Takedown

by Nikki Ash

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  About the author

  Other books by Nikki Ash

  Dedication

  Takedown

  Prologue

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Epilogue

  Takedown

  Copyright © 2018

  Nikki Ash

  All rights reserved

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at AuthorNikkiAsh@gmail.com.

  Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Cover design: Jersey Girl Designs

  Cover photograph: Kruse Photography

  Editor: Brown Editing

  About the Author

  Nikki Ash resides in South Florida where she is an English teacher and writer by day and a writer by night. When she’s not writing, you can find her with a book in her hand. From the Boxcar Children to Wuthering Heights to latest single parent romance, she has lived and breathed every type of book. While reading and writing are her passions, her two children are her entire world. You can probably find them at a Disney park before you would find them at home on the weekends!

  Reading is like breathing in, writing is like breathing out.– Pam Allyn

  Contact Nikki Ash

  Facebook * Twitter * Instagram

  Amazon * Website

  Nikki Ash’s reader group

  Subscribe to Nikki Ash’s newsletter

  Other books By Nikki Ash

  All books can be read as standalones

  The Fighting Series

  Fighting for a Second Chance

  Fighting with Faith

  Fighting for Your Touch

  Fighting for Your Love

  Fighting ‘round the Christmas Tree: A Fighting Series Novella

  Fighting Love novels

  Tapping Out

  Clinched

  Takedown

  Mob Romance

  Bordello

  Single Dad Romance

  Knocked Down

  Friends-to-lovers Romance

  Unbroken Promises (coming this fall)

  Football Romance

  The Pickup (coming this fall)

  Dedication

  To Luis: thank you for always putting our children first.

  Divorce isn’t easy, but if I’m going to be divorced to anyone, I’m glad it’s you.

  Takedown

  Definition: a technique that involves gaining control and off-balancing an opponent,

  then bringing him or her to the ground.

  Prologue

  Mason

  Sixteen years ago

  I sit on my bed, staring at the door. Mom told me to stay in my room until she’s done working, but that was a long time ago. Usually, she leaves for work after I get home from school and comes home after I’m already in bed, but sometimes her work comes here. I hate those nights. I hate having to stay in my room and listen to them screw her, and if it’s not them screwing her, it’s her pimp. She says she hates him but needs him to get her work so she can make money to take care of me. I can’t stand the guy. Every time he comes over, he sends me to my room, and my mom lets him, not even caring about the fact that he’s not my dad. My dad is dead.

  A little while ago when I heard the moaning and grunting of the guy getting off, I thought she was almost done. But then there was screaming and shouting, and shortly after, a door slamming before everything went quiet. I thought my mom would come and get me at that point, but she didn’t. So now I’m sitting here and waiting for her, but I don’t hear anything, not a single sound. Maybe she forgot about me.

  Maybe I should go out there and make sure she’s okay. She might think she can take care of herself, but she’s delusional. She sees what she wants to see and believes what she wants to believe to convince herself that working for her asshole pimp and having sex with those piece-of-shit guys is what’s best for us, but it’s not. She blames my dad, says if he wouldn’t have screwed her over, she wouldn’t be in this position, and that might be true, but it doesn’t do any good to blame someone who’s dead.

  She cries every day, apologizing for not being able to take care of me—of us. She rarely has any money to buy us food or clothes or anything, really. Our electric and water are shut off more than they’re on. I hear her every night when she comes home, crying herself to sleep. I hate when she cries. I wish I could make her happy again. I remember when I was little and she would smile and laugh. I want her to smile and laugh again.

  I’m considering going against my mom’s wishes for me to stay in my room, so I can check on her, when I hear sirens fill the silence. I go to the window, and drawing the curtains back, I pull down the blinds a little bit to peek outside. I count the police cars—six in total—surrounding our house. The house I’ve lived in my entire life. The same house that has notices on the door to let us know that we need to move out soon because we can no longer afford it.

  My room is on the second floor, and I can see everything down below. My mom promised me that we wouldn’t have to move out. That she would take care of it. But it’s a lie. It’s always a lie. I don’t even think she realizes every single word out of her mouth is a lie. I’m not mad at her, though. I’m sad. I’m sad that my mom doesn’t make enough money, and that food and clothes cost too much. I’m especially sad that she has to have sex with those nasty guys in order to take care of me.

  I watch as my mom is dragged forcibly by her elbow to the police car. When the car door is opened and her head is pushed down for her to get in, I notice her hands are behind her back. It’s then I realize my mom is being arrested, and she’s not the only one. Her pimp is taken in cuffs, as well as the guy who came over for sex. She doesn’t think I know what she does in order to take care of me, but I do. I hear her and her pimp arguing all the time. She’s always begging him for more money, telling him she needs to take care of me, and he’s always saying she’s lucky she gets anything at all. I hate that my mom is in this position. That I’m such a hassle.

  My hand comes up to the window, and my palm slaps against the glass several times as I try to get her attention. It doesn’t work though, and seconds later, the door is closed. I shouldn’t have listened to her. I should’ve known something was wrong. I should’ve gone ou
t there to help her. Then again, it probably wouldn’t have mattered because she doesn’t want my help. Every time I ask her if there’s anything I can do, she cries. So, I no longer ask. I hate when I’m the reason she cries. I hate that I’m only thirteen years old, and I can’t get a job. That I can’t take care of my mom.

  In an attempt to get to her before the police car drives away, I run out of my bedroom and down the stairs. “Mom!” I scream as my feet hit the front porch, but all that’s left are the taillights of the car. I’m too late.

  A police officer approaches me. “What’s your name?”

  “Mason Street. My mom was just taken.” I point to the police car which is now driving away.

  “How old are you?”

  “Thirteen.”

  The police officer nods his head. “Okay, let’s sit out here on the porch. The officers are still investigating inside. We’re going to get this figured out.”

  “Is my mom—” I start to ask but stop, scared of what the answer will be. I’m old enough to know that my mom being arrested isn’t a good sign. “Is my mom in trouble?”

  The officer gives me a sympathetic smile to hide his quick flinch. “Unfortunately she is, but we’ll find someone to take care of you.”

  His words stop me in my tracks. If my mom can’t even take care of me, does he really think he’ll find someone else that would be able to take care of me, that would want to take care of me? And even if they’re willing, I wouldn’t want to be a burden to someone else. I know we have no family. My parents are only children. My dad’s parents aren’t alive anymore, and my mom’s want nothing to do with us.

  “I don’t want to be taken care of,” I tell the officer as I back away. He looks confused but I don’t care. If being taken care of means forcing another person to have to do horrible things like my mom has had to do, I don’t want to be responsible for that. I don’t want to be responsible for another person struggling and crying every day.

  I turn to run, but the officer grabs hold of my body, holding me in place. “You can’t run. I promise you, you’re safe.” He brings me to the swinging bench and sits me down. “Someone is on their way. We’ll get this figured out. I won’t leave until I know you have somewhere to go.”

  A little while later, a woman shows up. Her name is Michelle Calhoun, and she tells me she’s here to help me. “Have you lived in this home long?”

  “Yes, my whole life,” I tell her. “But there are notes on the door that say we have to move out because my mom doesn’t have enough money to pay for the house.”

  Mrs. Calhoun gives me a small smile and nods in understanding. She takes me away from my home and brings me to her office. She searches for relatives, and just like I already knew, they’re all dead, and my mom’s parents don’t want me. For the last few years—since my dad died when he was hit by a car while walking home from the dog tracks—it’s only been my mom and me. She calls several more people before she finally says she’s found a place for me. When we get to the house, I’m introduced to Paul and Iris Deluca. When I ask when I’ll be able to see my mom, I’m told they aren’t sure, but that they will take good care of me until my mom is able to come back and get me.

  I live with Paul and Iris for a little over a year. Paul works for the bank, and Iris is a teacher. She doesn’t have sex with anyone for money, and neither of them cry or complain I cost too much. Everything is going okay until Paul gets sick and has to quit his job. Iris tells the state they can’t take care of me anymore, and I’m picked up.

  For the next few years I’m moved from home to home. I learn quickly that most people are in it for the money I come with. They get paid to take care of me. It’s too bad my mom couldn’t get paid to take care of me. Maybe then she wouldn’t have needed to prostitute herself out for money, and she wouldn’t have cried every night because she couldn’t pay the bills. Maybe if she got paid to take care of me, she wouldn’t be in jail, and we’d still be living in our home.

  The last house I move into is filled with three other boys. Walter and Janice Saulsberry are nice people. They tell me the boys have been living here awhile, and because one of the teenagers turned eighteen and moved out, there’s an opening for me. Apparently, the state stops paying once you turn eighteen, which means you gotta figure shit out for yourself.

  I only have six months until I graduate, less than that until I turn eighteen, then I’ll have to find a way to take care of myself. I’ve moved so many times, I’m barely going to graduate high school, and I definitely don’t have any money for college. I used to want to be a paramedic, but without the grades and money, there’s no way I’m furthering my education. To be completely honest, I have no clue what I’m going to do with my life. My mom was sentenced to jail for five years. Some shit about prostitution and drug possession. I don’t know all the details, but from what I overheard, my mom’s pimp was using our basement to cook and sell his drugs on top of prostituting my mom out.

  “We’re heading to the gym,” Travis, one of the guys I live with, mentions one day after school. “Wanna go?”

  Not having anything better to do, I figure why not? “Sure.”

  Turns out it’s a mixed-martial-arts training facility where the owner lets teens workout and train for free to blow off some steam a few hours every day after school. The first few days I don’t work out or train, choosing to watch everyone instead. I watch them spar with each other and practice the moves they’ve been taught. I pay attention to the moves they make. I’ve spent most of my life watching and listening. I’m good at blending in...trying not to be a burden. I pick up on the moves that work and the ones that don’t.

  Then one day Travis is fighting—and losing—against a guy named Cedrick. Without thinking, I yell, “Watch out for the arm bar.” Just as I finish my sentence, the other guy pulls him into an arm bar, and Travis is forced to tap out. They both stop and turn towards me.

  “How did you know that?” Cedrick asks.

  “Know what?”

  “How did you know the move I was going to pull?” He walks over to me.

  “I watched you,” I admit.

  He nods slowly like he’s impressed. “Wanna spar?”

  I shrug my shoulders, not sure if it’s really a good idea, but still step into the octagon with him. The owner who plays as a referee starts the fight, and we begin circling each other. My brain plays through his moves like a compilation video as I consider all of the ways he might come at me. When he steps forward, coming in for a jab, my brain flashes back to him using this move before, and I know what’s coming next. I sidestep his move, and grabbing him by his legs, I pull him into a double leg takedown, his back hitting the mat with a loud thud. From there, I put him into a heel hook, forcing him to tap out.

  “Holy shit!” he yells as he gets up. I back up slightly, stunned at how easily taking him down came to me. My heart is racing, my blood is pumping, and the adrenaline is coursing through my veins. I’m shocked at how good it felt to make him submit. It was such an unexpected rush, like every broken piece of me came together during those few seconds. Every ounce of pent up frustration left my body during that short time, and all I can think about is doing it again. I need to do it again.

  “Did you see that?” he asks Carl, the owner.

  “Yeah, I saw that. You’re a natural, kid. You find the right trainer, and you could be the next big thing.”

  “As a UFC fighter?” I ask. I don’t know what happened in the octagon, but I’m already itching to go again. Those few seconds weren’t nearly enough. I’ve only had a sliver of that pie, and now I’m craving the whole damn thing.

  “Hell yes as a UFC fighter. It’s not often we come across someone like you.”

  “Do they make money?”

  He chuckles at my question. “Eventually. If you hit it big.”

  “Can you train me?” If I could spend my days doing what I just did and make money doing it, when my mom gets out of jail, she won’t have to struggle anymore. She w
on’t have to resort to having some piece of shit pimp prostituting her out. Instead of her not being able to take care of me, I could take care of her.

  “I could, but to be honest, this is a small gym. It’s not my specialty.” My hopes crumble as quickly as they were built up, but then he says, “One town over in Las Vegas, there’s a UFC training facility called Cooper’s Fight Gym. He knows what he’s doing and could help you. But it’s an exclusive gym, so it’s expensive.”

  “I don’t have any money,” I admit.

  “You could always get a job, and once you save up, join that gym. Until then, you can train here every day after school. It’s always free here from three to five o’clock.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  I go home that night, and when it’s my turn to use the computer, I search the UFC. I find all types of information about the business. How often they fight, the contracts, the benefits. I find articles on how much they can make per fight. I look up Cooper’s Fight Gym and find out he’s a retired fighter. There’s a trainer there, Kaden Scott. Another guy, Caleb Michaels, is retired as well and does some training. His son, Marco, is in the UFC. I write down the phone number, so tomorrow I can call and find out how much it’ll cost to be trained there.

  The next morning I wake up and overhear Janice on the phone. She’s speaking softly but loud enough that I can hear her from around the corner. “He only has six months until he graduates. I’m okay with him staying here.” Pause. “I understand, I’ll speak to him when he wakes up.” Pause. “Okay, thank you for calling. Goodbye.” She hangs up, and I walk out to join her.

  “Is everything okay?” I ask, knowing the conversation had to have been about me since I’m the only one in the house who’s graduating in six months.

  “Your mom is out of jail.” She gives me a soft, sympathetic smile, one I’ve learned means something bad is about to come out of her mouth. “She was given the option for you to move in with her but—”