Doomsday Love: An MMA & Second Chance Romance (11 page)

I
was weak
.

Irrefutably weak.

I dialed.

The phone would ring.

I would hang up before he could even answer.

I repeated this four times, not once letting the call go through. It was settled. I had his phone number. I could call and keep hanging up before he got the chance to answer.

But… something just wasn’t right. Instead of forgetting my number, he
memorized
it. He could have kept it as it was—trash in the bin—but he didn’t. He stored it in his memory bank, created a new place in his brain for me.

Why would he call just to tell me he wanted me to leave him alone?

Was he playing hard to get? Surely, he was. That’s what Kylie was thinking.

“He’s being an asshole on purpose,” she said. “It’s what boys do. Trust me, if he really didn’t want you to get to know him he wouldn’t have shown up for the party last night and he damn sure wouldn’t have called you today.”

She said all this nonchalantly, while filing her nails. Yes, it made sense. But then again it didn’t. I considered Drake a serious guy. He didn’t like to hold back on whatever was on his mind. He obviously wanted me to leave him alone, but was this a sign for me to keep trying?

Maybe he secretly liked that I was trying and didn’t want to lose that. Perhaps I wasn’t winning him over. Perhaps my reasons weren’t enough. He didn’t trust me. He hardly trusted anyone.

I dropped my phone on the bed and entered the bathroom, rinsing my face with cool water. I changed into my nightgown, brushed my teeth, and then shut the lights off.

When I returned to the room, the screen of my phone was blinking. I hurried for it, snatching it up and reading the text message.

M
y fingers were
furious as I ran them over the keyboard. What was this stupid game he was playing? He was confusing me now and it was frustrating me to no end. My phone buzzed again, stealing away my thoughts.

I
didn’t get
a response for nearly ten minutes, each one ticking by like the slow beat of a drum.

N
o response
.

H
e never responded
after that text.

I woke up, expecting a response to my unanswered message but there was nothing from him. Just a missed call from Kylie and an email from the Leighton Cove Newsletter, mentioning Mom’s
“exciting new children’s book”.

I sighed, flopping back down and burying myself beneath my fuzzy turquoise blanket. It was my favorite one. A Christmas gift from Mitchell. It was a hand me down gift, something he got from our Grandma Peggy when he was eleven, but I always used it more.

He would never let me keep it in my room, though. He always asked for it back at night, until I turned seven. That was my Christmas gift. That’s also when Mom started having her episodes. I guess he gave it to me to comfort me.

It no longer smelled like him.

His smell had long washed away. But it couldn’t erase the memories.

He would use the blanket to cover me late at night if I fell asleep in his room. If he were too tired, he’d just leave me in his bedroom and share his bed with me. I knew he hated sharing his bed, but he always did for me.

Sadly, his bedroom was now an uninhabited place where Mom kept a ton of books on shelves that she didn’t even read. It was where she kept his box of trophies and his old mattress that was now standing tall against the north wall. I didn’t like going in there much.

It still had a whisper of Mitchell’s breath, his aura, his life. I went in there a couple times and I felt his spirit there, heavy with compassion. Sometimes it would feel colder than the rest of the house, mainly because no one ever opened the curtains.

Not even Sue went into the room unless it needed some serious cleaning… which it never did… because, like I said, no one ever went in there.

* * *

I
didn’t hear
from Drake for six days.

I guess I’d really ticked him off… or he really meant that he wanted me to leave him alone.

That couldn’t work for me, though. See, I didn’t want to follow the signs. I didn’t want to give up on him. Not that I thought I could “fix” him or anything, but I wanted to be some sort of outlet for him. I kept thinking about fifth grade and how great we were as buddies back then.

I wanted to be friends again. I don’t know why this urge consumed me so much.

Maybe I was just bored, and seeking someone other than Kylie to entertain me. Maybe I really wanted answers to some questions that I had about him. Or maybe, just maybe, I wanted Drake as my own…

I shook that last thought off as I picked up my book.

“Stop thinking about him, Jenny. He doesn’t want you,” I scolded myself. But I didn’t believe it. Drake liked me. He’d always liked me. There was no way in hell he hated me now.

I dropped my novel, turning for my phone on the nightstand. As I grabbed it, Kylie’s name and a picture of us at an art festival popped up on the screen. I answered.

“Jen, guess what!” she hollered into the phone. I heard voices in the background. All of them were loud. Hollers. Screams. Laughter.

“What?” I asked, sitting up.

“Wait—hold on! I need to get away from this crowd. One sec.”

“Where are you?” I asked, laughing.

“I met Fiona at this wet and wild summer party by the boulevard.” She said something away from the phone, shouting an “Excuse me!”

I knew she was irritated now. She hated when people were in her way.

When she was finally clear and the noise as well as the bass of the music had faded a bit, she said, “So… don’t hate me or anything, but I think I have a plan for us tonight. One that involves Oscar… and your buddy Drake.”

Something crinkled in the background, but it couldn’t have crinkled up more than my nose did from hearing his name. “What? What are you talking about?”

“There are these flyers floating around at this party. Some guy—I guess he’s like the promoter for it or whatever—gave me one and you will not believe who’s on the front of it!”

“Who?!”

“Drake, Oscar, and his twin.”

“Otto too?” Damn. I wished he was the safer one, even though he was a huge goofball.

“Yeah, that’s him! They’re all on here, and everyone at this party is welcomed to an exclusive night life event at the
Dirty Dawg Pit
.” I could tell she was reading straight from the flyer. “Jen, we have to go! We have to! I need to see him again. I know it sounds crazy, but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him since the party.” She sighed. “I feel like fucking Cinderella waiting for her prince to show up again.”

“Oh, Kylie, I don’t know,” I groaned. “I’ve already embarrassed myself twice with him, and I definitely don’t want to see him during some brawl.”

“You are such a liar. You and I both know you want to see him.” She had me there. “Look, as long as we bring this flyer, we’re in! Of course they’re taking bets, but you don’t have to bet anything. Don’t you want to see what has them so occupied? Why they believe we should stay away from them? I need to know if this thing they do is really as big as they make it seem.”

When she put it that way, I kind of did wonder. They only fought at night, but worked a lot during the day. They were busy with making money but they couldn’t have been that busy or that devoted to it… could they?

“My cousin said he’d get us a front spot. He’s security there. Remember I told you he worked there?”

“We don’t have to be up front.” I rolled my eyes.

“Oh, please, Jen. Don’t be modest. I know you want him to see you. So this is what you do: meet me at my place in about an hour. I’m about to get out of here. Once you’re at my place we’ll find you something sexy as hell to wear. I saw the way he looked at you at the party. Couldn’t keep his eyes—or hands—off of you.”

I blushed when she said that, heat creeping from my chest to my face. I remembered clearly. He even commented on it. He couldn’t stop touching me, and that dance—
God
, that dance. It was so intense. So hypnotizing.

For a moment, I had felt the tension melting off his shoulders, loved how his breath drifted down my chest, through my cleavage, his grip tight on me as if he never wanted me away from him.

That one dance heightened all my senses, lulled me deeper into his clutches.

So before I could talk myself out of it, convince myself that he wasn’t worth my time since I wasn’t worth his, I told Kylie I would meet her at her house.

Who was I fooling? The last six days were torture, especially with his phone number stored in my contacts list. I wanted to call so many times; I even started to, but I would never push the send button.

He wouldn’t like it, and the last thing I wanted to do was get on his bad side.

So I was going to give this a shot. I would wear a hot dress, some sexy heels, and have Kylie do my hair in those cute curls she always does for me. Then I’d go to the Dirty Dawg Pit with her, pretending to be something I wasn’t, all so I could hopefully capture his attention.

There was a possibility that he wouldn’t even see me. This was all so stupid, but it didn’t matter because I was going to find out why Drake loved being the Doomsday person everyone was afraid of.

I was going to see what this Doomsday character was all about.

T
he Dirty Dawg Pit
was sweltering with bodies.

People bumping into one another, sweating, hollering, shouting for Dripper to shred his opponent to pieces. Dripper was a part of the Dawg Pit. One of ours.

I was next. I knew Dripper would destroy the fucker in the cage with him. He was no match. I’d heard his opponent—Bonez—talked a bunch of shit on Twitter and Instagram.

Funny, as I stood watching Dripper demolish Bonez with blows to the face, Bonez didn’t have much to say. Not that he could really talk. Mouth fucking bloody, spilling down the side of his face.

“He talked all that shit,” Wildcard said as he stepped up to my side. “Heard a lot of people are betting on Grit tonight. Betting against you. Gotta prove them all wrong tonight, Doom.”

“Hmm.” I looked around the large pit from where we stood. We were behind the cage, cut off by a few other fighters so no one could try and run back and start some shit.

I could see most of the crowd from where I stood. The VIP section, my boy Manny had covered. He was talking to someone. Smiling a lot. I couldn’t really tell who it was over his tall frame. Most likely some skimpy-dressed drunk girl running around. “I always prove them wrong.” I turned around, throwing my hood on, bouncing on my toes as I threw jabs in the air. I needed some motivation.

I needed my blood to boil because from what I could hear—the shouting for Dripper to finish Bonez—I knew it was soon going to be my time to shine.

As if my prayers were sullenly answered, Flex carried his heavy body down the hallway, pushing a few people out of the way as he focused on me.

I continued jabbing in the air, teeth already gritting, knowing what to expect. “Look at you,” Flex grumbled, stopping only a few steps away. He watched me swing. Watched me growl. He wasn’t impressed. “All those people betting against you tonight and all you have to show is that pussy of a growl? What would your mother think, huh? She would hate that you’re even here right now! The bitch would kill me—shit, she’s probably flipping in her grave as we speak.”

I shoved the mouthpiece into my mouth, brows furrowed. Anger took a strong hold of me. I’d gone from mellow to pissed in mere seconds, snarling up at him and then ramming him back by the chest.

I hated him.

I hated that smug look on his face, how he really meant those words, deep down. He hated me too, but he needed me here because he needed me to win. We needed money. We’d come to that agreement.

I got the best percentage here and it was the only fucking reason I still stuck around. I could handle his comments. I could handle him… period. He knew the only reason motherfuckers showed up at the Pit was to see me.

I was the moneymaker. I was his cash cow.

I was the star of the night. The headliner.

All that shit about Grit getting bets was just for show, something one of the promoters put together so more people would come. I shoved Flex again and he chuckled.

“Get your fucking shit together!” he rumbled. “The fuck is wrong with you? You know she’s dead because of you, right!? She never wanted you. You drove her to that shit. Soon your Grandma will be dead! All dead and you couldn’t do shit to save them! You know where you belong. Here. Under my fucking roof. Stupid fucking boy.” Flex marched forward but I immediately swung for his face.

He ducked. He was quick. I could give him that.

The anger made my skin damp.

My teeth bit into the mouthpiece, almost cutting through the plastic.

A growl was ready to be unleashed, building in my throat.

I was pumped up in the worst way possible.

“Fuck you!” I bit back, and I started to charge him, head bowed, body locked, but Wildcard came for me, gripping my arm and jerking me in the opposite direction. I seethed, fists locked, eyes focused on my mother’s piece of shit sperm donor.

“You and me,” I said as the crowd started chanting for me. “You and me will happen, you fucking bitch.”

Flex chuckled as Wildcard towed me away with all his might. When we were out by the cage entrance, he gripped my shoulders, eyes intense as he glared at me.

“You gotta stop letting him do that shit to you! That’s the wrong way to fight!”

“Nah,” I said, rolling my neck, listening to the crackling of my bones, the beautiful chants of my name.
Doom! Doom! Doom!
“Fuck that. It’s the fucking right thing to do. I know exactly what the fuck I’m fighting for.”

“You fight because you love it, Doom. Not because that motherfucker wants you angry!”

“Isn’t that what this is about? Anger? We’re pissed off, Wildcard. None of this shit should be about happiness.”

He shook his head, but I caught the hint of delight that swept across his lips. “Just get the fuck in there before I beat my anger into you,” he muttered, pushing me forward.

I put on a cocky grin for him, but I was still pissed. Still ready. My opponent stood a few feet to the left of me, a red-haired motherfucker, purposely showing his gums, the hammer tattooed on the top row.

He grimaced when I looked at him. I tossed the hood of my robe back, glaring directly at him before walking up to the mats. We could settle this beef in the cage.

They all thought they could scare me.

If anything, they should’ve been fucking shaking in their shorts. But that’s what made this a thrill, seeing them come so prepared, but then dropping their asses, landing on top of them, and spotting that fear in their eyes as I punched or elbowed until I went blind with rage.

The crowd went wild when they saw me, shouting for me. I fucking loved it, pumping my fist in the air, soaking up the motivations.

Grit stepped into the cage and I sized him up with thin eyes and a ticking jaw.

The ref stepped to the middle, stating the rules. They were simple, really: “There are no rules.”

I loved hearing those words. I loved not having rules. I loved not having a fucking limit until their fucking faces were butchered red beneath my fists. Grit growled as the ref told us to bump fists.

I looked him straight in the eye, almost laughing because he had no idea what was coming. We didn’t bump fists. I didn’t give a fuck. I needed to get this shit over with, take back all those worthless bets that were put up against me.

Ref said fight, and as soon as he backed away, Grit rushed me, slamming me to the ground. I landed on my back, partially losing air. He thought he had me. He was wrong.

He tried pinning me down, bringing his elbow back in preparation for a jab, but I swooped my arm around his waist and flipped him over.

This was too fucking easy.

I was on top of him, ready to demolish… but I wasn’t ready just yet. I needed to give this crowd a show, right? I needed them to really wonder about their bets. So I hopped up, sparing that fucker.

He got up with a hiss, coming for me, fists up at his face. He swung at me, I moved right and as he jerked back, I rushed him this time, the crook of my arm closing around his throat and dropping him to the ground. We both landed with a heavy thud, one that made the Pit quake.

Some people hollered, demanding Grit to get up, get out of my grip. The others chanted for me, telling me to kill the fucker. If only I could.

I didn’t let up. The bastard was choking, and a smile snaked across my lips. Still too easy, but I wasn’t letting up this time. I refused to show him any mercy. Mercy was for pussies.

I twisted around, positioning his thick body between my legs, and then punched his face repeatedly.

His head. His neck. His face again.

He groaned, trying to push my fist away from his throat. I could see his face going from red to fucking purple.

He was about to burst.

“Tap the fuck out,” I growled in his ear.

But he didn’t. Only pussies tapped out. If he had, he’d be shamed. Since he didn’t want to tap out, I knew I had no choice but to knock him out, so I released his neck, allowing him just a moment’s breath, and then my fist came flying down, crushing the side of his face once.

Twice.

Three times and it was lights out.

The crowd went fucking wild.

Shouting my name like never before.

Money was thrown in the air, familiar gamblers rushing for their bets before the losers tried escaping. I grimaced down at my unconscious opponent, teeth bared, wanting so badly to rip his fucking throat out.

But I kept it cool, allowing the ref to throw my arm in the air and label me the winner. Otto and Oscar hooted and hollered and I smirked in their direction.

“No fucking match!” Wildcard shouted.

My eyes moved around the crowd, bouncing over heads and arms. I spotted Flex in his usual spot, at the top behind the rails, watching me, arms folded tight.

Something strange happened this time, though. Instead of watching me, letting our usual showdown happen, he spat on the ground in front of him and then turned his back, storming away towards his office.

He must have bet against me.

Fucking dumbass. I guess since he saw I was stressing over my grandmother, he figured it would throw me off my game.

He of all people should have known it would only make me angrier.

I never lost.

Ever since I was seven, I never lost. Not fucking ever. I always won the brawls Flex put together in the backyard late at night. Always. I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing back then, or how much damage it would do to me later, but I always won.

I wanted to laugh, but I couldn’t.

I didn’t.

Laughing was useless, not when I felt this fucking proud.

For this first time since my very first fight here, I took a look at the crowd, all of them waving for attention, the girls with their tits popped out of belly shirts, G-strings showing, hoping I would choose them for an after-fight fuck.

Normally I’d hop off the mats and down a bottle of Gatorade before watching my cousins fight.

Not this time.

This time, I looked around, pleased by what I saw. I swear the crowd got thicker and thicker with every fight. I scanned the room, lips twitching with pride, but when I looked to my right, that’s when I saw
her
.

At first I thought I was seeing things.

I had to do a double take, but when I found her again, I knew…I wasn’t hallucinating. It was her in the flesh, wearing a red and black dress, hair pulled up in a slick and sexy ponytail, the ends curled. A few loose pieces hung around her heart-shaped face, but her cat-like brown eyes were wide with shock.

Blood was on her shoulder—most likely splattered blood from Grit—but I don’t think she noticed.

She was close to the stage, front row. She must have known someone to get that close. She watched me with horror-struck eyes, and I stared at her. I couldn’t believe she was here… and what the fuck was she wearing?

Why would she wear that skin-tight shit
here
? Her boobs were practically on full display. I was sure her round ass was identifiable. I would remember that perfect peach-shaped ass forever. I wanted to slap her for being so dumb, wearing that to the Pit, of all places.

These men were fucking dogs. Disgusting. Filthy. They didn’t give a fuck about hurting anyone’s feelings, especially a woman’s. If something happened to any girl at the Pit, it was her situation to handle. No one batted an eyelash here because most of them were high on coke or drunk on absinthe.

I wanted to slap some sense into her, but who the fuck was I kidding? I could never hurt her.

I couldn’t hurt any woman.

I looked to see if she was alone. She wasn’t. Her friend Kylie was with her. She was cheering for me, elated with my win, but Jenny wasn’t saying a word. It didn’t even look like she was breathing.

Jenny locked eyes with me, and for a small, brief moment, I hated myself. I hated that she’d witnessed such an animalistic side of me. I hated that she saw my raw, primal side.

I never wanted her to see it. That’s why I wanted her to leave me alone. Because I did shit like this and I fucking
loved
it. She didn’t know what I was capable of. She didn’t know me. She didn’t need to know me. I was too fucking hardcore for her.

And, yet, I pretended not to be bothered by her bizarre, doe-eyed stare.

I pumped my free fist in the air, making the crowd chant louder, making them scream my name. A cocky bastard I was, but I didn’t give a fuck.

This was my night. This was a big fight. I was fucking unstoppable and no one was about to kill that vibe. Not even sweet, innocent Jenny.

I looked her way again, a sly smile on my lips—an
“I told you so”
kind of smirk. She hated it. She grimaced, eyebrows drawn together, lips pinched tight. Good. Maybe she hated me now. Maybe she would finally leave me the fuck alone.

She saw all the proof she needed—enough to be done with me forever. See that I was not what she thought I was. I wasn’t good or kind. That shit didn’t fit me.

I was a monster. Brutal and mean and angry. I demolished these fighters, crushing bones, destroying faces, ripping skin. Dropping motherfuckers like dead flies.

The ref dropped my arm, pulling my line of sight away from Jenny’s when he asked me about the gash dripping blood from my knuckles. When he told me I was good to go, I looked back to see her again.

Only she wasn’t there anymore.

She and Kylie were gone.