Fearless: a Sports Romance

by Amarie Avant

  JESSICA WATKINS PRESENTS

  FEARLESS

  by AMARIE AVANT

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  Copyright © 2017 by Amarie Avant

  Published by Jessica Watkins Presents

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. Without limiting the right under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form by means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

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  Dedication:

  To my husband, Brandon. I couldn’t have completed some of these action sequences without you.

  To my sister, Natasha, well because… Read it and figure out why??

  PROLOGUE

  Vassili Karo Resnov

  Mixed Marital Arts Arena, Brazil

  “You good?” Vadim, my coach, asks in Russian while applying pressure to the gash on my forehead. Blood is smeared all over the canvas beneath my feet. It’s dripping from the incision at my temple. The medic already cleared me to continue, although the sticky stream had left me with only one eye to see straight.

  “Yeah,” I respond. My gaze is dead while I glare through my enemy, Tiago, seated in the corner across from me. Ten years ago, I would’ve laughed at the hot head. I was cocky too. Backing my shit up has always come easy. Now, my entire body is on fire, and killing Tiago in the cage is my fuel to survive.

  “Your knee good?”

  The death trance I’ve clung to for two rounds fades to black the second Vadim mentions my knee. A vivid image of my wife, Zariah, permeates my mind. Her mahogany skin lost its glow; deep brown eyes were full of disdain as the physician injected cortisone in my left knee not an hour ago. Marriage to an attorney means I've got to fucking defend myself whenever she's worried about me. Don’t get me wrong. There are broads in this world that want nothing but to hang on my arm and get a piece of me. Ain’t nothing like having a real woman who loves you regardless of your faults. Truth is, she isn’t all debates and arguments. I shouldn’t have returned just yet. But I was born for the octagon. All I have ever loved was pounding in flesh, her, and our baby, Natasha.

  “You aren’t ready to return, Vassili,” Zariah had said. She loves to bust my fucking balls, though she wasn't far from reality. Every time I step into the cage, man, her heart breaks a little. I’m a damn occupational hazard, and she’s too good for this shit…too good for me. So how did I get such an innocent treasure? One, I’m not a quitter. I loved Zariah before she even gave me a chance. Two, I did it with patience. Seven whole damn years, and I lost my heart to this girl before she offered me the key to her own.

  Vadim’s bushy white eyebrows rise. “Vassili, you good?” he asks again.

  I shake the daze from my brain. “Khorosho. Khorosho—Good. Good. Just a little blood.” A lot of fucking blood.

  “A little blood never hurt, eh? Karo, knock ‘em the fuck out,” Nestor says, handing me a cup of water.

  “No, Karo is going to lay Tiago to rest.” Vadim has the same hungry glare in his eyes as he preps me with more Vaseline. “Keep him moving. He’ll tire. You’re doing good, Karo. Don’t let him get to your knee. Bring that mudak down. Kill ‘em, Karo, kill ‘em.”

  I nod, standing to my feet. Tiago and I come together once more. I lock his arms and pin him against the fence. My good knee jabs into his abs. With each force, I annihilate his liver. Tiago goes back to the clinch. A hook punch lands against the back of my ear, and we’re back to the middle of the cage. Back and forth we go, fist for bricks, like one of us pissed on the other’s mother’s grave. I’ve got power, but this motherfucker is just as dominating.

  Tire him out. Bring him down for the kill.

  A kick against my left knee forces venom through my veins. White noise buzzes in my ear. Instantly, my mind is on her and her disappointment.

  Kill. Kill. Kill. It should be the only thought in my mind. But Zariah’s arguing has bull rushed into my head space. Shit, don’t think about Zariah now, I’m gonna bitch out! She’s sitting in the front row. Though a professional at taking hits, I’m not stupid enough to glance her way. My stats: 25 knock outs, 9 submissions. Two loses… The first was as an amateur. The second left me with a fractured patella 217 days ago, and I’ve been ready to get my ass in the octagon since then.

  It’s as if Zariah’s heart is beating through mine as Tiago realizes my knee isn’t as “good” as I’ve let on during our promotions. With each blow, I counter, knowing she’s right there, unable to breathe. Tiago alternates from targeting my knee to that gash against my head. The high my left knee was on has ended, no dull ache. It feels like a serrated knife burning on coals has sliced through my knee.

  “Karo, do you want to continue?” The ref asks, holding a steady hand for Tiago to keep his distance.

  This is where Zariah and I always chatted about putting our baby girl, Natasha, first. Though the crowd is egging me on—one fucking eye and all—Zariah’s disappointment rides along. Breaths jagged, my heart crumbles, and I feel like the ultimate asshole as I nod vigorously. It’s me or this motherfucker before me. One of us is going down tonight.

  There has to be less than a precious minute left. And I can’t take a loss by decision.

  “Vassili, baby, just stop. We have a good life! We have a beautiful baby girl who your doctor hasn’t even cleared you to pick up without having to be in a seated position!” Zariah had said some odd months ago. That was after I lost the welterweight belt—my belt. It was my second professional loss.

  I jump to my dominate leg and force my left leg forward. The shot dislocates my toe as my foot slams against Tiago’s mouth. He’s brought to his knees.

  Total knock out or submission. The easy route would be one swift kick to his mouth and lodge that fucking mouth guard down his throat. Nah, let’s go for overkill! Mouth tensed, I clamber behind him onto his back. I pull my right arm around his neck. Bicep sinking along his carotid artery and my forearm around his spine, I grip my fists together, squeezing in a rear naked choke.

  “Vassili, it’s Natasha and me or the cage. You choose.”

  “Zariah, really, sweetheart? Don't do that. Don't fucking do that. Natasha is my princess. You're my queen, so you know that the answer will always be—”

  Tap! Tiago gets in one tap. His hand pauses mid-second tap. Then his body softens into a limp position in my arms.

  The referee is calling the fight as the Brazilian slips to the floor and I jump up. My entire body is on fire now. The pain engulfs me as if I just leapt head-forward into a volcano. Every muscle screams, every tendon haggard. I climb up the side of the fence, favoring my right knee, I straddle it and place my fists into the air.

  “This is it! Killer Karo is back!” I hear through the loud speakers. The announcer’s already predicting that my belt will soon return to my grasp; the welterweight belt I lost seven
months ago. The feel of it is so tangible. I breathe in victory, glancing toward Zariah’s chair.

  It’s empty.

  The only time my wife left during the middle of a game, she’d gone into labor with Natasha. Nestor said she’d squirmed in her seat almost the entire time waiting for my victory. Though I’d won that fight, my body felt like shit. I’d grabbed the keys to his motorcycle, wove through traffic, speeding to the hospital.

  She. Left. That high, that triumphant high, so much better than cocaine, crashes down. My wife is gone.

  Vassili Karo Resnov

  Venice Beach, California

  Nine Years Ago

  Pop! A cross hook whips through the air. The force packs enough punch to knock my jaw out of place. Once in a while, my opponent gains the upper hand. It's a wake-up reminder that all the attempts of my crew to puff up my head are just that. I play into the invincibility crap on stage. That shit sells tickets just as much as knocking a mudak out or into submission.

  The entire room falls quiet. The small crowd has forgotten how to speak. My opponent is one of Vadim’s Gym’s biggest shit talkers. He is a major boxing fan. He always has something to say about MMA. He said boxing is a slow burn, but in the mixed martial arts world, the dynamics are much quicker. So this morning, I demanded that he come see me. He chose the old boxing stage, which is upstairs within the clutter of dusty-ass equipment and offices above the MMA cage downstairs. No sparing gear. The glossed look in his eyes tells me he is surprised by making contact as well. Now, here we are. I readjust my jaw.

  “I told you, Vassili,” the wanna-be boxer brags, poising his right arm for a hook.

  For a split second, they all wonder if 185 pounds of all muscle, Killer Karo, no longer untouchable. Is the dude who got one in on me the next best thing?

  Fuck no.

  Not a moment later, I step back on my hind leg. I lead with a power jab. My glove connects with his nose. Blood projects outward as his bone snaps. The blow sends that mudak to the opposite side of the ring. Between the ropes his body goes, slamming against the floor.

  Vadim’s coaching assistant, and the few people allowed up here are now hooting for me, saying how lucky the guy was three seconds ago.

  His cross hook hadn’t caught me off guard. A loud bitch downstairs just got the best of me, and she doesn’t even know it. The broad has a set of lungs on her. I swear her mouth must be wide enough for me to lodge my cock all down her throat. She’s still screaming to high heavens about blowing Vadim’s Gym to the ground. Not the first broad to come in here shouting about this, that and the other. She’s the reason I reach up and click my jaw back into place.

  “Tchyo za ga lima?” I ask, ‘What the fuck?’ in Russian, spitting blood on the floor. I push the rope down and jump down from the ring. I step over the unconscious heap, eyes narrowed as I glare at these idiots.

  “We sent Nestor the second it started,” the assistant says.

  I bark, “You telling me that nobody can shut that bitch up? Does she sound familiar to any of you?”

  Everyone shakes their head no in bewilderment.

  While coming up the steps, my trainer, Nestor, says, “Nobody down there knows who the broad is. She keeps asking for Sergy.”

  I rub my chin. “What did Sergy say or do to her? Not pay his fucking child support? He's down there working the weights, getting pretty ain't he?”

  “Yeah, but he wasn't claiming the bitch and she confirmed that he wasn't her Sergy.” Nestor sighs. “She's a kid…a boner. And she’s very shapely, but I swear, I think she's just a kid.”

  While Nestor licks his lips in thought of the girl, I mumble under my breath, “We only have one Sergy.”

  “Should I?” asks Yuri, my fat-ass cousin.

  “Why you asking now, kazen? You could have handled the situation before I took one to the fucking chin.” I start for the stairs.

  “Where you going?” someone asks from behind me as I stalk toward the stairs.

  “I'll shut the bitch up myself,” I say. Sweat is dripping down my muscles as I shuffle down the stairs to the sound of more threats about what's in the woman's purse.

  When I make it to the first floor, there are a bunch of beef heads at the weight machines around the perimeter. Sergy, the three-headed monster, is the biggest one. Could be a heavyweight, but with two left feet, nobody’s playing the fool.

  I make my way through Vadim’s men who are trying to sweet talk the truth into her.

  The instant my eyes land on her, I lose the ability to charm her like all the others. God hasn’t invented a word to describe how beautiful she is; gorgeous won’t suffice. She’s in a form-fitting black dress that stops mid-calf. There’s nothing particularly sexy about the dress; like she could wear it to the club and turn more heads than the women whose tits and asses are falling out. The allure is all her. Though projecting power and elegance, the silky fabric grips more curves than should be legal. Those pointy heels that I love, grace her tiny feet. I can see myself gripping that long, thick braid slinked over her shoulder while her ass claps back against my cock.

  She’s a deep dark chocolate, with pink full lips, and I swear if I hadn’t heard her cuss, I’d have to force my gaze away to search for another culprit…another female in Vadim’s Gym. But there are no other women, and I can’t take my gaze off her.

  I gulp down the lump in my throat. Am I fucking speechless? Before I can tell myself not to bitch up, she starts another round.

  “Where the hell is—”

  “Miss, excuse me,” I call out over her next threat.

  Her fury turns my direction. Something in me wants to take every ounce of aggression she’s willing to throw. Shit, I will throw it right back in the sack. There’s a spark of interest in her eyes as they sweep up and down my muscles. She places a hand on her hips, dark eyes zeroing in on me with the intention of eating me alive. “Yes, excuse you. I want to see Sergio, nowwww.”

  The left side of my mouth tips. She’s stepped all over the rest of these fucks and thinks I’m next. Nah, I won’t be bested by a female. At least, the shouting that caught me off guard doesn’t count. Cussing doesn’t come naturally for her, and I'm betting the shouting masks her fear as does her holding tight to a leather purse like she's carrying heat. Underneath the attitude, I sense her fear. Thick hips and thighs and curvy legs sort of help with that…sort of.

  I tell her, “I can help you, Miss. I’m Vassili Resnov.”

  She doesn’t offer a name. But her pupils pierce out as more fear seeps in, taking away from the rapture of her chocolate gaze. I know terror when I see it even if her breasts are jutted out; hips too. She's scared. See, my last name always kills the pussy.

  Running a gloved hand over my Mohawk, I inquire, “You're looking for Sergy?”

  The woman is taken aback just as I was upon first sight. She finds her voice, it’s muted at first. “Sergio, Sergio,” she corrects. “And I'm going to bash his face in. See how he likes that. You all think you can go around hitting women. Well, I've got something for his ass.” She taps her leather purse.

  I've got something even harder for your ass too. “I see. Come with me to my office.”

  Those stilettos don’t bust a move. “Where's Sergio?”

  “He ain't here today.” My statement is somewhere between the truth and a lie. “C’mon, beautiful. You're making a scene, scaring those thick neck, pussies.” I nudge my jaw toward the weight section.

  The lady clasps a diamond butterfly necklace, her worry and fears increasing by the second. “Humph, I know the name Resnov. You won't help me. Hell no, you'll escort me out back, knock me off, and drop me into one of these many Venice canal ways.”

  “There’s never been blood on my hands.” Okay well, not the last breath kinda blood. I glance down at my hands and then hold it up. Nestor pulls off the boxing gloves one at a time. Next, I extend my hand. “Clearly, Sergio has disrespected you. Please allow me to rectify that.”

  The girl’s gaze fal
ls from mine as she shakes my hand. Her fingers are silky, so tiny I doubt they've ever even been in a cat fight. Those sexy lips almost relax. When I let her hand go, the rage returns to her eyes.

  We start up the stairs. I tell her, “The owner, Vadim, is at a funeral today. Otherwise, the situation would've been handled.”

  She's quiet, simmering in anger as my opponents usually do. At the second floor, the guy I just TKO’d is stirring awake. The girl’s steps falter.

  “I offered the cage, but he preferred the ring. He also signed a disclaimer.” I hold out my palms in a peaceful gesture. “And I've never hit a lady, so you have nothing to fear. You’re in good hands.”

  “I don't care about him,” she retorts.

  “Well, that makes two of us.” I open the door to Vadim’s office and gesture for her to enter. My eyes rake over the small of her back and how it juts out so, from west to east of plump meat, for an ass begging for my submission.

  The heavenly view causes a pep in my step as I walk in after her. There's MMA memorabilia on the walls. The trophies are so big that they stand to my 5 foot 11 stature and belts on the wall. There’re pictures and magazines of Vadim’s best fighters from the last 15 years also.

  “Please,” I offer and gesture toward a seat for her before I step around to Vadim’s leather chair. For a moment, I'm mesmerized by how she licks her lips apprehensively. For such an angry one, she has an innocent aura surrounding her.

  “So, this Sergio, what does he look like?”

  “You said you knew him.”

  “By nightfall, I’ll know all about him.” Though I rarely smile, I offer the one that the ladies love. Shit, but evidently, not this one. She’s too far gone off emotions: fear, anger, and I’m assuming, disgust for the greater male race that enjoys a good fight. “I give you my word. What does he look like?”

  She bites her lip for a second. “Okay, he's at least a few inches taller than you with more muscles than you.” She sneers. “So stop eye fucking me.”