Fighting Love: The Complete Series

by Ash, Nikki

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 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 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, trying 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 out 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 driving away.

  “How old are you?”

  “Thirteen.”

  The police officer nods. “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 who would be able to take care of me, who 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 they’ll 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 toward 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 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, 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 won’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 Club. 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 Club 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—”

  “She doesn’t want me?” I ask, cutting her off.

  “No, no, sweetie. It’s not that. She just doesn’t feel she can take care of you.” Take care of me… in other words, once again, I’m a fucking burden. I’m an extra mouth to feed, an extra body to clothe. I nod in understanding then excuse myself to get ready for school.

  Six months later, I graduate, and two days after that, I’m standing on the doorstep of Cooper’s Fight Club vowing that one day I’ll be able to provide for my mom and me. I will find her and take care of her, and I will make her happy again. And when that day comes, she will no longer consider me to be a burden.

  Prologue

  Mila

  Five Years Ago

  One of the main reasons why I love working on the maternity floor is because I get to see so many precious babies being brought into this world. While the ER keeps me busy and the surgical unit is interesting, my favorite rotation is maternity. I was extremely lucky when I graduated there was an opening at this hospital. The truth is with money being so tight these last couple of years, I would’ve had to accept any job that was offered to me. But getting to work with pregnant women and their babies is truly my passion, and I love that I get to do that several times a week. Especially since it feels like I’m at work more than I’m at home these days. With my husband, Gavin, opening up his own real estate agency, we can use every dime we can get. He assures me it will be worth it one day, but right now we’re struggling, and not just moneywise, but also with our marriage.

  My phone dings, and when I pull the text message up, I see a picture of my adorable three-year-old son, Aleczander. His face is covered in spaghetti sauce, and he’s smiling wide. I’m coming off a double shift and missing him like crazy. Seeing his beautiful face is exactly what I needed right now. Noticing the text is from Gavin’s mom, Vicki, I call her, wondering why she has my son instead of his father.

  “Did Gavin have an emergency?”

  “No, dear. He’s working late tonight so I offered to pick up Alec from daycare.”

  “Okay, thank you. I should be off in a few hours. I can come by and—”

  Vicky cuts me off. “Just pick him up in the morning. He’ll probably be asleep by the time you get off anyway.”

  “All right, thank you again.” I hang up and call Gavin’s number, but he doesn’t answer. I try once more but still nothing.

  I put my phone into my pocket and head to check on my patients. When I get to room 2C, I walk in quietly so I won’t disturb the father or baby if they’re finally getting some rest. I commend him for stepping up. I know it should be a given that a man takes responsibility for his child, but that’s not always the case. In this particular situation, the mom gave birth and took off on her baby. Like left! She went outside for a cigarette and never returned. I’ve heard bits and pieces, and it seems she took off with her boyfriend who isn’t the father of the precious little girl. The father of the baby took complete responsibility and is in the process of filing for emergency custody.

  I’ve been on shift since the little girl was born, so I’ve gotten to know the father a bit. His name is Tristan, and so far he’s been dealing with this all alone.

  I notice for the first time that Tristan isn’t alone. He’s sitting at the table with another guy who is holding the baby. I catch the tail end of what the guy is saying. Something about naming Tristan’s daughter, Trina.

  Without
interrupting them, I walk over to check on her and see that she’s sleeping soundly in the man’s arms.

  I’m about to let Tristan know I need to take her temperature and vitals when Tristan says, “And where did you come up with that name, Mason?” I stop to wait for Mason to answer so I don’t interrupt their conversation.

  Mason replies, “She gave me the best goddamn road head of my life,” and I about choke.

  “Jesus, Mason!” Tristan says. “I’m not naming my daughter after one of your conquests. Think of a name of a woman you haven’t slept with.” Before Mason can answer, I clear my throat to let them know I’m in the room.

  Tristan smiles at me, but the other guy ignores me as I go about my business: cleaning up the room, changing the bassinet sheets, and then taking the baby’s temperature while she’s still in Mason’s arms. While I’m checking her out, this Mason guy continues to spit out name after name of women he’s slept with. My God! Can you say manwhore?

  When I’m done writing down the notes for the baby, I pick up some more of the area to help Tristan out. I notice she’s beginning to get cranky so I go about making her a bottle. When I hand it to Mason, he looks up at me for the first time. The man is gorgeous. Inky black hair, short on the sides and messy on the top. His eyes lock with mine and he has the most beautiful crystal clear blue eyes. They are electrifying and mesmerizing. He smiles, and I almost stumble back at how enraptured I am by him.

  Quickly, I regain my composure as Tristan asks Mason about my name. “Have you ever slept with a Mila?”

  “Not yet,” Mason says to Tristan while his spellbinding eyes stay trained on me. Starting from my face and slowly dragging those baby blues down my body, I feel like I’m being undressed right here.

  “And you won’t ever,” I snap, feeling like a horrible person for being turned on right now. I’m married, and this man is a damn whore. What the hell is wrong with me?