either. She turned off her GPS long ago, so searching it that way is pointless. And her calls to Court are sporadic and so short, all it does is bounce in somewhere from South America, which we already knew that. I’ll tell you about it if she tells Courtney anything, but I know as much as you, Rike.”

  I call bullshit on that, Courtney has to know, she has to. Hads is her bes
t friend, she used to tell Courtney when she broke a fucking nail, so why wouldn’t my girl tell Courtney where she is? That leaves Courtney either keeping where she is from Lance, or she’s holding her pussy hostage if he tells me. I’ll place a bet on either option right now.

  “My life would be easier if Matt’s ass would tell me.” Life and easy never mixed well with me and getting him not to kill me is a feat in itself, not that I don’t wish that sometimes he would. But telling me where his precious sister is will only happen when pigs fly.

  And I see no pigs in the damn sky today.

  “Hads did say she would be the godmother, so hold onto that one.”

  “That doesn’t make any of this shit bearable. She agreed two months ago, two months, Lance. So why the fuck did you say that?” What a stupid douche bag my friend is.

  “Courtney was worried she would say no because you’re the godfather. But that’s all I got for you. Just try to focus on your fight and deal with the rest of the crazy stuff later.” He turns away and leaves me alone on the gym floor.

  Focus on a fight, they say. Channel my anger, they tell me. But don’t they know that’s what I’ve been doing?

  That’s all I have left.

  I spent the first days after she left locked in my house—our house—drunk as shit, alone, dirty, and obsessively trying to contact Hads. The harsh thoughts replay, from us being good to only being fucking broken which in an instant sent me spiraling down a sick routine, and that shit I did, never faltered. I held the damn bottle of whiskey close. With every call to Hadley it was near me like my fucking baby, like it was an extension of her. I would take a shot, text Hadley, take another, call her, take one more and email her, and over and over and over again.

  And not a damn reply coming my way. Never “Hey, I’m okay.” Not a message telling me when she will be back.

  Nothing.

  Not a fucking word back to me.

  I couldn’t help but wonder if this is how she felt after I left her, after I walked out on her when she was still asleep with not a clue of what I had planned. But I don’t know because I never opened my mouth to ask about it. Because I was a fucking coward to hear the truth come from my girl.

  The morning of the sixth day, I woke up on the ground with the hangovers of all hangovers. I knew I couldn’t play like that anymore. I was turning into my father and killing my liver in the process. And her never answering was making me go insane. Like legit crazy. I even thought I saw her standing over me once.

  I had to change something, switch it up. So I put a stop to getting trashed and I slowed down my stalking, not because I wanted to, not because I didn’t want her to know that I’m fucking crazy about her but if I had to endure one more day of no reply from Hadley, my next stop would be in crazy town in a straitjacket, staring at a padded wall.

  After my wake-up call, it left me with only a few other things to do, so I did the only thing I knew how to…train. But despite the cap I placed on contacting her, and the endless time in the gym, it never stopped me from trying like hell to find Hadley.

  That’s it—my fucking life in a nutshell. Training and using all my resources to find her.

  Maybe I need that one-way ticket to the land of lonely.

  The sweat, the aches in my muscles, and the pounding on the treadmill aren’t helping anymore, though, because my fuse, my rage, my anger is swallowing me whole. Each day I wake up, reaching to the spot she isn’t in anymore, in the bed that’s half hers, and wanting to tell her everything, tell her the truth of what happened. That it’s not what she thinks.

  But she’s gone.

  So my fucking arms keep reaching, and I will till I can hold her again.

  It doesn’t help that everyone looks at me like I’m going to burn them. Everyone keeps their damn distance from me, but that’s for the best. I want to light a fucking match, chuck it in gasoline, and watch the fire ignite everything till I get her ass back here.

  Fucking January faded.

  February and March vanished.

  April and May disappeared.

  It’s June—fucking June. My fight is tomorrow and my girl is away, God knows where. That’s six months, a lot of damn days, minutes, and too many fucking seconds to count. And Hads’s out there— not with me—not in my arms or in my bed. She left me living in my own fucking personal hell on this damn earth.

  “Riker weighs in at 190.2.” Jamie Black, the MMPL CEO speaks in the microphone.

  I move off the scale to the center of the stage, flexing my muscles for the crowd. Cheers boom over the room and flashes from cameras blind me from seeing anything past the first row. This is the part I hate, playing a role to these vultures. Usually I grin and bear it. It’s part of the shit that goes with hitting the sport mainstream. But between fighting off all the questions about what happened in December, and what I think of Krystal, I’ve had enough. And if one more person opens their trap and tells me how they think I can win tomorrow, I’m not going to be held responsible for their broken nose. I mean for fucks sake. Do I run around asking about who their dick was in? Nope, because I don’t give a shit. Do I show up at their job and tell them how to type numbers? No. Why? Because I’ve got no fucking clue what I’m talking about, so my trap stays shut. Stupid fucks.

  A tap on my shoulder gains my attention. I turn my back on the crowd and face Chris “Speedy” Gilbert. He’s a great fighter, no doubt about that, but this fucker hits below the belt, and not just in the cage but all around. Tomorrow will be the last fight he’ll do for the league because he’s a doper, plays with the human-growth medicine cocktail. The beginning of next year, the league will start to test for it and he won’t be able to pass. To say he has shit to prove tomorrow is an understatement. And I’ll love to show him his ass can be beat by someone clean. Just one of the reasons he’s an asshole hands down and not just for show. He’s the “I’m going to sell my mother’s kidney just to do it” type of asshole.

  The worst kind.

  Most of the guys I fight I know; I consider them friends outside the cage and we’ve come to understand it’s not personal that we want to kill each other, it’s fucking business. Those piss-show pictures are all for show. But if you aren’t friends, and it’s your first time fighting them, you learn a lot in the forty-five-second stare down. If they flinch when you move, they’re scared. If their nose flares, they’re ready. If the veins in their neck pulse, you better be on your game. But Speedy’s locked up tight, no twitch of his lids, no dancing of his eyes. He could be made of stone and would give me more.

  Jamie speaks to us about the clean fight we will have tomorrow. The same warning I can say in my sleep because he dishes it out the same way each time I fight. Once Jamie’s grip clasps down on my shoulder, it’s my cue to drop the dick contest and hit knuckles and leave. I bring my knuckles to Speedy’s but the fucker doesn’t want to play. Fine by me, I’ll be happy to touch knuckles with his pretty-ass face tomorrow.

  “How’s that sweet bitch of yours?”

  My feet lock mid-turn on the stage, my neck muscles strain, and my hands ball in a fist on damn instinct. I know he didn’t just say that shit to me. He’s fucking smarter than that. Has to be. “Repeat that?”

  His face has a smile on it, a fucking grin on those rat lips of his. “You heard me. Wonder who she’s fucking now? I would tap that…”

  My clenched fist flies up. I get the urge to pound him so hard, he’ll need more than stitches on his face. I marvel at the heat of his skin against mine, but the connection I desperately want, I don’t get. Lance’s hand surrounds mine, stopping the hit a moment too early for me. He’s saying something to me, and Laura is on the other side showing me something, but all I hear is my damn blood rushing to my head, and all I can see is this fucker damaged.

  Him drowning in a pool of his own blood by my punches alone. That will be my satisfaction. My repayment for the words he fucking delivered. Fucking tap nothing, because he won’t have a dick to stick in anything.

&
nbsp; Jamie places his palms on my chest, shoving me farther away from Speedy. My body trembles with hatred with each inch I step away, and the want, the need to do bodily damage to him grows stronger and stronger.

  My throat burns like I swallowed acid. “I’m going to get you. Mark my fucking words. You are dead tomorrow,” I fucking roar out, and the vein on my temple pounds with each word I shout.

  I dip away and Jamie’s gone, but the excitement is too short lived when tight arms hold me from all sides. I drop my head and surrender. I’m not a fool, and only a fool would fight now. Tomorrow he’s done. Tomorrow he will pay, he will get what he deserves after he spoke about my fucking girl that way.

  Speedy stands there and his body relaxes now that I can’t get to him. His laughter booms through the room. “Wow, Rike. She must have been a damn cat in the sack to get you like this.”

  “You’re dead,” I seethe out.

  “Riker, how does it feel to have another belt to add to your wall?”

  “Good.”

  “How was your training different for this fight?”

  “I trained like I always do for a fight. Next.”

  Jamie warned them no questions unless it was about the fight, and so I get generic questions, and generic answers is the only thing back from me.

  Five hits. That’s all it took to take Speedy down. Months of training, too many hours in the gym to count and only five fucking hits and the fucker went down. This morning the papers had their shots of what happened, their own made-up version of what he said. The shows had the video, but no damn audio played except my voice saying he’s dead.

  He’s not dead, but he got his own justice handed to him. The win wasn’t enough for me, though. I smelled the blood and I fucking snapped. What’s delusional is that I wasn’t seeing Speedy’s face after he fell to the floor. I saw James’s. James who took my damn girl. The words Speedy said about who my girl is fucking, got to me. I couldn’t punch hard enough to get my revenge, to get the damn sight of her naked under another fucker, screaming his name instead of mine, clawing at his back.